Folio One, Page Five (magra mos sjek)
His sandals whispered across the floor. My surprise gave way to a shame that spread from my abdomen to my face. I nested my head farther back just in case he still saw the red in my cheeks.
"Wouldn't that gesture be more appropriate elsewhere?" He addressed me in my own Narahji dialect, but I heard traces of a deeper accent behind it---Kòtsi, perhaps, or Málkvomo. The tenor undertones in his voice were strong, and though he spoke softly, he breathed properly and could have bellowed if necessary. Our voices would blend perfectly.
I had never even heard the nuamë nuaf iča sing. You may remember that I knew what part you sing in the Takveji Temple Chorus before you even mentioned that you participated. It takes some skill, but I practice on everyone.
“Please do not curse or harm any of my endeavors today, Namgyatzi,” I mumbled. The words left my mouth in a haze of stuttered syllables. Meanwhile, I counted the moments until my color returned to normal.
The nuamë nuaf iča waited a long time to reply. We were both famous for different reasons, but I recognized his hesitation as a variation of the patience game I played with overzealous fans. “Go pray to Makmetsi if you need peace of mind,” he said at last, “because I am not the Goddess of Fortune and I really have no say in her plans for you.”
I stood as quickly as possible. He had stopped much closer to me than I had anticipated, so I faltered and nearly fell. “I'm sorry.”
“I forgive you.” His eyebrows furrowed. “You are the late Adviser Nitannyi's daughter, yes? The musical prodigy?”
“I don't call myself a musical prodigy.” The press had stopped using it when I turned twelve, and my family had always called me an unwanted talent. Before I was born, none of us had contacts outside of national and regional politics.
“Well, I don't call myself Namgyatzi. Or the 'nuamë nuaf iča' for that matter.” He turned to the wall mural beside me and stared at it, holding a fist beneath his chin. “This was not here six months ago. It looks like a work based on some kind of folktale opera backdrop.”
I smiled. “You didn't come here to look at bad art.”
“Of course not,” he said. “I have a meeting with Fadehin Akhaigannyi in about an hour. Contemplating the failures of her new interior decorator is a pleasant addendum to the day's agenda. I will, of course, attend your performance this evening. How much time do you have before your call?”
“Not long.”
“You should see your mother's office before you leave. No one has occupied it---I believe everything is the way it was. I can get you in.”
He slipped his arm around my waist and pulled me close. I wondered what the security feeds would think, and I dreaded what the publicist would say if anyone leaked the feeds to the media or the virtual content networks. Straddling piety and iconoclasm had brought me far. Identifying with one or the other could break my band's career.
The nuamë nuaf iča whispered something in my ear and walked me down the hallway. My heart had moved from my chest to my throat, and my sweating, trembling hand reached around him so my left arm wouldn't remain sandwiched between our bodies. He smelled like temple incense and vine-fruits boiling in the summer sun. The back of his hepteri vest felt rough beneath my sweating palm. The vibrant shade of turquoise matched my eyes.
We stopped at the elevator platform. “I enjoy music,” he said. “Your mother would have been proud of your success. No one, of course, knew about you, and it seems odd that a parent would never mention a child, but she had your best interests at heart---she always seemed so happy every time she went back to Kobsarka.”
“Did you know her well?”
“We discussed policy together on many occasions. She always respected my input on how to better the situation in the Canyons.” The platform came us to meet us, and the shielding across the archway disappeared. I stumbled when I stepped down, but he kept me upright. “You look---”
The platform lurched down.
0 comments:
Post a Comment