—
DAY IS GREAT, but Aisha is my darling and my meddlesome girl. She’s the one who gets the question “But why are you like this?” at least once a day from her father. If she isn’t growing something (she is the reason Noor finds toadstools in his shoes) or brewing something (she’s the reason it’s best not to leave any cup or drinking glass unattended when she’s at home) she’ll pass by singing and swishing her tail around (she put her sewing machine to work making a set of tails that she attaches to her dresses. A fox’s tail, a dragon’s tail, a tiger’s tail, a peacock’s. On a special occasion she’ll wear all of them at once). Last month Matyas Füst released a new album and Aisha hosted a listening party for five bosom friends. The bosom friends wore all their tails too . . .
—
THOSE WERE THE GOOD old days, when Aisha’s love for Matyas Füst was straightforward idol worship. Her wall was covered with posters of him; she sometimes got angry with him for being more attractive than she thought anyone was allowed to be and would punch a poster right in the face before whispering frantic apologies and covering it with kisses. She had Noor or me buy certain items because she’d read an interview in which he mentioned he loved this or that particular scent or color on a woman. All of Aisha’s online IDs were some variation of her official motto: “Matyas Füst Is Love, Matyas Füst Is Life.”
—
CHED HAD MET Füst a few times and said he wouldn’t want any daughter of his going anywhere near “that dickhead,” but the first time he said that I took it with more than a pinch of salt. For starters Aisha’s polite refusal to have a crush on her friendly neighborhood pop star was something of an ego bruiser. There were a few other small but influential factors: Füst’s being ten years younger than Ched, and its being well-known that Füst composes, arranges, and writes the lyrics for all his (mostly successful) songs himself . . . no voices. It just wasn’t really possible for Ched to like him. Füst was forever being photographed wearing dark gray turtlenecks, was engaged to be married to a soloist at the Bolshoi Ballet, didn’t seem to go to nightclubs, and reportedly enjoyed art-house film, the occasional dinner party, and the company of his cat Kleinzach. A clean-shaven man with a vocal tone reminiscent of post-coital whispers, that was Matyas Füst. The way he sings “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” is no joke.
—
CHED HAD been away for about a month when I got home to find “love to hatred turn’d.” Noor was making dinner, checking his recipe board after each step even though he knew it just as well as if he’d written it himself. The not-so-hidden charms of a man who takes his time over every detail . . . especially once you distract him for just long enough to turn all his attention onto you. It didn’t occur to me to ask about the kids until halfway through our very late dinner. Bad stepfather.
“Er . . . have the kids already eaten?”
Noor shook his head. “They promised they’d have something later.”
“Hmmm. Why?”
“Not sure. Heartbreak, I think.”
“Ah, so the face shifter isn’t The One after all?”
“No, it’s not Day—well, it is Day, but only because she can’t let Aisha go through it all on her own.”
The sisters were huddled together on Aisha’s bed with a laptop between them. They closed the laptop when I came into the room, leaving me to look around at the bare walls and wonder what had happened. Both girls were red-eyed and strenuously denied being upset. When I left the room I clearly heard Day say: “You’ve got to stop watching it,” and Aisha answered: “I know, but I can’t.” Then she said, “Maybe it isn’t true, Day? It probably isn’t true,” and Day said, “Oh, Aisha.”
—