The Third Hour
15.
 Say,” Arthur said, “how come you speak English so well? Aren’t you supposed to be from Baghdad or ancient Babylon or someplace?”
Cuphandle made an offhand wave. “Actually, they outsource this kind of work. I actually grew up in a small town in Tennessee. I’ve worked in the Big Apple so long, that I’ve picked up the same accent you speak. I no longer ramble in the idiom of Southern colonels and their lost porches and mint juleps. I prefer the neon lights downtown in the big city. I was just promoted, and your sorry case fell into my lap. If I do well, I might be promoted another two whole steps, just because you are so grindingly thick and difficult. I didn’t used to have full Poof!-!fooP capabilities before this clock gig came along.”
“So it cost some Chaldean or Sumerian djinni his job?”
“Oh no, they always promote from within. He’s probably a supervisor over a dozen guys like me now.”
“And this outfit you work for?”
“That’s one of those things I can’t talk about.”
“Then there are definitely limits.” Arthur resisted adding “Aha!”
“Yes, there are limits. For example, you can’t wish for more wishes. You can’t wish for anything that will harm another person. That sort of stuff. Seems logical and straightforward, when you think about it.”
“Really.”
“Mmm.” The djinni groaned in satisfaction at his own excellent cuisine.
“Could I bring my wife back to life?”
Cuphandle smiled sadly. “No, Mr. Latchloose, that’s on the strictly prohibited list. Also, I can’t help you accelerate your path to joining her, if you know what I mean.”
“No assisted hara-kiri for me, eh?”
“Not even close.” Both men laughed, though a bit sadly.
Arthur, while he thought the tea and snacks were great, had no appetite. He pondered something bigger. “Say, could I ask for immortality?”
Cuphandle shook his head. “Not immortality. You could ask for another life.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Now that sounds pretty appealing.” Arthur felt a warm glow inside just thinking about it. “When you’re getting old, and your body doesn’t quite hold heat as well anymore—particularly during those long, cold nights spent working alone in a drafty old bank office because your wife died on you, and your kids turned their backs on you—the idea of living another life sounds pretty darned decent.”
Cuphandle kept right on eating and drinking, with only brief, jerky pauses as this thought or that occurred to him. “Yes, if I were limited in years like your kind, I could see wanting some more time. Then again, everything has its drawbacks. You see, the rules—“
Arthur interrupted: “So, what happens to people when they die?”
Cuphandle stopped and stared at Arthur as if suddenly feeling Arthur was trying to trap him. “I can’t answer that unless you want to make it your wish. And the rule book says then I have to kill you, so you’d find out in another second or two anyway.” He shook his head.
Arthur shook his head also. “That doesn’t sound like a good way to use my one and only wish.” He scratched his chin. “So what would the drawbacks be of asking to live a new life?”
Cuphandle thought about it. “You might miss the old one.”
“Mister, I’m done with the old one. I’ve got nothing left to live for except this empty, lonely old house. I don’t even have a dog or cat, not even a goldfish or a canary, because, well, I don’t know how to take care of living things too well. I forget to feed the fish or the bird, or the dog runs away, or the cat gets run over…that’s my luck.”
“Would you like to wish for a nice dog that won’t run away, or a cat that doesn’t get run over?” Cuphandle looked suddenly hopeful, as if this would be an easy case then. He was looking forward, quite obviously, to a rhythmic cha-cha with his houri, or maybe a nice, gliding tango over the skyline under stars and snowflakes. The Eye of London and the Eiffel Tower of Paris looked very romantic and beautiful on a snowy night.
“No,” Arthur said, “I want something big and special. I like the idea of a new life. Can I start over from scratch?”
“I’m afraid you have to,” Cuphandle said. “Those are the rules.”
“Knowing what I know now?”
“Some of it, but not all.”
“Like what would I not know?”
“The rules say you can’t remember the people who were important in your life.”
“You mean, like my wife and kids?”
“I’m afraid so.”
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Copyright © 2014 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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