by James C. Clar
In the narrow, labyrinthine streets of the city, there was a nondescript establishment nestled between a taxidermist and a tobacconist. Above its door was a sign that read simply, The Hourglass. If you happened to pass by the shop, and if you happened to take notice of it in the first place, you’d very quickly afterward begin to forget you had ever seen it. On your next trip down that street, you’d probably ask yourself, “where did that shop come from? I’ve never seen it before.” It was that kind of place. All cities have them.
The Hourglass belonged to a man named Alejandro Montoya. He had devoted his life to the accumulation of objects that had long outlived their usefulness. Objects whose provenance, in fact, was often far more intriguing than their original purpose. Among antique maps, unwound clocks and ancient esoteric texts, Montoya took pleasure in ephemera, in the flotsam and jetsam of the past. His store catered to a small but enthusiastic and, luckily for him, wealthy clientele.
One gray, late autumn afternoon just as a light rain had begun to fall, an old man entered the shop. He was tall and gaunt, almost stereotypically so. His coat was stained by both time and the tide. His eyes were blue, the blue of the sea.
Montoya took him for a vagrant or, more likely, a down-on-his-luck sailor too long divorced from his ship. From time to time, street people and others would wander into the shop in search of a handout. He was just about to usher the stranger from the premises when, without preamble, the old man placed a stoppered glass bottle on the counter.
Against his better judgment, Montoya was intrigued. The bottle was emerald-green and was covered in an elaborate network of runes and symbols done in intricate cloisonne. It was a beautiful piece and one of obvious antiquity.
“How much do you want for it?” Montoya asked. He already had a buyer in mind. He knew a collector who would pay a tidy sum for an antique like that.
The old man laughed. “Take it,” he replied. “It’s all yours. I can’t wait to be rid of it. As far as paying for it is concerned, the bottle will exact its own price in due time.”
Before Montoya had a chance to ask for an explanation, the old man turned and left the store. The shopkeeper watched him as he disappeared into what had now turned into a downpour.
Over the next few weeks, Alejandro Montoya studied the ornate bottle for hours. It became an obsession. He would run his fingers over the delicate filigree. He polished it endlessly. More than once he picked up the phone to call a prospective buyer, but something always seemed to prevent him from doing so. His research, thus far, had yielded nothing regarding the object’s origin or age.
One evening, just after closing, Montoya found himself once again contemplating the bottle. The one thing the shopkeeper had not yet done was to pull the stopper from its neck. At least he had no recollection of having done so. That realization surprised him. Curiosity now became his driving motivation. Holding its base with one trembling hand, Montoya carefully removed the stopper with the other. As he did so, a thin wisp of vapor escaped. The vapor curled, coalesced and, within a few seconds, took the shape of a man.
It was a moment before Montoya processed what had just happened. His rational, empirical mind wrestled with what it saw. “You’re a genie,” he murmured, not yet truly believing that it was true.
“Indeed, I am,” the figure in front of him spoke with a voice that seemed both playful and old … as though it had been old even when the world was young. “My name is Azar, and for the record, I find the term ‘genie’ to be so imprecise as to be almost meaningless.”
“Do you not then grant wishes,” Montoya asked.
“Let us just say that I am bound to fulfill desires. There’s a difference.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Montoya spoke with hesitation.
“I’m quite sure you don’t,” Azar response with a chuckle. “In my experience, few mortals do.”
“Please explain yourself.”
“The first thing you must understand,” Azar began, “is that precision is all-important. A ‘wish’, as you put it, must be carefully worded and flow from a genuine, concrete desire. A poorly crafted wish can – and often does – lead to unintended consequences and even disaster.”
Now it was Montoya’s turn to chuckle. “What if I choose not to wish at all?”
“Then I will remain.” Azar looked at the store’s owner with something akin to pity. “I am patient, infinitely so. But, sooner or later, you will wish. They all do.”
#
Weeks passed. Montoya found himself engaging in lengthy conversations with Azar who emerged from his bottle unbidden almost every day. The latter’s knowledge was limitless and spanned centuries. They talked of art, history, literature, science and philosophy. The vagaries of human nature and human ambition were of particular interest to the genie. Try as he might, and despite their growing rapport, Montoya could not forget the implied warning in Azar’s declaration that, as far as wishes were concerned, “precision was all-important.”
“It strikes me,” Montoya observed one night as the two sat talking, “that you enjoy tricking mortals.” The shop’s proprietor had stayed on long after closing.
“I don’t trick them, my friend.” Azar’s teeth seemed to glimmer in the moonlight that filtered into the room amid the bric-a-brac of bygone eras. “Rather, they are undone by their own haste and their almost universal lack of clarity.”
“What if someone were to wish for nothing?”
“Ah, that ancient paradox,” Azar spoke quietly as he leaned forward. “To wish for nothing is in fact to wish for something. Even that wish has ‘content’. Besides, it reflects a desire. A desire that is itself its own negation.”
One afternoon shortly thereafter and, unable to any longer bear the weight of his indecision, Montoya decided to act. Azar materialized before him. His expression was, as usual, inscrutable.
“I’ve made up my mind. I know what I desire.”
“Have you indeed?” Azar’s tone was jovial, almost mocking. “Speak your desire and let the universe conspire to make it so.”
Montoya hesitated, momentarily unsure. He had rehearsed this moment, crafting a wish he believed to be as precise as humanly possible using anything other than the language of mathematics. Still, when the time came …
“I desire,” he began haltingly, “to be granted three wishes for all eternity.”
Azar’s eyes glittered with a strange, ethereal light. “I grant your desire. You have three wishes for all eternity.” Under his breath, the genie murmured “I warned you …”
#
One afternoon shortly thereafter and, unable to any longer bear the weight of his indecision, Montoya decided to act. Azar materialized before him. His expression was, as usual, inscrutable.
“I’ve made up my mind. I know what I desire … I desire to be granted three wishes for all eternity … “
~
Bio:
James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who divides his time between the wilds of Upstate New York and the more moderate climes of Honolulu, Hawaii. Most recently, his work has appeared in Bright Flash Literary Journal, Freedom Fiction Journal, The Collidescope, Antipodean Sci-Fi and Sci Phi Journal.
Philosophy Note:
I’ve played with these Borgesian ideas previously in my short fiction. Here, in “I Know what I Desire,” I have two thoughts or questions:
- Does a wish without concrete content constitute a wish? (Philosophically, the act of wishing is more about the act of willing than it is about the object of that action/will. If so, then, a wish without content is still a wish since it involves the act of willing desiring itself.)
- If, as the ancients believed, words have power, then precision in using those words would be essential — think of an ancient curse or incantation poorly worded. Or, better yet, what would have happened had God not chosen his Word(s) so carefully? “Let there be …” what?
