Sahir knew Isabella was in her apartment, because he could hear her singing along to pop music. As he knocked on her door, he wondered if she was stoned; he hoped so, because he wanted her to feel relaxed in his company. Not that he had any concerns about that, because Isabella struck him as the carefree, trusting type who saw the good in people rather than their flaws. Sahir liked that about her, and he was glad she was his closest neighbor.
“Who is it?” she called, probably panicking that the person at the door could be the landlord or a cop.
Sahir smiled. “It’s your neighbor. I’m bored and wondered if you could make me a cup of tea. I’ve run out of anything to drink.”
Isabella opened the door, a grin on her face, her eyes a bit bloodshot. “You’re bored?”
“Yeah. Bored.” Sahir made an effort to keep his attention fixed on her beautiful face and long hair, because he didn’t want to appear rude as he was checking out her slender but curvaceous body, clad in hot pants and a tight T-shirt. “But if now’s not a good time…?”
Isabella frowned. “What’s in the bag?”
“Nothing. I’m going to collect my laundry later.” Sahir shrugged. “I’m trying to do anything to stop the boredom.”
Isabella laughed. “I haven’t got any tea.”
“Ah, okay.” Sahir half turned.
“But I’ve got Pepsi, milk, and wine.”
Sahir’s smile broadened. “A glass of milk would be good.”
He followed her into her apartment. It was identical to his, though hers had cannabis smoke hanging midair in the living room and a coffee table with long cigarette papers, loose tobacco, cannabis resin, a bottle of red wine, and a half-empty glass.
Isabella gestured to the couch and turned the music down. “I’d have cleaned up if I knew you were coming over.”
Sahir shrugged and lied, “Doesn’t bother me. I used to be a big pothead. Only reason I’m not anymore is because I once got busted at my university and they threatened to kick me out.”
“They’re not here now. I won’t tell if you want to share.”
“Tempting, but I’ve got to finish an essay. I need a clear head.”
“I don’t.” She sat opposite him and picked up a cigarette paper. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all. Actually, I enjoy being around smokers.”
Isabella sprinkled tobacco in the paper, unsealed the resin, lit a match, and held its flame against the cannabis. Then she rubbed her thumb and forefinger against the singed area, turning it into crumbs, which she peppered over the tobacco. She placed a rolled-up piece of cardboard at one end, ran her tongue along the paper’s adhesive edge, and sealed the joint. Putting it down, she went to the adjacent kitchenette, poured a glass of milk, came back, and handed it to him. After lighting the cigarette and inhaling deeply on the drug, she sat back down and asked, “You sure you’re here just for a drink? You seem like a nice guy, but I don’t want you to be disappointed, because I’m not the kind of girl who…”
Sahir raised his hand. “And nor am I that kind of man. Really, I’m just glad of some company. This essay’s driving me nuts.”
This reassured Isabella. “I hope this doesn’t sound wrong, but I’d never met an Indian guy before you moved in here.”
“And I’d never met a lady from Argentina before.” Sahir winked at her. “We have crossed borders, have we not? And there can be nothing wrong with that.”
“I agree.” Isabella screwed her eyes up as she took another drag. “So, when you finish your PhD…”
“If I finish it.”
“When you complete it, are you hoping to be an engineer or something like that?”
Sahir took a sip of his milk; it tasted off, but he gave no indication that it was bad. “I don’t know. My parents want me to build things, though I’m not so sure. It’s not my passion.”
Isabella nodded. “Parents can be asses like that. Mine want me to be a teacher. I can’t think of anything worse.” She leaned forward. “What is your passion?”
Sahir placed his milk on the coffee table, adjacent to Isabell’s drug stash, and let his hands drop to a position that looked natural but also kept them just out of sight. “Magic.”
“Magic? That doesn’t exist.”
“Are you sure?”
Isabella shrugged. “I think so. Yeah, I’m sure.”
“What do you think magic is?”
Isabella shrugged. “Stuff like creating fairies who live in the bottom of a garden. Or men claiming they can disappear in a puff of smoke.”
“They can, and that’s my point.” Sahir moved his fingers quickly yet accurately as he kept his eyes on Isabella. “Fairies aren’t real, but in 1917 two young English girls took photographs to show that fairies lived in their garden. People believed them. Magic became true.” He nodded toward Isabella’s latest waft of cannabis. “And smoke can hide a multitude of sins.”
“They’re just tricks.”
“I prefer to think of it as misdirection. The girls took fake images of the fairies via a medium that, at the time, was deemed incorruptible — namely, photography. And the man who vanishes behind smoke is leading his audience to believe that the smoke is like his soul and can take vacuous form, when in truth it’s a shield from which he can quickly retreat and hide before it clears.”
“They’re still just parlor tricks as far as I’m concerned.”
“You have a point.” Sahir placed a hand on the coffee table. “Real magic is amazing science in the hand of a person who knows what he’s doing.”
Isabella laughed, then coughed, while looking at her joint. “That’s the kind of thing I might say when I’ve had too many of these. It’s all a bit… ethereal.”
Sahir swallowed the rest of his rancid milk. “Magic must be tangible for it to be recognized as such. Otherwise it’s just unexplained phenomena.”
Isabella topped off her glass with red wine. “Amen to that, and I’ve seen no evidence of the tangible.”
“Yes, you have.”
“Where, when?”
“Here, and now.”
“What do you mean?” Isabella was staring at him, her eyes now lucid and inquiring.
“The cigarette you’re holding. It tastes like marijuana, doesn’t it?”
“Of course. It’s a joint.”
“And yet it has no marijuana or indeed anything else narcotic in it apart from nicotine.”
“What…?”
“Stub it out and see for yourself.”
Isabella did what she was told; she ripped open the joint, held its remaining contents to her nose, and exclaimed, “That can’t be possible!”
“I know. But here’s the cigarette you rolled.” Sahir moved both hands onto the coffee table, holding the joint.
She grabbed it and tore it open. “This isn’t the joint I rolled. It’s only got tobacco in it.”
Sahir smiled. “Perhaps one of the two cigarettes on the bookshelf behind you is the joint you prepared.”
Isabell stood and turned. “These weren’t here before!” She tore them apart. “Tobacco, tobacco. No resin.” She grinned as she pointed at him. “I’ve no idea how you put these here. Very clever, but still a trick. Not the joint I rolled. All you’ve shown me is tricks, not magic.”
“Of course.” Sahir placed the tips of his fingers together. “Would you like to know the true magic?”
Isabella nodded eagerly.
Sahir placed a digit on the rim of the ashtray. “Can you tell the difference between cigarette ash and ash from tobacco that’s been combined with cannabis resin?”