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9. THE THIRD HOUR
"Say," Arthur said, "how come you speak English so well? Aren't you supposed to be from Baghdad or someplace?"
Cuphandle made an offhand wave. "Actually, they outsource this kind of work. I'm from right here in town. I usually work the neon lights downtown, hoping for a better gig, and then this one fell into my lap. Got me promoted two whole steps. I didn't used to have full Poof-fooP capabilities before this clock came along."
"So it cost some Baghdad djinni his job?"
"Oh no, they always promote from within. He's probably a supervisor for a dozen guys like me now."
"And this outfit you work for?"
"That's one of those things I can't talk about."
"So there are limits?"
"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.
Arthur, though he thought the tea and snacks were great, had no appetite. He was pondering 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 anyway in a second or two later." 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 another lifetime?"
Cuphandle thought about it. "Oh, I think 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.
"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."
Arthur looked at the photos all around. He had them tucked into niches and nooks everywhere, mostly snapshots showing smiling Gretchen and happy children and a rather happy looking Arthur Latchloose himself. "Could I afford to let go of all my memories?"
Sounding very legalistic, Cuphandle said: "Looking at the upside of every issue, I should inform you that of course you'll meet new people, maybe fall in love again, since you'll revert to the age of your choice."
"I like that!" Arthur said enthusiastically. "I wouldn't have to put up with my father stropping me and my mother yelling at me when I was small? I could be, say, twenty years old and live the same number of years as I was destined to in this life?" He did a quick calculation. That meant he would buy himself a whole new fifty years or more, and in a fresh, agile, youthful body at that. "No tricks?"
"No tricks. I'm not a lantern jockey, as I already mentioned."
"Let me be legalistic too," Arthur said, banging both index fingers on the table in parallel, as if a binding written contract lay between them. "You're promising that I will have total customer satisfaction."
"Yes."
"That would seem to preclude any nasty tricks."
"Yes."
"No slips of the tongue, verbal banana peels, oratory mishaps, linguistic linguini, or other traps I could fall into?"
"Mr. Latchloose, the only traps we fall into are those we set for ourselves. Now are you sure you are prepared to part with the memory of your loved ones?"
Arthur thought for a moment, running brief films of his long-ago family life through a mental projector. "I have to admit, it's a tough one. My wife though, she's been gone a long time, and she'd want me to pick up a new opportunity at happiness. My kids had reasonably happy childhoods and they've flown the coop never to look back. That leaves me thinking I should feel free to take you up on your offer."
The djinni spread his hands apart. "There you are." He rose and pulled from his pocket an object that looked like a small cell phone. "Excuse me a moment, I have to call this one in. Give me a few moments. I won't eat into your clock time too much." So saying, he strode from the kitchen to seek privacy for his home call in the living room. Arthur stayed in the kitchen and had another cracker with potted meat. Moments later, the djinni strode back into. He was grinning widely as he put his phone away. "It's a deal, Mr. Latchloose. I suggest we start right away."
Arthur rose and started to take the dishes to the sink. "Do I have to sign papers or anything?"
"No, no, not at all." Cuphandle waved, and the dishes flew away, cleaned themselves, and disappeared into the cupboard. "You signed your contract when you acquired the clock. These are just details. I suggest we get going, because you have until the last minute of the twelfth hour to change your mind. I want you to experiment with your new life and see if you really want to go through with it."
"Okay," Arthur said. "Do we have to go out the front door or something, flap our arms, what?"
"Nothing of the sort. Let's sit in the living room, shall we?"
They went and sat in easy chairs near the grandfather clock. "Rather a pleasant room in its day," Cuphandle ventured as he sat a bit stiffly with his hands palms-down on the overstuffed arm rests.
Arthur sat the same way, tapping one hand idly palm-down as if eager to get going to his new adventure. "You have no idea, Cuphandle, how dreary it is to sit here alone, evening after evening, and imagine how it was when Gretchen would come in and say that dinner is ready or have I checked the kids' homework or why don't I take the evening off for a change and just stay home."
"It must be painful," Cuphandle said with deep feeling.
"It is. And I'm ready to let go of it all."
"Very well then. Let me demonstrate what happens to memory. Do you remember this fellow?"
Arthur stared at the sallow face that conjured in mid-air, hanging over the dully glowing dinner table like a dreadful decapitation with open eyes. "No, I'm afraid not."
Cuphandle pointed his index finger at the apparition, mumbled something, and pointed at Arthur. Arthur looked again at the sallow death-mask before him and said: "Oh yes, now I remember. That's Jarlid. He had to leave suddenly to rejoin his family."
"Says he, says he." Cuphandle waved, and the apparition vanished. "He passed on within an hour after contractually deeding the clock to you. It was the clock that kept him alive, in the deal he made years ago. Major Jarlid, you see, was shot on the battlefield during World War I, when T. E. Lawrence's Arab allies were raiding an Ottoman army garrison near Baghdad. Had he not been shot, he was scheduled to live to a very ripe old age, nearly a century. Because of his luck in encountering my predecessor and colleague, Major Jarlid was given an entire new life to live, and he chose to start from childhood. Ironically, in one of those twists of fate, he actually did serve with the U.S. Army in Iraq. He got his stories a bit mixed up about how and when he encountered the djinni and the clock."
"I see," Arthur said, "that makes perfect sense if any of this does. I'd like to start life over as a healthy, intelligent, handsome twenty year old with a lot of money."
Cuphandle laughed. "Not so fast, there. I can promise you youth and health to start with, but not material well-being. You'll know what you need to know so that your wealth in the new life will not be significantly less than what you have here. But look, you're losing time. Why don't we get on with it."
"Okay," Arthur said.
Cuphandle leaned forward with his hands between his knees. "Mr. Latchloose, do you remember the apparition over the table?"
"What?" Arthur looked at the table but couldn't figure out what Cuphandle could be talking about. "Apparition?"
"There you go," Cuphandle said. "That's what it's like to replace new time with old time."
"What do you mean?"
"Let's go find out." Cuphandle raised his hand, and nothing happened, but Cuphandle's expression was filled with expectation, as if something enormously important had just transpired.
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