An Honest Profession

By Michael Teasdale

When the sandstorm dissipated, it left behind only a scattered coating of golden grains on the threadbare furniture.

And a man.

Olive-skinned and dressed in a smartly-tailored suit, he carried a worn leather briefcase. His shoes, which, given the circumstances, Susan had expected to turn up at the toes, were instead brightly-polished winkle pickers. His hair was cropped short and neatly parted, and although he smelled faintly of perfume and far-away spices, he didn’t look very magical at all.

“Good afternoon,” said the Djinn.

Susan put down the lamp, letting it rest on the scuffed coffee table.

“Good afternoon?” she echoed. After the impressive sandstorm, she had envisaged something a little more intimidating than an amiably smiling businessman who looked like one of the nicer entrepreneurs from Shark Tank.

The Djinn glanced at his watch. “Three wishes, is it?”

“What?” Susan raised an eyebrow. That’s it? No formal introduction or thank you? Just a quick sandstorm and straight to business?

“Wishes,” repeated the Djinn. He placed the briefcase on the coffee table, pushing the lamp to one side like an inconvenient ashtray. “Three of them is the norm.” He smiled, retrieved a formal-looking document from the case, and handed it to Susan. “Do you need a pen?”

Susan nodded, then flinched as a small, plastic ballpoint materialised in her hand.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured her. “The pen is complimentary. It doesn’t count as a wish.”

Susan sat down and gestured for the Djinn to do likewise. “You want me to sign this? How do I know it isn’t a trick? I don’t mean to be suspicious, but I work in real estate, so…”

The Djinn’s brow wrinkled. “It’s a standard contract, I assure you. The same one that my kind have been using for centuries. If I may draw your attention to subsection 4b, paragraph six.” He turned a page and tapped the line with a well-manicured finger. “That’s the part that explains why we don’t allow wishing for more wishes. I point it out now, because many people skip over it and get annoyed later on. Mine is an honest profession, after all.”

Susan put the pen down and looked into the Djinn’s enigmatic eyes. His golden gaze remained solemn and sincere, yet behind its surface something sparkled and swirled, like the brilliant sandstorm from which he’d emerged.

“A profession?” said Susan. “I thought you were a prisoner of the lamp?”

The Djinn waved his hand, dismissing the question as if it were a bothersome sand fly. “That’s just the way that corrupt men have chosen to tell our story. It helps them excuse their own hubris.”

Susan looked down at the grubby, bronze lamp. “You mean you weren’t trapped in there? I didn’t… free you?”

The Djinn chuckled. “Only in the sense that a carpenter is trapped by the mortgage on his workshop.”

“I don’t understand,” said Susan. “If I didn’t rescue you, why are you granting me three wishes?”

The Djinn folded his hands together, and his brow crumpled in a kindly expression. His answer came slowly, as if he were delivering the world’s simplest truth to a preschooler. “A carpenter builds chairs because people always need a place to sit. So, the Djinn grant wishes because men and women always have desires.”

Susan blushed, then exhaled. “Oh. Would you like a cup of tea?” She smiled. “I have camomile.”

“Okay, why shouldn’t I wish for all the money in the world?” laughed Susan, sipping the last of the tea.

The Djinn shrugged. “Aside from it being a rather unoriginal wish, it causes great economic instability.”

“Because the money has to come from somewhere?” Susan said.

“Precisely,” said the Djinn. “If you have all the money, then it stands to reason that nobody else has any. I can’t just make more money. Only banks can do that sort of thing!”

“Eternal life? That’s out of the question too, isn’t it?”

The Djinn pulled a face. “It’s possible,” he said, “but I’d advise against it. Do you really want to see everyone you ever loved grow old and die while you start over again every seventy years or so?”

Susan sighed. “You’re not leaving many options.”

“Mine is an honest profession,” repeated the Djinn, broadening his shoulders and straightening his tie. “I must offer wise counsel.”

“I see,” said Susan. “Then what do you recommend?”

The Djinn smiled and once again opened his briefcase. This time he produced a smaller, sun-faded brochure and handed it to Susan.

“Take a look at this,” he said. “It has tick boxes.”

That evening, the Djinn sat alone in his palace of gilded sand. In his hand was the pamphlet the woman had returned to him. He perused her selections, ticked off with the complimentary pen that he’d left behind as a souvenir. He studied her first choice, and a smile creased his lips.

[/] I wish that an abandoned pet finds a loving home.

The Djinn blinked. It was done.

[/] I wish for a more fulfilling career.

The Djinn blinked again, realizing the wish and turning to the final page of the pamphlet.

His amber eyes sparkled as he read Susan’s final selection. It was one he’d placed in the pamphlet many centuries ago but had long given up hope of anyone ever choosing.

Softly, he blinked.

“Hello.” Susan stood before him, dressed in a smart, cream business suit. “How do I look?”

The Djinn’s smile lit up like the fire of one thousand suns. “Like someone who will make an admirable apprentice.” His was an honest profession, but he was glad that it would no longer be a lonely one.

Outside the palace of sand, the yellow moon rose high over the endless, black desert. Inside, two voices chatted long into the night, and the purr of a tiny kitten could occasionally be heard.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michael Teasdale is an English writer of strange fiction and occasional travel memoir whose stories have previously appeared in the UK publications Novel Magazine, Litro Magazine and the science fiction anthology series Shoreline of Infinity. He has called six different countries home and currently lives in Transylvania, Romania with his partner and their two cats.

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