Page 41 of You Made a Fool of Death with Your Beauty

Back at the bungalow, Lorraine had ordered takeout and Feyi curled up in a corner of the orange couch as they watched BoJack Horseman and ate jerk chicken with macaroni pie and plantains. When it was time for bed, Lorraine showed her to the guest room, pale blue walls and a cloud of a bed.

“Sleep well,” she said, and Feyi was too exhausted to even marvel at Lorraine’s new warmth or to wonder who this room had belonged to in another life. She pulled on a large T-shirt, crawled into the sheets, and fell asleep in minutes.

• • •

Feyi finished her install late the next evening, her hands aching from tying what felt like hundreds of knots with fine fishing wire, almost invisible to the eye but loud against her raw fingertips. The mirrored room felt like a contained madness, too many reflections, not enough space to escape, which meant she’d done it right. Feyi stepped out and took a few steps back to look at it from the main gallery space.

“All done,” she whispered to herself. “Thank you, Jonah.” With this work in particular, it felt like he’d been with her for each tedious hour, knot after knot, patiently watching. Feyi felt hollow, like she’d scooped fibrous chunks of herself out, like a pumpkin, and hung them up among the mirrors. She was still standing there, almost fixed in place, when Rebecca walked in and came up to her. The two women stood side by side for a moment, then Rebecca put a hand on Feyi’s shoulder.

“It looks great,” the curator said. “Go get some rest, you look exhausted. I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

Feyi nodded and took a deep breath. “Thanks, Rebecca. I appreciate it.”

She started heading out of the space, but Rebecca called after her.

“Feyi?”

“Yeah?” she answered, turning to look back.

Rebecca smiled at her. “Congratulations, dear.”

Through all the fatigue, a tendril of warmth unfurled in Feyi’s chest. She smiled back, then headed out to where Nasir was waiting for her in the car. He had some errands to run on the other side of town, so he played her Sizzla all the way up to Alim’s house, then dropped her off and kissed her cheek before heading back down the mountain. Feyi let herself into the house and stripped off her clothes in her room, sprinkling some eucalyptus oil on the stone floor before she stepped into the shower, running the water for ages, scalding hot and steaming against the glass. She let the relief of having the work installed loosen her muscles and tried not to think about the opening that was coming up, all the people who would walk through the museum. Rebecca liked the piece, that was the important part. Feyi got dressed, slipping on a linen shift and buttoning it up in the front, then pulling her braids into a ponytail before leaving her room.

She wandered through the house without any particular direction, exploring the corridors and gazing at the art. When she found the library, she searched through the shelves before pulling some Helen Oyeyemi books and tucking them under her arm. The door slid quietly shut behind her, and Feyi resumed her wandering. A few minutes later, she came to the bottom of an unfamiliar staircase. Faint strains of music were dripping down, and Feyi hesitated before following the music, the soft percussion and piano. It was gentle, just a ghost of a sound from that distance, but it felt like a spell, like she was stepping through a portal.

Nasir hadn’t shown her this part of the house, so Feyi was fairly sure that she was infringing on Alim’s territory right now, even though she’d done such a good job of avoiding him since that sunrise. She kept going, though, because now there was a voice swelling in the air along with the music, raspy and rich, singing in Spanish with an ocean’s worth of longing packed into the notes. Feyi paused at the top of the stairs, a cliff in her stomach. The lighting in this wing of the house was low and warm, simmering like embers, and she recognized that voice. Concha Buika. No one else had a voice like that, raw and strong, transforming the air it traveled through.

Feyi became aware of her senses—the linen she was wearing soft and textured against her hips and sides, the delicate touch of her braids brushing her shoulder blades. She knew she should turn back. No good could come of following a song like that when she knew who was waiting at the other end, but because Feyi was herself, and alive, she kept going, holding the books like a secret.

The music took her around a corner, and a set of double doors opened into a large kitchen soaked with light. Buika’s voice rang through it like a cathedral, rhythmic clapping in the background and now a quick flamenco guitar. Across a wide swath of stainless steel, Alim was standing with a knife gleaming in his hand, roughly chopping up a hunk of palm sugar, his face tranquil and so beautiful it made Feyi stop in her tracks. The air was sweet and sticky, heavy with coffee, coconut, and nutmeg. Alim glanced up at her, and his hands stopped even as the music continued, climbing to a crescendo, now horns fast with the drums and guitar, and there was no room to talk. Feyi stared at him, sweat forming in the small of her back. Would he send her away? Should she just turn and leave? How invasive was this, walking into his private kitchen like she had a right to?

The song ended, and another began with soaring vocals. Alim smiled and resumed his knife work, tilting his head to gesture Feyi toward a stool on the other side of his table. She went over and sat down quickly, relieved to be welcomed, as Alim cleared the palm sugar into a bowl with the edge of his knife. Neither of them spoke a word; Buika took up all the air.

Alim reached for a glass carafe and poured a drink into a small tumbler, handing it to Feyi. She smiled her thanks and took a sip, then gasped as ginger effervesced down her throat, sparkling and sweet with passion fruit. Alim hid a smile and kept working, small bowls whirling around him, pans simmering on the stove behind him, endless spoons dipped in several sauces. He kept passing Feyi little morsels to taste—a small bowl of coffee bean granita, a piece of cassava pone with spiced chocolate ganache daubed on the plate, a spoonful of the coconut-lime sauce he had going on the stove, his hand cradled underneath. In between the tastes, Feyi leaned her elbow on the table and her chin in her scarred palm, watching him move and listening to Buika’s voice.

Alim was liquid in that space, totally at ease, an ivory kitchen cloth slung over his shoulder. He walked over to a large refrigerator, his body reflecting warped on its surface, then pulled out a metal canister frosted with cold, shaking it before depressing its lever. A thick foam spurted out, deep and orange, splashing against the rim of the metal bowl on the counter. As Alim steadied the flow, Feyi smelled mango, sharp and sweet and tangy in the air. He put down the canister and tilted the bowl, then scooped some foam dripping off the rim with two fingers and held it out to her for a taste, his eyes still on the bowl as he tipped it back and forth with his other hand, gauging the consistency.

Buika’s throat-tearing voice rang through the room as Feyi stared at Alim’s fingers, a breath away from her mouth. It would have been easy to swipe the foam off his hand and onto hers, but somehow Feyi found herself steadying his wrist instead as she leaned forward and licked the sweet cloud off his fingertips, her tongue dragging against the fine ridges of his skin. She wasn’t thinking. The bowl in Alim’s other hand dropped to the table with a small clatter and Feyi’s heart beat wildly against her ribs as the taste of mango detonated in her mouth. She felt like she was leaping off a waterfall, the rush of a river clamoring in her ears.

Alim raised his head and looked at her, his pupils dilated, ink filling his gray eyes into black, widening with a hunger that both terrified and elated Feyi, rippling up the fine hairs of her arm and the back of her neck.

There it was, open and exposed, finally.

Desire as deep as midnight, greedy as the ocean, changing his face, changing everything. Feyi released his hand, scraps of foam clinging to his damp fingers, and Buika kept singing as if nothing had happened.

Feyi wasn’t sure how she was expecting Alim to react, but it took her wholly by surprise when he lifted his fingers to his mouth and tasted the rest of the foam, never taking his eyes off her. Blood rushed to her face, and she reached for her ginger drink, dropping her gaze. Had he done that on purpose, to be suggestive? He was turning back to the stove, so casually, and Feyi took the time to stare at the back of his neck, the tapered cut of salt-and-pepper hair fading into his skin. She wanted to press her lips to it, and being on the other side of the table suddenly felt very lonely, like it was a canyon between them, a lifetime.

You always fall for the impossible, Jonah used to tell her. It hadn’t mattered then because he believed in her so fiercely, everything had turned out to be possible anyway.

Feyi could feel the sharpness of tears threatening, foolishly and for no reason. What was she doing, playing make-believe in this man’s world? She didn’t belong here. Under the volume of Buika’s music, she picked up the books she’d taken from the library and slid silently off the stool she’d been sitting on, her bare feet landing softly on the cool polished concrete. She was trying to be quiet, but Alim turned his head anyway, and Feyi smiled apologetically, raising a hand goodbye. There was a heartbeat of a pause, then Alim raised his hand goodbye as well.

Feyi left the kitchen quickly, trying not to think about how he’d looked standing there, surrounded by sweet things and so starkly alone.

Chapter Twelve

On the night of the opening, Feyi’s pulse was a flock of birds going mad in her veins. Joy had approved her outfit, a silk dress in shimmering falls of dark red, scooped open at the back with a bateau neck. Feyi’s gold braids were pinned into an updo, and small ruby studs shone in her ears, a graduation gift from her parents and the only jewelry she was wearing that night. The pouring column of her dress was enough, the way it left her wrists bare and pooled at her feet. She had a faint scarlet tint on her lips and black winged liner on her eyes, thick mascara lengthening her lashes.

“You look like you’re about to assassinate someone,” Joy had said. “You look perfect.”