Original subtitles

My name is A lit he a.

My story is true.

You're more likely to believe me, however,

if I tell it as a fairy tale.

So, once upon a time,

when humans hurtled across the sky on metal wings,

when they wore webbed feet

and walked on the bottom of the sea,

when they held in their hands glass tiles

that could coax love songs from the air...

...there was a woman, adequately happy and alone.

Alone by choice.

Happy because she was independent,

living off the exercise of her scholarly mind.

Her business was story.

She was a narratologist

who sought to find the truths

common to all the stories of humankind.

To this end, once or twice a year,

she ventured to strange lands.

To China, the South Seas,

and the timeless cities of the Levant...

where her kind gathered to tell stories about stories.

This way.

- Excuse me. - This way, lady.

What are you doing? Can you let go, please?

The mysteries of Istanbul.

A lit he a!

A lit he a!

Welcome!

- Welcome at last! Aw. - Gunhan!

My dear friend.

- Oh, how wonderful! - I'm sorry.

- This is Amina. - Amina.

From the British Council.

That fellow at the airport manhandling my luggage,

did you see him?

What fellow?

He scuttled off when you arrived.

Small, sheepskin jacket, pink collar.

Interesting.

He was hot to touch.

Musky.

Perhaps he was a djinn.

An illegal taxi driver, more likely.

Wearing too much cologne.

So, Professor,

you saying you believe in djinn?

I believe there are those who need to believe in them.

Including me?

Djinn, ghosts,

aliens, whatever helps.

The hotel's arranged a lovely surprise for you.

It's the Agatha Christie room.

In this room,

she wrote Murder on the Orient Express.

So, how would you explain

the power of a thunderstorm

if you don't have the means

to measure and model meteorological data?

How can you explain the seasons?

Autumn through winter to spring and summer,

if you don't know that the Earth

orbits the Sun while tilted on an axis?

Everything was mystery.

The seasons, tsunamis, microbial disease...

What else could we do but resort to stories?

As Dr. Binnie has encouraged us to understand,

stories were once the only way

to make our bewildering existence coherent.

That's exactly right.

We gave name to the unknown forces

behind all wonder and catastrophe,

by telling each other...

By telling each other stories.

Let me show you.

We told tales of specific, powerful, relatable gods

ever present in all cultures, in all mythologies,

from the Greeks, to the Romans, to the Norse,

and so on, and so on.

The familiar descendant of Zeus, Poseidon, Athena,

Thor, the whole gang,

find expression even today.

These are their vestiges.

The question remains, what is their purpose?

What do we require of them now?

There is mythos, and there is science.

Oh. Sorry.

Mythology is what we knew back then.

Science is what we know so far.

Sooner or later,

our creation stories are replaced

by the narratives of science.

Painstaking science.

And all gods and monsters

outlive their original purpose

and are reduced to metaphor.

Rubbish!

A lit he a!

A lit he a.

What happened?

I don't know. She just fell.

She just fell.

Gosh.

Are you okay?

Shouldn't you see a doctor?

Why? When I feel so well?

Forgive me, A lit he a. Are you sure?

Apart from the usual aches and pains,

there is nothing untoward.

There's no reason to make a fuss.

So, what happened back there?

Lately, my imagination's been getting the better of me.

Ambushing me.

I think it's a warning.

About what?

Not to be complacent.

To keep on my toes.

It manifests rudely from time to time.

I try not to fight it off.

It takes charge for a moment, and then it steps back.

What steps back?

Oh, Gunhan, it's irrational. Pay it no mind.

You are behaving like a child. Do you know that?

You know, I am actually a child.

If there is fate, can we escape it?

Who can say?

But I tell you this,

in the Grand Bazaar of Istanbul,

there are 62 streets and 4,000 shops.

And in one of those shops, there are three rooms.

In the smallest of those rooms,

there was a pile of things unsorted,

old and new.

From the bottom of that pile,

I chose a memento.

Do you know what this is?

I'm not sure, but it could be Cesm-i Bulbul,

a "Nightingale's Eye."

Around 1845, there were these glassmakers in Incirkoy.

They were famous for this spiral blue-white pattern.

Oh, please. It's a gift from me.

Choose something less forlorn.

And, uh, if this is Cesm-i Bulbul,

uh, is there a way of authenticating it?

Well, they say that if it is genuine,

sometimes you can see specks of blood

from the lungs of the glassblowers.

But this is more likely a recent imitation.

It's been damaged by fire. Pick something else.

No, thank you, Gunhan.

I like it.

Whatever it is, I'm sure it has an interesting story.

Hello?

Good morning, Dr. Binnie.

- Good morning. - This is room service.

- Yes. - How do you like your eggs?

Er, runny, please.

- And with toast? - Yes, but no crusts.

- Two eggs? - Just one.

- Okay, thank you. - Thank you.

I'm going to close my eyes and count to three,

after which I would be grateful

if you would be gone.

One,

two,

three.

Four,

five,

six,

seven, eight,

nine, ten.

I don't suppose you speak English?

Deutsch?

Espanol?

Ellinika?

Einstein.

Einstein.

Television.

Transmitters.

I am a djinn of modest power,

but I begin to understand these transmissions.

Oh!

You've learned to speak my language.

This English is straightforward.

Its rules quickly learn, I find.

Nein, nein, nein.

Would you like this little Albert for yourself?

No, no, no.

That can't be good for him. Put him back.

- I could expand him. - How?

We could speak with him.

- How is this possible? - No, put him back.

- Is that your wish? - This is not possible.

No. It's your obligation.

So, what will you wish for?

What is your heart's desire?

Now, let's, uh, not get ahead of ourselves.

I need to take this slow.

I have all the time in the world.

Tell me about yourself.

My name is A lit he a Binnie.

I am in Turkey for a conference.

And I return to my homeland in a day's time.

Also?

Also, I have a confession to make.

Something I've never told anybody.

Excellent.

When I was young, there was a boy.

Your first lover?

No, no, no. He was not of flesh and blood.

A djinn?

No.

At that time, I found myself in a school for girls.

Gaggles of girls.

I was... Well, I am a solitary creature by nature.

And this boy, Enzo,

he came to me, out of an emptiness.

Out of a need to imagine.

He told me stories in a language

that only we two spoke.

And he always disappeared when I had a headache,

but he was never far away

when I couldn't move for asthma.

He was like this little Albert

you would not let me give you?

An emanation?

Only an emanation of an absence.

I feared he would leave, and so I wrote him down.

And I filled this journal, bulging with facts.

But the more realism I tried to insert,

the more I began to doubt,

and, uh, it all began to feel silly.

I felt silly.

So, after a time,

I burned it all in the school furnace.

And after that, he disappeared altogether.

And yet, I am here.

Contrary to reason, yes.

I am here, and we have work to do.

Can you come back later, please?

It's room service, Dr. Binnie.

I have your breakfast.

Just a minute!

Must close door.

Good morning.

Where would you like it, Dr. Binnie?

Thank you. Oh, I can take it.

- Please, allow me. - No. No, I can manage it.

Jolly good, Dr. Binnie. I hope you are well rested.

Oh, that looks delicious. Yes, I am.

What do you plan to do on this fine day?

Uh, I'm not sure. I'm improvising.

Well, I'd like to show you a beautiful art gallery...

That's so kind. Thank you.

...this afternoon, when you get a chance.

- Maybe another time. - It will be great.

Thank you. Have a beautiful day.

Okay. Jolly good. Enjoy.

Thank you!

A more convenient size, I see.

I do what I can to fit in.

Please.

I needn't have ordered breakfast.

It's nan-e nokhodchi. Chickpeas, cloves, pistachio.

It will melt in your mouth.

May I ask you something?

Anything.

How come you found your way into my bottle?

Ah, it's quite a story.

That was my third incarceration.

You've been trapped in a bottle three times?

I may be a djinn, but I'm also a fool

with too great a fondness for the conversation of women.

I need to be more careful in the future.

How were you caught in the first place?

By desire.

How else?

Who was she?

Sheba.

The Queen of Sheba?

She was my kin.

She was a djinn?

Her mother was a djinn.

Is that possible?

There are laws that allow

the union of djinn and mortals,

but they cannot produce an immortal scion

the way a donkey and a horse

can only produce a seedless mule.

So, what did she look like?

Other than a thick glade of black hair on her legs,

she looked like any other human being,

except, of course, she was Sheba.

By all accounts, she was very beautiful.

She was not beautiful. She was beauty itself.

I was in every way free.

I would come in and out of her sleeping chamber.

Sheba...

I knew as well as any of her female slaves

the touches that made her shiver with bliss.

Never have I wanted a creature so.

And she desired you in return?

I was her plaything. Her confidante.

I might have become more, but for Solomon.

King Solomon?

Blessed be his memory.

He came from across the deserts to woo her.

Didn't she go to him?

No. Never.

But it's in all the holy books.

All the stories and the paintings.

And Handel wrote music about it.

Madam, I was there.

Solomon came to her.

He began with music.

I did all that I could to dissuade her.

But when she used

the scented wax of the Jabassa Bee

to remove the hair from her legs,

I knew that I was lost.

But I, like a fool, went on telling her

that her body was rich and lovely,

but her mind was richer and lovelier,

and more durable.

And she agreed with all that I said,

and dropped a hot tear.

She began to set him tasks, which seemed impossible,

to find a particular thread of red silk

in the palace of a thousand rooms,

to guess the secret name of her mother djinn,

to tell her what women most desire.

That does seem impossible.

Not for him.

He could speak to the beasts of the earth,

and to the djinn made of subtle fire.

He found ants to discover the thread of silk,

and an ifrit to whisper the mother's name.

Then he looked into her eyes

and told her what women most desire.

She was astonished,

and told him he was right.

And so she granted him what he most desired,

which was to wed her and be taken to her bed.

He was a great magician...

...and imprisoned me

with a word of power into a brass bottle.

She made no plea for me.

I was nothing to her.

A breath in a bottle.

And so, I was cast into the Red Sea

and languished for 2,500 years.

Apart from sleep,

what does one do in a bottle for 2,500 years?

Djinn don't sleep.

So, how do you manage then?

Well, for the first 100 years, I rage against my fate.

I pray to Boschkolo for my release,

and when that does not work,

I pray to any god I know,

and then to any god I may not know.

And when, still, I find no answers,

I spend my time in waking dreams

revisiting all the stories of my life.

And when I have exhausted this many, many times,

I return to my prayer and my rage.

And then, finally,

I play a trick on myself.

I pray to remain in the bottle.

I beseech Boschkolo to keep me always in the bottle.

And does that work?

To yearn for nothing?

To pretend to want nothing more

than to be contained in a bottle?

No.

For a djinn, it is the closest we ever come to death.

Do you know the answer to her question?

What women most desire?

Yeah.

Do you not know?

If you do not know, I cannot tell you.

Well, surely, we don't all want the same thing.

Madam, your yearnings are not at all clear to me.

I... I'm at a point in my life where I have all I need.

I daresay I'm content, and gratefully so.

Tell me.

Are you a wife? A widow?

- Um... - A mother, perhaps?

I have no children, no siblings, no parents.

I did once have a husband.

Ah.

And what was the complexion of this husband?

His complexion?

In the beginning, it was glowing.

And in the ending?

It's not much of a story.

But it is a story. It is your story,

and it is always wise

to understand those who have a hold on you.

Please.

Well, okay, um...

We'd known each other since our youth.

We, uh, married early.

In the beginning, we took pleasure

in each other's minds and bodies.

Um...

We passed the years comfortably,

and then as it happens,

it all evaporated,

and, uh... and we became

less.

And where is he?

He's in Hackney, with Emmeline Porter.

Mmm.

He told me I...

I was incapable of reading feelings.

I was incapable of reading his feelings.

...gonna have a resolution.

This is exciting!

- It is exciting! - No, it's not.

Let me guess. No one dies in it.

No!

The way my brain is wired is... is the...

the source both of my power

and, uh, and my solitude.

I suspect that's why I like stories.

I find feelings through stories.

Perhaps you could wish for him back.

Oh, no, no, no. No, no, no.

No.

I... I thought, um,

I might grieve a loss and betrayal, but, uh,

no, in fact, I was free.

I was like a prisoner

emerging from a dungeon into the sunlight.

I expanded into the space of my own life.

No, I could not wish for more.

You are a wise and cautious woman, A lit he a.

But we all have desires,

even if they remain hidden from us.

That's as maybe.

But I am also a narratologist,

and that is going to be a problem.

It's going to be a very big problem.

See, I know all the stories there are

about trickster djinn,

and the ways in which they manipulate wishing

to their own ends.

I am not one of them.

I am god-fearing and honorable,

and only here to grant your heart's desire.

Well, even if that's true,

how can you rely on those called upon to wish?

How do you know you can rely on me?

Well, I hope so.

With you, I certainly hope so.

There's a...

funny little story. I mean, you probably know it.

Three friends lost at sea in a tiny boat.

They pull up a magic fish,

who grants each of them one wish.

The first one,

"I wish I were at home with my wife."

He vanishes.

The second one, "I wish I were playing"

"in the fields with my children."

Off he goes.

And the third one, "I miss my friends..."

"I wish they were here."

You've got it.

There's no story about wishing that is not a cautionary tale.

None end happily.

Not even the ones that are supposed to be jokes.

But you and I are the authors of this story,

and we can avoid all traps.

Well, what if I made no wish at all?

Pardon?

What if I made no wish?

That would be an...

That would be

catastrophic!

All right.

I need to tell you about my next incarceration.

I'm all ears.

I will never know

how my bottle came from the bottom of the Red Sea...

...to a palace in Constantinople.

But I fancy somehow it involved

the killing of an Ottoman warrior.

The fall of an empire.

And a girl in love.

Merhaba.

Gulten lived as a slave

in the courtyard of the concubines

in the seraglio.

When I appeared to her...

...she fainted.

And I had great trouble rousing her.

I made it clear that I meant her no harm,

for I was condemned to the bottle.

Until you got your three wishes.

Until she got hers.

- Please. - Okay.

Now, the poor girl told me

she was distractedly in love with a beautiful man...

...and she wished immediately

to find favor in his eyes.

As it happens,

the one she most desired was the splendid Mustafa.

Prince Mustafa.

Eldest son of Suleiman the Magnificent,

and likely heir to his mighty throne.

Had I known what was to come,

I would've risked the furies of Iblis

to vehemently distract her from her wish.

But without thinking,

I took my bottle and conjured oils

to prepare her.

Oils of enchantment

once used only by Sheba.

I cautioned her to hide the bottle

lest its powers fall into other hands.

I went to Mustafa.

Gulten.

I whispered her name.

He sent for her.

It was so easy.

As a djinn, I am endlessly curious

about the ways of humans.

So, in my spare time,

I took to wandering the palace in search of its intrigues.

And there, among the eunuchs,

the consorts, and the concubines,

I first saw Hurrem.

The Laughing One.

She, too, was a slave

who had risen through the center of them all

to become the Sultan's favorite.

Suleiman the Wise saw none but her.

And she sought to protect his throne

in favor of her own sons over his beloved Mustafa.

And to this end, she had the prince watched

by many probing eyes.

When I saw how Hurrem

made a masterpiece of her manipulations,

I worried that my Gulten might be caught in this web.

I tried to warn her to be careful.

But she had already decided on her second wish.

Such a mistake.

Because at this moment,

Suleiman, blessed be his name,

is being undermined.

His warriors believe he is going soft,

more interested in his poetry

than ruling with a strong hand.

Hurrem fuels the rumors

that the military want to take his throne

and replace him with Mustafa.

The prince has become a pawn

in the ceaseless game of power.

Suleiman the Magnificent,

Suleiman the Conqueror,

patron and protector of empires,

Suleiman the Father,

was left with a choice

that he knows will break his heart.

Gulten, meantime, saw no reason

why she should remain unseen.

Given she was carrying the son of the next Sultan.

Despite all my warnings,

she parades her newly swollen breasts and belly.

And the whispers soon spread throughout the seraglio.

The terrible plottings move all too quickly.

Prince Mustafa comes innocently

into the presence of his father,

to reassure him of his loyalty.

And the mutes are waiting for him.

He cried out to his Janissaries,

who loved him,

but his voice was crushed and his breath stopped

by the string of his father's bow.

Gulten!

"Make a wish!"

"Save yourself, Gulten!"

Just a few words and she could have been free

to bear her child in safety,

and I to spirit away at last to the Realm of Djinn.

But she ran into the hands of the assassins.

I was about to take them by force,

when I was blocked by a follower of Iblis.

Gulten!

She made no wish to save herself.

No wish was made to save us both.

So, there I was,

or there I was not, might you say,

almost emancipated and tethered to this world

by a third wish unperformed.

But you realize, don't you,

that you've just told me the story of a woman who was doomed

as a consequence of the wishes she made?

Yes, but her failure to complete the wishes

also doomed me.

Could nobody else complete the wish?

That was my hope.

And that would finally liberate you?

That was my only hope.

But you were rendered invisible.

Like a ghost.

Wandering unseen.

And your bottle,

hidden under the loosened stone

known only to the dead Gulten.

Yes, it was a predicament.

I tried to attract the attention of someone,

anyone that could help me.

My stars, how I tried.

I followed their scent, their every step.

Willing, pleading, screaming.

Anything to draw them to me.

And I do this piteously for 100 years,

and with every failure, my will begins to fade.

And then in 1620,

hope comes in the form of a boy with a sword.

Murad! Murad!

Murad!

By some means, this boy senses me.

I'm able to draw him to the stone.

Ibrahim!

Gel.

Murad!

Ibrahim!

And just as I am about to be delivered

into their hands,

their mother finds them.

She is Kosem,

a widow of the Sultan, Ahmed the First.

And the boys are next in line for the throne.

When I see the hair on his legs,

I know that somewhere in Murad's bloodline

pulses the power of a djinn.

I follow him everywhere,

determined to draw him back to the stone.

But at the age of 11, he ascends the throne

and becomes Sultan Murad the Fourth.

And caught up by the usual intrigues,

he is even more lost to me.

At 20, he leads his armies to war.

He battles alongside his men

in the Caucasus and Mesopotamia.

Stories are told of his recklessness,

even with his own life.

I despair of ever seeing him again.

Hope is a monster, A lit he a, and I am its plaything.

So he died?

Not in battle.

Back in Istanbul,

Kosem needs to protect the throne.

She needs to protect Ibrahim.

- The little brother? - Yes.

He is last of the Ottoman line.

He has to produce male children.

So, Kosem locks him in a cage lined entirely with sable.

Quite the prison.

And one he will never want to leave.

It debauches him royally.

He believes the greater the expanse of flesh,

the more intense the pleasure.

So, Kosem seeks out beauties voluptuous and immense,

and brings them to his couch.

My fate turns specifically on this fetish.

How's that?

You'll see.

Murad is back.

And though he returns a conqueror,

he cannot shed his robes of blood.

War had truly rotted his soul.

I wait until he is alone.

I am determined to draw him back to the stone.

I don't want to interrupt, but I do have a question.

Did it matter to you what kind of wish

such a man might make?

One so insatiable.

No.

Not even if it were profoundly evil?

Not if it meant my freedom.

The truth is he has other things on his mind.

He believes he is invincible,

and to rule indefinitely, he must be rid of all rivals.

Ibrahim.

Ibrahim.

Kosem needs to stop him.

Somehow, she needed to distract him

from his bloodlust with other gratifications.

First, she arranges for him to be perpetually drunk.

And then she tries something very shrewd.

Something that you might enjoy.

She sends to find,

from all corners of the empire,

the best storytellers.

Those who are not persuasive

flee in fear or fall to his impatience.

There is only one

who has the ability to enchant him.

To soothe with stories,

to hold him hostage to their unfolding.

This is his only friend.

And that friendship turns to love.

Since there is nothing else for me to do,

I listen gratefully,

for I, too, love being lost in his stories.

When the old man dies,

all in the palace flee to the streets,

for they fear Murad's grief will incur fresh murder.

But he just sits, and howls, and drinks until he is empty.

And my patience is rewarded.

For in this state,

I am finally able to get his attention

and draw him back to the secret bathroom.

Oh, I know where this is going.

He's going to be too weak to lift the stone.

Too weak even to turn the latch.

So, he leaves and drinks himself to permanent sleep.

Oh!

And there I am,

left to my own oblivion,

with no one to hear my voice,

no one to know me, nor feel me, nor sense me.

You can't imagine.

Well, actually, I can.

Can you imagine the loneliness?

How it might overwhelm?

I can.

We exist only if we are real to others.

Do you agree?

I do.

This, then, is our fate, A lit he a.

If you make no wish at all,

I will be caught between worlds,

invisible and alone, for all of time.

Make a wish, A lit he a.

Make it your heart's desire.

I'd be more careful if I were you.

Obviously, you managed to find your way out.

More or less.

I'm beginning to think I'm in the presence

of a trickster.

That would be so much better.

My work would be so much easier.

But the truth is, I am just an idiot

who has been extravagantly unlucky.

Well, I have to take your word for that.

So?

Ibrahim, I suppose, becomes Sultan?

Ibrahim has to be dragged to the throne.

He Appoints one of his concubines

Governor of Damascus.

Her name is Sugar Lump.

By every measure, his favorite.

Had she not been free to roam,

she would not have found the secret bathroom.

Had she not decided to take a bath,

it would not have overfilled.

Had she not been clumsy

as she walked across the floor,

she would not have slipped, smashed the stone,

- and found my bottle. - Ah, yeah.

To be honest, I should have been more dignified.

But I began to beg, shamelessly.

"I wish you were back"

"in your bottle at the bottom of the Bosphorus."

So here I am,

fallen into your careful hands.

Seems we cannot escape each other.

You have me at your mercy.

This wishing...

It's a hazardous art.

"I wish" brings infinite unravelings.

Not necessarily.

Well, it's there in all your own stories.

I know, but...

You say you're not a trickster,

and you say that you and I are the authors of this story.

But I'm not able to write myself out of it.

Correct.

Why don't you just hop back into your bottle

and I'll give it to someone more gullible?

Someone more desperate. Someone more greedy.

I'm not getting back in the bottle.

Why not?

I'm not getting back in the bottle.

Well, I am not making three wishes.

Then you are sending me to my oblivion.

Oh, you're impossible.

And you are giving me a headache.

All right. All right.

Here's what I'll do. I will make three wishes.

- I will. - Before you die?

Right now. One after the other.

- Ready? - Mmm-hmm.

Number one. I wish your headache were gone.

Number two.

I wish for a sip of this tea.

And finally, I wish for another one of those.

You mock me.

Three wishes, perfectly simple,

and theoretically safe.

I was imprisoned by Solomon precisely

because I cried out my heart's desire.

Only by granting you yours may I earn my release.

Yes, well, I appreciate the symmetry,

but the thing is this,

I cannot for the life of me summon up one eligible wish.

And you're asking me for three.

Is there any life in you? Are you even alive?

You know, in some cultures,

absence of desire means enlightenment.

Then you are a pious fool.

If I'm content, why tempt fate?

And you're a coward.

Don't goad me.

There is no human, no angel, nor djinn

that wouldn't grasp at the chance

to fulfill their deepest longings,

and I am saddled with the one

who claims to want nothing at all.

A lit he a Binnie, you are a liar!

You know, I am beginning to wish we never met.

No! Nyet!

Don't say that!

So...

that's happened to you before.

And it was bad.

'Twas bad.

'Twas bitter.

'Twas the cruelest wish of all.

You were undone by silliness yet again.

I'm here because of a genius.

Who was it this time?

She was Zefir.

Rarely among humankind has there been such a wonder.

But you're here because of her folly.

I ended up in this as a consequence of Zefir.

And this is the story

you've been avoiding telling me all along.

This is the story I've avoided telling even myself.

Zefir was a foundling,

married at 12 to a wealthy merchant.

He was much older than her, and kind,

if you think keeping someone like a bird in a cage is kind.

There were two older wives, who did not like her

and did not talk to her at all.

Everyone, including the servants,

seemed to be mocking her.

She had neither etiquette nor learning.

She grew to no great beauty

and was angry without knowing why.

As the fates would have it, my bottle came to her

as a love token from her husband.

And when she had finished satisfying him

and was finally alone,

she managed to prise it open.

It was as if she was waiting for me.

I saw at once that she was sharp,

and she saw that I was desperate

for freedom and conversation.

I told her my story, as I have told you,

and she revealed herself to me by the things she had made.

Gel. Gel.

Gel.

She could have been remembered

like the genius da Vinci,

whose theories on flight

were the talk of sultans and kings.

She was a skilled artist, but no one saw her art.

She told me she was eaten up

with unused power.

She thought she might be a witch.

Except, she said, if she were a man,

her intellect would have been ordinarily accepted.

She was a woman ardent for learning,

and I knew what her first wish would be.

And it delighted me

to fulfill this wish.

So, I taught her histories, philosophies,

languages, poetry.

I taught her astronomy, mathematic,

which was bliss to her.

I brought her books and writings,

which we hid in her collection of bottles.

Sabah...

Sabah...

She could always call on Aristotle

from a red glass jar,

or Euclid from a green,

Pythagoras, Spinoza,

without needing me to re-embody them.

We had the whole world in her room,

and I lost my heart to her.

'Twas my bliss to make her happy.

To see her flourish.

And she flourished in every way.

Totalmente.

She began to rebel

even against the gestures of submission

that her husband required,

for she had acquired a mastery of love-craft,

out of reach of any human

that had not made love to a djinn.

His cravings for her became an obsession.

And when he would come to her,

I would leave her room and journey the skies.

I saw the mountains, the oceans...

I saw the beasts of the forest,

where no man treads.

And when I would return, she would be waiting for me.

I would tell her of my day, and she would faint with joy

and disappointment.

Why did she not make a wish to be free?

There was something more important to her.

She had devised a "mathematica,"

a language to explain the forces

which bring space, and time, and matter into being.

She was Promethean, brave.

But she could not solve this puzzle.

She needed a key,

a key to open the doors of her perception.

So, she used her second wish.

I taught her to dream as djinn do, awake.

And this way, the solutions came to her.

She was able to explain powers invisible,

electromagnetic fields and forces...

The very stuff of which djinn are made.

You're electromagnetic?

As you are dust, I am made of subtle fire.

And when she was to bear a child,

I was plagued with happiness,

for I knew it would strengthen us.

She was carrying your child?

A child, of fire and dust.

So, where did it go wrong?

A lit he a, I loved her.

I loved the fervor of her mind.

I loved her anger.

I loved my power

to turn her frowns into smiles.

I loved her more than Sheba.

More than your own freedom?

Yes.

It became my greatest desire to... to keep her,

to remain her prisoner.

The thought of being set free sickened my heart.

I caught myself stopping her lest she make her third wish.

Oh, gosh.

I made a mess of it.

She began to accuse me of trapping her,

like her husband.

I tried to make amends.

To atone, I would put myself in the bottle.

To be sealed.

That way, she could have more power over me.

To be nothing in a bottle.

I could do that for her.

And every time, it would appease.

Every time, except for the last.

When, like a sudden squall, all thunder and lightning,

she began to weep and wail, and said,

"I wish I could forget I ever met you."

And she did, on the instant.

She was out. I was in.

She'd forgotten me.

A lit he a, how can it be...

a mistake to love someone entirely?

I have a wish.

However, I'm afraid it may be too much to ask.

Is it within my power?

I hope so. I do hope so.

Is it your heart's desire?

Yeah, I'm certain of it.

See, erm,

I'm here to love you.

And, uh,

I wish for you to love me in return.

You want us to make love-craft?

Yeah, that too.

All of it.

And you would abandon yourself to this?

Yes.

Yes.

I want our solitudes to be together.

I want that love professed in ageless tales.

I want that longing you felt for the Queen of Sheba,

and that love you gave to your genius, Zefir.

I want it.

Me?

You.

You?

Me.

Is it too much?

Is it all too much to ask?

Come.

What are we to do with longings awoken?

How can I persuade you

that I once found love with a djinn?

In any case, few would believe me.

Love is not something we come to by reason.

It's more like a vapor,

a dream, perhaps,

to lure us into the enchantment

of our own stories.

If that's so,

how are we to know if it's ever real?

Is it a truth, or simply a madness?

I leave for London today.

Will you come home with me?

It's not such an easy place nowadays.

But it'll be better if you're there.

Over here, please.

Hands up.

Please step out.

What is in your pockets?

Oh.

Uh, it's an empty bottle and a top.

Please put it through X-ray.

It is very delicate,

and I don't want it to get damaged.

It will not be damaged. Please put through X-ray.

I would prefer that it didn't go in the...

Passport. Boarding pass.

Thank you.

It's quite fragile.

Madam.

It's a saltshaker.

Oh.

No! No X-ray! Please!

Stop, madam, stop.

Madam.

Oh.

In your own time.

The air is thick here.

Full of insistent voices and rushing faces.

Oh?

Like Tiny Einstein?

Television, and phone towers, and such?

Yes.

Yes. All your ingenious devices

all murmuring at once.

Bend your head.

You hear all that?

I also see it and feel it.

I am a transmitter.

Isn't it all too much?

I am a djinn.

I can adapt.

I'll soon get used to it.

She's back.

I believe she's back.

Is she with someone?

No, I think she's talking to herself again.

Hello, Clementine.

Fanny. Are you well?

Did you have any trouble?

Trouble? What kind of trouble?

With your foreign friends.

Because we often ask ourselves,

"Why would Dr. Binnie waste her time and intelligence"

"studying the ways of others instead of upholding our own?"

Embarrassed by our British culture, are we?

No. No.

I am rather more likely to be embarrassed by anybody

reflexly frightened of anybody different.

What exactly are you saying?

She's calling us bigots.

Your word, not mine.

You misunderstand.

- Oh? - It's not how they look, dear.

It's how they live. What they believe.

- What they eat. - What are you on about?

Everywhere one goes, ethnics.

We are being overwhelmed, and we're inviting our doom.

It's not natural.

Birds belong in the air. Fish belong in the sea.

And that is how the good Lord meant us to be.

You're just spouting rubbish from start to finish.

It's science. It's a scientific fact.

It's a false analogy.

I mean, animals do have a natural habitat.

It's true, but human beings are capable

of living in any environment they bloody well choose.

That's not a fact.

- What are you saying? - It's an opinion.

And you're wrong.

I'm not putting up with any more of this.

Come away, Clem. Let the crazy lady be.

We're never gonna get any sense out of her.

You know, I've never said this to you before.

But you're both pitiful.

Shut your cake hole!

Pea-brained and pitiful.

You, fuck face!

Stop your ivy growing on our side of the wall!

Why do I let them get to me?

I should feel sorry for them.

But this is my home. It's my sanctuary.

I could wish them...

That's not a wish, by the way.

I know.

My djinn.

How was your day?

Every listening ear was yours.

Every voice, every scent, and touch.

You were everywhere.

Back in a minute.

Whoever could that be at this hour?

It could be her.

Clem. Fanny.

Chickpeas, cloves, pistachio.

They melt in your mouth.

This is my friend.

He'll be staying for a while.

Hello.

- Hello. - Hello.

My Djinn told me,

when they come together in the Realm of Djinn,

they tell each other stories.

Stories are like breath to them.

They make meaning.

"Yes," I said.

"That's just how it is with us."

Each story we tell is a fragment

in an endless shape-shifting mosaic.

And this small pebble, like all stories, must end.

If it's about wishing, it's a cautionary tale.

So, how will it go wrong?

Perhaps, it already has.

Even though Truth stood before them naked,

they turned their backs.

So, Truth moved to the side and waited in the shadows.

In the days that followed,

the Djinn would accompany the narratologist to her work.

And when he wasn't with her,

he would go in eager exploration of the world.

Today I had such a marvelous day.

I saw many things.

I watched a human look into the living brain of another

and arrest a fatal bleeding.

I visited the Collider.

A vast gizmo which probed the essence of matter.

And then I saw a dish, a great dish

that listens to the whispers of stars long dead.

Humankind is...

is a wonder, A lit he a.

I'm happy you think so.

All of this since I was trapped in Zefir's bottle.

All these astonishments, in less than 200 years.

Yes, but, I mean,

that's just engineering and technology.

Despite all the whiz-bang,

we remain bewildered.

When we can't contain the chaos,

we are filled with dread and panic,

and we turn on each other.

But of course, you are human.

That is your nature.

Yeah. So, the story never changes.

Hate prevails.

It metastasizes and outlives love.

I just want to talk about love.

Such a mess of contradictions, all of you.

Thank you very much.

Humankind, what a conundrum.

You fumble around in the dark,

and yet, you herd your intelligence to great effect.

It is quite a story.

Cannot wait to see where it goes.

Or how it might end.

That too.

A mortal will never know, but a djinn might.

A djinn has all the time in the world.

Aren't you the lucky one?

Maybe.

But you creatures of dust have...

have managed to eclipse

the power and purpose of djinn and angel.

You have no use for us.

Perhaps, we will wither and...

- And fade away? - Yes.

Yeah. Well, that used to be the subject

of all my lectures and papers.

I know.

And yet, here you are.

My impossible.

Yes.

Hello?

I'm home!

Hello?

Djinn?

My love?

Djinn.

What's this?

Can you hear me?

Djinn, speak to me.

Try to speak to me.

I wish you to speak to me.

Oh...

I was sleeping.

Sleeping.

Djinn don't sleep.

Let's go for a walk.

A long, bracing walk.

I have prepared something for us.

I have it all planned.

A wonderous night for us.

It will be amazing.

- The best time of our lives. - Stop!

These electromagnetic fields, I can push them from my head.

I can push them away.

We'll go for a picnic.

Ah, we'll play the ukulele.

A lit he a, there is a place for me here.

These forces,

they will never go away, not from this world.

I will overcome them. I can do that for you.

You are my A lit he a, and I love you.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you for trying.

You don't think that I love you?

Love is a gift.

It's a gift of oneself given freely.

It's not something one can ever ask for.

I tricked us both.

The moment I spoke that wish,

I took away your power to grant it.

I, more than anybody, I should've known that.

I'm not going to screw this up again.

My Djinn, if this world is not for you,

I wish that you return to where you belong.

Wherever that may be.

Mommy!

Come here, little monkey.

That's not Mommy.

- Hey, hey, hey! - Ah, no!

Watch it. Top striker in the league.

Did you see that?

He would visit from time to time,

and they would grasp each vivid moment.

Despite the pain of the raucous skies,

he always stayed longer than he should,

long after she begged him to leave.

He promised to return in her lifetime,

and for her, that was more than enough.

Synchronization R.O.D.