Questly's Queries

• Amila Sargeant, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2009

Questly stuffed the rest of his chicken marinade burrito into his mouth and paused to swallow it. He quickly wiped a stray lettuce fragment from his freshly shaven cheek and frowned as he found a piece on his nose.
‘Now how did that get there…?’ he muttered under his breath. He straightened his suit up an pinched the freshly ironed creases so they stood out. He then licked his index finger and wiped his badge squeaky clean.
‘A-A-A-ACHOOOOO!’ he sneezed violently. ‘oh, real charming, Questly; absolutely lovely.’ He wiped some mucus off his blazer and turned towards the house, wondering why he might have sneezed so suddenly.
It stood out against the bright golden sands of the Arabian Desert. ‘Quite like a temple,’ he thought to himself. A few strides later and he stood in front of the doorway. He readied himself for the reputed eccentric who was said to live inside. He knocked briskly on the door, and paused, wondering what such an eccentric’s voice might sound like.
‘Who ees it?’ the eccentric slurred. The voice pierced the gentle wind of the desert like a needle through a strip of silk. Questly shuddered.
“Sir, I am Questly Quadrant from Buy ‘n’ Rent International, Middle Eastern Division. Our branch heard about your establishment and we wanted to talk to you about investing.” Questly spoke fluidly, his voice like honey on the warm wind. He wondered for a minute if he sounded too rehearsed.
“Enough jibber Jabber. I’ll send Sinclair to show you in.”
Questly snorted. As if he of all people needed a guide to show him into the house. What was this place, a marble temple? He muffled a laugh.
A few seconds later a small black man with a beret appeared at the doorway, a frown etched permanently in his face.
“Come,” that was all he said. He turned, and led Questly through a marble templ-ish house, and into a heavily perfumed room.
“This is Mr Senez. You wanted to talk to him?” the little black man glared at Questly as if this was a crime. He left the room reluctantly to leave Questly alone with Mr Senez.
Questly was speechless, not used to being spoken to with such rudeness. When he spoke it was like Mr Senez had read his mind.
“Oh, don’t worry about Sinclair. He’s just a little paranoid. And maybe a tad obsessive compulsive. And disrespectful toward you commercial ones.” Questly turned to trace the source of the weedy voice, and what he saw nearly jolted his plain, cold heart into attack.
About a metre away from him, hovering about thirty centimetres above a red hearth rug was a genie, I mean, it was either that or a male belly dancer. But Questly didn’t think that male belly dancers lived in marble temples. He wore gold shoes that curled at the tips and baggy blue cotton pants. He had an olive skinned bald head that sat like a light bulb above his eccentrically clothed torso, with the traditional sequined vest with no shirt under.
“So Sir, what can I do for you?” Questly’s gawking was interrupted by the weedy voice again.
“Sir my company had heard of your great wealth, and was…well, how to put this…wondering if you wanted to sell your…house?”
Questly was surprised at how nervous an un rehearsed he sounded. He supposed a genie wasn’t the average client.
“No, Mr Real Estate Agent, Sir, I most certainly will not sell my house-thing-but, as a genie-” Yes that confirmed Questly’s suspicions - “I can offer you three wishes?”
His reedy voice and strange clothes no longer mattered to Questly - he was being offered large amounts of money - no effort required!