“You are conspiring against me and my art,” he declared. “You are a pack of conspirators.”
He began to play again. Catarina stopped him by putting a hand on his arm.
“No, but seriously, Magnus,” she said. “That noise is appalling.”
Magnus sighed. “Every warlock’s a critic.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I have already explained myself to Ragnor. I wish to become proficient with a musical instrument. I have decided to devote myself to the art of the charanguista, and I wish to hear no more petty objections.”
“If we are all making lists of things we wish to hear no more . . . ,” Ragnor murmured.
Catarina, however, was smiling.
“I see,” she said.
“Madam, you do not see.”
“I do. I see it all most clearly,” Catarina assured him. “What is her name?”
“I resent your implication,” Magnus said. “There is no woman in the case. I am married to my music!”
“Oh, all right,” Catarina said. “What’s his name, then?”
His name was Imasu Morales, and he was gorgeous.
The three warlocks were staying near the harbor, along the shoreline of Lake Titicaca, but Magnus liked to see and be part of life in a way that Ragnor and Catarina, familiar with quiet and solitude from childhood on account of their unusual complexions, did not quite understand. He went walking about the city and up into the mountains, having small adventures. On a few occasions that Ragnor and Catarina kept hurtfully and unnecessarily reminding him of, he had been escorted home by the police, even though that incident with the Bolivian smugglers had been a complete misunderstanding.
Magnus had not been involved in any dealings with smugglers that night, though. He had simply been walking through the Plaza Republicana, skirting around artfully sculpted bushes and artfully sculpted sculptures. The city below shone like stars arranged in neat rows, as if someone were growing a harvest of light. It was a beautiful night to meet a beautiful boy.
The music had caught Magnus’s ear first, and then the laughter. Magnus had turned to look and saw sparkling dark eyes and rumpled hair, and the play of the musician’s fingers. Magnus had a list of favored traits in a partner—black hair, blue eyes, honest—but in this case what drew him in was an individual response to life. Something he hadn’t seen before, and which made him want to see more.
He moved closer, and managed to catch Imasu’s eye. Once both were caught, the game could begin, and Magnus began it by asking if Imasu taught music. He wanted to spend more time with Imasu, but he wanted to learn as well—to see if he could be absorbed in the same way, create the same sounds.
Even after a few lessons, Magnus could tell that the sounds he made with the charango were slightly different from the sounds Imasu made. Possibly more than slightly. Ragnor and Catarina both begged him to give the instrument up. Random strangers on the street begged him to give the instrument up. Even cats ran from him.
But: “You have real potential as a musician,” Imasu said, his voice serious and his eyes laughing.
Magnus made it his policy to listen to people who were kind, encouraging, and extremely handsome.
So he kept at it with the charango, despite the fact that he was forbidden to play it in the house. He was also discouraged from playing it in public places by a crying child, a man with papers talking about city ordinances, and a small riot.
As a last resort he went up to the mountains and played there. Magnus was sure that the llama stampede he witnessed was a coincidence. The llamas could not be judging him.
Besides, the charango was definitely starting to sound better. He was either getting the hang of it or succumbing to auditory hallucinations. Magnus chose to believe it was the former.
“I think I really turned a corner,” he told Imasu earnestly one day. “In the mountains. A metaphorical, musical corner, that is. There really should be more roads up there.”
“That’s wonderful,” Imasu said, eyes shining. “I can’t wait to hear it.”
They were in Imasu’s house, as Magnus was not allowed to play anywhere else in Puno. Imasu’s mother and sister were both sadly prone to migraines, so many of Magnus’s lessons were on musical theory, but today Magnus and Imasu were in the house alone.
“When can we expect your mother and sister back?” Magnus asked, very casually.
“In a few weeks,” Imasu replied. “They went to visit my aunt. Um. They didn’t flee—I mean, leave the house—for any particular reason.”
“Such charming ladies,” Magnus remarked. “So sad they’re both so sickly.”
Imasu blinked.
“Their headaches?” Magnus reminded him.
“Oh,” Imasu said. “Oh, right.” There was a pause, then Imasu clapped his hands together. “You were about to play something for me!”