4:39

By Valentino Mori

 Whether it's raising her daughter, adapting to life in Germany, or finding a new mosque, Lujayn never seems to have enough time. That changes when she inherits a minute from her grandfather. The minute, a timeless dimension only accessible during 4:39 AM, provides Lujayn respite from the demands of daily life. But 4:39 contains more than peaceful gardens and a rustic cottage—it also holds clues to her grandfather's mysterious past.

 

  Lujayn is soon hounded by corporate agents, private collectors, and malevolent warlords, all intent on gaining control of the minute. To protect her family, Lujayn seeks out unlikely allies: a surly plumber with secret knowledge, a precocious Russian child looking to turn a profit, a Tanzanian journalist on the run, and a female imam with a penchant for paradoxes.  

 

  Lujayn's peril intensifies as she descends deeper into the world of minutes, but unless she uncovers her grandfather's past, she may be doomed to repeat his misdeeds.    

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valentino Mori
• Release date: Oct 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005239619

Valentino Mori

I've been writing fantasy and science fiction novels since the age of eleven and I have no intention of stopping. My weaknesses are black teas, compelling podcasts, and the smell of caramelized onions.

Book preview

Chapter One

It so happened that the phone rang while my fingers were covered in peanut butter and elderberry jam from sandwich making.  By the time I washed my hands, Joachim had entered the kitchen and fished into my purse to answer the call.

Lujayn's husband speaking, who's this?

I would have listened in, but I heard a splash from the dining room and knew before hurrying out of the kitchen that Izdihar had spilled her cornflakes again.

I want pancakes, Mommy, she said, as milk ran along the wooden table and cascaded to the floor. Make some pancakes!

I told myself to stay calm, grabbed the damp rag we kept at the breakfast table for a slew of minor emergencies and began swabbing up the milk and soggy cereal.

Go put on your shoes, Hedgehog, I said, without looking up. We can't be late for Kindergarten again.

But Mommy—

Put on your shoes.

Lujayn, Joachim called from the kitchen. Do you know a Signora Sviluppo?

A what?

Signora Sviluppo.  I think she's Italian.

Mommy, I need to pee first.

I pressed my eyes closed, the oversaturated milky rag in my hand starting to drip. Okay, Hedgehog—go pee.  But hurry.

I re-entered the kitchen and wrung out the rag in the sink.  Joachim, still on the phone, leaned against the counter and nodded intently.

Lujayn, Signora Sviluppo says she has an important opportunity just for you and wants to speak with you.

Hard pass, I said, returning to Izdihar's half-made sandwich. Not dealing with a sales call this early in the morning.

Joachim frowned, phone still pressed to his ear. She's saying this is about your grandfather.

Can you hang up the phone? I asked. This is getting ridiculous.

Joachim wiped away the small patch of shaving cream under his ear as he stayed on the line. 4:39.

Excuse me?

She told me to tell you it's about 4:39.

Hang up the phone, Joachim.

Reluctantly, Joachim did so.  He shoved the phone back in my purse and watched me screw the lid back on the elderberry jam. Didn't we agree no more jam sandwiches for Izdihar?

We had agreed, since moving to Germany, to minimize the sweet snacks Izdihar was consuming, but Joachim wasn't the one unpacking the half-eaten tinfoil-wrapped cheese sandwiches Izdihar kept bringing back from Kindergarten.  Despite my best attempts to broaden Izdihar's palate, our four-year-old daughter simply did not like savory sandwiches.

Can we talk about this later? I asked, not looking up.

Lujayn, we really need to be on the same page with our parenting.  If there's one thing I've learned from medieval history podcasts, it's that a united front is essential.

Not a great analogy.

I disagree.  Just think of Izzy as Constantinople, you can be the Avars, and I'll be the Sassanid Persians.  Communication is key between the allied besieging forces, and the message to the besieged city must be consistent.

A cry from the bathroom saved us from re-litigating the Siege of 626 AD.  Joachim hurried to see what was wrong while I spread jam evenly across the sliced bread, folded the slices together, and cut the sandwich into two isosceles triangles.  I placed the wrapped sandwich into Izdihar's lunchbox along with two satsumas, which she enjoyed peeling more than she enjoyed eating.

It's okay, Joachim called from the bathroom. She just bumped her head against the sink.  I'm using my secret medicine to heal her back to full health.

His secret medicine was his aftershave, which he had convinced Izdihar could magically restore physical ailments.  He returned to the kitchen, leading our daughter by the hand.  He glanced up at the clock and gave a yelp.  He rummaged in the fridge for the Tupperware I had prepared for him the night before, then he kissed me.

If I hurry, I'll still catch my train, he said. Are you getting the sink fixed today?

Yes, I said, dread dripping into my soul the way the s-pipe had been dripping into the bathroom cabinet.  Dealing with our super stressed me out.  I’ll do what I can.

Text me if there's any problem, said Joachim, before crouching down to kiss Izdihar on her forehead. I should be able to respond today.  My manager is still at his conference in Hamburg.

Joachim gathered up his briefcase, stowed his wallet, and hurried out the door.  I heard his footsteps as he clattered down three flights of stairs to the ground floor, which was more efficient than the ancient elevator.

Can I have more cornflakes? asked Izdihar, testing out the durability of her boots by kicking a table leg.

I rolled my eyes. I'm not giving you more cornflakes after you knocked over your bowl.

How about just two cornflakes?

Still a no.  Come, put on your jacket.

We had moved to Germany for Joachim’s career.  He had been offered a job in Cologne at Schimäre Biomedical Solutions, where his knowledge of quality systems and the German language would come in handy.  I hadn't opposed uprooting our lives in Louisville and migrating across the Atlantic Ocean, but I did feel it put a lot of credit in my column.

Joachim was a Quality Assurance Specialist, the meaning of which, after four years of marriage, I only vaguely understood.  But thanks to Schimäre Biomedical Solutions, we now lived in Weiden, one of the Cologne suburbs.  Certain aspects of life here were an improvement on Louisville, but the weather was not one of them.

Come on, under the umbrella, I said, adjusting the pin in my hijab without the scarf unraveling—a significant achievement when performed with one hand. You’re going to get wet.

That's okay.  I’m a salamander.

Is that so?

Uh huh.  No wait, I’m actually a newt.  No, a poison dark frog.

I considered correcting her to poison dart frog, but literalism always struck me as an unsavory parenting technique.  We turned off of Moltkestraße and onto Brauweilerstraße, heading towards the Kindergarten.  I held Izdihar’s hand while several teenagers on silver bicycles pedaled past us, shouting and laughing.

Do you know how to say frog in German? I asked. Have they taught you yet?

Izdihar shook her head and tried to wriggle free of my grasp to explore the splashability of a puddle. But I know dog and cat and horse and mushroom.  Do you know frog, mommy?

I opened my mouth, then paused.  I had learned it earlier that week on one of my language apps, but now I couldn’t recall it.  Learning German turned out to be even more gradual and tedious than I had anticipated.  It was scary to think sometimes that my four-year-old was learning faster than I was, despite my daily efforts to study.  It might have been easier if people in Weiden didn't speak such good English.

We reached the gate of the Kindergarten and found Fraulein Ziegler waiting, her neat apron embroidered with a parade of bears.

There you are, Izdihar, she said in her melodic and very proper German.  I appreciated that she, unlike my own husband, called Izdihar by her name, rather than shortening it to Izzy.   She turned to me with a smile. And good morning, Frau Mandelstam, how are you?  I hope the rain was no great inconvenience.

She spoke to me in English, which was probably a kind gesture, but it felt condescending.

We have rain in Kentucky too, I replied in clunky German, focusing on pronouncing my Rs so as not to sound too American. Sorry for the being late.

That’s quite all right, said Fraulein Ziegler. Come, Izdihar, let’s go to the Sunflower Room.

Have a good day, Hedgehog, I called.

Bye, Mommy.

Melancholy and relief washed over me as she disappeared from sight.  I loved Izdihar with the affection that comes from creating a human from half your DNA and thirty-nine weeks of bodily affliction—but parenthood had entirely reshaped my life.  Time I took for granted no longer existed.  My schedule was determined by Izdihar, her schooling, her nutrition, and her health.  Most of all, I could not change my mind about loving Izdihar, the way I could change my mind about loving Joachim.  I had to keep loving Izdihar the way I had to keep breathing.

I started home, the metal shaft of the umbrella resting against my left shoulder.  As I crossed the road, I tried to appraise today's long list of errands without becoming despondent.  My phone rang and my heart sank when I saw who was calling.  I accepted the call anyway.

Hello, Mom.  How are you?

You haven't been answering my emails.

This was a typical greeting from Fayza Eldessouky.  She detested small talk not out of a sense of urgency—she was a librarian with plenty of free time—but because it was beneath her.  The three subjects she wanted to discuss with me were: ways I was falling short of my potential, ways my sister was falling short of her potential, and the bridge column from that day's paper.  She didn't play bridge herself, but spent her weekends as a director in the local bridge club, adjudicating on behalf of players.

I’m sorry, Mom.  I’ve been busy.

Too busy to respond to emails?  I don’t think so.  You're simply budgeting your time poorly.  Depression is no excuse for poor time management, Lujayn.

I’ll respond to your emails as soon as I get home.  I’m just walking back from Izdihar’s Kindergarten.

No more stalling:  I want an answer now.  Have you or have you not found an appropriate mosque?

I pressed my eyes closed. Not yet.

Not yet?  But you have been looking, haven’t you?

Well, yes, I—

What’s the name of the last mosque you visited, Lujayn?

I hesitated. Well, there have been so many, I can’t keep track of which one exactly I visited last.

Is that right?  Name one of them.

Mother—

"It is God you answer to, Lujayn.  It is your soul I am concerned about, not mine."

You don’t think God will judge you for raising such an impious daughter? I asked, dryly.

Are you talking about yourself or about your sister?

I turned back onto Moltkestraße. Myself, of course.  Why would I bring Hikmat into this?

Hikmat is just as bad as you, my mother replied. She still refuses to wear hijab.  I keep talking to her about it, but she is stubborn.  You are no better, of course.  Why are you so reluctant to find a mosque?  It’s been three months, Lujayn.

I had my reasons why I prayed at home, rather than finding a mosque.  Back in Kentucky I had gotten into contentious arguments with the imam whether all video games were haram, or whether certain games were permissible for devout Muslims.  The prospect of once again debating my theological divergence with a new imam wasn't helping my social anxiety, and so I had procrastinated my research—but I wasn't about to share this with my mother.

I don’t have an excuse, Mom, I’m just busy.  Izdihar is my priority at the moment.

Choosing a mosque will benefit Izdihar too.  It is never too young to begin following the path of God.

This was a provocation, an attempt to get me to say, Joachim and I are not raising Izdihar with any particular religion in mind, which would give my mother the opening she needed to complain about my marriage, about Joachim, and there would be no stopping her then.  Instead, I said, That's very true, Mother.  As usual, you're quite right.

I heard a mild harrumph on the other end, a sound imbued with maternal suspicion of daughterly duplicity, but my tone was sufficiently sincere for her to change tactics.

You still have not invited me for a visit.

And I probably won't any time soon, I said. We don't have a place for you to stay.

Nonsense, I will sleep with my granddaughter.

Izdihar is sleeping in a remodeled closet, Mom.  You won't be comfortable in our apartment, and it's expensive to fly to Germany.

My mother considered this. I am sure there are hotels.

I reached the apartment complex and the end of my patience. Can we discuss this later?  Maybe after I decide on a mosque?

I suppose it depends if your husband allows you to attend a Friday service at all.

My mother was extremely adept in landing a parting shot.  I took a steadying breath. Love you, Mom.

I hung up, approached building 56, and unlocked the glass door.  My wet boots squeaked on the marble steps as I climbed the stairs.  When I reached the third floor, I saw a woman standing at the door to my apartment.  From her unapologetic eye contact, I knew she had been waiting for me.

Who are you? I asked, frowning. How did you get past the main door?

The woman smiled, her lipstick a dark shade of purple. My name is Magdalena Sviluppo.  I am here regarding your grandfather, Ibrahim Eldessouky.  Where can we best discuss this most important opportunity?

Chapter Two

Bäkerei Voosen had clean floors and baristas who brewed strong coffee, and since it was a three-minute walk from the apartment, it seemed like a good place to discuss Signora Sviluppo's mysterious business.

Ah, wonderful, said Sviluppo when the cashier handed her a cappuccino and served me my chai latte.  She spoke a proper British English, tinged with a modest Italian accent. "I am not one of those insufferable Florentines who can't stop telling you how much better the coffee is in la stazione ferroveraria di mia infanzia, until their coffee goes cold.  In my opinion, there is no relationship more symbiotic than German pastry and hot coffee."

She had ordered a thick slice of the Black Forest cake and a Berliner.  Combined, these constituted an extraordinary amount of pastry for so early in the morning, and neither was regional to the Cologne area.  Joachim would have urged Sviluppo to sample the local delicacies instead, before drifting into a childhood anecdote about visiting German bakeries for the first time—that was the kind of extrovert he was.  I elected to be more direct.

Not to be rude, I said. But why are you calling me and showing up at my front door?  What's this about my grandfather?

Those are very good questions, said Sviluppo, tapping her lilac fingernails against her coffee cup. Would you care for some Schwartzwaldkuchen?  I’ve always found that cake aids my comprehension and focus.

No, thank you, I said, though I was tempted.

Then to business, said Sviluppo. I’m a representative of Cingolani e Potenza, on whose behalf I’m speaking with you.

Representative?  Like a lawyer?

Displeasure crossed Sviluppo's face. I am not partial to the word lawyer, since it implies a narrow set of duties.  Let us just say I speak for Cingolani e Potenza.

I’ve never heard of the company, I said.

We keep a low public profile, said Sviluppo. No website, no social media—we rely on word of mouth and extremely targeted marketing.

What does your company do, exactly?

Sviluppo tore open a packet of brown sugar and slowly sprinkled the grains into her cappuccino. The founders, Polissena Cingolani and Fabrizia Potenza, were a watchmaker and an architect, respectively.

So you sell clocks and home renovations?

Sviluppo folded back her left sleeve to reveal that she was wearing three wristwatches.  One was sleek and simple, the next was ornate with gold trim, and the third was digital.

Not exactly, she said.

Okay, I said, curtailing my mounting irritation. "So, what do you sell?  And what does any of this have to do with my grandfather?"

This conversation felt like a total waste of time, and yet it was still more enjoyable to sip my chai latte than go home and contact the building’s belligerent superintendent.

He is precisely the reason I'm here, said Sviluppo. You and I would not be speaking if you were not Ibrahim Eldessouky's heir.

I frowned.  My mother had nonchalantly informed me of my grandfather's death in early July.  His passing didn't grieve me much.  My grandfather and mother had been estranged and the only relationship I had with Ibrahim Eldessouky was when he would drop off birthday presents for me and my sister.  He gave generous gifts—exquisite watercolor sets, a leather-bound copy of Anne of Green Gables, an elegant chess board.  My mother allowed us to keep the gifts, but not to speak to our grandfather beyond a brief thank you. 

I’m not his heir, I told Sviluppo. He never wrote a will, so my mother inherited everything.

Actually, Signor Eldessouky did leave a will, witnessed and notarized, but he did not leave it in an easily accessible location.

What does that mean?

Sviluppo slid a manila folder across the table.  It contained a single signed piece of paper.

Mr. Eldessouky wrote this document to clarify he was cutting your mother out of the inheritance.  He states his money and his apartment in Vancouver should be given to his younger granddaughter Hikmat and his possessions should be given to his older granddaughter, Lujayn.  Among these possessions is a product manufactured by Cingolani and Potenza, which we would like to buy back.  That is why I’m here.

I sensed an inevitable vortex of family drama converging on the horizon.  My mother had taken ownership of the Vancouver apartment, which she was now renting out from her home across the border in Bellingham.  We had found very few possessions in the Vancouver apartment, and the only thing I had wanted was a painting of a pelican at dawn, which my mother had given me.  I did not want to argue with her and my sister about what belonged to whom.

I don’t remember any Cingolani and Potenza clocks in my grandfather’s apartment, I said. If my grandfather got something from your company, you’d have to speak to my mother.  I don’t have it.

The product in question is not a clock, said Sviluppo. And it wouldn't have been left in his apartment.  What your grandfather has bequeathed to you is a minute.

A minute?

4:39 AM, to be precise.

I took another sip of my chai latte while I tried to make sense of what Sviluppo was saying. Your company manufactures minutes?

It’s not so much manufacturing as it is artisan crafting, said Sviluppo. A delicate and intricate process.  At Cingolani e Potenza, minutes are more than a product—they are a passion.

Not interested in the company sales pitch, I pressed on to the relevant details. And my grandfather bought one from you?

He did, said Sviluppo. Back in 1975, when we sold minutes outright—nowadays we simply rent out our minutes.  They say time is money, but really, time is a money maker.

She laughed at her own joke.  I didn’t. So you want the minute back.

Sviluppo turned serious again. Precisely.

I'm sorry, but my mother would have mentioned it if she found a spare minute lying around my grandfather's apartment.  I won't be able to return it.

Sviluppo remained undeterred. A minute is not something that can be found in an apartment like a treasured cravat or an amethyst ring.  It is a pocket dimension, scooped out of the timespace continuum and accessible only once a day during the eponymous minute—in your case, 4:39 AM.  Returning the minute is more of a legal formality than a physical transfer.

Oh.

I am here to ensure that return is painless and lucrative for you.  While your grandfather paid a mere ten million Italian lira, I offer no less than two hundred thousand euros today, tax exempt.  All you need to do is sign here.

She took out another form.  There was a golden logo of a clock and a chain in one corner.  There was a blank space at the bottom with my name, Lujayn Aqila Mandelstam, printed beneath.  Sviluppo held out an ornate fountain pen for my use.  I frowned.

That’s a lot of money.

It is.

What was ten million lira worth, out of curiosity?

Right now?  Nothing.  Lira are obsolete.  In 1975 though, the exchange rate was about six hundred and fifty lira to one U.S. dollar.  So your grandfather paid approximately fifteen thousand dollars back then.  Adjusted for inflation, that’s a little over seventy thousand dollars.

Seems cheap for a minute, I said, not that I really knew the going rate.

Your grandfather purchased one of our cheapest offerings, said Sviluppo. 4:39 is an inconvenient minute, since most people are asleep at that time.  But inconvenient or not, we are prepared to offer you an immediate payment.  All you have to do is sign.

I leaned back. I'm skeptical about this.

She gave a knowing sigh, as if she had encountered this reaction before. You're skeptical about whether Cingolani e Potenza really manufactures minutes?

Your manufacturing capabilities are beside the point, I said. I distrust any offer that seems too good to be true.  What's the catch?

There is no catch, Mrs. Mandelstam.  You have my word.

Why are you the first person I'm hearing from?  Does my mother know about this minute?

Sviluppo spun her pen once and set it down on the table. We do not meddle in the private affairs of our valued clients, so I cannot say.  However, minute-holders rarely discuss the minutes they own, and for good reason.  Minutes can be very useful, but also bring many problems.

I stared down at the contract, thinking hard.

We will, of course, let you enter the minute and remove any items your grandfather may have left there, said Sviluppo, as if my silence had been some sort of hard-bargaining tactic. I assure you, Cingolani e Potenza has no interest in exploiting loopholes and taking advantage of you.  We are artisans, not profiteers.

I read through the short contract, which was dry and uninformative.  I looked up into Sviluppo’s expectant eyes.  I cleared my throat. Do I have to decide now?

We would strongly encourage a decision at this time, said Sviluppo.

I don’t like rushing stuff like this, I replied. If I have to decide now, I’m turning down the offer.

You would turn down two hundred thousand euros?

Yes.

Sviluppo’s jaw tightened. If you’re trying to get a higher offer—

I’m not, I said calmly, hoping Sviluppo couldn't see just how out of my element I was.  I'm just not interested in making a hasty choice that I might regret.   I’d like to experience the minute for myself before deciding.  That way I'll know if I'm being ripped off.

Sviluppo sniffed, retrieved the contract from me and slid it back in her briefcase.  She hefted her fork and took several bites of Black Forest cake, chewing the stewed cherries intently.

The company will not be pleased with this state of affairs, said Sviluppo, finally putting down her fork and sitting back.

You said you were an upstanding company, which would not take advantage of me.

And we won’t, said Sviluppo, extracting two business cards from a white leather wallet. But we were optimistic that we would have a success with you.  From the perusal of your articles, we assumed you would be both practical and amenable.  But we won’t force you to decide.

You read my articles? That was shocking.

My protégé did most of the reading, admitted Sviluppo. "But she forwarded a few interesting articles to me.  Your essay on Undertale was enlightening, especially your textual comparison to Kipling’s The Jungle Book.  I didn’t realize multimedia literary analysis was so prevalent in video game criticism."

It isn’t, I said.

Sviluppo's eyebrows rose. How fascinating.

Something caught in my throat—perhaps the forced reminder that I hadn’t written a single article in the last year, and hardly anything since Izdihar had been born.  Before I could find an appropriate response, Signora Sviluppo slid the two business cards over the table. 

This number is mine, said Sviluppo unnecessarily, tapping a fingernail over the name Magdalena Sviluppo. Call me as soon as you’ve made up your mind.  The other number is for my protégé, Lidochka Konstantinov.  She can help you access your minute when you feel ready to do so.

Do I need her help to interact with 4:39 AM? I asked, scrutinizing the second business card.

Certainly not, said Sviluppo. She will just help you get started, answer any questions, and assist you in customizing your experience.  Lidochka may try to upsell you, which you should resist if you intend to sell your minute back to us.  Most minute accessories are non-refundable and aimed at a higher income bracket than your own—no offense intended.

None taken, I said, deciding not to ask what a minute accessory was. Thanks for the warning.

Then set an alarm for 4:30 tomorrow morning.  If you have questions, simply give Lidochka a call.

She’ll be awake?

She’s awake at every minute of the day except 3:58 AM.

Okay, I said, finishing my chai. Can I take the will?

By all means—our legal department has already made a copy.

I folded the will and slipped it into my jacket pocket. I’ve got to get home, I said.

Sviluppo inclined her head. I look forward to hearing from you soon, Mrs. Mandelstam, when you're ready to accept the sale.

She was contemplating her