by Steven Brust
Once more I had to stop and consider the question. I said, “I’m being very careful where I put my feet.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean that I have to watch where I go, where I’m seen in public, and who I’m seen with. If I were, for example, to kill someone, I’d better make sure there’s no one who can trace me to the killing. That kind of thing; trying not to make the job easier for her.”
He shook his head. “Can you talk to her about it? She must have cared for you once.”
“Cared for me?” I said. “Cared for me?”
“Well, from what you said—”
“You just don’t get it, do you? She doesn’t care for people the way you mean it. She—”
“Hasn’t she ever?”
I started to say “No, she never has,” but then I remembered that incident in London. This was before we left for the Continent, so everything was still young and fresh, and I was delighting in my life with her. On that occasion, I went to a cabaret hoping to meet her, and I saw her there, in one of the dark corners, talking earnestly to a young man. I was about to leave, but she caught my eye, and came over to me. We chatted about inconsequential things for a while, then I turned to go. She asked why I was leaving, and I said I thought she was busy. She said she was never too busy for me, and we left together. I never spoke about it, and I didn’t even think about it much, but I’ve never been able to make sense of it, unless, for a while, she really did care about me. I don’t know.
Jim was looking at me and waiting for an answer as all of this went through my mind, so I said, “I don’t know, maybe she did at one time. But it doesn’t matter.”
“I guess I just don’t understand,” he said.
“I guess you just don’t,” I told him, which ended the conversation.
I’m feeling sort of lazy, so I probably won’t go out any more today, unless this machine inspires me the way it did before. Thinking back, that’s still a little strange.
There are a few boxes of books in the attic, and I spent some time digging through them. Old boxes of other people’s books are always interesting, even if the books themselves aren’t, and here there were a few that caught my eye, such as a 1933 edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica that I looked at for a while. It seemed to specialize in world history, and I was surprised at how much they got right. I also found ten volumes of “Great Orations,” published in 1899. They were in much worse shape than the encyclopedias, but I allowed myself the luxury of a couple of hours with them.
There were plenty of newer books, too, but I feel about books much the way I feel about music; if it’s still being printed in fifty years, I’ll read it then. If, of course, I’m still around in fifty years, but there’s no point in dwelling on that. I’d rather remember Zola’s speech to the jury on the Dreyfus case, which I found in Volume 10. I don’t know who recorded that speech for history, but he ought to be thanked.
Certainly, there’s a good deal of nonsense in it. “Who suffers for truth and justice becomes august and sacred.” Indeed? I remember laughing aloud the first time I read that, and wishing I’d been there when he said it just so I could have looked at his face and seen if he believed it. But there is some truth in his speech that goes far beyond the case of the moment, and his love for his military, and his worship of that stupid country full of stupid Frenchmen. “For when folly and lies are thus sown broadcast, you necessarily reap insanity,” he said, and what man who has lived for more than forty years has not seen that truth?
“We have had to fight step by step against an extraordinarily obstinate desire for darkness.” Yes, indeed, Emile, we have; or, rather, you have, you and your ilk. That is certainly not my fight, nor will it ever be, but I can applaud yours, and even, to my surprise, discover a couple of tears for the way it has been fought. And, do you know, sometimes I even think that some ground has been gained. But then I read, in Volume 6, Robert Emmet’s speech from the scaffold, and I remember that Great Britain has banned songs that might even hint that all is not well in Northern Ireland, and I see that darkness is reclaiming its own.
But, as I said, this has never been my fight, and never will be. Darkness, I think, has its own charm, as long as one can see well enough to avoid tripping over the furniture. As for me, my only desire is the quite natural one to live; to continue my chain of existence. And even that doesn’t matter much to me. That is a strange thing to say, but it has been going through my head since Jim brought it up, and it seems to me that I continue to exist, and I enjoy it, but should the end come, as it might soon, I will meet it with a shrug. This is no great virtue, nor any great flaw, it is simply my nature, and what man can contend with his nature?
But there, too—this is a strength. Zola and Emmet notwithstanding, strength does not come from passion for justice, it comes from not caring—about life, about justice, or what have you. If you are able to face an enemy, and not care what he does to you, then he cannot really hurt you. If you are able to say to a lover, “Do this or I’ll leave you,” and your lover wants you to stay, then you have power; it’s that simple. If you are able to say to the judge, “Kill me if you want, I don’t care,” and the judge doesn’t want to kill you, then you have the power. Now, it may be that the lover wants to leave you, and the judge probably does want to kill you, but if you can say, “I don’t care,” that is a strength they cannot take away.
Of course, you must mean it.
I seem to have reached a state where I can say these things and mean them, and it is this power that I enjoy. That is why I don’t fear what Kellem may do. Certainly, I cannot escape her, in this she has the power. But because that doesn’t matter to me, because I don’t care if I live or die, she cannot really hurt me.
No one can hurt me.
But I can still shed a few tears for Emile Zola.
Another day gone by. The weather has turned very cold, and the lack of heating in the house (the thermostat is set just barely high enough to keep the pipes from freezing) is becoming annoying. I have the choice of sitting in front of the fireplace or here at the typewriter. My fingers are actually cold enough to interfere with my typing, at least a little. It just occurred to me that I could bring this machine down to the parlor, but I don’t think I want to. And there’s a limit to how often we ought to have a fire; the house is known to be deserted, and I’d hate to have someone come by to investigate why smoke is coming from the chimney.
I’m feeling well just now—very well. I stopped by to visit Jill, but she was flat on her back with, she said, some sort of virus. She warned me not to come too close or I’d be likely to catch it. I took the chance of giving her a quick peck on the forehead, which felt warm but not feverish, then went downstairs.
Susan was wearing a plain black ankle-length skirt that tied at the waist and a white T-shirt that didn’t advertise anything. She was stretched out on the couch, her feet up on some cushions, reading a magazine called Z. She pivoted her neck backward so she was looking at me upside down and said, “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I was checking on Jill. She’s sick.”
“Yes, I know.” She sat up and twisted around in one motion.
“It’s a little cold outside,” I said, “but we can call a cab, if you wish.”
“You want to go out?”
“We might.”
“We could order a pizza.”
“None for me; I’d just been thinking coffee.”
“If that’s all, shall I put some on? I have Kona.”
“Good idea, and you can order a pizza for yourself. I’ll watch you eat it and make helpful suggestions.”
I studied her walk as she went back into the kitchen. She turned her head and gave me a big smile. Presently there was the sound of a coffee grinder. I looked through her record collection. She seemed to be a holdout, judging from the lack of CDs. But records are more fun to look through anyway. There seemed to be no logic to the arrangement, with Mozart stuck between The Clash and Kate
Bush and so on, but the real surprise was the number of musicals; a quick glance showed me Oklahoma!, The Music Man, West Side Story, and South Pacific. Interesting.
Coffee smells began to permeate the room. I put on a collection of Scott Joplin rags. There is something indefinable about Joplin that reminds me of the tunes I used to hear the fiddlers play back in the proverbial Old Country. I’m not sure what it is, but when the sounds of the upright piano filled the room, I felt it.
“Feel free to put something on the stereo,” she called.
“Thanks, I will.”
She waltzed back, twirled twice, bent backward with one arm curled over her head, straightened, bent forward, picked up the telephone, pushed buttons from memory, and ordered a small pizza with pepperoni, onions, and mushrooms. She spoke on the telephone as if ordering this pizza was one of the most exciting things she had ever done.
As she was hanging up, the door opened, and a very young looking couple, both wearing old ankle-length coats, scarves, and stocking caps, came in, accompanied by a trace of cold air in spite of the entryway door. They looked at me, I looked back. Susan introduced them as the mysterious tenants of the attic as they took off their winter garb and set things on pegs in the entryway. Neither of them commented on my bobby’s coat. She was a little taller than he was, had mousy brown hair and a rounded face with tiny blue eyes. He looked like a New York Jew, with long, curly dark hair, faintly Semitic features and brown eyes. Her name was Melissa and his was Tom. They looked and acted burned out. I smelled stale marijuana smoke on their clothes (her T-shirt said Hard Rock Cafe, Chicago, his said Pink Floyd), but that proved nothing; it’s possible to burn out on marijuana, but it takes dedication. Susan told them my name and it looked as if it had passed through her head, into his, and then fallen to the floor; I’d have been willing to bet money that if I had asked them what it was right then neither would have known.
Tom sniffled, Julie coughed, and they headed up the stairs after nodding to me politely.
“Now I understand,” I said.
Her eyebrows asked the obvious.
“The blue lights in the attic,” I explained. “All has become clear. Do they manage their share of the rent on time?”
“His mother owns the house,” she said. “We pay him.”
“I see. Not a bad arrangement, I guess.”
“They’re okay. There was a while when they were using ecstasy, and—”
“Ecstasy?”
“MDMA. A designer hallucinogen. They were a little hard to live with then because they wanted Jill and me to understand how wonderful we really were.” She laughed. “Jill took to hiding in her room and I started playing speed metal. Anyway, now they’re back to acid, and at least we can stand that.” She turned her head sideways, I suppose to gauge my reaction, as she said, “I’ve tripped with them a couple of times.”
She seemed to be waiting for me to say something, so I said, “I’ve never used, myself.”
“Want to sometime?”
“Not really.” After all, it either wouldn’t affect me, or it would, right? “Does it matter?”
“No,” she said. “I think it does not.”
“I agree. And in any case there’s something more important to us.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Your pizza is here.”
She laughed. “That is more important, but I don’t hear anything.”
“You will.”
The door chime came right on cue; two deepthroated gongs, the second a fifth below the first. She looked quizzically at me and said, “You have good hearing.”
“I only listen to quiet music.”
She stood up and went over to the mantelpiece, took the top off a pewter bowl, and pulled some paper money out of it. “Then turn the record over and we’ll hear some more. Coffee should be done, too; help yourself.”
I turned over the record and got two cups of coffee, mine only half full, so I missed hearing her interactions with the delivery boy; that would have been interesting. The coffee steamed on the knee-high table in front of the couch. There were coasters on it, so I used them. She set the box down, opened it, and said, “Are you sure you don’t want any?”
“Quite sure. I’ll just make you nervous by watching you eat.” In fact, I thought the smell rising from the baked dough more noxious than appetizing, but I kept my opinion to myself. I brought the coffee to my lips, enjoying the warmth, as Susan took a triangular piece of pizza and bit into it. Her bites were neither gluttonous nor dainty; she seemed to be enjoying herself.
“So,” she said as she finished the first piece and carefully wiped her mouth on a paper napkin furnished by the pizza company, “you like Joplin?”
“That contumelious ass? Hardly.”
“What do you mean?”
I smiled. “Excuse me, I was being funny. Yes, I enjoy his music a great deal. You, it seems, have quite a variety of taste.”
“And you don’t?”
“In theory, yes. I like the very best music, whatever form it might take.”
“But?”
“But I haven’t the patience to wade through the ninety-nine percent that is worthless to find the occasional gem, so I usually let time decide for me.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“If a piece of music has survived forty or fifty years, then it probably has something to it that is worth listening to.”
She shook her head. “You have to wait a long time, then, to hear anything new.”
“I’m patient,” I said. “And the music I enjoy does not quickly become wearisome.”
“I love the way you talk,” she said, smiling full into my face.
“More coffee?”
“Please.”
I got her a new cup, warmed my own. She drank some, had another piece of pizza, then closed the box and said, “I think that is enough for me.”
“Then shall we go upstairs?”
“By all means.” She stood and held out her hand for mine. I took it, and, believe this if you will, I felt anticipation like a quickening of the pulse and a shortness of the breath. We went past the room where Jill was sleeping soundly, and Susan opened the door to her room. She stepped in, turned the overhead light on, and I followed. I took a moment to observe, both for what I could learn of her, and to prolong the moment; to hold off the delicious and now inevitable joining; if I ever indulge myself shamelessly, I think it is in such things as this.
It was a good-sized room, with walls painted some color for which only women know the name, one of those shades that is almost white with a bit of yellow. On the wall to my right was a black-framed photograph of her in the midst of some dance, ecstatic expression, mid-leap, etc. The opposite wall held a print of Renoir’s Moulin de la Galette. There were potted plants both hanging and on the floor throughout the room, many of them trailing tendrils haphazardly, so one had the impression that the entire room was framed in green stems and leaves. The end of one even dangled onto a corner of the bed, which was a mattress set on the floor, in elegant disarray of blue pillows, blue sheets, and yellow comforter. A plain wood dresser was next to it, an old-fashioned windup alarm clock on the dresser.
“Do you like it?” she said, spinning slowly, arm extended to show the room.
“Yes, only I’d expected a big iron bed enclosed in white lace.”
“Oh yes. Someday.”
She pulled off her T-shirt with the unselfconsciousness one finds in actors and, I suppose, dancers. There was no trace of coquetry in the action, although she watched me and smiled. She wore nothing underneath. She untied her skirt, let it fall, and stepped out of it. She wore nothing underneath that, either.
I searched for an interjection and didn’t find one, so I just shook my head. She came up to me and began unbuttoning my shirt. I took her hands in mine and held them, then brought my mouth to her warm, warm lips. She seemed startled by the contact at first, then relaxed. Our tongues touched for an instant, then I pulled back a
nd our eyes met. Hers were very wide and deep, inviting me to become lost in them as she became lost in mine. I put my arms around her, my hand finding the hollow of her back as I kissed her temple, her ear, and her neck. We sank down onto the bed, still holding each other.
I ran my hands along her body. Yes, indeed, she was a dancer, or an acrobat, or a swimmer. She was strong, inside and out. I touched her and she shivered; she touched me and I trembled. I felt her enter the maelstrom of sensation at the same time I did, and we explored it together. She made low, moaning sounds of pleasure, while mine were harsh and animallike, but the urgency was mutual.
Many, many hours later I rose. She was sleeping soundly, with a slight smile on her face. I slipped out of the house and returned to my own. Jim said something when I came in, but I don’t remember what it was. I only shook my head in answer and came up here to stare at a blank page and let the cold seep back into my body. I am still in a daze from the experience, one of the most powerful of my life. It is as if I have changed in some way, but I can’t tell what it is, or if it will fade with time.
Change frightens me, and it is a long time since I have been frightened. I don’t know what this means, but I do not like it.
FOUR
flinch intr. v. 1. To betray fear, pain, or surprise with an involuntary gesture such as a start; to wince. 2. To draw away; retreat.
AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY
What is love? I think
I must not see Susan any more. If I
Happy New Year, Jim. How should we
What is Kellem doing? Why haven’t I heard from her? Or, more accurately, why hasn’t she consummated her scheme? It has been more than a month, and this waiting is
I haven’t touched this machine for several days, and, now that I am here, I find myself both reluctant and unable to set down what I have been doing. I have not been back to see Susan or Jill; in fact I have been doing very little except walking around and around the house, occasionally venturing out into the yard, sometimes the street.