Agyar

by Steven Brust

  As she said it a second time, the feeling intensified, and with it my rage. I knew what was happening, although I didn’t know how.

  “So I am—”

  “No!” I cried. That got through. She looked at me for the first time, her eyes widening. I caught her in my gaze and we struggled that way for what seemed like forever; a silent, and very deadly struggle in which, I think, neither of us was quite sure on what ground it was being fought, or how the battle was progressing, yet we were both very much aware of the conflict. You are mine, I told her. You have always been mine. Your heart is mine. Your soul is mine. Your body and life are mine. Your will is a shadow of my own.

  Something, I don’t know what, hung by a thread, awaiting the decision of our struggle. She was more determined than I had thought possible for her; I was as angry as I’d been in some time.

  I am free, she told me. You have no power over me.

  You are mine. You are mine.

  I am free. I am free.

  You are mine.

  I fall back on metaphor because there is no way to set down in words what it was like, that battle of wills, a pushing and a pulling, a heating and a cooling, but that only hints at the experience like the description of the act of love can only bring fragments of the sensation to the memory.

  But I was the stronger; we can, perhaps, leave it at that. Her will crumbled beneath my rage, like the unraveling of a closely knit fabric that begins to run. I took the end and pulled it, and the invisible wall before me collapsed.

  She made a low sound of despair as I came forward, took her, and pushed her against the wall. “Where did you learn to do that?” I said.

  She didn’t answer, only made an inarticulate moan; she would have fallen if I had not been holding her.

  “Tell me,” I said, with all the force I could. “Tell me who and where.”

  She began to tremble, and there were tears running down her cheeks. Some men seem to think women are attractive when they cry; I think such men are crazy. I shook her and said, “Tell me now.”

  In a choking, quivering voice, she told me.

  “Good,” I said. “Now listen to me. You are done with this forever, do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, not looking at me.

  “You belong to me, and to me alone, do you understand?”

  “I understand,” she said, still trembling.

  “Good. See that you don’t forget.”

  I put my arms around her and held her very close. There were tears against my face. I was very tired; the exertions of the last two days had worn me out badly.

  But I left her alive, which was, I think, more than she deserved.

  I woke up feeling very old.

  That is, I think that is what I am feeling. In fact, one might say that I have never been old, or that I have been old for a long time and it hasn’t affected me; what I mean is, I feel the way I should imagine I would feel as an old man; there is a stiffness in the back of my knees and in my neck, I don’t want to move fast, and, in general, gravity seems to have more power over me than is its wont.

  And then there is the hunger, which is not a normal hunger, even for me.

  I can almost touch it, it is so real. Once, in a mistake I will never make again, I spent time with a young woman who freebased cocaine. One thing, as it will, led to another, and, after only one evening with her, I could feel the craving, unlike anything I had ever felt before. Perhaps I wouldn’t have been so frightened if I had felt any of the effects the drug is supposed to provide, but there was nothing at all, only the unmistakable desire for more. It wasn’t strong; I had no difficulty in convincing myself to stay away from her; but I felt it, and I have never forgotten that feeling.

  What I feel this morning is akin to that, only a hundred times worse. It cheapens, even humbles me, but this will in no way keep me from pursuing what I require. Indeed, I feel it a small victory over my baser instincts that I have been able to force myself to shower, brush my teeth and hair, dress carefully, have a conversation with Jim, and sit here recording all of this, so that I will know what it was like, later, after I have done what I am going to do.

  I came down to the living room, and Jim was waiting for me. He looked at me closely and said, “Are you all right?”

  “No,” I said. “But I’ll get by. I must go out.”

  “Be careful,” he said.

  There was something in his tone. I said, “Oh? Is that a general caution?”

  He shook his head, looking at the pendant on my chest (which, I’m pleased to say, had not been included in the description of me). “The police have been outside all day watching the house.”

  “Damn them to Hell,” I said.

  He winced. “They’ve also been going through the neighborhood, asking questions.”

  “And showing everyone a piece of paper?”

  “I didn’t notice them doing that.”

  “Good.”

  “But that’s not to say they weren’t.”

  “You’re just full of good news, aren’t you?”

  “As I said, be careful.”

  “I will, I will.”

  TWELVE

  man n. 1. An adult male human being, as distinguished from a female. 2. Any human being, regardless of sex or age; a member of the human race; a person.

  AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY

  In this room where I work the typewriting machine, nothing ever changes but me. I sit here, and on one day it is warmer, on another it is colder, there is a draft or there is not, the mice are louder or quieter, the smell of decay strong or faint, but, in fact, these variations only serve to remind me that I am a viable being in a dead environment. Sometimes it seems that I am the only living thing in the world, and that it is only the products of my imagination that end up on this paper. But at other times, such as now, the aftermath of the day is too strong for such pretense.

  How to begin?

  At the beginning, I suppose; with walking out the door, and then try to set it all down in order, as well as I remember it. Much is hazy, but these things have a way of returning to me as I set them down.

  I slipped out of the back of the house. I wasn’t worried about being seen; as long as I know to be careful, I can remain unobserved. I went across to Jefferson and down to Thirty-third, where the bus stops in front of a small privately owned neighborhood grocery store. There is a long-abandoned school across the street from it, as well as two 1920’s-era houses that have not yet been abandoned. There are sometimes hookers there, too, although that is too close to my own neighborhood for my purposes. Still, had there been any girl working just then, I should not have hesitated.

  In addition to buses and hookers, it is a place where cabs come by frequently. I don’t like being transported, but I didn’t feel that I had any choice. I had no trouble flagging one down. I climbed into the back seat and said, “Little Philly.”

  The driver, one of the older type (cab drivers are always younger than twenty-five or older than thirty-five; I don’t know why that is), turned around and said, “You wanna be more specific than that?”

  “No.”

  He sighed. “All right. I’ll take you to Saint Thomas and Maple.”

  “That’ll be fine,” I said.

  He tried to talk to me but I wasn’t interested. I kept a close watch on him to see if he was going to look at me in his mirror, but he never did; else the trip would have been shorter. I paid the meter, $6.90, and tipped him two dollars and ten cents.

  I spotted her almost at once; tall and black, carrying a small lavender handbag, wearing the same dark miniskirt and a brown leather coat that was too short and too light for the weather. Her expression of disdain was just like before; I guess some guys found it attractive. What was her name? Sylvia? Something like that. I took a step toward her. She saw me at about the same time, and I could feel the quick intake of her breath.

  She took a step backward, looked over her shoulder as if seeking a place to run, th
en turned and began walking away at a good pace. I set out after her; she ought not to be able to outrun me, even weakened as I was. Besides, I was getting desperate.

  She stepped into a little cul-de-sac shopping area that was very much out of place in the neighborhood, full of flower stores, used-book stores, violin shops, and so on. I followed her through it, and out a back door into a small parking lot, probably for employees, where she stepped behind a man wearing a brown leather coat just like hers only longer and belted, checkered zip boots, and a wide-brim hat. He was thin and tough looking in a Nordic way, clean shaven and with an ugly square chin. I heard her whisper, “That’s the one, Charlie. That’s the man what did that thing to me.”

  I stared at him. “What is this?” I said. “A white pimp and a black whore? Don’t you people have any respect for tradition? What if word got out?” His hand was in his pocket. When it came out I saw a glint of metal reflected from the store lights that shone on the parking lot.

  I said, “Let me guess, Charlie. A butterfly knife, right?”

  He said, “You know me, motherf——er?”

  “You get one point for the dialogue, Charlie,” I said, “but I’m afraid you lose one for the knife, and another because you’re the wrong color. Sorry, net loss. Go away and try again another time. I have business with the lady. We’ll call you when we’re done.”

  She moved a little closer to him. How tender. “You f—ed with one of my girls, man.” He was walking toward me as he spoke.

  “I thought that was the idea.”

  “You’re dead.”

  “Now there’s another good line,” I told him. “You just might make it on the dialogue alone. Now, do something flashy with the knife while the camera gets a closeup on your hand, okay?”

  “You’re pretty smart, motherf——er.”

  “You already called me that. Come up with something different. No, on the other hand, skip it. I want to see you make the knife do tricks.” He did, too. Whoosh, whoosh, shick, shick, it went. Then he tried something even flashier, something that was supposed to hurt me. After that, he backed away, holding his right wrist in his left hand and grimacing. I threw the knife over my shoulder. It hit the plowed pavement and clanked. He gritted his teeth and reached behind him with his left hand, clumsily.

  If I’d been faster, I could have prevented him from getting the gun out, but I was just too slow. It was a stupid little revolver, probably a .38, with a barrel about two inches long. But I don’t like having guns pointed at me, even when I’m in the best of health.

  He got off one round, which hit me low in the stomach on my right side, and that was all he had time for. Unfortunately, it gave the girl time to scream, and, worst luck of all, there turned out to be a patrol car within hearing of either the shot or the scream; the siren came almost at once.

  I left him lying there and said to her, “Honey, this is your lucky day. You should find a new line of work, because I don’t think you’re going to have any more luck after this.”

  I slipped away into the night as the police arrived, leaving her to explain things however she might. My need was urgent now, painful and desperate, and the bullet wound in my stomach wasn’t helping any.

  There was a time when I wandered, not knowing where to go, alert as an animal for those blue uniforms. I don’t know where I went, but I remember leaning against a phone booth and suddenly thinking, “I could call Susan.”

  I could call her, and she would come and pick me up in an automobile, and she would give me what I needed. I closed my eyes for a moment, and it seemed I could feel the heat of her skin against mine, the touch of her lips. Yes. I could call Susan, my lover, and she would come, and she would save me by—she would save me.

  I pulled some coins out of my pocket and found one worth a quarter of a dollar. I let the others fall onto the floor of the phone booth; the clatter they made striking the metal floor of the telephone booth seemed inordinately loud and to echo and reverberate for a very long time.

  I knew I was not well, and my hunger was a need that filled valleys and leveled mountains. Did I remember her number? Yes. I held the coin up toward the slot and noticed that my hand was shaking. That was all right; I just needed to reach Susan, and she would come for me, and take me home and—

  I lurched out of the phone booth, dropping the quarter into the snow (at least, I don’t have it now, and I don’t remember doing anything else with it), and struggled to a place as far from any lights as possible, just because I felt the need for darkness as sanctuary. That’s the real trouble with cities, much as I love them: there’s nowhere that is truly dark.

  There was a sweep of headlights past me, and for a moment I thought it was the police again, but no. I was on the ground floor of a parking ramp, in the corner away from the little booth and the exit and entrance.

  Parking ramps are dangerous places.

  I looked around for video cameras and didn’t see one. Then I waited. I couldn’t afford to be choosy this time, it was a matter of survival. Any age, any sex, as long as he or she was alone; I didn’t think I could survive a serious conflict of any kind.

  I waited.

  I huddled with myself, and the cold, though it could not penetrate the ugly parka, found all of the niches in the sleeves and collar. I shivered, and my teeth chattered. No one came, and no one came, and then a group of four, then two couples, and then no one and no one and no one. The sliver of moon had set many hours before.

  Me, too.

  Bars were closing, and now there were too many people. I waited, desperate and shivering, and my body clock went tick … tick … tick, winding down. People everywhere, walking past; cars starting, leaving, jockeying for position in the rush to the exit. A young couple whose Toyota was parked directly in front of me got into their car, and the man seemed to see me, but looked away. He probably thought I was drunk. Maybe he thought I was going to freeze to death and didn’t care. What’s become of human decency?

  Tick … tick … tick.

  Not so many, now. Footsteps echo through the empty ramp, but always in pairs.

  Tick … tick … tick.

  Now, no one at all.

  Is it over? There are still a few cars, but perhaps they are abandoned.

  Should I return home? Can I make it home at all?

  Patience, patience. There is all eternity before you.

  Tick … tick … tick.

  Could I bring Jill to me? That would be better than nothing. But no, I could see the ugly beige partitions through her unfocused eyes, feel the needle in her arm, hear the rolling of carts down a hospital corridor. She would never make it here.

  Tick … tick … tick.

  Footsteps.

  Another couple; the man very drunk, and large, from the sound of his footfalls, a woman with him, telling him that she’ll drive. He is arguing. I must take a chance, because there may not be anyone else. Besides, she is right; he ought not to be on the road tonight; what if he killed someone?

  They walked past my spot, about thirty feet from me, and I fell in behind them. My legs were very stiff from having squatted there by the wall for so long, but I was no longer cold. He would be likely to fight, whereas she would be likely to scream. Of course, you cannot tell these days; it could be the other way around, but I went with the probabilities. A fight would be bad, a scream would be worse.

  Now they were at their car, an old Dodge Dart that looked like he’d driven it drunk once or twice already. They were standing by the door, still arguing about who was going to drive. He was being stubborn. Maybe I could take them both at once, and not have to worry about either a fight or a scream. That would be best. I resolved to try, in any case.

  I approached them; she on my right, he on my left. I’d have preferred it the other way around, but you take what you can get. I braced myself. It was going to have to be quick and certain.

  I said, “Excuse me.” They turned as I approached. The woman seemed to be in her early forties, with bluegr
ay eyes, and so muffled that I could tell little else about her. The man was about the same age, and, indeed, large; perhaps six feet tall and husky. I guessed most of his weight to be fat, but I’ve been wrong before.

  He scowled at me and said, “Whattaya want?”

  Afterward I leaned against the car, closed my eyes, and knew that I would live. I’d been right: mostly fat. When I was a few blocks away I went through the wallet and the purse. I can give them a name now: Lawrence and Roberta Tailor. His wallet had her picture in it, and another picture showing two girls, aged about five and seven; daughters, I suppose, but that wasn’t what I was looking for. I found the money and the credit cards, and threw everything else in a Dumpster. Just another typical robbery-murder, folks. Nothing to get excited about. Probably a gang. We need law and order, don’t you think? Most likely drug related. Just say no.

  On my way home I threw the credit cards in the river. The money I kept. What the Hell.

  I’m feeling better, although not as good as I’d like. I’m sorry that I had to kill Lawrence, but I didn’t really have any choice. I don’t feel bad about Roberta because I didn’t kill her; the embalmers will do that. A shame, but it isn’t my problem.

  Today’s lesson: Everything is relative.

  I don’t think I’m really in any better health than I was when I rose yesterday, but, after all I went through, I don’t mind so much.

  Jim didn’t notice the difference. “You look rough,” he said.

  “I have a right to. It was grim last night.”

  “Oh?”

  “For starters, I was shot.”

  He was suddenly very concerned. “Where?”

  “Stomach.”

  “Bad?”

  “It could have been worse; there could have been sunshine.”

  “Do you need anything?”

  “I should be all right, now. I just have to give it some time.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  I did. He listened, looking past my shoulder. When I was done, he said, “What are you going to do?”