Agyar

by Steven Brust

  “Recover. I’ll take my time about it, though; I’ll be careful.”

  He chuckled. “You’re learning wisdom. It’s about time.”

  I shrugged. He didn’t have anything else to say, so I came up to my little typewriting sanctuary, thinking that I would feel better after speaking to this machine, but now I find I don’t have anything to talk about.

  I think I can risk seeing Susan today.

  She continues to amaze me. Every time I am with her, it is like a renewal. I am challenged in mind and spirit, and filled with an indefinable desire for higher things. And yet, there is nothing magical about it, unless, indeed, human romantic love is magic, which might be true; I wouldn’t know, not being a poet save now and again when I can’t help myself.

  The clouds were low, with a bright quarter-moon, still low in the east, providing backlighting for some unusual cumulus formations—the ice-cream cone variety, with puffy mounds on top tapering down almost to a point. I didn’t think they would dump any snow on us before tomorrow. The air was a bit warm and full of moisture and the smells of man and nature, who keep changing each other and producing queer odors while doing so.

  The blue lights were still on in the attic, giving me the pleasant feeling that all was as it should be. I knocked on the door. Music that I didn’t recognize was turned down, there was the slap of Susan’s bare feet against the floor, and she opened the door.

  The first thing she said was, “Do you know about Jill?”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s in the hospital.”

  I pretended surprise, widening my eyes and leaning against the wall. “A relapse?”

  She nodded. She was wearing a big pink furry bathrobe and her hair was set and slicked back; she smelled fresh, clean, and entirely wholesome. Her eyes were wide, and she looked at me as if I were the only thing in the world. “I went in to her room this morning and she was chalky white, and gasping, like she could hardly breath. I thought she might have pneumonia, or had suddenly become asthmatic.”

  “You called 911?”

  “Yes. They gave her oxygen and took her away.”

  “Sounds very frightening.”

  “It was. I’m all right now, but I wish you’d been here.”

  “So do I. What have you heard?”

  “From the hospital? Nothing yet.”

  “Hmmm. I’ll have to bring her some flowers.”

  “She’d like that,” said Susan. Then she frowned suddenly and looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Are you all right?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “You look, I don’t know, hunted.”

  That shook me a bit; I’m not used to people being quite so perspicacious. I said, “I’m a little short on sleep, I guess.” I forced a laugh and took my coat off. “I hope I don’t have what Jill has.”

  She took it seriously. “You do look a bit pale, and sort of wan.”

  “Hmmm.”

  We sat on the couch together. She said, “What happened to your other coat?”

  “It’s being cleaned. Isn’t that thing hideous?”

  “In a word: yes. But on the other hand, there isn’t much winter left.”

  “True.”

  “Would you like some wine?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You don’t drink much, do you?”

  “I drink deeply of your eyes, my love.”

  She laughed and took my hand that was about her shoulders, caressed it, pressed it against her face. Her face was very warm. We sat like that for several minutes.

  I said, “To whom are we listening?”

  “Kate Bush.”

  “She sounds Irish.”

  “She is.”

  She fell silent—Susan, that is, not Kate Bush. The latter continued to sing. She’s good, if you like that sort of thing. I thought I might, in another fifty years or so.

  I could feel that Susan was deep in thought; I remained silent, enjoying her touch, knowing that eventually she would tell me what was on her mind. After two or three minutes she said, “Jonathan.”

  “Yes?”

  “If I stop seeing Jennifer, will you stop seeing Jill?” I looked at her, my mouth suddenly dry. I said, “You continue to astound me.”

  “I hope that’s good,” she said.

  “That’s good.”

  “But what is your answer?”

  I kissed her, then went on kissing her. After a while I picked her up and carried her upstairs, where I held her close for a long time before doing anything else.

  I reached a place, but did she reach it with me? Can I know? It seems she did, but I am capable of lying to myself. It seemed that we were where touch was deeper than touch, where the physical paths we led each other along made all of the base mechanics of lovemaking more than irrelevant; a place few are privileged to visit, and those few only rarely; a place where, once you’ve been there, you might spend the rest of your life in a futile effort to get back to. It is for this reason that pleasure must always have at least this element of risk, if no other: That perhaps this joy will never occur again. But this serpent will invade only the loveliest, most bountiful gardens; his presence in such gardens is inevitable, and we accept it serenely, and with gratitude, for we know that we have been privileged.

  So, at least, were my thoughts as I lay in bed next to my lover, who slept with a smile on her face that brought an ache to my heart and a tear to my eye.

  I tried to remember what it had been like with Laura. I remembered the intensity, the need, and the feeling that she shared it, but little else. I remembered a few occasions—most of them moments while we walked, she would clasp me to her, and there would be the feeling of growing and diminishing, and then I’d walk on, my knees shaking, feeling weak, distant, confused, but vaguely triumphant. But that is all. Certainly, I could recall nothing that would make me think love could change how the act itself felt. Wouldn’t it be funny if, so long ago, she had been in love, and I’d only been fooling myself?

  What a silly thing to wonder about.

  I lay next to Susan and rested, and thought about nothing at all.

  Some hours later she stirred. I kissed the palm of her hand and said, “Are you awake?”

  “Mmmm. A little.”

  “Are you awake enough to answer a question?”

  She stretched and shifted. “If it’s an easy one.”

  “Oh. Well, never mind.”

  She opened her eyes, squinted at me, licked her lips. When she is awake, her sheet and comforter are always waist-high, which I’m certain she does on purpose, because Susan doesn’t do things like that accidentally. “What is it?” she said.

  I caressed her hair and the side of her face. “Tell me something, then.”

  “Hmmmm?”

  “What’s it like for you?”

  “What do you mean, ‘it’?”

  “When we make love. What’s it like?”

  She smiled a Susan smile, full of light. “Fishing for compliments, are we?”

  “No.”

  She tilted her head. “You look so serious.”

  “I get that way sometimes. What’s it like?”

  “It’s nice. It’s sort of dreamy and romantic, all warm and soft and red.”

  “Red?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’m not sure I do either. Is it important?”

  I sighed. “I guess not. Sleep now, my love.”

  “Mmmm,” she said, and did.

  It has been several days since I have set anything down on paper. There has been little enough to tell; I have been resting and recovering. I have spoken to Susan over the telephone, but I’ve been afraid to see her for fear of what I might do. I sent Jill flowers, and I have been gathering strength; slowly, but quickly enough. Today I am feeling almost myself again.

  I spent today reading over some of what I’ve written on this typewriting machine, and I’m struck by all the things
that, for some reason or another, I have never recorded. I didn’t mention that business with the cab driver that almost got me in trouble, I said nothing about the fight in the back room of Flannery’s that led me to decide not to go back there, or how I fought with a van and won (that was amusing; I wish I could remember it better) and nothing at all about Susan’s birthday party and the scene Jill made.

  All of which leads me to wonder at the subconscious processes by which I decide what I ought to set down. It’s a shame, too, because there are things that I think I won’t remember, and would appreciate having recorded. I wish I’d thought of doing this years ago; perhaps I’d remember what Paris was like, and I think I’d get a smile out of my recollections of Kiri-chan.

  I also noticed, as I read, that my selection of detail seems to have changed in the few scant months since I began these pages, as if before I wished to note the passing of words between me and others, and now it is the deeds, and especially the blood, that have taken hold of my mind. Why is that? If it implies a change in me, I don’t think it is a change for the better.

  Or maybe it isn’t really a change at all; maybe most of what I’ve recorded are things that, in one way or another, surprised me; there are certainly enough of these. I didn’t think Kellem would want to destroy me, I didn’t think I’d be unable to deduce what she had done that worried her so, I didn’t think a woman could have the kind of effect on me that Susan has had, and I certainly didn’t think Jill would be able to come so close to breaking away from me.

  Which reminds me of some unfinished business. I must find a dilapidated hotel called the Hollywood that, according to Jill, is on Foster just outside of Little Philly, and I must gain entrance to the boarding house next door, and I must have a talk with the woman who has been plaguing me more than Kellem has.

  Now that I think of it, Kellem has done nothing since the time the police visited the house; and come to that, why am I so certain Kellem arranged for the visit? It might have been the old woman’s doing, or maybe something completely unrelated. Maybe, with one thing and another, I’ve cut my own throat, without the need for Kellem to do anything at all; that would be true irony. But still, why would she need to be so subtle when all she would have had to do is command me to do something and I would have been required to obey, just as

  Just as Jill is.

  By my lost grace, could it be? Is such a thing possible?

  THIRTEEN

  pur·pose n. 1. The object toward which one strives or for which something exists; goal; aim. 2. A result or effect that is intended or desired; intention. 3. Determination; resolution. 4. The matter at hand; point at issue.

  AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY

  The church bells, unusual for a Friday, finally stopped several hours ago. I think by now it must be Saturday morning. March has all but ended, but it still feels like mid-February; I’m tempted to take this as a personal affront.

  Once more, now, I am feeling well and fit, as if the trials of a week ago had not occurred, save for the wounds of experience, which bring strength, not weakness. I found a telephone and spoke to Jill in the hospital, and wished her a speedy recovery. They do not, she said, have any idea what happened to her, but she says she’s doing well. They were concerned that she had attempted suicide at first, but not any more. She expects to return home within a day or two.

  I can relax now, and consider the impossible, and prepare for exertions to come, for there may be some. The notion does not frighten me. If I am correct in my surmises (why do I want to say surmisi?), then I will still carry out the visit I had intended to make, only I will do so with a different purpose. This, I think, will happen tomorrow.

  If I am right, then I can leave this place, and never need to worry about Kellem again. Perhaps, even, Susan will come with me; I should like that very much. But I dare not broach the subject until I have some reason to believe I will escape this peril.

  Before, the notion of opposing Kellem was unthinkable. Now, all of a sudden, I can not only consider it, but I have, indeed, been thinking of little else for the past several days, even to the point of failing in my duty to this machine. The notion fills me with an excitement such as I have never felt; one that is not unmixed with fear, but is no less strong for that.

  I am not weary, but sleep is, nevertheless, coming on. Tomorrow, more will occur.

  I have this odd piece of paper in front of me. I read it, and I wonder if I have been made a fool of. I hope not. I think not. Unless something happens to change my mind, I will assume not.

  When I left the house it was early in the evening, the full moon had not yet risen, and I was greeted by the aftermath of a freezing rain; one of those ambiguous signs that either says, “It will be colder soon,” or, “It will be warmer before too long.” For the time of year, it ought to be the latter, but I am not convinced. But it makes the streets and sidewalks just as slippery either way, and everywhere I saw the flashing lights of tow trucks doing their job and policemen too busy to look for the likes of me.

  In spite of the fact that I walked all the way—tread—ing, as it were, on thin ice—it was still early when I found the hotel, every bit as ugly as I’d been told, with red brick and a cracked glass door next to a revolving door that bore an “out of order” sign that seemed very old. I looked at the other doors that were a part of the same structure, and one of them had, drawn in chalk, a circle with a dot in the middle of it. Inside the door, a public hallway, were three mailboxes. I recognized the name on number two.

  There were three doors on the landing at the top of the long, narrow stairway. The one I wanted was not difficult to identify; it was in the middle and had a number on it, albeit hanging upside down from one nail. It also had her name above the door in glittering letters.

  I knocked upon the door and waited.

  There was the sound of shuffling feet, and the door was opened as far as the security chain would permit. I found myself regarding a pair of dark eyes cast into an old, weathered face poured from a mold I’d seen many times in many places. The eyes regarded me, widened, narrowed, then appeared to consider. I had the feeling that I’d been recognized.

  After a moment the door closed, the chain slipped off, and the door opened again; apparently she realized that such devices are neither sufficient nor necessary. She supported herself with a wooden stick in one hand, the other gripping the door.

  Her voice was sharp and brittle. She said. “You must be John Agyar.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Good evening.”

  She nodded, watching me carefully.

  I said, “Are you going to invite me in?”

  “No.”

  “Ah. Then we must converse this way?”

  “I have nothing to say to you. What have you to say to me? I’m too old for threats to mean anything.”

  “I’ll bet you say that to all the guys.”

  “Only for as long as it’s been true. What do you want?”

  “I thought you could tell me my future.”

  She snorted. “My crystal ball isn’t here. What do you want?”

  I shrugged. “I dislike standing by the door. Can we meet somewhere?”

  “Do you think I’m so foolish?”

  “Au contraire, as my friend the ghost likes to say. I believe you are wise enough to take precautions, and intelligent enough to know what precautions to take. As it happens, I have no desire to harm you in any way; but I am wise enough not to expect you to believe me and intelligent enough to invite any reasonable alternative.”

  She stared at me for a moment more, looking me dead in the eye as if to tell me I could do nothing to her, which may even have been true. Then she nodded. “There is a cafe in the hotel downstairs; I’ll meet you there.”

  “I’ll wait for you outside.”

  She snorted a little. “Very well. I will see you in a moment.”

  I returned to the street and found a dark place to await the redoubtable lady and keep an eye out for the police, just in case
she thought to call them on me. I decided that I liked her; I hoped I wouldn’t have to kill her.

  Twenty minutes later she came out of the door, helped by two walking sticks. She was heavily muffled against the weather, wearing a dark wool coat and a matching hat and scarf, thick woolen mittens with little metal clasps attaching them to her coat sleeves, such as children wear so they don’t lose their mittens. I suspect that she had made most of the items herself.

  She looked around for me and I stepped up next to her. She didn’t jump; she just scowled and said, “Come along.” She didn’t have much trouble walking in spite of the icy sidewalk, I suppose because of years of practice and the shortness of her steps. A boy of about eighteen was spreading salt on the sidewalk as we walked by, but it hadn’t started working yet.

  I followed her into the cafe, which consisted of about ten green plastic booths and some stools arranged in a long rectangle. The interior decoration was chrome, except for additional aesthetic statements provided by the coats hanging on racks which were attached to the end of each booth; patrons sitting at the counter were, I suppose, expected to leave their coats on.

  It was just past the dinner hour, so, while there was no one in line ahead of us, we had to wait almost five minutes for them to clean off a table; five minutes which my companion spent complaining loudly about being made to wait standing. A harried-looking but not unattractive middle-aged waitress offered her a seat at the counter while she waited, an offer that was declined with a sniff.

  At last we were shown to a booth. I helped her with her coat, removed my own; I saw from the thin gold chains around her neck that my companion, who wore a severe black dress, had not neglected anything; we sat down. The silver was ugly, and set on a paper place mat full of pictures of covered bridges; it had been printed by the Lakota tourist bureau and should have been called, “What to avoid in Ashtabula County.”

  My dinner partner propped her canes against the booth, and set her purse next to her. She picked up the one-page plastic menu from behind the napkin holder, glanced at it, and said, “Well? The beef stew is good. Or perhaps some chili since the day is so cold?”