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Authors: Steven Brust

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BOOK: Agyar
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The dog wouldn’t settle down, so they put it out in the fenced-in backyard, and showered me with apologies about which I was quite gracious.
His wife’s name is Dorothy (I didn’t ask her if she was from Kansas, although I was tempted), and she’s a bright, slightly dumpy middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair. They tried to feed me and I declined, eventually accepting half a cup of coffee.
We spoke about the college, and he mentioned that he had a new project.
“What’s that?” I said.
“It’s called the Swaggart Study.”
“From Jimmy Swaggart?”
“No, no, Don Swaggart.”
I kept my face impassive. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of him.”
“He’s the guy who started the project, over in Sociology.”
“Oh.”
“He died recently, and he was pretty much the main force behind it, so we decided to keep it going in his honor and name it after him.”
“That was thoughtful. An older fellow?”
“No, quite young. He was killed. Some sort of break-in at his house.”
“Really? A shame. Did you know him?”
Bill nodded. “Yes. Very well, in fact.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It was a shock. It’s hard to get to be my age without having a close friend die unexpectedly like that, but I’ve managed.”
“I’ve never gotten used to it myself,” I said.
He nodded, then laughed a little. “I still don’t quite
believe it. I mean, I’ve read Spider Robinson; people don’t
really
die. Not
dead
dead.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
Dorothy offered me some Rondele on crackers which I declined, and then she asked if I had any children.
“No. Do you?” Which was the cue for them to get the pictures out. Lord! They even had a son in the army, stationed in Germany; it was the kind of photograph that makes you think the kid is an officer if you don’t know insignia. They also had a daughter who, judging from her graduation picture, was not unattractive. I started to ask about her, then changed my mind.
The conversation drifted after that. Bill brought up Young Don once or twice more, but I had nothing to say about him, and we eventually worked our way to a discussion of crime in general. I was able to keep a straight face while agreeing with most of what they said.
Then Dorothy said, “The police were over at the house across the street today.”
“Really?” said Bill and I at the same time.
She nodded. “I went out and asked one of the officers what was going on, and he ordered me back in the house.”
“It must have been serious, then,” I said.
Bill nodded. “That’s the real problem with empty houses; you never know who might move in, unofficially.”
“Indeed,” I said. “That is very true.”
 
A long day today. I went back to see Jill, hoping she might be able to tell me where Young Don got his great ideas. I opened up her door and went in, and found the place full of flowers, a tray next to the bed, a teapot and
cup on the tray, and Jill lying sound asleep. Someone had evidently been taking care of her.
I tried to wake her up, but she only moaned a little and, if anything, fell deeper into unconsciousness. Not knowing what else to do, I turned to go, and found Susan in the doorway, looking at me with an expression that seemed puzzled and not entirely happy. I held my smile until I should know what she was about. She didn’t waste any time telling me.
“What have you been doing to Jill?” she said. She looked right at me, her voice and expression without fear or compromise, and I felt the way I suppose the lion feels when confronted by his trainer with whip and chair.
Yet, despite the horrible plunging sensation in my chest, and the odd tingling at the bottoms of my feet and in my palms, I determined not to give up anything more than necessary. I said, “What do you mean?”
“Jill,” she said, “has been lying here all day, hardly waking up for more than five or ten minutes, and she’s been calling your name and moaning.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “she misses me.”
“She’s been moaning ‘no, Jack, please don’t.’ Does that sound like she misses you?”
It came to me that I’d been hearing those very words, in her voice, while I was sleeping. In my dreams I had thought it slightly amusing; now I did not. I groped for a reply, and finally settled on asking “Could she mean, please don’t go?”
“I think not,” said Susan, biting out the words one at a time. She was still looking at me in a manner that was nearly accusing.
My temper began to rise, and I had an almost overpowering urge to take Susan right then, whatever her desires; almost overpowering, not quite. I don’t know what it was that held me back, but for a moment things hung in the balance, and in that time I think Susan saw
a side of me I had not intended to show her. At any rate, she took a step backward and watched me the way one might watch a dog whose disposition has not been ascertained.
But this time, the dog only bristled a little. I regained composure, and Susan regained her puzzled look, and she seemed to shake herself as if she weren’t quite certain what it was that she almost saw.
I said, “I can hardly be responsible for her delirium. Have you consulted a doctor?”
She frowned. “No. Do you think I should?”
“Does she seem sick?”
“Look at her.”
“Well, then perhaps calling a doctor would be more productive than accusing me of I know not what crimes against your roommate.”
She took a couple of deep breaths, then nodded. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” she said. “I’m worried about Jill.”
“Yes. As far as I can tell, you have reason to be.”
“Then should I—?”
“Yes. If she’s still like this tomorrow, I’d call a doctor.”
“Tomorrow?”
“You could do it now, if you’re worried, but I should give it another day.”
She nodded, and I think what had really been bothering her was that she hadn’t quite known what to do with a roommate as sick as Jill apparently was, nor had she had anyone to ask. “Wait another day, you think?” she said again, as if for more reassurance.
“That’s what I’d do, unless she seems to be getting worse.”
“Okay,” she said, relaxing as the decision was made. “That’s what I’ll do.”
Now I frowned. “You look a little pale yourself. Have you eaten today?”
She blinked, as if it were a question that would never have occurred to her. “You know, I don’t believe I have. Are you hungry?”
“No, but I can keep you company. Where shall we go?”
She smiled, and she was the Susan I knew again. “Out,” she said, swinging her arms.
“Shhhh. Don’t wake patient.”
She lowered her voice, but said, “I doubt that I could.”
I led the way. As we locked the front door behind us, she said, “How
do
you keep getting in without my knowing it? Did Jill give you a key without mentioning it to me?”
“Trade secret,” I said.
“What trade is that? Cat burglar?”
“Yes, although I prefer the technical term.”
“What’s that?”
“Music promoter.”
She laughed. “You aren’t really a promoter, are you?”
“No, I’m afraid not. If I were, I’d give you a contract.”
“I don’t doubt that a bit,” she said.
The wind was fierce, so I sheltered her with my body. It’s funny, but there is a kind of intimacy that vanishes along with one’s clothes, and that can sometimes become stronger as more layers are added. Walking beneath the new moon, huddling against the wind and the occasional streetlights, I almost felt as if we were a single person, intertwining our emotions with our hair, her breath steaming around our heads.
She said, “There’s something fey about you, you know.”
“Fey?” I laughed. “I’ve never been called fey before.”
“You haven’t? I’m surprised.”
“I must say I prefer it to some of the things I have been called.”
She chuckled into the collar of my coat. “Don’t tell me,” she said, her voice muffled. The top of her head looked very charming that way.
“I shan’t.”
We found a restaurant called the Nawlins, which was a storefront with too many tables and not enough waiters for the space, and I bought her some shrimp Creole and a beer, which she seemed to thoroughly enjoy. After the beer she switched to coffee, and I joined her with my usual half-cup. She seemed to think that was funny.
She asked about my love life, which threw me for a bit, but I ended up telling her about Kellem, although in general terms and not by name. Susan thinks Kellem is very frightened, and wants a man to make her feel secure, but is afraid to trust anyone enough to make a difference. I almost laughed at this, and then I began wondering if there wasn’t some truth in it. I still wonder.
We drifted onto other subjects, and I cannot for the life of me remember what we talked about, but we suddenly noticed that everyone else had left and the busboy, a college-aged kid who’d gone to the Art Garfunkel school of hair fashion, was giving us significant looks. I left an extra tip for his trouble and helped Susan with her coat.
“Back home?” I said. “Or is there somewhere else worth going?”
“I wish it were summer so we could walk along the lakeshore.”
“We can anyway. Stand on the rocks and watch the waves crash while the wind—”
“Freezes our cute little behinds off. No thanks.”
“You have no trace of romance in you,” I said.
She smiled at me. “Wanna bet?”
“Right. Home then.”
We made it in spite of the powdered snow that the wind threw into our faces, though my hands were thoroughly chilled. When we got inside, I said, “You’re going to have to warm me up.”
“Let’s check on Jill, first,” she said.
“All right.”
So we did, and decided that she seemed to be breathing a little easier, though she still didn’t wake up. Then I took Susan’s hand and led her into the bedroom.
All right, yeah, she did have some romance in her, after all.
troub·le
n
. 1. A state of distress, affliction, danger, or need. Often used in the phrase
in trouble
. 2. Something that contributes to such a state; a difficulty or problem:
One trouble after another delayed the job
. 3. Exertion; effort; pains. 4. A condition of pain, disease, or malfunction:
heart trouble
.
—v.
troubled, -ling, -les.
—
tr.
1. To agitate; stir up. 2. To afflict with pain or discomfort. 3. To cause distress or confusion in.
AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY
I had finished typing up the tale of yesterday and was preparing for sleep when Jim came up and told me that Kellem had been over looking for me. I cursed under my breath and said, “Did she say what she wanted?”
“No,” said Jim. “She didn’t seem upset that you weren’t here.”
“Did you invite her in?”
He nodded. “She insisted.”
“What did she do?”
“Looked around a little, complimented me on the woodwork and the fixtures.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
Jim didn’t seem happy about it, but, come to that, he has been very moody since the visit of the police; I don’t know if he is worried on my behalf, or upset about having his home invaded. Perhaps some of each. I would like to go down and make a fire, but I don’t dare; the smoke
might be seen. Instead, I will spend some more time going over the newspaper articles, useless as I now think that will be.
I wish I could find a way to learn or deduce what Kellem has done that worries her so. If I could find a means of protecting her that would not cost my life, I could perhaps convince her to accept it, in spite of what happened the last time I tried to speak to her.
And why shouldn’t she be willing to grant me my life, if she can do so at no cost or danger to herself? It isn’t as if she has never cared for me. Years ago, we used to spend a great deal of time together—more than she would have had to. But I was utterly taken with her, and I think she enjoyed being worshiped as intensely as I worshiped her.
We would spend hour after hour just walking and talking, me eagerly asking questions about her life and the ways of her world, and she would take me to the theater and hold forth on philosophy or tell me stories of people she had known. Her decision to leave London, and, in fact, the British Isles, came a few weeks before the battle of Atbara, and she helped me through that first horrible winter crossing of the Channel.
On the Continent, however, I at once fell in love with the European railways, and in this way we traveled together for some months or years. I took her to my boyhood home, to which I had not returned in quite some time, and she showed me Paris. I remember very little of that city, except that I can recall thinking that it would be wonderful if there weren’t so many Frenchmen there. But mostly I was still involved with her, and I doted on her every word and action.
I remember her saying, “Things aren’t like they once were, and for that you ought to be grateful. For years, for decades, I would spend my time in the shadows of the great cities, only occasionally daring to venture out into
the light of society, and then never for long. Now we can walk the streets, shop, visit the theater, and it is as if we exist within a shelter. The old terrors that hardened me and trained me are gone, and I wonder if you will ever appreciate the life you enjoy.”
I can remember looking at her as she spoke; she wore a dark tailored green dress, very tight at the waist, belted, with a long fur around her neck like a scarf. The hemline came above her ankles, but she wore very trim black boots with pointed toes and square heels. I wore a long coat with eight-inch fur cuffs, a large fur collar, a white silk cravat, and a top hat, I believe. She had picked the clothes out for me with care that felt loving to my befogged brain, and perhaps it was.
I remember these things, and what she said, and that it was late autumn, and that we were in Paris, yet I cannot remember what the streets looked like, or if we were sitting, standing, or walking. No, now that I think of it, I believe we were walking through a park and there was no one around, and no sounds except our speech, the faint clop and squeak of someone’s private coach a few hundred feet away, the songs of night birds, and, very faint, the titter of the rats of Paris, whose conversation never altered. The moon shone very bright on Laura’s face, giving it an odd yellowish tint and highlighting her arching eyebrows and deep-set, narrow eyes that were always so cold and blue.
I considered her words, and tried to imagine what it would have been like living in the times she spoke of, and at last I asked, “What changed?”
“Time,” she said. “The advent of this modern, scientific age.” There was more than just a hint of derision in her voice as she spoke.
“Will it last?”
“I believe it is very nearly ending already, more’s the pity.”
“What makes you think so?”
“You haven’t been keeping up with contemporary literature.”
“I never do, Laura,” I said. “I like older work.”
“Then you’re a fool,” she snapped. “There is no better way to keep track of the thinking of men, and if you don’t know what men are thinking, you don’t know what precautions to take.”
“Is that why we left England?”
“It was time to leave the English-speaking world for a while. I don’t know for how long.”
“Fortunately, you like French novels, too.”
“Yes, but French drama is impossible.”
“Still—”
“Yes. I’ll have a pretty good guess when it’s time to leave. But will you?”
“I? Won’t you be—”
“Not forever, Agyar János. How well can you read French?”
“Well enough.”
“Good. That may save you.”
“I’m glad you care what happens to me.”
She laughed, which for some reason I took as reassurance, although I cannot now imagine why I did.
We create our own omens, I think, and then mystify ourselves trying to understand their significance. That is, it feels very like an omen that this conversation has just now returned to me, in Technicolor and Dolby stereo, but I cannot imagine what it portends.
 
Jim keeps trying to understand what Kellem is up to. For that matter, so do I. He said, “I can’t figure out what she was hoping to get from having all of those policemen look at the house, or the reason for her visit.”
“I can’t either,” I said. “If I knew what she was trying to do, I could …”
“You could what?” he said.
“I don’t know. I’d feel better.”
“Well, it doesn’t make sense; no sir, it just doesn’t. If she wanted them to find you, she could have made you be more obvious, right?”
“Right.”
“And if she didn’t, what was the point?”
“To scare me, maybe; to get me to make a mistake.”
“Why go through all that to get you to make a mistake, when she could just tell you what mistake to make, and you’d have to do it?”
“There’s that,” I said.
“Maybe she isn’t after what you think she’s after.”
“Maybe.”
His eyes focused on me for a moment before shifting away again. “You look, I don’t know, younger than you did.”
“It’s what comes of a healthy life-style. You could take a lesson from it.”
“I surely could, yessir.”
We sat for a moment in a stillness that suddenly made me uncomfortable. I said, “I wish I could start a fire.”
“There’s no more wood in here; you’d have to bring it in from the carriage house.”
“Maybe I will. Want to toast marshmallows?”
That pulled a laugh from him, albeit a small one. “Sure. Then what would we do with them?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I just enjoy watching them burn.”
 
The storm has ended, and I am shivering with cold; my fingers are tingling as they return to life. Perhaps it is a torture I inflict on myself to type while my hands are in this condition. If so, it is stupid. I will wait for a few minutes, then resume.
There. That is better. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned before that the windows in the typing room (there are two, one facing west and the other facing south) are boarded up. They are covered by thin plywood strips, and not perfectly, so just at the moment, with all the clouds having dissipated as suddenly as they appeared, I am receiving some light from the half-moon, which is cutting through the slats and making a sharp white image across the keys as she sinks. The weather has warmed slightly, but it is still cold, or my fingers should have warmed up sooner; but I am not inclined to start yet another fire and warm myself up thoroughly. I wonder if it would be possible to get the furnace going; it is a hot-water radiator furnace and newer than one would suppose. Does this kind of furnace produce visible smoke? Probably.
I felt that Jill had recovered enough that I could go and see her again, although I made yet another firm resolve to stay away from Susan. She has a very active life, and I didn’t want her to come down with some strange illness that matched Jill’s, and would cause doctors to start paying attention. In a general sense, doctors are the least of my worries, but why should I take unnecessary chances? And I don’t really want to make Susan start missing classes.
So I said to myself.
Heh.
I took myself to the big white house with blue lights in the attic, I entered, and found the living room empty and the inside lights off. I climbed the stairs, nodded to the saint pictured in the stained glass, and came to Jill’s door, which I opened. She was awake, sitting up in bed, I think just staring off into space. She showed no surprise when I came in; just dropped her eyes, then unbuttoned the top of her nightgown, then looked at the wall in front of her and waited.
I looked at her carefully. She was still pale, as from illness, and had unhealthy-looking circles under her eyes. Her hand, outside of her blanket, seemed to tremble slightly. I shook my head, which attracted her attention enough that her eyes returned to me; she looked puzzled.
“Not tonight,” I said. “I have a headache.”
She frowned and shook her head slightly, not understanding. I sighed. “Just rest,” I said. “Eat a lot. You need to recover.”
“But you—?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I can wait. I don’t want to kill you, child.”
“Why not?”
“You are of no use to me dead.”
“Oh.” Her lips formed the word, but I heard no sound.
I thought I would say hello to Susan, so I went over and tapped softly on her bedroom door. She called for me to come in. She was lying in bed, hands clasped behind her head. The bedclothes were down by her waist and she wore nothing. She greeted me with words I cannot now recall. Then, I suppose seeing some expression on my face, she said, “What is it, Jonathan?”
“There is a scent in this room,” I said. “A cologne that I do not recognize.”
“Oh, yes, that is Jennifer’s.”
“Jennifer?”
“A friend.”
There was a burgundy-colored button-up blouse draped over a chair. Susan would not wear burgundy. It came to me that the last time I’d been in her room, there had been a pink sweater hanging from one of the knobs of the closet door, and she wouldn’t wear pink, either.
“What is it, Jonathan?”
And, beyond the perfume, there was the unmistakable odor of sex in the room. Recent sex.
I said, “What did you say your friend’s name is?”
“Jennifer.” And yes, it was there in the way she said her friend’s name, too. Perhaps everyone else called her Jenny, but Susan had needed her version, one that she could say sleepily, while holding her in the warm afterglow of love.
I said, “I just wanted to say hello.”
“Well, hello,” she said brightly.
I smiled, keeping my feelings off my face, and closed the door. I went back into Jill’s room. She hadn’t moved. I took her shoulders in my hands; it came to me, as if from somewhere outside of myself, that if I let myself begin I would kill her; so I threw her back onto the bed. I heard something like a sob escape my throat. Jill was staring at me with a hurt-puppy look that made me wish very much to strangle her; instead I stepped around the bed, to the window, flung it open. Mist poured in like smoke, and I felt the clouds gather above. “Don’t go driving anywhere,” I told Jill. “Winter storm warning,” and I passed out through the window, into the fog and the swirling snow of the storm.
I remember little between the beginning of the storm and my arrival in this room, but my brain is full of images of swirling snow, and of lightning dancing back and forth between clouds, and throwing my rage down on the helpless Earth below me.
The storm cleared as suddenly as it had arrived, leaving me numb, as I sit here before this infernal machine. Now I am no longer cold, but I think I am still numb, and able to wonder, in a distant, abstract sort of way, what sensation will come to fill the void once the numbness has worn off.
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