Agyar (11 page)

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Authors: Steven Brust

BOOK: Agyar
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I’m feeling about the same as before, although perhaps it isn’t quite as intense. After typing up what happened, I sat very still for a while, then went down to Jim. He said
hello, and looked at me for just a moment. He asked me what had happened, and I just shook my head. He waited for a few minutes, and when I still didn’t say anything he took himself upstairs. I realized that he was reading what I’d just written, and that made me uncomfortable at first, but there were so many conflicting passions clamoring for my attention that I finally realized I didn’t care, so I just waited, wondering what he’d say.
When he came back down he asked me to explain it to him. I was not entirely certain that I could, and told him so. He said, “But this can’t be the first time something like this has happened.”
“Something like what?” I said.
He frowned, and I got the impression that talking of such things made him uncomfortable, which, just then, was fine by me; I was still in the grip of some nameless combination of emotions in which anger was, if not dominant, at least a part; I badly wanted to strike out at something or someone. In any case, he said, “Discovering that your lover has someone else.”
“
‘Lover,’”
I said. “Now there’s an interesting word for it.”
He continued to stare past my shoulder, at my chest, or occasionally at my forehead. “What word would you prefer?”
“How about ‘victim.’”
“Susan is your victim?”
“No,” I said, the word out before I actually thought about it.
“Well, then?”
“If she’s a lover, than she’s the first lover I’ve had since …”
“Yes?”
“Since Laura.”
“Kellem?”
“That’s right.”
“So this
hasn’t
happened before.”
“No. Other times, like with Jill, if there’s someone in her life, I either ignore him or deal with him, as the case may be.”
“But this is different.”
“That’s right,” I said. “This is different.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you going to kill her?”
“Susan?”
“No, this friend of hers.”
“Oh. Jennifer. No, I’m not going to kill her. I wouldn’t do that to Susan.”
“Yo shonuff gots it, don’cha?”
“Cut it out.”
Jim graced me with one of his rare smiles and said nothing else.
After several minutes I said, “So, what would you do?”
“What would
I
do? Why ask me? I’m not even alive.”
“You’re more alive than most of the people I pass on the street. Besides, what does being alive have to do with anything? You’re human, aren’t you? What would you do?”
He turned around and watched the cold fireplace for a moment, then he said, “I don’t know, Jack.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said.
He just shrugged. I heard myself growling, and I suddenly wanted to take myself away from there. It was exactly the same as when I’d run away from Jill so I wouldn’t kill her, although I knew I couldn’t really hurt Jim.
I take that back. I think I
could
hurt Jim, and perhaps I even have. But leave that; there is no way I can
hurt Jim
physically
. I thought I ought to type until the feeling passed, but it hasn’t.
I must get out of the house for a while.
 
I’m back once more, feeling maybe just a little better, and a little worse at the same time. I left the house and walked about in the immediate neighborhood, until at last all the walls came down, and then I ran. I jumped the fence into Bill’s yard, and there was a growl and a yelp and whine, and then I was gone.
Sometime later I remember walking the streets. I can’t tell you how warm or cold it was, or whether there was a wind, or what people or animals were on the street. I just walked.
I eventually made my way to Little Philly, and found where the girls were enduring the cold. I picked a tall black girl named Stacy who had long legs and a haughty look that set my teeth on edge.
She said, “Hey, honey, wanna date?”
I said, “Sure, honey. I don’t have a car. Where do you live?”
“Not far, sweets.”
“I have the money,” I said. “You have the product.”
She laughed a phony laugh and showed me to a greasy-looking hotel, and when I left she was no longer wearing her haughty look. I left her with a hundred dollars, which was five times what she’d asked, and I left her still healthy enough that she’d probably survive, which I had not originally intended. I didn’t care a great deal if she didn’t; I’m perfectly willing to let the embalmers finish what I start.
I came back home after that, and I sit here filled with that horrible mixture of physical well-being and emotional self-disgust that I’ve had before on such occasions, which is, at any rate, a distraction from thoughts of Susan.
It makes no sense to me that I should feel this way about picking up whores, though; if it is still the remainder of my upbringing (my parents belonged to the Reformation Church and took it very seriously), then all I can say is that one’s upbringing has more power than even the head doctors think, because I don’t know one of them who has ever said that childhood conditioning can stay with you beyond the grave.
urge
v
.—
tr.
1. To drive forward or onward forcefully; impel; spur …
n
… . 2. An irresistible or impelling force, influence, or instinct.
AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY
Another day passed. Physically, I’m as well as I have ever been; I feel young and full of energy. Some of this has crept into my mood, I suppose because the mind wants to follow the body wherever it may lead. But I am now feeling more rational about Susan and Jennifer.
No, I certainly am not going to kill Jennifer, nor am I going to harm Susan in any way; although we certainly must find an opportunity to talk. But that need not be today. I do not wish to see Jill again until she has had a chance to make a more complete recovery, and as for Susan, well, she obviously did not think she was doing anything wrong, and perhaps, by her lights, she wasn’t. And in a sense I have invaded her life; it seems that it behooves me to, if not follow her rules, at least to pay some attention to them.
For today, at least, I cast all of this aside. I turn my attention to my dear old friend Laura Kellem; for if, within my limitations, I can thwart her, I will do so. I
must recognize the truth that Susan has another lover; she is no less herself, and my life remains sweeter for her share in it. I will live if I can.
 
The last reddish tint of sunset is fading, and my typing room is warmer than usual, I suppose because the sun, weak though she be, has visited my sanctum and prepared it for me.
Some days ago, I think the day after Susan told me about her lover, I was walking through Little Philly and I chanced to overhear a lady, speaking to her companion, give forth a piece of contemporary folk wisdom: “The world would be easier to live in if men weren’t stupid and women weren’t crazy.”
At the time I noted it but gave it no thought. Now it comes back to me, and I think that, if it is not altogether wrong (no folk wisdom is altogether wrong; that’s its nature), then at least it is wrong with respect to me. It refers, I think, to how slow men are to see what is before them, and how given women are to self-deception and wild variations of mood. If so, then I am more woman than man, if I am not, in fact, androgynous in this fashion.
I say this because I am discovering how much variation of mood commands my activity. At first, reflecting on Susan’s infidelity, I had been shocked, and so had done things of which I was not proud; pride—true, honest pride—is always the result of overcoming our animal nature, of acting in accordance with principles or ideals which have been learned, cognized, and assimilated.
The athlete who takes pride in running faster than another knows that he has overcome his natural lethargy and trained his body to accept the punishment of the race. The musician who takes pride in his composition or his performance has the right to be proud, because he has created an expression of his discipline and his control.
Insofar as we may do a good thing from instinct, we feel, or ought to feel, less pride in the accomplishment than if we had done it through self-control and careful thought; through the domination of the brain over the body. I think my entire life is an effort to secure the command of my brain over my body.
I was not proud, then, that in my frustration I allowed my animal nature to guide me, and as I sat in this room a few scant hours ago and felt sleep overtaking me, I believed that I had come to terms with this nature, and could face Susan’s actions as a rational man. But, as I slept, the animal returned, for as I dreamed my mind created images of Susan and Jennifer; what they might be doing together, the things that perhaps they would say—difficult, because I do not know Jennifer’s appearance, nor do I ever wish to. In the end, I lay awake, unable to move, unable to control my thoughts. Would I care as much if her lover were a man? Would I care more? I cannot tell; all of the tremblings of rage, of fear, of hurt, and of confusion cry out for some sort of action; experience tells me that anything I do from such a motive will diminish me in my own eyes. It seemed to be hours that I lay there alone with these thoughts, gnashing my teeth and cursing under my breath.
When at last I was able to rise, I came back to my typewriting sanctuary, to set down these thoughts, hoping the expression would be the cure. There is no question that it is moods that guide me, much more than thought, and I am not happy in this realization.
Today, therefore, I shall avoid Susan, and I shall likewise avoid doing anything that I am driven to do by any impetus save cold, logical thought. I will remain in this room for hours if necessary, typing if I feel the need, pacing if that seems helpful. I will conquer this demon ere the night falls.
The brash coals of reason
Linger long once passion’s edge
Has curled the kindling paper black and brown;
And elected, for a season,
To stammer, halt, and hedge;
The smoke billows, ashes blow around
And inspect each nook before they kiss the ground.
 
I can’t believe the coals will burn,
I can’t believe they’ll die,
I long to track the rising, fading gray
Remains that twist and turn
And melt into the sky;
If heart and mind were one I’d surely stay;
If the coals were out I’d surely go away.
I slept well and without dreams, except that I knew, somehow, that Jill was feeling better. I resolved to pay her a visit to celebrate her recovery, as it were, and I further determined that I would neither avoid Susan nor seek her out; my feelings toward her remain ambivalent but not hostile.
It was in this mood, then, that I arrived at Jill’s home. I debated for some few moments whether to knock, with the attendant risk of meeting Susan, or simply to enter, but in the end I struck the knocker, and to my surprise, it was Jill who let me in; Jill who was now dressed, and seemed largely restored to health; Jill who, upon seeing me, stared at me with wide eyes, and opened the door with trembling hand; Jill who, after I had entered, closed the door behind me and stood looking at me, as if waiting for a signal.
I felt the warmth of hunger fall on me like the first stirrings of love, and I motioned her to me; she came
obediently enough. I tried to be careful with her, so as not to cause a relapse. I brought her up to her bed and laid her down carefully. Her eyes, which had been closed, fluttered open. It was only then that I remembered that I had some questions I had wanted to ask her. She appeared healthy, except that her breathing was the slightest bit rapid and maybe deeper than usual.
“Jill,” I said softly.
She looked at me and waited, placidly.
“A few days ago, you and Young Don conspired against me.” Tears sprang up in her eyes, I suppose at the mention of Don; I felt a flare of temper, and, at the same time, noticed from the widening of her eyes that she seemed suddenly afraid; I suppose thinking that I intended further revenge upon her. I said, “Do you remember?”
She barely nodded.
I said, “Did Don tell you what to do to your room?”
She nodded again.
“How did he learn?”
She frowned at me, as if she didn’t understand the question. I said, “Did he say anything, anything at all, that could tell me how he found out what to do?”
She struggled for a moment, then said in a whisper, “He said he …” and her voice trailed off. For a moment I thought she had fainted, for her eyes rolled in her head and then closed, but when I shook her slightly they opened again.
I repeated the question. She said, “He said he had found someone who understood these things.”
“Didn’t you ask him who?”
She nodded.
“Well?” I said.
“He said it was a woman.”
For some reason, my thoughts jumped instantly to
Kellem, although that didn’t make sense. I said, “Did he give you her name?”
She shook her head.
“Didn’t he say anything about her at all?”
“No,” she said. “I asked, but all he said was that she was sickening.”
“Sickening?”
She nodded.
“That was the word he used?”
She nodded again.
I frowned. An odd way to describe someone who—
Oh. I laughed then, because it was funny.
Sickening
. Yes, indeed.
I left her sleeping peacefully. Then, in spite of my good intentions, I knocked on Susan’s door, but there was no answer, and I heard no one breathing within, so I returned home. I am filled with a sort of nervous energy and wish I knew whither to direct it. I want to find Susan and talk to her; I want to do something about Kellem, I want to pursue these hints I received from Jill. Instead, I sit here and I type.
But, all right, so there is some “sickening” person (that really is a delightful joke) who knows a few things that are better forgotten; that doesn’t mean she’s out there, staying up nights thinking of ways to get me. There are too many stories of men running headlong into their fate in an effort to avoid it. I will disregard her for now, and merely note her existence for later use.
Note: don’t forget sickening woman.
There. It’s noted.
And now, by all the angels of the pit, I’ve had enough of this. I am going back there, and if Susan isn’t in, I will wait; and then I don’t know. I think, in any case, that I can be certain I won’t do anything that
 
 
As I look at the bottom of the last page I typed, I cannot for the life of me think how I meant to end that last sentence. But that was yesterday, and a great deal has happened since then. None of it really important, I suppose, but interesting nevertheless. I was typing away gayly, speculating on going to visit Susan, when I heard the sounds of the door being forced. At almost the same time, Jim appeared in front of me.
“Jack,” he said.
“Yes, the door.” I was already rising and looking for a place to hide the sheaf of papers. “Is it the police?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “They didn’t bother knocking.”
“They might think we’re armed and dangerous.”
“They might.”
I decided it would take too long to hide the papers, so I had to be contented with hiding myself and them along with me, which I did by entering the closet of my sanctuary and pulling myself up through the little rectangular door in the ceiling and so up into the attic. I hoped I wouldn’t have to stay there long; it was even colder than the room, there being no insulation to speak of; hadn’t Professor Carpenter ever heard of energy conservation?
There were still those boxes of books, and I found Geoffrey of Monmouth’s
History of the Kings of Britain
and amused myself with it for a while. After a wait of perhaps twenty minutes, Jim came up to the attic, passing through the trap door and sitting next to me on one of the horizontal struts that were the only floor the attic had.
“I wonder why they never finished this,” I said. “It could be a good, usable area.”
“Never needed it, I guess. The people who built it only had one child, and the people they sold it to only had two. Professor Carpenter never had any.”
“Yeah. So, who are our guests?”
“Well, they surely aren’t the police.”
“Do tell.”
“There’s two of them, both in their thirties, both pretty dirty-looking.”
“They come here to rob the place?”
“No, I think they just want a place to stay.”
I swore; Jim winced.
I said, “What are they doing?”
“Just sitting, talking quietly.”
“What about?”
“The house, the neighborhood, how likely they are to be disturbed.”
“So they know no one lives here?”
“Apparently. One of them said that his little brother had just spent the night here.” Jim’s expression was wry.
I smirked. “I told you we should have—”
“No doubt,” said Jim.
I shrugged. “What do they have with them?”
“They each have a suitcase.”
“Big?”
“Small.”
“Should we try to stay out of their way, or drive them from us?”
“Why ask me?” said Jim. “I’m not risking anything, and, as far as I’m concerned, the more the better. I like the company.”
I scowled at him, then slipped down from the attic, careful not to make any noise. I made my way to the top of the stairs and looked and listened. There was very little light, and what there was glowed an unusual white. I smelled the harsh, familiar odor of a camp lantern, and, after listening carefully, heard the characteristic hiss it gave out. Our visitors weren’t saying much just at this time, but I heard the dull, hollow clank metal gives off when it strikes glass, and the sounds of tools being manipulated. This aroused my curiosity, so I ventured
down the stairs a little, and very carefully poked my head out.
There wasn’t much light at all; I could see two men, both rather large. One was bearded, and the other one had a face that reminded me of the French countryside after the Great War. Both were very pale in the white glow of the lantern. They were sitting on the floor, working with something I couldn’t make out. The suitcases were open, however, and I could see the contents, which answered all mysteries.

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