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Authors: Steven Brust

BOOK: Agyar
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She saw me at about the same time I saw her, and walked up to meet me. “Agyar,” she said.
“Kellem.”
“How long have you been in town?”
“A little more than a month.”
“Really? It took you a while to find a place?”
“Yes. I didn’t know you were in a hurry.”
“I’m not. But you’re settled in now?”
“Pretty well.”
“Good. Hungry?”
“No. You?”
“Always.” She smiled without humor. “But let’s just walk and talk.”
“Sure. Your place?”
“Funny, Agyar.
“You know where I live.”
“That’s different, as you well know.”
I shrugged. “Lead on, then.”
She did, taking us a block away from the Ave, onto a side street called Drewry where there was no traffic and most of the houses already had their lights out. Someone once told me it never really got cold in Northeastern Ohio, but either that someone lied or he was Canadian. A pair of squirrels woke up as we walked by their tree, then went back to sleep. Mama raccoon ducked back into her sewer. She smelled like the rats had.
“Any trouble finding a place to stay?” asked Laura.
I shrugged. “As I said, I took my time. There was no problem keeping everything locked up in the train depot.”
“How did you come across the house?”
“I just walked around and listened to gossip. I heard about Carpenter deserting a house, tracked him down, got invited to a party, found out where the house was, and moved my things in. I had no trouble gaining entry, because no one lived there. So to speak.”
She chuckled. “Does Carpenter know?”
“No.”
“Well, thanks for coming so quickly.”
“I had nothing pressing. What’s on your mind?”
“Settling down.”
“Not a bad idea. I’ve done it myself, once or twice.”
“Do you believe in omens?”
“Does the Pope believe in bears?”
“What about dreams?”
“Dreams. I’m not certain about dreams. Why?”
“I’ve been having some odd ones.”
“What about?”
“Children. That is, my own.”
“Have you any?”
“Not in the conventional sense.”
“And that’s the sort you’ve been dreaming of?”
“Yes.”
“And it seems significant?”
“Very.”
“In what way?”
“I’m not going to live forever, you know.”
“An axiom, Kellem, without substance.”
“Maybe, but that’s not how it’s been feeling.”
“Is that why you’ve brought me out here? Because you’ve been having dreams?”
“I brought you out here because I knew how to reach you, and I needed to reach someone.”
“To talk about your dreams?”
“Not exactly.”
“Well?”
There were a pair of kids, a boy and a girl, both
about seventeen, across the street talking about what they were going to do when the year ended. She’d go to school in town, probably at Twain, and he was going to apply to MIT in Boston. The calendar year would be ending in another few weeks, but I decided they probably meant the school year. That was all right, one is as arbitrary as the other, and the year as measured by the progression of seasons doesn’t really mean anything in a city. Their conversation faded into the background din of man and nature, who keep changing each other and making noise while doing so.
“The dreams have been affecting me,” she said. “I’ve done some strange things.”
“Taken chances?”
“All of that.”
“What sort of chances?”
“The sort you take when you’re desperate, and not really in control of your actions.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“I’m not sure.”
“If you want help, you must tell Doctor Agyar—”
“Cut it out.”
I spread my hands, palms up, and waited. When she didn’t continue I said, “Do you think someone might have noticed?”
“Yes,” she said in a neutral tone, so I couldn’t tell if she was worried, angry, or only vaguely interested.
“Can you cut and run?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
“I like it here.”
I looked around elaborately. The streets were lined with trees, mostly oak and sycamore. The houses were working-class one-family dwellings, this one blue, that one yellow, that one green, with nothing to choose among them except lawn ornaments.
“You don’t understand,” she said.
“No.”
“I go into coffee shops and talk with artists who are actually creating something. I go to plays, or movie theaters, and meet people with children who talk about how little Johnny speaks in full sentences and he’s only two years old. I—”
“And you like it?”
“Yes.”
“And now and then you do a convenience store or a bank.”
“When I’m desperate for cash; not often.”
“And lately you’ve been committing indiscretions.”
“That’s right. I think I have it under control now, though.”
“That’s good. Then what do you want me for?”
She looked me in the eyes for the first time. Hers were blue, large, and very, very cold. “As I said, the indiscretions have been noticed.”
“So what do you want me for?”
“Someone has to take the fall,” she said. “It’s going to be you.”
The night whispered around us, alive but indifferent.
or⋅gan⋅ic
adj … .
2. Of, pertaining to, or derived from living organisms … 4. Having properties associated with living organisms … 6. a. Of or constituting an integral part of something; fundamental; constitutional; structural.
AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY
I keep discovering ways in which age affects me. For example, when I was younger and, as I said before, considering a career in journalism, I tried to keep a diary, because this had been recommended to me by a professor at University as a way of training myself, but I could never do it. Yet now I find that, as I go through my day, my thoughts keep coming back to this old typewriting machine and I eagerly await the chance to return to it. I don’t understand the reason for this change, and I haven’t the patience for soul-searching.
I don’t think, though, that it is really the need to set down what happens, as much as it is the act of writing, or typing, itself. There is something soothing in hearing the type bars smack the paper with that hollow, crunching sound, and seeing the black marks appear. They are nice and black, because I found a new ribbon in one of the desk drawers that sits next to this hard wooden chair, and after considerable trouble I managed to get it
threaded the right way. Then I had to go wash the ink off my hands, because it seems wrong to soil the keys of this venerable machine.
Yesterday I rushed home after meeting with Kellem and, before anything else, I set it all down as well as I could. The act of doing so was very soothing, more so, it turned out, than telling it all to Jim the ghost, which I did as soon as I was done typing. Yet there were things, important things, that I didn’t remember as I typed them. Some of these came back, however, as I told Jim about the conversation. Why is it that some memories cast themselves naturally into written words, while others must be spoken?
As Jim and I conversed, he played with an old nickel, hole punched in the center, with a thin chain running through the hole. When I had finished, he put it around his neck, under his shirt, and looked at me. He said, “Did she give you any details about what she’d done that you’re supposed to suffer for?”
“There have been some bodies, apparently.”
“Just bodies?”
“What more do you want, zombies?”
“Never seen a zombie.”
“Never hope to see one. But I can tell you, Abercrombie—”
“Not sure I believe in zombies,” said Jim.
“Nor am I. But no, just bodies.”
“What about witnesses?”
“She’s no fool.”
“Then why does she need someone to go down for the killings?”
“She wants the investigations settled before the authorities dig something up, as it were.”
“Why you?”
“I suppose because I’ll confess to them, and that will end it.”
He stared past my shoulder, his eyes wide as the moon and looming like a stereotype. “Why will you do that?”
“Because she told me to.”
“And there’s nothing you can do about it?”
“No. Orders, as they say, are orders.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You know what they say about Hell hath no fury and all that.”
“You scorned her?”
“No, actually, she scorned me, if you want to look at it that way.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If you love someone who doesn’t love you, you’re in her power, and power is what this is all about. With Kellem, power is always what it is about.”
“And you still love her?”
“No.”
“Then—”
“It’s complicated, Jim.”
He shook his head, still confused. There was no good way to explain it, so I didn’t. He said, “When will it happen?”
“I don’t know. I imagine she hasn’t worked out all the details. It could be tricky for her. I am, as you might guess, overwhelmed with sympathy for her.”
The wind whistled merrily through the wooden slats over the windows on the north side of the house, facing the border of honeysuckle bushes, which are as tall as a man; they died in last year’s drought, but have not yet fallen. Soon they will fall apart, I think, and the wind will whistle merrier still. A cheery place, this old house where Jim the ghost has given me temporary residence.
After a while, Jim said, “I can’t believe there’s nothing you can do.”
“Let’s talk about it outside.”
“You know I can’t—oh.”
I stretched out into the chair and looked at the yellowed ceiling, where shadows from the candle flickered and danced. Jim stood there. I wish he’d sit down sometimes, but I don’t imagine his legs get tired.
“Thing is,” he said a little later, “you sound like you don’t care.”
“Don’t care? No, it’s not that. I don’t want to die, I suppose, but—”
“You suppose?”
“What’s the point of worrying about it? There’s nothing I can do. I mean, I imagine, given a choice, I’d like to go on living, but—”
“You imagine?”
I didn’t answer for a moment. Jim watched me, or at least my chest, without saying anything.
“Should I start a fire?” I said.
“That would be pleasant,” said Jim. “I’m not certain the flue works, however.”
“I’ll check into it,” I said.
“What if someone sees the smoke?”
“There shouldn’t be much if the wood is dry, and there are only a couple of houses across the street. Besides, this area isn’t lighted as well as some.”
The flue was not seriously clogged. I brought some old, rotting firewood in from the old, rotting carriage house, found some newspapers in a neighbor’s trash can, and lit the fire from one of the candles.
“Won’t burn long with those old logs,” said Jim.
“It’s getting late anyway,” I said, stifling a yawn and watching the thickly curling smoke that old bark produces.
“A fire like this wants hot spiced brandy, or cider, or even tea.”
“If you make it,” I said, “I’ll drink it.”
“Don’t have any,” said Jim.
“Me neither.”
A few sparks shot up the chimney and out to defy the winter.
 
It has been several days now since I felt like coming up here, I guess because there isn’t much satisfaction in talking about how I shower, eat, read the newspapers, and sleep. It’s only when I meet someone and we affect each other that I feel I have anything to write down.
I went back to visit Jill earlier tonight, this time at her house. It would have been harder to find if she hadn’t mentioned the blue light in the attic, but there it was, and there I was. The place had just been painted, sometime within the last couple of months; the smell had survived the weather and it overpowered any other smells. I’ve never been fond of paint smell, but there are worse. I heard sounds of a stereo faintly through the door and recognized 3 Mustaphas 3; it’s always interesting when you discover someone who knows the same obscure music you know. There’s very little contemporary music of any kind that I listen to, and when I discover a musician I like it is usually by accident. In this case, I dated a woman in New York who worked for a record company, and several times found myself waiting for her in her offices, and they were played there. I know the songs they play, and they have more respect for the music than most.
I shouldn’t let myself get started on this, should I?
But I did, in fact, like the music, and I wondered if I’d misjudged Jill. Probably not. I stood on a very wide, very long unenclosed porch, with a few pieces of cheap furniture. The door was thick and wooden, with no screen. I looked for a buzzer and didn’t find one. Knock knock went the nice man at the door.
The music dropped in volume to the point where I could hear the slap of bare feet against a wood floor. The
door opened with a melodramatic creak, and two very wide blue eyes appeared vertically in the partially opened doorway. No, it wasn’t Jill. I couldn’t see the smile below the eyes, but the lines around the cheekbones indicated it was there.
“Yes?” she said. “And who might you be?”
I bowed, because it seemed the appropriate response. “I might be Jill’s friend,” I said. “Or I might be an Israeli terrorist looking for PLO supporters. Or possibly a burglar trying to steal your jewels to support my laudanum habit. Or even a neighbor complaining about the volume. That is “Heart of Uncle,” isn’t it? It really ought to be louder.”
She considered this, worked her lips like Nero Wolfe, then threw the door open all the way, placed her hand against the doorjamb while leaning against the casing trim. She had one leg bent, her foot resting against the doorway, and her arms were folded in front of her as she blocked the doorway and considered me. She was as tall as I and thinner; most of her height in her legs. She wore a navy blue skirt, buttoned on the side, and a white tank top. She was small-breasted, with a graceful neck and a delightfully animated face, full of blue eyes and theatrical expressions. Her hair was dark blond, straight, and reached only to the top of her neck, with a navy blue band keeping it back out of her face. Her lips were full and had just a hint of a cupid’s bow. Her nose was small, and she probably wrinkled it fairly often, for effect. I decided she couldn’t possibly be a drama student because stereotypes are never that perfect.
“I like your coat,” she announced, as if her approval of my dress were the supreme prize in a good-taste contest.
“Does that mean I get to see Jill?”
She considered this. “Perhaps it does,” she said.
“Just what are your intentions concerning my roommate?”
“I’m going to kidnap her and hold her for ransom.”
“Really?” she said, appearing delighted. “How splendid.”
“Or else I’ll put her in a cage and show her for money, but I think you’d be more suitable for that role.”
She nodded. “Yes. The kidnapping is a much better idea.” She stood straight and walked with exaggerated grace into the living room. There was a very nice wooden stairway, curving back on itself with a stained-glass window at the landing. She called, “Jill! Your kidnapper is here,” and gave me a big smile.
“Aren’t you going to come in?” she said.
“Only if you want me to. We kidnappers are very polite.”
“Oh do, by all means.”
“My name is Jack Agyar.”
“I am Susan,” she said, giving me an elaborate curtsy. “Susan Pfahl.” I left my Wellingtons in the entryway and passed inside. There was a very nice ceiling fixture, with old, presumably dead, gas jets mixed into the more modern decorative lamps. They cast downward-pointing sharp shadows against the printed white wallpaper. The pattern was of roses, but nicely subdued. The furnishings didn’t all match each other, but all went with the polished maple floor, the high, smooth white ceiling, and the dark wood of the stairway and around the fireplace.
“Dance or music?” I said.
“Both,” she said, smiling. “Would you like to hear me sing?”
“Yes.”
She sang, “Laaaaaaaa,” at a high pitch, filling up the room, her arms spread as if she were finishing a solo at the Met.
I said, “Hire the kid.”
Jill called from the stairs, “My god, Susan, don’t break the glasses.”
“I shan’t,” she said.
Jill wore faded jeans, a plaid work shirt, and pale yellow deck shoes. I looked quickly back and forth and wondered if it was too late to change my mind. I smiled at Jill and said, “How are you on this fine evening?”
“Okay,” she said. “I’m surprised to see you.”
“Not unpleasantly I hope.”
She made a vague gesture and said, “What’s up?”
“I thought I might take you out.”
“Hmmm. I sort of have to study.”
“Let’s talk about it. Upstairs.” I didn’t quite leer.
She glanced at Susan, blushed, started to say something, decided to get angry, changed her mind, and said, “All right,” in a very low voice. She went upstairs and I followed.
Her room was done in light blue, with a twin bed against the wall, head near the window, a green stuffed turtle on the flower-patterned comforter and a single white pillow. There were a couple of prints of abstract art on the wall, one of red lines and watery pastels, the other seemed to be a meaningless pattern of black needles against a green background. I’m sure they were both meaningful. In one corner were a few small canvases, and from the two I could see they were clearly her work, judging by the lack of style. Her desk sat in a corner and held a Webster’s Collegiate dictionary, an ashtray with a few marijuana buds, a round copper incense holder, a picture of her that I guessed to have been taken by a bored family photographer when she was about sixteen, a coffee mug full of pens and pencils, an electric typing machine, and a pad of drawing paper.

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