Agyar (9 page)

Read Agyar Online

Authors: Steven Brust

BOOK: Agyar
7.07Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“Yes,” she said brightly. “But she didn’t succeed.”
“I should imagine,” I said, “that many women dislike you.”
She looked hurt, and for a moment I was afraid she was going to cry. “Hey,” I said. “I didn’t mean—”
She shook her head and smiled as if sharing a joke with herself. “Not as many as all that,” she said. Then she was serious again. “But I don’t understand why.” This was said very softly.
I realized I’d hit a sore spot, and I didn’t know what to say. “You don’t? Women are so often territorial when it comes to men, and you—”
“Oh, come now, Jonathan. I respect boundaries as much as anyone.”
“But you said—”
“It is simply a matter of establishing them in my home.”
“I think I understand.”
“I don’t make it a practice to, what is the word? Poach. I think I’ve heard it called that, as if men were some sort of game that could only be hunted in season and in certain places. What a revolting idea.”
“Well—”
“But if someone has a lover, I don’t interfere.”
“Good idea.”
“So why is that so many women feel threatened by me?”
“You’re asking me? I have no idea.” I looked around for a way to change the subject, feeling a little uncomfortable with this one. I said, “Did the sudden change surprise you?”
“What change?”
“In Jill.”
“Oh. Yes, I suppose it did,” she said reflectively, “but it shouldn’t have. She hasn’t been very happy lately, and the thing with Don was the last straw, I think. She hasn’t been willing to talk about it. I ought to have predicted either this or drugs, and this is better.”
“What thing with Don?”
“Didn’t you hear?”
“No.”
She shook her head and I think was going to tell me, but then she yawned and suddenly looked very sleepy, and she dozed off before she got around to it. I picked up my coat and went over to Jill’s room. I waited just outside of it. Presently, Jill came out, looking vaguely confused. She saw me, and the shock grew in her eyes. She opened her mouth and took in a breath. I clapped my hand over her mouth. “Don’t wake up Susan,” I said. “She’s sleeping.”
She did her best to wake her up anyway, but I had her in a firm grip. She stank, horribly, so that I almost gagged from being next to her, but I forced myself to endure it long enough to strip off everything she was wearing. I couldn’t help but laugh. “All of that nonsense in your room, and only the stench on your person? One might doubt your sincerity. Or your intelligence, at any rate.” This only made her struggle harder; I had to choke her almost unconscious, but at last it was done. I dragged her to the bathroom and turned on the cold water, then pulled the knob for the shower. She continued to struggle the entire time. When the smell was gone I took her from the shower, pushed her against the wall and held her until she stopped struggling.
I finally took my hand away from her mouth and told her exactly what she was going to do. She nodded her agreement, but when I released her she took a step, then collapsed to the floor and began to tremble violently, as if she were having some sort of seizure. I knew she wasn’t diabetic, but perhaps she was an epileptic; if so, I didn’t know what to do except to try to keep her from hurting herself in her thrashings; and it seemed reasonable that I ought to try to keep her warm.
I wrapped her in a towel and carried her down to the couch, where she lay twisting and jerking violently for a
long time, until she gradually settled down to shivering. Her face went through the most amazing contortions, as if she were trying to disown her tongue. I put an Afghan comforter over her, and then, when she kept trembling, I added a few coats. After about an hour, she abruptly stopped, broke into a sweat, and lay perfectly still in a sleep from which I could not wake her. I checked her breathing, which seemed fine, and her pulse, which was racing at first, but gradually settled down.
Not knowing what else to do I went home and came up to my typing room, put a fresh piece of paper in the machine and began to hit the keys. It was only then that I noticed that my right hand itched the way skin does when it is repairing itself, though I had not noticed being hurt. I looked, and saw the traces of the damage still there in my palm, which is when I stopped and, as I said, laughed almost hysterically for a while. I couldn’t help it.
Apparently, while attempting to escape my muffling, Jill had bitten my hand hard enough to draw blood.
ac⋅cli⋅mate
v
.—
tr
. To accustom (something or someone) to a new environment or situation; adapt, acclimatize.
intr.
To become accustomed to a new environment.
AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY
Kellem spoke to me of dreams, and just yesterday I made reference to the dreams I used to have when I first knew her, and now I’ve had another one. Of course, I always dream, and I often remember what I dream, but I’m not speaking now about vague impressions filtered from memories, fears, and the sights and sounds that infiltrate the benumbed senses of the sleeper to invade his thoughts without waking him; I am speaking of a dream that comes with all the power of significance, and tells you what you did not know before—or would tell you if you knew how to interpret it. And then there are dreams that not only inform, but are part of the process of change—dreams that visit the world as it visits the sleeper. But we don’t really believe in those, do we?
I dreamt of Jill, naturally. Oh, certainly there was enough of the confusing dream landscape, as there always is; Kellem appeared now and then, doing what she does in life; but for the most part it was Jill, looking at
me with varying expressions of horror, tenderness, wistfulness, defiance, and even lust—more expression, in fact, than I’d ever seen on her face in the real world, so I think my imagination supplied a great deal of it.
In my dream we were walking around and around some object set in the middle of a room, like a large chair, although I don’t think I was ever certain what the object was. We were playing a silly game of can’t-catch-me, but there was great urgency to the game, for all that we were, at times, laughing as we played. Then, without a resolution to the game, I was standing in front of her, holding both of her shoulders and saying, “Have you done what I ordered you to?”
She tried to look away from me, but I would not let her; in the dream, the force of my will was tangible, and very, very strong. In the end she shuddered and collapsed into some poorly defined small, furry thing, which scampered off to go fetch something or other in response to my command.
I awoke some time after this, knowing at once that the next time I saw her she would have fulfilled my wishes, and taken by a strong desire to set this dream down on paper before I forgot it; I don’t think I’ve ever had a dream like this before; I don’t think the circumstances which caused it to be have ever come up before.
I will visit Jill now, and discover if I have been deceived.
 
She was sitting quietly on her bed, her back resting on the wall. Her room had been partially restored to its former splendor—that is, the additions had been removed, but the artwork had not been put up again. She was wearing a white dressing gown, and I had the impression that she had been sitting there, just like that, for hours, maybe days.
I came in and shut the door behind me. She turned
her head slowly, but her face betrayed no expression. I looked at her for just a moment, then she stirred herself—it seemed to take some effort—and rose from the bed. She stood before me, unbuttoned her dressing gown, let it fall to the floor, and waited.
Afterward I covered her up and left her sleeping deeply.
I went down the stairs and found Susan sitting on the couch, her feet up. She was wearing another light blue tank top and a green printed skirt. She said, “I never heard you come in.”
“I’ve been upstairs seeing Jill,” I said.
She put down her reading matter, which seemed to be a textbook, and said, “Is she any better?”
“No. Well, maybe. Her room looks better.”
“Yes. That didn’t last long. I wonder what she’ll find next.”
“She’s sleeping now, at any rate.”
“I think Don’s death hit her pretty hard.”
“Apparently.”
“She needs to come out of it, though.”
“Have you ever lost anyone close?”
She nodded slowly. “Yes. My friend Vivian.”
“Oh. I hadn’t realized.”
“It’s been almost two years, now. I could say a drunk crashed into her, and it would be true, but she was pretty loaded herself.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes.” Her face is amazing. Even when she was holding back any expression I could almost read her feelings like words on a page. I can’t help comparing her to Jill, whose face is dead, or Kellem, who hardly ever lets her feelings show. Except anger. Kellem has always been willing to show anger.
I studied Susan’s face and said, “But you’ve recovered from her death, I think.”
“Yes.”
“How?
She considered this. “Vivian was one of the wittiest people I’ve ever known, and one of the wisest. I wrote down everything I could remember that she’d ever said, and every once in a while I read through things, and I quote her from time to time.”
“You’re keeping her with you.”
“Yes.”
“You are very beautiful.”
She stood up and I held her, but that is all I did, then, because it wouldn’t have felt right to do more. I did kiss her once, lightly, as I was leaving. She said, “Your lips are always so cold.”
I started to say “Like my heart,” but I didn’t, for fear that she might believe me.
 
An altogether splendid evening; although, consequently and ironically, there is little to say about it. But it has gotten me back to work on the typewriting machine. I woke up completely recovered, and, in fact, feeling rather better than I have in some time. I took the opportunity to visit Susan, who was looking slightly wan but seemed to be in fine spirits.
After checking on Jill, who was doing better, we went off and saw a play at a little private theater in the Tunnel. The theater is called the Clubhouse, and the play itself was a fairly recent work by someone I’d never heard of that was about three generations of women and concerned itself with insanity, spelling bees, and all manner of subjects in between. It was both written and performed with a good deal of humor and genuine pathos.
Susan laughed up until the end, when she cried, and then I took her home, kissed her hand at the door and bid good evening to her surprised, slightly disappointed, but seemingly charmed countenance.
Even the weather has conspired to make this a pleasant night, because, although it was cold, it was also a beautiful clear night without wind, and the sliver of moon was sharp and fine before she fell into the western skyline. The lack of wind is also serving to keep this room more snug than usual.
I feel very much like having a nice chat with Jim, so I believe that I will.
 
Kellem has started the game.
My spirits have improved, now that it has begun; I still don’t know precisely what she has planned, but at least I know she has started. I am more relaxed than I have been in quite some time.
I had came out of the shower; I was naked except for a towel wrapped around my head; when Jim walked up to me silently and said without preamble, “The police were here today.”
I pulled the towel away and looked at him. He was staring at the steamy bathroom over my shoulder. “Ah,” I said.
“It was about nine o’clock this morning. They knocked on the door, then broke it down.”
“You didn’t let them in?”
Jim, apparently, didn’t think that was very funny. “There were seven of them, six in uniform and one in plainclothes.”
“How were they armed?”
“Two had shotguns, the rest weren’t carrying anything.”
“I don’t like shotguns.”
“I know.”
“In the future, don’t allow them in the house.”
He barely smiled.
I said, “Did they search?”
“Oh, yes. Up one side and down the other. They were at it a good five, six hours.”
“What did they find?”
“Well, they didn’t find you.”
“I’d sort of figured that out already. What
did
they find?”
He almost laughed. “Some dirty laundry.”
“Did they take it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
I tried to remember what I’d left out so I could determine how annoyed I ought to be. When a place has a nice hideyhole like this one does, I tend to make sure everything is there before I sleep (including these papers, by the way). I remembered that there was a nice silk shirt that I’d miss, but everything else was easily replaceable. If they had come two days earlier, they’d have found a week’s worth of dirty laundry. “Much joy may it bring them,” I said. “What did they say?”
“Most of what they talked about didn’t have anything to do with their search, and I don’t really care to repeat it.”
“Ah.”
“But they did learn that someone had been staying here, both from the laundry and from the burned candles and the ash in the fireplace.”
“Did they check for fingerprints?”
“All over.”
“Okay. They won’t match anything anyway.”
He looked startled. “You’ve never had your prints taken before?”
“Now, Jim,” I said. “You know I try to stay on the right side of the law.”
That time he laughed, though I think it was a bit forced. “What do you think they were after?”
“After?” I said. “Me, of course.”
“Well, yes, but why?”
“With that many of them? They probably think I’m dangerous. I would imagine Kellem arranged this in hopes they’d find me while I slept.”
He shook his head. “I thought you said she wouldn’t want that.”
“Well, yes, but apparently I was wrong. Unless you think it’s coincidence.”
“Not hardly,” said Jim. “What are you going to do about it?”
“After this,” I said. “I’m going to pick up my dirty laundry.”
I got dressed in what used to be the master bedroom. This has become a habit with me, to stand in front of the fireplace, dry myself off as if there were a fire going, then go over to the dressing room attached to it and put on whatever I’ve chosen to wear that day. Today, for the record, I’m wearing black zip boots, black pants, a navy blue turtleneck shirt and a brown corduroy sports coat. And my pendant, of course; I’ve had it for a long, long time, and it has become a sort of good-luck piece for me, although I’m not really superstitious. (I used to be very superstitious, but then I learned it was bad luck. A little joke there, Jim). It was Kellem who gave me the pendant, now that I think of it. She said it reminded her of me. I didn’t know what she meant, and, come to that, I still don’t; she probably just said it for effect. In any case, while I don’t pay a great deal of attention to my dress, and I tend to leave almost everything when I move, I do like to look presentable. The shoes, by the way, haven’t quite broken in and they hurt just a little.
It’s time to get serious about this; the game’s afoot, Watson, I need you. I’m going to take those papers out again and go through them once more.
 
Completely frustrated. I’ve been able to eliminate a few cases, but not enough to help. It seems Kellem ought to
have been polite enough to leave some sort of signs on her kills. Is this what she calls being obvious? I suppose I could tell her that she’s overreacting, but the last time I tried to talk to her it didn’t work out so well.
I am tempted to try to get into the police station and go through their files, but that does seem like asking for trouble. What if they have a description of me, and I’m spotted the instant I go in?
I would love to be able to talk to Susan about this. Not that I think she could help, but it would be pleasant to be able to unload my frustration on her. Still, there’s always Jim, who has been very patient with me.
I’m not sure what to do next. Ignore everything and hope something comes up? Wait for inspiration to strike? Track down Kellem at her lair? And then what? At least I no longer have to worry about Jill or Don.
Although, now that I think of it, how did Don know what to do? Even if he’d watched a few movies and read a few novels, his knowledge seemed far too complete. There’s a mystery there. I might have been too hasty with him; although it is certainly too late to worry about that now. But perhaps I ought to try to find the source of his knowledge. At any rate, that will give me something to do.
 
I’ve just come back from spending a few hours visiting our neighbor, Bill. I met him and his infuriating dog again as I was leaving the house, and, once again, the dog nearly went berserk. Bill apologized, and we spoke, and he renewed his offer, and this time I accepted. Their house is about as different from Jim’s as you can imagine for two houses in the same neighborhood. It is from the 1950’s, a style I detest, with low ceilings and space conservation everywhere; although when the forced-air heating system started up I began to see the virtues. It is very simply decorated, mostly with books. I was pleased to see
a good number of old, leather-bound editions of Dickens and Hawthorne and such.

Other books

Sleepless in Montana by Cait London
Found by Harlan Coben
Lady Midnight by Timothy C. Phillips
A Kiss of Lies by Bronwen Evans
Brian's Hunt by Paulsen, Gary
Propositions by Tania Joyce
The Gentleman In the Parlour by W Somerset Maugham