Agyar

NINE

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.

I had to clench my teeth and cover my mouth to keep from laughing; it took me a minute or two to get it under control. Then I considered whether to consult Jim or to simply resolve the situation. I decided that Jim had left it up to me, so I vaulted over the railing from the landing to the floor, letting my shoes slap the ground. I think the effect was augmented by the black clothing I happened to be wearing, so they probably couldn’t see me very well.

One of them out-and-out screamed, the other gave an inarticulate cry, dropped what he was working on, and reached into the pocket of his jacket. I waited until he had the gun out so he’d feel better, and a few seconds later the other one was also holding a weapon of some sort, both weapons being pointed generally in my direction.

“Good evening,” I said pleasantly. “May I help you gentlemen with something?”

The one with the beard said, “Who the f-are you?”

“I live here,” I said. “And you?”

They looked at each other, and the bearded one stood. I could see that he was holding some sort of very large pistol; perhaps a machine pistol, although I had never seen one up close.

“You don’t live here,” said the beard, flatly. I waited for the other one to say “That’s right, if Lefty says you don’t live here, then you don’t,” but he didn’t say anything. I think he hadn’t gotten over his fright.

I said, “I beg to differ. And I’m afraid I must ask you to leave. You may take your possessions with you.”

I had the impression that they were both terrified, and terrified people are unpredictable. I have found that, ironically, fear often drives people into making the worst possible decision.

“F-,” said the beard, and made the worst possible decision. Yes, it was indeed a machine pistol, and I was not at all happy with what it did to the woodwork. Pock-face fired too, a second later, and, though he didn’t have an automatic weapon, it was a very large bullet, and made a real mess of the wainscoting.

When they had stopped their noise-making, they just stared at me. After a moment, Pock-face said, very softly, “Jesus Christ.”

Jim came down a moment later, and when he saw what had been done to the woodwork, I swear he almost cried. I said, “Do you think someone may have heard the shooting?”

“Huh?” he said. “Maybe.”

“Then I should clean up-” which was as far as I got before I saw flashing lights through one of the uncovered and unbroken windows on the main floor. I took the pistol because it came to mind that I might need one, dashed upstairs once more, and hid the pistol in the attic. I was trying to figure out what to do when I heard the door open, and a voice called out, “Police!” This was repeated several times.

Jim was next to me. “They have a dog,” he said.

“I know; I smell it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What worries me,” I said, “is that, if they think there’s someone here, they’ll keep looking until they find someone.”

“But then-”

“On the other hand,” I said, “they do have a dog.”

I made my way silently to another bedroom, one with an unbroken window. I opened it, and the cold air rushed in. They were being very cautious downstairs; they had found the bodies, and must assume someone else was in the house; they had probably seen two sets of footprints entering through the snow, and none leaving.

I saw the beam of a flashlight from outside just in time to duck back from the window. The easy part was getting out the window, down to an imperfectly sealed and very small basement window, into the basement, and into my hideyhole, all without being seen. The hard part was convincing the dog that I had gone directly up the stairs, into the bedroom, and out the window. From there, I could have gone onto the roof and down a tree, landing on the dry pavement of the alley behind the house.

It must have worked, because they didn’t make an exhaustive search of the house, although I could hear them for hours, going over every inch of the living room. They must have been efficient, however, because by the next evening they were gone, taking the bodies and other evidence with them. The doors have been sealed with yellow tape that reads, “Crime Site, Sealed by Order of the Police Department,” and a placard citing the ordinance that gives them permission to do this, and threatens imprisonment of up to five years, fines of up to one hundred thousand dollars, or both to anyone breaking the seal or disturbing the scene. I am not terribly worried.

When I looked at the mess on the main floor, the first thing I noticed was that they had removed large sections of the woodwork, apparently taking every piece in which a bullet was embedded, which annoyed me and made poor Jim miserable. I don’t think he was happy about the stains on the polished maple floor, either, but what choice did I have?

After commiserating with him for a few minutes, I came up to the typewriting room, found the typewriting machine undisturbed and the papers still in the attic, and set to work recording what had happened, which brings me, Constant Reader, up to the very minute.

I have been sitting here thinking and remembering my thoughts as I lay waiting for the police to either find me or not. I don’t know if these thoughts are sufficiently organized to set down, but let me try.

It seems that attitudes toward criminals have changed substantially since I was a child. It may be that I am wrong, because I was largely sheltered from contact with those sorts of people until I met Laura, but it seems that, when I was young, one was a criminal, or one was an honest citizen, and the demarcation was well drawn. Today, most people break laws and don’t think much of it, perhaps because of the odd things that have come to be illegal. But the result is that the line between lawabiding citizen and hardened criminal is much softer than it was.

It seems clear to me that our visitors of last night were criminals in every sense of the word, but one of them had a little brother who acted the way any young man might have. So, did something go “wrong” with his older brother? Or does being a criminal mean something different than it did years ago? Jill is a criminal too, because there were marijuana buds in her ashtray, but is she like the gentlemen from last night? Or like the three children who were here before? When I was much younger, and far more naive, I thought that the line between legal and illegal stayed close to the line between right and wrong. Well, either I was living an illusory life then, or everything has changed now, so that when the two lines intersect it seems only momentary, transitory, coincidental.

Or, more likely, it is because when I do what I must to survive, I am, technically, committing crimes; yet how can what I do be wrong, when it is only what I must do? Still, perhaps this is a justification that has been used by scoundrels ever since the class has existed; I do not know.

I wish I could listen to some music. I’m hearing Chopin in my head, and I would love to truly hear it. With the police nosing around the house, though, I wouldn’t dare put in a stereo system even if I had one.

Hell, I’m a criminal; I could steal one; I’ve been stealing electricity all along. I suppose Professor Carpenter pays the dollar or two a month to keep it on and hasn’t noticed the six or seven cents it costs to run the water pump. I’m glad the place has its own well so that after I managed to turn the water on I didn’t have to worry about him suddenly getting unexplained bills from the city.

I wish, for Jim’s sake, that the woodwork hadn’t gotten messed up.

I have just returned from Susan’s. It occurs to me that I never saw Jill, nor even asked about her. It was a mad and crazy time, and in the end, I nearly-well, it doesn’t matter, I didn’t. When I think of how close I came it does give me to tremble.

I have never been one to rail against the gods, but that passion should be so dangerous is a crime. I do not know what I have done that I should be punished in this way; that the more I love, the more I must fight myself, or else the more I will kill. I know, I know that someday I will lose control, and take her life, and on that day I will weep.

But let me set it down as well as I can remember it-and this, I think, I will be able to set down verbatim, because it is branded on all the cells that constitute my brain. In fact, it may not be necessary to record it, for I cannot imagine a time when the memory will grow dim.

But I will set it down anyway, because in that way I can live it again.

The two roommates from upstairs-I forget their names-were just leaving as I arrived. They nodded to me vaguely, as if they couldn’t remember who I was but thought we might have met once. I knocked on the door, and this time it was Susan who answered. She greeted me with a big smile and showed me in.

“Hello,” I said. “And how are we today?”

“Perky and chipper,” she sang, and twirled around the room, ending in a classic ballet pose, one arm over her head, the other in front of her, knees bent, one foot pointed down, head tilted and face in a china-doll smile.

I bowed gracefully and held out my hand. She took it, I bowed, she curtsied, and we waltzed around the room, sans music, for a minute or two, before I twirled her away. She finally stopped in the same pose that had started the dance, held it for a moment, dimpled, then bowed. I said, “Let’s chat.”

“Hmmm?” she said. “Something on your mind?”

“How many lovers do you have, my dear?”

Her face clouded for a moment, but it was only a cirrus, no thunderhead in sight, and presently it went away, leaving a few pale wisps of puzzled expression in its wake. She said, “Don’t you think that a rather personal question, Jonathan?”

“Well, yes, but I’m a daring individual that way. How many lovers do you have?”

She stood straight, her arms folded, and she frowned an enchanting frown while she decided whether to answer me. At last she said, “You and Jennifer. Why? Do you think I need more?”

I laughed in spite of myself. “Why? Because I am mad with jealousy, my dear. Simply mad. Can’t you tell?”

“Are you jealous, Jonathan?”

I sighed. “I’m not entirely certain. If so, it’s the first time. No, the second, actually. But the first was a long time ago, and about someone it wasn’t worth being jealous about. You are.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Guess.”

“Your friend-what was her name?”

“Laura.”

“You were jealous of her?”

“I think so. Actually, I think there was a time when she wanted me to be jealous, and I tried to oblige but I didn’t quite manage.”

“Why?”

“It was toward the end of our romance, and I think she wanted to end it with me leaving her instead of having to break it off.”

“She didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Maybe. Or she didn’t want to be annoyed. She was quite capable of taking the long way around if it would save her some annoyance.”

Susan looked sad. “I like to play games, Jonathan. But I don’t want you to ever think I’m playing games with your feelings. I’ll never do that, and I’ll be very sad if you ever think I am.”

“I don’t think you are, Susan.”

“Good. Then what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if we have to do anything.”

“I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

“My happiness isn’t your responsibility.”

“I know that. But still-”

“Yes. I understand.”

“What did it feel like, when you were jealous?”

“It was ugly, but only slightly ugly.”

“What does this feel like?”

“It’s uglier.”

She walked up to me (actually, it was more like cross c to r) and put her hands on my shoulders. She looked directly into my eyes and said, “You don’t expect me to leave Jennifer, do you?”

I kept very careful control over myself and said, “No. I don’t expect you to, and I’m not asking you to.”

She remained where she was and said, “Well, then?”

“I don’t know.” I felt myself smile a little. “You are giving me a new experience, for which I thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, and kissed my mouth lightly.

“However,” I said, “I’m not exactly certain what to do, or, for that matter, what I feel.”

“I know what I feel,” said Susan. “I love you.”

I was hit by a sudden, and mercifully brief, sense of vertigo. The heavens were uprooted and the world spun around me, and all I could think was, This is real. I did not make her do this, this is real. This is real.

Now that I think about it, the only other time in my life I’ve felt anything like that is when Young Don got me with the shotgun; there was the same onrush of significance in waves, and the same disorientation, and feeling of, Has my life been nothing but a preparation for this moment? I let the waves pass over me, not really caring if I drowned in them.

When I had regained my equilibrium and opened my eyes again, I found that she was still staring directly into them. I put my hands very lightly on her waist. “That,” I said, “is not one of the possibilities.”

Her eyes widened. “How not?” she said.

“It just isn’t.”

She took my hand and began leading me up the stairs. “I think I can prove you’re wrong,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “You probably can.”

And she did, too.

Steven Brust

Agyar