Agyar

TWELVE

In this room where I work the typewriting machine, nothing ever changes but me. I sit here, and on one day it is warmer, on another it is colder, there is a draft or there is not, the mice are louder or quieter, the smell of decay strong or faint, but, in fact, these variations only serve to remind me that I am a viable being in a dead environment. Sometimes it seems that I am the only living thing in the world, and that it is only the products of my imagination that end up on this paper. But at other times, such as now, the aftermath of the day is too strong for such pretense.

How to begin?

At the beginning, I suppose; with walking out the door, and then try to set it all down in order, as well as I remember it. Much is hazy, but these things have a way of returning to me as I set them down.

I slipped out of the back of the house. I wasn’t worried about being seen; as long as I know to be careful, I can remain unobserved. I went across to Jefferson and down to Thirty-third, where the bus stops in front of a small privately owned neighborhood grocery store. There is a long-abandoned school across the street from it, as well as two 1920’s-era houses that have not yet been abandoned. There are sometimes hookers there, too, although that is too close to my own neighborhood for my purposes. Still, had there been any girl working just then, I should not have hesitated.

In addition to buses and hookers, it is a place where cabs come by frequently. I don’t like being transported, but I didn’t feel that I had any choice. I had no trouble flagging one down. I climbed into the back seat and said, “Little Philly.”

The driver, one of the older type (cab drivers are always younger than twenty-five or older than thirty-five; I don’t know why that is), turned around and said, “You wanna be more specific than that?”

“No.”

He sighed. “All right. I’ll take you to Saint Thomas and Maple.”

“That’ll be fine,” I said.

He tried to talk to me but I wasn’t interested. I kept a close watch on him to see if he was going to look at me in his mirror, but he never did; else the trip would have been shorter. I paid the meter, $6.90, and tipped him two dollars and ten cents.

I spotted her almost at once; tall and black, carrying a small lavender handbag, wearing the same dark miniskirt and a brown leather coat that was too short and too light for the weather. Her expression of disdain was just like before; I guess some guys found it attractive. What was her name? Sylvia? Something like that. I took a step toward her. She saw me at about the same time, and I could feel the quick intake of her breath.

She took a step backward, looked over her shoulder as if seeking a place to run, then turned and began walking away at a good pace. I set out after her; she ought not to be able to outrun me, even weakened as I was. Besides, I was getting desperate.

She stepped into a little cul-de-sac shopping area that was very much out of place in the neighborhood, full of flower stores, used-book stores, violin shops, and so on. I followed her through it, and out a back door into a small parking lot, probably for employees, where she stepped behind a man wearing a brown leather coat just like hers only longer and belted, checkered zip boots, and a wide-brim hat. He was thin and tough looking in a Nordic way, clean shaven and with an ugly square chin. I heard her whisper, “That’s the one, Charlie. That’s the man what did that thing to me.”

I stared at him. “What is this?” I said. “A white pimp and a black whore? Don’t you people have any respect for tradition? What if word got out?” His hand was in his pocket. When it came out I saw a glint of metal reflected from the store lights that shone on the parking lot.

I said, “Let me guess, Charlie. A butterfly knife, right?”

He said, “You know me, motherf-er?”

“You get one point for the dialogue, Charlie,” I said, “but I’m afraid you lose one for the knife, and another because you’re the wrong color. Sorry, net loss. Go away and try again another time. I have business with the lady. We’ll call you when we’re done.”

She moved a little closer to him. How tender. “You f-ed with one of my girls, man.” He was walking toward me as he spoke.

“I thought that was the idea.”

“You’re dead.”

“Now there’s another good line,” I told him. “You just might make it on the dialogue alone. Now, do something flashy with the knife while the camera gets a closeup on your hand, okay?”

“You’re pretty smart, motherf-er.”

“You already called me that. Come up with something different. No, on the other hand, skip it. I want to see you make the knife do tricks.” He did, too. Whoosh, whoosh, shick, shick, it went. Then he tried something even flashier, something that was supposed to hurt me. After that, he backed away, holding his right wrist in his left hand and grimacing. I threw the knife over my shoulder. It hit the plowed pavement and clanked. He gritted his teeth and reached behind him with his left hand, clumsily.

If I’d been faster, I could have prevented him from getting the gun out, but I was just too slow. It was a stupid little revolver, probably a. 38, with a barrel about two inches long. But I don’t like having guns pointed at me, even when I’m in the best of health.

He got off one round, which hit me low in the stomach on my right side, and that was all he had time for. Unfortunately, it gave the girl time to scream, and, worst luck of all, there turned out to be a patrol car within hearing of either the shot or the scream; the siren came almost at once.

I left him lying there and said to her, “Honey, this is your lucky day. You should find a new line of work, because I don’t think you’re going to have any more luck after this.”

I slipped away into the night as the police arrived, leaving her to explain things however she might. My need was urgent now, painful and desperate, and the bullet wound in my stomach wasn’t helping any.

There was a time when I wandered, not knowing where to go, alert as an animal for those blue uniforms. I don’t know where I went, but I remember leaning against a phone booth and suddenly thinking, “I could call Susan.”

I could call her, and she would come and pick me up in an automobile, and she would give me what I needed. I closed my eyes for a moment, and it seemed I could feel the heat of her skin against mine, the touch of her lips. Yes. I could call Susan, my lover, and she would come, and she would save me by-she would save me.

I pulled some coins out of my pocket and found one worth a quarter of a dollar. I let the others fall onto the floor of the phone booth; the clatter they made striking the metal floor of the telephone booth seemed inordinately loud and to echo and reverberate for a very long time.

I knew I was not well, and my hunger was a need that filled valleys and leveled mountains. Did I remember her number? Yes. I held the coin up toward the slot and noticed that my hand was shaking. That was all right; I just needed to reach Susan, and she would come for me, and take me home and-

I lurched out of the phone booth, dropping the quarter into the snow (at least, I don’t have it now, and I don’t remember doing anything else with it), and struggled to a place as far from any lights as possible, just because I felt the need for darkness as sanctuary. That’s the real trouble with cities, much as I love them: there’s nowhere that is truly dark.

There was a sweep of headlights past me, and for a moment I thought it was the police again, but no. I was on the ground floor of a parking ramp, in the corner away from the little booth and the exit and entrance.

Parking ramps are dangerous places.

I looked around for video cameras and didn’t see one. Then I waited. I couldn’t afford to be choosy this time, it was a matter of survival. Any age, any sex, as long as he or she was alone; I didn’t think I could survive a serious conflict of any kind.

I waited.

I huddled with myself, and the cold, though it could not penetrate the ugly parka, found all of the niches in the sleeves and collar. I shivered, and my teeth chattered. No one came, and no one came, and then a group of four, then two couples, and then no one and no one and no one. The sliver of moon had set many hours before.

Me, too.

Bars were closing, and now there were too many people. I waited, desperate and shivering, and my body clock went tick… tick… tick, winding down. People everywhere, walking past; cars starting, leaving, jockeying for position in the rush to the exit. A young couple whose Toyota was parked directly in front of me got into their car, and the man seemed to see me, but looked away. He probably thought I was drunk. Maybe he thought I was going to freeze to death and didn’t care. What’s become of human decency?

Tick… tick… tick.

Not so many, now. Footsteps echo through the empty ramp, but always in pairs.

Tick… tick… tick.

Now, no one at all.

Is it over? There are still a few cars, but perhaps they are abandoned.

Should I return home? Can I make it home at all?

Patience, patience. There is all eternity before you.

Tick… tick… tick.

Could I bring Jill to me? That would be better than nothing. But no, I could see the ugly beige partitions through her unfocused eyes, feel the needle in her arm, hear the rolling of carts down a hospital corridor. She would never make it here.

Tick… tick… tick.

Footsteps.

Another couple; the man very drunk, and large, from the sound of his footfalls, a woman with him, telling him that she’ll drive. He is arguing. I must take a chance, because there may not be anyone else. Besides, she is right; he ought not to be on the road tonight; what if he killed someone?

They walked past my spot, about thirty feet from me, and I fell in behind them. My legs were very stiff from having squatted there by the wall for so long, but I was no longer cold. He would be likely to fight, whereas she would be likely to scream. Of course, you cannot tell these days; it could be the other way around, but I went with the probabilities. A fight would be bad, a scream would be worse.

Now they were at their car, an old Dodge Dart that looked like he’d driven it drunk once or twice already. They were standing by the door, still arguing about who was going to drive. He was being stubborn. Maybe I could take them both at once, and not have to worry about either a fight or a scream. That would be best. I resolved to try, in any case.

I approached them; she on my right, he on my left. I’d have preferred it the other way around, but you take what you can get. I braced myself. It was going to have to be quick and certain.

I said, “Excuse me.” They turned as I approached. The woman seemed to be in her early forties, with bluegray eyes, and so muffled that I could tell little else about her. The man was about the same age, and, indeed, large; perhaps six feet tall and husky. I guessed most of his weight to be fat, but I’ve been wrong before.

He scowled at me and said, “Whattaya want?”

Afterward I leaned against the car, closed my eyes, and knew that I would live. I’d been right: mostly fat. When I was a few blocks away I went through the wallet and the purse. I can give them a name now: Lawrence and Roberta Tailor. His wallet had her picture in it, and another picture showing two girls, aged about five and seven; daughters, I suppose, but that wasn’t what I was looking for. I found the money and the credit cards, and threw everything else in a Dumpster. Just another typical robbery-murder, folks. Nothing to get excited about. Probably a gang. We need law and order, don’t you think? Most likely drug related. Just say no.

On my way home I threw the credit cards in the river. The money I kept. What the Hell.

I’m feeling better, although not as good as I’d like. I’m sorry that I had to kill Lawrence, but I didn’t really have any choice. I don’t feel bad about Roberta because I didn’t kill her; the embalmers will do that. A shame, but it isn’t my problem.

Today’s lesson: Everything is relative.

I don’t think I’m really in any better health than I was when I rose yesterday, but, after all I went through, I don’t mind so much.

Jim didn’t notice the difference. “You look rough,” he said.

“I have a right to. It was grim last night.”

“Oh?”

“For starters, I was shot.”

He was suddenly very concerned. “Where?”

“Stomach.”

“Bad?”

“It could have been worse; there could have been sunshine.”

“Do you need anything?”

“I should be all right, now. I just have to give it some time.”

“Tell me what happened.”

I did. He listened, looking past my shoulder. When I was done, he said, “What are you going to do?”

“Recover. I’ll take my time about it, though; I’ll be careful.”

He chuckled. “You’re learning wisdom. It’s about time.”

I shrugged. He didn’t have anything else to say, so I came up to my little typewriting sanctuary, thinking that I would feel better after speaking to this machine, but now I find I don’t have anything to talk about.

I think I can risk seeing Susan today.

She continues to amaze me. Every time I am with her, it is like a renewal. I am challenged in mind and spirit, and filled with an indefinable desire for higher things. And yet, there is nothing magical about it, unless, indeed, human romantic love is magic, which might be true; I wouldn’t know, not being a poet save now and again when I can’t help myself.

The clouds were low, with a bright quarter-moon, still low in the east, providing backlighting for some unusual cumulus formations-the ice-cream cone variety, with puffy mounds on top tapering down almost to a point. I didn’t think they would dump any snow on us before tomorrow. The air was a bit warm and full of moisture and the smells of man and nature, who keep changing each other and producing queer odors while doing so.

The blue lights were still on in the attic, giving me the pleasant feeling that all was as it should be. I knocked on the door. Music that I didn’t recognize was turned down, there was the slap of Susan’s bare feet against the floor, and she opened the door.

The first thing she said was, “Do you know about Jill?”

“What about her?”

“She’s in the hospital.”

I pretended surprise, widening my eyes and leaning against the wall. “A relapse?”

She nodded. She was wearing a big pink furry bathrobe and her hair was set and slicked back; she smelled fresh, clean, and entirely wholesome. Her eyes were wide, and she looked at me as if I were the only thing in the world. “I went in to her room this morning and she was chalky white, and gasping, like she could hardly breath. I thought she might have pneumonia, or had suddenly become asthmatic.”

“You called 911?”

“Yes. They gave her oxygen and took her away.”

“Sounds very frightening.”

“It was. I’m all right now, but I wish you’d been here.”

“So do I. What have you heard?”

“From the hospital? Nothing yet.”

“Hmmm. I’ll have to bring her some flowers.”

“She’d like that,” said Susan. Then she frowned suddenly and looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Are you all right?”

“Sure. Why?”

“You look, I don’t know, hunted.”

That shook me a bit; I’m not used to people being quite so perspicacious. I said, “I’m a little short on sleep, I guess.” I forced a laugh and took my coat off. “I hope I don’t have what Jill has.”

She took it seriously. “You do look a bit pale, and sort of wan.”

“Hmmm.”

We sat on the couch together. She said, “What happened to your other coat?”

“It’s being cleaned. Isn’t that thing hideous?”

“In a word: yes. But on the other hand, there isn’t much winter left.”

“True.”

“Would you like some wine?”

“No, thank you.”

“You don’t drink much, do you?”

“I drink deeply of your eyes, my love.”

She laughed and took my hand that was about her shoulders, caressed it, pressed it against her face. Her face was very warm. We sat like that for several minutes.

I said, “To whom are we listening?”

“Kate Bush.”

“She sounds Irish.”

“She is.”

She fell silent-Susan, that is, not Kate Bush. The latter continued to sing. She’s good, if you like that sort of thing. I thought I might, in another fifty years or so.

I could feel that Susan was deep in thought; I remained silent, enjoying her touch, knowing that eventually she would tell me what was on her mind. After two or three minutes she said, “Jonathan.”

“Yes?”

“If I stop seeing Jennifer, will you stop seeing Jill?” I looked at her, my mouth suddenly dry. I said, “You continue to astound me.”

“I hope that’s good,” she said.

“That’s good.”

“But what is your answer?”

I kissed her, then went on kissing her. After a while I picked her up and carried her upstairs, where I held her close for a long time before doing anything else.

I reached a place, but did she reach it with me? Can I know? It seems she did, but I am capable of lying to myself. It seemed that we were where touch was deeper than touch, where the physical paths we led each other along made all of the base mechanics of lovemaking more than irrelevant; a place few are privileged to visit, and those few only rarely; a place where, once you’ve been there, you might spend the rest of your life in a futile effort to get back to. It is for this reason that pleasure must always have at least this element of risk, if no other: That perhaps this joy will never occur again. But this serpent will invade only the loveliest, most bountiful gardens; his presence in such gardens is inevitable, and we accept it serenely, and with gratitude, for we know that we have been privileged.

So, at least, were my thoughts as I lay in bed next to my lover, who slept with a smile on her face that brought an ache to my heart and a tear to my eye.

I tried to remember what it had been like with Laura. I remembered the intensity, the need, and the feeling that she shared it, but little else. I remembered a few occasions-most of them moments while we walked, she would clasp me to her, and there would be the feeling of growing and diminishing, and then I’d walk on, my knees shaking, feeling weak, distant, confused, but vaguely triumphant. But that is all. Certainly, I could recall nothing that would make me think love could change how the act itself felt. Wouldn’t it be funny if, so long ago, she had been in love, and I’d only been fooling myself?

What a silly thing to wonder about.

I lay next to Susan and rested, and thought about nothing at all.

Some hours later she stirred. I kissed the palm of her hand and said, “Are you awake?”

“Mmmm. A little.”

“Are you awake enough to answer a question?”

She stretched and shifted. “If it’s an easy one.”

“Oh. Well, never mind.”

She opened her eyes, squinted at me, licked her lips. When she is awake, her sheet and comforter are always waist-high, which I’m certain she does on purpose, because Susan doesn’t do things like that accidentally. “What is it?” she said.

I caressed her hair and the side of her face. “Tell me something, then.”

“Hmmmm?”

“What’s it like for you?”

“What do you mean, ‘it’?”

“When we make love. What’s it like?”

She smiled a Susan smile, full of light. “Fishing for compliments, are we?”

“No.”

She tilted her head. “You look so serious.”

“I get that way sometimes. What’s it like?”

“It’s nice. It’s sort of dreamy and romantic, all warm and soft and red.”

“Red?”

“Mmmm.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m not sure I do either. Is it important?”

I sighed. “I guess not. Sleep now, my love.”

“Mmmm,” she said, and did.

It has been several days since I have set anything down on paper. There has been little enough to tell; I have been resting and recovering. I have spoken to Susan over the telephone, but I’ve been afraid to see her for fear of what I might do. I sent Jill flowers, and I have been gathering strength; slowly, but quickly enough. Today I am feeling almost myself again.

I spent today reading over some of what I’ve written on this typewriting machine, and I’m struck by all the things that, for some reason or another, I have never recorded. I didn’t mention that business with the cab driver that almost got me in trouble, I said nothing about the fight in the back room of Flannery’s that led me to decide not to go back there, or how I fought with a van and won (that was amusing; I wish I could remember it better) and nothing at all about Susan’s birthday party and the scene Jill made.

All of which leads me to wonder at the subconscious processes by which I decide what I ought to set down. It’s a shame, too, because there are things that I think I won’t remember, and would appreciate having recorded. I wish I’d thought of doing this years ago; perhaps I’d remember what Paris was like, and I think I’d get a smile out of my recollections of Kiri-chan.

I also noticed, as I read, that my selection of detail seems to have changed in the few scant months since I began these pages, as if before I wished to note the passing of words between me and others, and now it is the deeds, and especially the blood, that have taken hold of my mind. Why is that? If it implies a change in me, I don’t think it is a change for the better.

Or maybe it isn’t really a change at all; maybe most of what I’ve recorded are things that, in one way or another, surprised me; there are certainly enough of these. I didn’t think Kellem would want to destroy me, I didn’t think I’d be unable to deduce what she had done that worried her so, I didn’t think a woman could have the kind of effect on me that Susan has had, and I certainly didn’t think Jill would be able to come so close to breaking away from me.

Which reminds me of some unfinished business. I must find a dilapidated hotel called the Hollywood that, according to Jill, is on Foster just outside of Little Philly, and I must gain entrance to the boarding house next door, and I must have a talk with the woman who has been plaguing me more than Kellem has.

Now that I think of it, Kellem has done nothing since the time the police visited the house; and come to that, why am I so certain Kellem arranged for the visit? It might have been the old woman’s doing, or maybe something completely unrelated. Maybe, with one thing and another, I’ve cut my own throat, without the need for Kellem to do anything at all; that would be true irony. But still, why would she need to be so subtle when all she would have had to do is command me to do something and I would have been required to obey, just as

Just as Jill is.

By my lost grace, could it be? Is such a thing possible?