Steven Brust - Agyar

I haven’t touched this machine for several days, and, now that I am here, I find myself both reluctant and unable to set down what I have been doing. I have not been back to see Susan or Jill; in fact I have been doing very little except walking around and around the house, occasionally venturing out into the yard, sometimes the street.

I find myself growing apprehensive at the prospect of what Kellem has planned. There is no doubt that she is pulling together all the threads for my demise, and the thought of her complacently going about her business, knowing she may take as much time as she needs, has been preying on my mind. And yet, she is certainly right, there is nothing I can do.

It is mid-January, and winter’s grip is still firm. I must be careful where I walk, lest I leave footprints that could cause suspicion. My thoughts have returned to Susan several times, but I don’t think it means anything; little infatuations are not uncommon, particularly in old men, and no doubt it will pass. I remember that, years ago, Kellem mentioned something about this, although I can’t think what it was. I recall that we were walking as she spoke, and it must have been shortly after we left London, because that was when we spent the most time together, and she was telling me things I ought to watch out for, and she mentioned infatuations as one.

I said, “Why should I worry about that when I have you to be infatuated with?” She laughed, treating it as a joke, so I pushed it a little and said, “Is that what I am? A little infatuation?” and that made her laugh even more. It’s funny how I see all of these clear signs now, but never saw them when they were happening. There’s probably a moral in there somewhere, but I don’t think I’ll bother trying to find it.

I have been avoiding Jill because, I suppose, of some fear of involvement with Susan, but the notion is absurd. Tomorrow I will visit Jill.

I must say that I am growing to like Jim; it seems we are saying more with fewer words. Our conversations over the past few days have been short, and seldom about anything, but they have been a source of distraction and no small solace as I go through this period of anguish about Kellem’s plans. Certainly, I don’t expect it to last-there is little that is more senseless than bothering one’s self over what cannot be helped, and it is quite unusual for me to worry about anything.

It is one of those days when the path of the moon matches the sun, and it comes with the new moon. There used to be those who believed that this was a time of change, or growth, and, who knows, maybe there is some truth in it.

Today I thought I would go back to the Ave and perhaps pick up a girl, but apparently the best, as it were, had been taken; those who were left were the old ones, or those who played too hard at appearing glamorous, or coy, and after a time one gets tired of these things.

I am tempted to rail at the stupidity of women, did I not know that these theatrics are perpetrated because of the stupidity of men. And, in all honesty, I was no better myself when I was younger. It comes to me that Prudence, the girl I nearly married, was of just this type. Odd. I have not thought of Prudence in some time, and now that I do, I cannot see what attraction she ever held for me. Her laugh, which I remember as so endearing, was in fact a stupid titter, and there was no trace of life in her smile, nor did she ever say anything that could have held the interest of anyone.

I’ve heard women, and, lately, some men, talk of women acting stupid to please men, but in fact, I think, that is not what they are doing; it is not lack of wit or intellect that shallow men crave, it is lack of personality; they desire a woman who will exist only as a shadow to themselves, because this gives them the illusion that they have some importance, that they are more than cattle. Personality is what distinguishes us from each other, what makes each man and woman unique, and to submerge one’s personality is to make one’s self interchangeable, like a mass-produced commodity; yet the demands of instinct, the will to survive through reproduction, are strong, and if this is what it takes to fulfill that instinct, not many can fight it. But really, why should I care? Most men, in fact, are little more than cattle, as are most women. When one finds an exception, such as

I am rambling pointlessly, a sure sign that the fingers have become disconnected from the frontal lobes. It feels very late, and, though we are past the solstice, I am nevertheless feeling an acute need for sleep. Tomorrow I will visit Jill, and no doubt I will feel better for it, and if I wish then to set down more words, perhaps there will be some thought behind them.

My hands have twitched over the keys a few times. I want to write, but it feels as if I’ve been in a place of dreams, and everything is still in that state midway between the time of sleeping and the time of waking; when the distinction between the real and the unreal either doesn’t exist or cannot be found. Show me a painting by Salvador Dali, and I might like it now; or at least I might understand it. Time has stretched, so that a few hours are an age; and it has collapsed, so that the events of hours seem to have ended before they began. Turmoil, even when generated from within, can do that to a person.

But, in fact, I think that little has really happened; I have gone from acute worry (has Kellem’s trap been sprung? would the police show up while I slept?) to rage, to-well, through the whole range of emotions, but all of these momentous events were internal; in fact, I have done little.

No gentlemen in blue came to disturb me, so when I got up I walked down to the booth at the corner and reached my dear Gillian by telephone and asked her to meet me. She said she would rather not.

“Why is that?” I said into the cold, black plastic. “Are you unwell?”

“No, I’m feeling fine, thanks.” Her voice was strange over the phone, forced and artificial.

“Then what is it?”

“I have to study.”

“You can study later. Right now I have something for you to do.”

“No, I really can’t. I’m sorry.” She hung up before I could say anything more, so I went over there. I entered just as she was walking out the door, apparently in a hurry. When she saw me, she stopped and looked guilty, as if she’d been caught at something.

“Where are you going?” I said.

“Nowhere,” she said.

“Good. Then there’s something you can help me with.”

“Jack-”

“Let’s go.”

I had her help me find the offices of the Lakota Plainsman, which we did just before they closed. I put an ad in the personals that read, “Laura K, Jack wants to see you.” I was running short of cash, so I had Jill pay for it. She complained of the headache, so I took her home after that. The stars twinkled benignly as we walked, with no moon to kick them back into supporting roles.

She said, “Did you sleep with Susan?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to.”

“I don’t think-”

“Then don’t speak.”

“Jack-”

“Shut up.”

She huddled into herself and we completed the walk in as much silence as the night would allow, with its chatter of night things and occasional automobiles. I escorted her through the door and didn’t touch her except to help her take off her coat; I am nothing if not a gentleman. Susan was not in; no doubt she was dancing or perhaps out with some friends. I went off alone. Sometimes I let my Wellingtons slap against the sidewalk, sometimes I made my footfalls silent. It was cold, colder than New York at any rate; but it was a distant cold; it didn’t really penetrate, rather it tingled against my cheeks and inside my nose. I came to a place called Terrence F. Kleffman Park. It was one neat city block, surrounded by evenly spaced oaks, with a wading pool in the middle, and a pair of baseball diamonds at the far end, identified by those peculiar tall wire fences to catch the balls the players miss. Here, said the park, you may engage in recreation during the prescribed hours. Here are the trees you may be shaded by, and these are the sports in which you may participate.