Steven Brust - Agyar

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.”