Steven Brust - Agyar

In a choking, quivering voice, she told me.

“Good,” I said. “Now listen to me. You are done with this forever, do you understand?”

“Yes,” she whispered, not looking at me.

“You belong to me, and to me alone, do you understand?”

“I understand,” she said, still trembling.

“Good. See that you don’t forget.”

I put my arms around her and held her very close. There were tears against my face. I was very tired; the exertions of the last two days had worn me out badly.

But I left her alive, which was, I think, more than she deserved.

I woke up feeling very old.

That is, I think that is what I am feeling. In fact, one might say that I have never been old, or that I have been old for a long time and it hasn’t affected me; what I mean is, I feel the way I should imagine I would feel as an old man; there is a stiffness in the back of my knees and in my neck, I don’t want to move fast, and, in general, gravity seems to have more power over me than is its wont.

And then there is the hunger, which is not a normal hunger, even for me.

I can almost touch it, it is so real. Once, in a mistake I will never make again, I spent time with a young woman who freebased cocaine. One thing, as it will, led to another, and, after only one evening with her, I could feel the craving, unlike anything I had ever felt before. Perhaps I wouldn’t have been so frightened if I had felt any of the effects the drug is supposed to provide, but there was nothing at all, only the unmistakable desire for more. It wasn’t strong; I had no difficulty in convincing myself to stay away from her; but I felt it, and I have never forgotten that feeling.

What I feel this morning is akin to that, only a hundred times worse. It cheapens, even humbles me, but this will in no way keep me from pursuing what I require. Indeed, I feel it a small victory over my baser instincts that I have been able to force myself to shower, brush my teeth and hair, dress carefully, have a conversation with Jim, and sit here recording all of this, so that I will know what it was like, later, after I have done what I am going to do.

I came down to the living room, and Jim was waiting for me. He looked at me closely and said, “Are you all right?”

“No,” I said. “But I’ll get by. I must go out.”

“Be careful,” he said.

There was something in his tone. I said, “Oh? Is that a general caution?”

He shook his head, looking at the pendant on my chest (which, I’m pleased to say, had not been included in the description of me). “The police have been outside all day watching the house.”

“Damn them to Hell,” I said.

He winced. “They’ve also been going through the neighborhood, asking questions.”

“And showing everyone a piece of paper?”

“I didn’t notice them doing that.”

“Good.”

“But that’s not to say they weren’t.”

“You’re just full of good news, aren’t you?”

“As I said, be careful.”

“I will, I will.”

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?”