Steven Brust - Agyar

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?”