Steven Brust - Agyar

Had she not painted that picture, I would have freed her anyway, for I had promised two people that I would, and I had already decided to keep this promise; but I wonder: If I had not, would I have released her anyway, after seeing what she could do, who she was?

In truth, I fear that I would not have, for my needs are strong and my patterns are ingrained very deeply.

But I am glad that it happened as it did, for I think it is indecent for anyone to go through his entire life and never know shame.

After setting down what had happened between Jill and me, I took myself up to the attic and pawed through the leftover books. It struck me, as it hadn’t before, to wonder why they had been left behind. I can believe someone like Carpenter might, leaving in a hurry, have abandoned an old typewriting machine, and a few pieces of thirdrate furniture, but these books are probably valuable; I can only assume he didn’t know they were up here.

It made me wonder what else was in the attic, so I spent some time looking around. The attic is quite spacious, and mostly empty, but I found an old coffee maker; a set of silver that was probably worth something; a set of knives, stuck carelessly into a cardboard box, that included a very nice chefs knife with part of the handle stripped away; a box full of canceled checks; and a peculiar sign, which consisted of a red “R” with a circle and an arrow growing from it, and the words “Pickup Wednesdays” inscribed in red letters.

Attached to it was a pointed stick, presumably for putting it into the ground. I held it for a moment, and I thought of Laura Kellem. But come, let’s be serious; wood like that would splinter and, in any case, the wood is strictly symbolic; if her heart is destroyed, that will be that. I set the sign down again.

On the other hand, it forced me to think seriously about killing her, which brought to mind the ritual I will be attempting at the dark of the moon, in two days’ time. Do I really think I can kill her? Will I if I get the chance?

Laura Kellem is a vindictive soul; it may be that she feels she has not punished me enough. And if she does, indeed, feel that way, than not only am I in danger, but so is Susan.

I tested the edge of the chefs knife, found a butcher’s steel in the box and honed the knife. It had been a long, long time since I’d done that, but I managed not to cut myself.

I brought the knife down from the attic with me, and it is sitting beside me now, looking out of place on top of the pile of paper that records my visit to Lakota. When I have finished typing this, I shall take the knife with me as I go to rest, and I will place it with the rest of the items I have assembled for the ritual.

Two days.

Two days out of a lifetime of, well, of many thousands of days, and yet it seems impossibly far off.

Little to talk about tonight, but I must feed my addiction to this machine. I sneaked out of the house, past the watching policemen, and came to Susan’s, where I found an envelope with my name on it taped to her door. The note inside said, “Jonathan, sorry, forgot I have a dance ensemble tonight. See you tomorrow? Take me to your house? Maybe we can spend the night. Love, Susan.” Her name was signed with a big scrawl coming from the n and underlining her name. I mentally shrugged.

I walked around the campus area for a while, then spent an hour or so in Little Philly, not doing anything, just watching the people go by. There are so many of them: Decrepit old bums to well-to-do young white couples, the pimps, the whores, the crack dealers, and gangs of black kids filled with the delicious pleasure of knowing that you are intimidating anyone who walks past, just by existing.

I walked all the way back to the Tunnel, which took a couple of hours, and I visited some of the places that Susan and I had been to. With any luck, I’ll be leaving this city in two days, so this was a sort of farewell. Some snow had melted, although the wind still had its bite. Winter doesn’t want to give up, but it is a losing battle.

The contrast between the Tunnel and Little Philly, which are really the only areas of Lakota I’ve come to know at all, is so sharp that it is hard to believe that they are part of the same city; but I like them both, and the presence of each makes the other that much richer. It’s funny, but I’ve never been downtown, or to the Longfellow Park district, or by the Lakeshore; entire areas, like cities within the city, and I don’t know what they are like. For that matter, there are parts of London I know nothing about, and I spent many years there. Maybe it is time to go back and do some serious exploring.

Another odd thing is that now I think I understand Laura better than I did when we had that talk, so many months ago. I think she was telling the truth when we first spoke: This would be a nice place to live, to settle down.

There is little that I have ever done that I actually regret, but, do you know, I’m sorry about that dog, Pepper. And I’m glad I didn’t give in to my instincts when I wanted to kill Bill’s wife. I hope all of this doesn’t sour them on the neighborhood; it will be a good place again, once I have broken free of Kellem and left.

The night grows old, the day approaches, and, as always, I run.

It has been an entire day since I have seen Susan.

My lover is sleeping on the bloodstained gray chair downstairs.

The house was cold and dry as I made my way up to the bathroom earlier this evening, from which I concluded that the dogs of winter still held the weather and would shake it with at least a few more days of cold before dropping it and retreating once more to await November.

When I came back down, feeling strangely at peace after a dreamless sleep, Jim was still standing by the window. “Still there,” he said.

It took me a moment to realize that he meant the police, then I said, “It doesn’t matter.”

For maybe the second or third time since I’ve known him he looked right at me. “What happened?” he said.

I shrugged. “A bit of a surprise, is all. People sometimes turn out to be, I don’t know, not what I’d thought they’d be.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Good, but also upsetting. I begin to think I make too many hasty judgments.”

He nodded and went back to looking out the window while I got my coat on. He said nothing else as I left the house. I went carefully, making certain I wasn’t spotted. Outside, the last traces of purple-red sunset were absorbed by the soft glow of the lights of Mark Twain College, a couple of miles to the west. The wind was light but steady; I kept my hands in the pocket of my parka. There were a few slippery spots where snow had melted and then frozen again, but they weren’t too bad.

I knocked at the door and Susan answered. I was glad it wasn’t Jill because I really didn’t know what I’d find to say to her, what with one thing and another. I hung up my coat, took off my Wellingtons, kissed Susan, and said, “So, what do you want to do?”

She grinned, spun once, then gyrated her pelvis lewdly.

“I meant after that,” I said.

“After that? Hmmm. Perhaps you could take me to Baghdad. I’ve always wanted to see Baghdad.”

“During a war?”

“The war’s over. But you’re right. Maybe somewhere else.”

“We’ll talk about it,” I said, and held out my arm. She curtsied, dimpled, laid her hand on top of mine, and we ascended into heaven, as it were.

I was very careful with her, and gentle, trying to give as much as I could while taking as little as possible. I must have been successful, because she seemed quite pleased, and did not fall asleep.