Steven Brust - Agyar

She grinned and cocked her head to the side. “Why, I think we’re going to have a winter fog.”

We did, too, but that was several hours later, after I had escorted her home, and left her at the door after kissing her hand in my most courtly fashion. Most amateurs at hand-kissing make it a bow, with eyes down. Properly, you should be looking at your intended the entire time, with an expression at once tender and slightly amused. The kiss ought to be a single touch of the lips, neither too short nor too long; the actual caress is carried out by your hand squeezing hers-and oh, so delicately, so she isn’t quite certain if you have caressed her or not.

I left her at her door, enjoying the tension between our conversation, clearly aimed at the bedroom, and our physical contact, which had been limited to her hand on my arm, and one kiss of her hand. I had intended to poke my head in and look in on Jill, who hadn’t been feeling entirely well when I left her, but I could hardly spoil a gesture like that, so I just turned around and left.

By that time there was, indeed, a fog rolling in, which became thicker as I made my way back to Professor Carpenter’s house. There was no moon whatsoever, both because it was new and because it had already set. It was about two-thirty in the morning and Lakota was, if not buried, at least pretty dead. I had no trouble finding the place, even in the fog, and since I was certain no one could see me, I took the opportunity to enter, if not break in.

Two people, a small dog, and a cat were breathing quietly in the house. I had not noticed the cat the first time I was there. Perhaps she was shy.

I had no reason to disturb any of them, so I moved quietly and tested my hypothesis that a professor who owned a large house would not put his desk in the same room he slept in. It didn’t seem like a particularly daring guess, and it turned out to be right. My second hypothesis was that his address book would be in plain sight on said desk. This was more daring and turned out not to be the case. Neither was it in any of the desk drawers, but rather, for some reason, it turned out to be on a bookshelf. I scanned through it quickly, found what I wanted, memorized it, then took myself out the way I came. The dog never even woke up.

On the other hand, there was still the question: Now that I had the address, what, if anything, was I going to do with it? I thought about Laura Kellem, and consequences, and tried to decide if I cared. I wasn’t certain. But then I considered the significance of what Susan had told me, and I wasn’t certain I cared about that, either.

There were no lights on when I got home, but I hadn’t expected any.

It’s funny; when I finished my last session of typing I realized I was disappointed that there was no more to relate, and I went on down to find Jim, with the idea clearly in mind of getting him talking so I could come back to this machine and set it all down. I’ve been challenging myself to see how much of a conversation I could actually remember, and I suppose at heart I’m a liar, because ever since I started I’ve been willing to fabricate conversations that I could have summarized easily and accurately. I don’t know why it is more satisfying to see those inverted commas that Joyce hated so passionately, even if I can only remember the essence of what was said.

On the other hand, it feels as if I’m getting better at remembering exact quotations. This may be imagination at work.

But I did go downstairs, and Jim was standing, his arms clasped behind him, staring at the dead fireplace. I said, “Jim, what do you do around here?”

He turned his head so he was almost looking at me over his shoulder. “You mean, to earn my keep?”

“No, I mean to kill time. Being a ghost seems like the most wearying thing I can think of.”

“Have you ever studied Latin?”

“Okay, the second most wearying.”

He shook his head. “I don’t do anything, but I’m not bored.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s never boring to be what you are. It’s not usually exciting either. You just exist.”

“That’s what most people do most of the time. That’s what I mean by wearying.”

“And what do you do?”

“At least I have some contact with other people.”

“And I don’t?”

“Do you?”

“If I didn’t, this house wouldn’t be deserted.”

“Well, but since then?”

“I watch people go by, I listen to the wind. I’ve followed two generations of owls who live on top of the carriage house. And I reminisce.”

“On your life?”

He nodded, staring past my shoulder. His eyes weren’t focused.

I said, “How did you get educated? There weren’t black colleges then, were there?”

“No, I had to go to white folks’ school. They thought it was funny to see me there, but it wasn’t unheard of, the way it was later.”

“But how did it happen?”

“I had a friend who had money. I think he thought it would be funny if his friend the nigger had a college education.” He didn’t sound bitter when he said it; he didn’t sound much of anything.

“I’ll bet you spoke differently then.”

“Yes.”

“Want to give me a demonstration? I’m curious.”

“No.”

“It was after the Civil War, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, but I was already free before the war.”

“Given your freedom, or did you escape?”

“Both. It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

“I don’t have the inclination.” Suddenly, then, he looked directly at me for the first time. He said, “I did run away, though. No one can hold you if you don’t want to be held.”

“Heh.”

He looked away again. “You better believe it. I lived through things that-I lived through things. And I went to a university. And I learned that you can’t hold a man who doesn’t want to be held.”

“How did you die, anyway?”

He twitched a little, like something had bitten him. Then he smiled. “Touche,” he said, which was the only answer I got out of him.

Bah.

Enough of this.

My latest discovery is that too much sitting in one place and recording what has gone on is frustrating; it makes me wish to go out and do something. I am, by nature, unaccustomed to inaction; I think I must be a sort of counterpoint to Jim, the way t’ai chi is the counterpoint to meditation. This may be a poor example, all I know of either one is what I learned from a young lady with whom I spent some time in Tokyo, and her English wasn’t very strong. But now that I think of it, this very document testifies to our differences; Jim spends his time musing, but even when I muse I translate those thoughts into activity: I write them down.

I went down to the Conneaut Creek to a point just below the Sherburne Bridge, and watched for a while. The creek is still flowing, but no one is fishing. You can see the lights of Lottsville, Pennsylvania, on the other side; a town that, they tell me, has increased in size tenfold in a score of years. Something about taxes, I understand. Death and taxes, they say, are the only things one can depend on, but I’ve never paid any taxes.

I walked back-strolled, really-taking my time. I was a little short of money, so I gave some consideration to the problem, but didn’t do anything about it. Money is not difficult to come by. I made my way to the Ave, west of the Tunnel, and found an establishment called Cullpepper’s. I didn’t go in, but I spent a few minutes watching the girls ply their trade. It must be cold, I thought. And they looked so young.