Patrick deWitt - Undermajordomo Minor

“I remember.”

“But we never could do it, could we?”

“No, we never could.”

“And now I suppose we’re too old for it.”

“Yes, that’s the truth.”

In actuality they were neither of them old men; their arms were still wiry with muscle, their backs straight and strong, and yet they had surpassed the mean, the centremark of their lives, and were both aware of an overall dimming.

“Every day, and a little closer to death,” said Tomas.

“That’s how it is from the beginning, though,” Memel pointed out.

“Yes, but did you think of it as a younger man?”

Memel admitted he hadn’t. Tomas stood, picked up a stone, and threw it into the hole. Memel did the same. Neither stone went very far.

“I should be able to do better than that,” Memel said.

“Yes,” said Tomas. “Let’s try again, and give it our best.”

They picked up stones and threw them as hard as they could. Both went a good deal farther than their first attempts, but Memel edged out Tomas for the greater distance.

“Very nice,” said Tomas.

He was standing near the lip of the Very Large Hole. His hands were on his hips; he stared into the abyss, and Memel took up a position behind him.

“And so, what are we to do about this, Tomas?”

“I don’t know what. I wish I did know.”

“Well, what does Alida want?”

“Who knows what that woman wants.” Tomas laughed to himself.

Memel took a step closer to Tomas. It occurred to him to walk softly. “Shall we leave it up to her, then?”

Tomas made a strange sound with his throat, for he was crying now. “I suppose we must do that,” he said.

Memel took another step. “And what will become of us?”

“That’s for you to say.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. For my part, I pray that our friendship will remain.”

Yet another step. “You want my wife and my friendship, eh?”

“I know it’s impossible. But that’s my wish.” He took a shivering, sobbing breath. “Oh, Memel,” he said. “I love you so much.”

Memel lunged, and Tomas was borne aloft and into the void. Memel had pushed with such force that he nearly tumbled into the hole himself; when he regained his footing, he stood wondering at the absoluteness of his friend’s absence. It was as if the darkness had eaten not just Tomas’s present, but his past also — his history in its entirety. Memel hastened back to the village. He was curious to see Alida’s face when he told her.

There was a tactility to this story which startled Lucy. He was unsettled by the image and deed, and by Memel’s undemonstrative manner of reportage; and yet he was moved by the tale as well. Was there not a measure of justice in the act, after all? Perhaps it was only natural, then, that Lucy was already reimagining the story so that it was Adolphus at the lip of the Very Large Hole, and he himself stood at Adolphus’s back, creeping ever closer. He wondered if he could actually go through with it. His heart was doubtful. “That must have been difficult to do,” he said to Memel.

Memel shook his head. “I pushed him. That was all. He didn’t make a sound. You’d think he would have screamed.”

“He was too surprised, maybe.”

“It would be surprising, wouldn’t it? Slipping through the air like that, all at once?” Memel paused a moment to consider it. “Well, I can’t say I regret it, Lucy. Woe betide those who trifle with Eros, eh?”

“I suppose.”

“Cupid is well armed, and so must we be, isn’t that so?”

“It is so.”

Memel’s face grew long. “I do miss Tomas, though. Him and Alida both. I’ve never got over either of them being gone, if I’m to be honest.”

With a degree of trepidation, Lucy asked, “And how did Alida die?”

“In childbirth, nine months after the death of Tomas.” He regarded Lucy with a mischievous expression, as if daring him to enquire further.

“Nine months,” Lucy said.

Memel nodded.

“You’re saying Klara is Tomas’s daughter?”

“I’m saying that Mewe is Tomas’s son.”

Lucy found this difficult to digest. “Does Mewe know this?”

“No.”

“He’s never asked after his history?”

“He’s never asked me.”

“When will you tell him?”

“I have no plans to tell him at all.”

“But why not?”

“Why should I, is the superior query.”

Lucy considered it, and could think of no further argument. He asked, “Why did you tell me this story about Tomas?”

Memel held up his palms, but he didn’t answer the question, and would say no more about it. At the conclusion of their outing, he bade Lucy and Rose a good evening, and his footing was shaky and uncertain as he stepped towards the village.

That night Lucy lay in bed, hopeful for sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come no matter how he approached it in his mind. At last he sat up and declared, “Well, I’m just going to have to kill him, and that’s all there is to it.” He lay back down and made plans to that effect.

Adolphus stood beside the Very Large Hole, looking into it, and whistling shrilly. Lucy sat in a crouch a half-dozen paces away from the lip. He hadn’t slept even momentarily all through the night and there was an insistent, throbbing discomfort in his skull. Kneading his temples with the tips of his fingers, he asked Adolphus to stop whistling, and Adolphus did stop. But now he’ll spit , thought Lucy, and this proved to be true. The soldier marked his spittle’s transit with interest.

“Well, boy, where’s Klara?” he asked.

“She’s coming.” There was something in Lucy’s voice, some inkling of worry or strife, that caught Adolphus’s ear; now he peered at Lucy in a sidelong manner. Lucy’s eyes were ringed with grey and blue, and his breathing was hurried and shallow.

Adolphus said, “I know what went on between you two, while I was away.”

Lucy said nothing. He had removed his pipe from his pocket and was tapping it against a rock.

“I want you to know that I don’t bear you any ill will because of it. Our desires get away from us, and there’s nothing to be done about that. I can’t say that I blame you, anyway. Her behaviour is all the more baffling to me, but then Klara was never one to do the expected thing.” He spit a second time, then asked, “What’s the matter with you? You sick?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“I’m not sick.”

Adolphus shifted. “But why did she send you to fetch me? And why did she wish to meet here, of all places? It doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

Lucy only stared. Adolphus made a scornful sound at him, and resumed gazing into the hole. “I don’t like it here,” he admitted.

If he spits once more, then , thought Lucy. Adolphus spat; Lucy set his pipe on the ground and stood.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. He drew a breath and lunged at Adolphus, his hands outstretched, arms locked straight at the elbows. But Adolphus had been put on his guard by the eerie light in Lucy’s eyes, and so was ready for an untoward occurrence. He spun away and to the side, and Lucy rushed past him, disappearing into the Very Large Hole, headfirst, and quite neatly.

Adolphus looked at the hole awhile, then shook his head and went away. It was odd that Lucy had made no sound when he fell. He was happy, at any rate, that the boy was gone, and so the foolishness with Klara could rest. Only the night before, and she had admitted to loving that runt more than she loved him, if such a thing could be believed. Perhaps she was only cultivating an argument; her father was the same way. Well, now she would once again be contented, which meant that Adolphus could focus his attentions on the area war, which was his pre-eminent concern, his primary source of happiness.