Mortals

“Of course her problem was that she was giving a lying task to the wrong person, tasking someone to lie who wouldn’t lie. We both understand why she had no choice but to send you, but of course she was working from a bad model, myself, the person she formerly loved, a liar in several ways, a model that led her to expect something from you that shouldn’t have been expected. Because I was involved in an established lie, occupationally, my work, part of my work, and of course from that flowed other lies, white lies, which is probably what we should call them, in Africa. But that’s another story, another part of the forest…

“So, no of course she wanted to manage this with me herself. I would too. You would. And she’ll be furious for a while when she finds out. But she’ll get over it and forgive. She forgives people she loves. She forgave me for years. She forgave me as long as she could, which is all we should ask for, am I right?

“Don’t make my life impossible.”

Ray was thinking how impossible it would be, say, if he confronted Iris and she denied it and he had gotten nothing concrete out of Morel except his circumstantial silence. Where would he be then? Or, supposing for the sake of argument that she had done it with Morel and since then changed her mind and decided to creep back and reinstate with him because, because… for any reason, something unsatisfactory in the doctor, old acquaintance, fear of the less known, remorse, any old thing. And he would be in his normal position, weak, weak before her, unarmed, because of utter love, alas.

He had no regrets about his love for her up to now. She was on the verge of the change of life. So the idea that she was going for Morel so she could have a shot at motherhood was unlikely, taking a shot at his medical powers giving her motherhood. He was creating things in his mind that meant nothing. He had to stop. It was adieu.

He felt he had enough strength in his legs to stand up, even though his knee was still throbbing. He had to be upright for the finishing kick.

I will get my unholy grail, he thought.

He said, “Tell me now. Be me. Be me, asking.” He was willing the truth to come out of Morel.

He could feel Morel composing himself.

Morel said, “Okay then. It’s true, I love her. We are lovers, yes. So okay.” It was clear he had spoken slowly to keep his tone under control.

“I can’t believe it,” Ray heard himself say. He would have to explain why he had said it. It had to sound bad to Davis. It sounded bad to him. It made him sound to himself as though he had made everything up and then used it to trick Morel. But it wasn’t that way. It had been an expression about the point they had come to. He didn’t want to be misunderstood.

There was a feeling of hollowness around him. His voice rang oddly. He had the fleeting conviction that elements of his surroundings, the walls, the floor, were hollow.

Morel said, “She’ll hate me for this. She wanted to tell you herself. She insisted that that was the way it had to be. I agreed with her. She may never forgive me.”

“Yes she will.”

“I don’t know.”

“She forgives you if she loves you. Don’t worry. I’ll explain why it happened.”

Morel was worried. It was ridiculous, but he didn’t want him to worry.

“Don’t worry about it. I said I’d explain it.”

“You’re lovers, that’s all I have to know. I’m satisfied. I don’t care who moved first or any of that. I told you.

“That’s all. I guess my last question is about your intentions, going forward from here. Well, and her intentions, which she’ll tell me. She’s not here to speak, so…

“No, but your intentions. I mean, you want to have her, take her. That is, you’re looking at this as serious, a permanent thing.”

“That’s what I want,” Morel said.

It was difficult to keep talking. He made himself go on.

“You’d marry her, you’d like to. Once I’m on the other side of the horizon.”

“You know, we haven’t advanced to that. I don’t want to flatter myself and say I know more about what she wants than I really do. But, yes, of course I would, of course.”

“So you don’t have philosophical objections to marriage.”

“I thought I did. I thought I wouldn’t ever marry again and I thought I’d, I don’t know, reached conclusions about marriage, coming out of that. Let’s put it this way. I’m prepared to be inconsistent. I want to marry her. I think she has more questions about marriage as a concept than I do, at this point, to tell you the absolute truth.”

That hurts, Ray thought. He wanted the sickly lightness afflicting him to go away. Certain remarks of Morel’s seemed to make it worse.

Morel said, “I do have to say to you that I absolutely love your wife. It’s like nothing ever before, with me.”

Ray said, “So, well, good. This is what it is, I guess.”

Morel said, “I’m sorry.”

Ray said, “I don’t want to discuss this, the three of us sitting around a table, ever, please. It has to be between me and Iris, and then, if we need to, between you and me.”

“That’s fine,” Morel said.

The feeling of lightness was prompting Ray to swallow repeatedly, as though through swallowing he would ingest something from the air that would restore his normal solidity or center of gravity, whichever it was that needed restoring.

“I’m sorry,” Morel said again.

“Don’t mention it,” Ray answered.

“No. I am.”

“Of course you are. Don’t mention it.” What Ray didn’t like in Morel’s apology was even the merest shadow of the notion that his regret extended to having gotten involved, which suggested the specter of impermanence, which could mean Iris ending up out on a limb. He didn’t want that for her. And he wasn’t going to be around to rescue anybody, like the rejected lovers in teenage songs, waiting around forever. He was not going to hang around Gaborone. He would be gone. And there was nothing he could do to predetermine the future she would have with Morel, her happiness.

The sound of breaking glass resumed. This time it was clear that they were hearing a deliberate, punctuated process.

Morel said, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking? In westerns when the Indians or outlaws are coming and you’re holed up in a cabin…”

“You knock out the windows so you can shoot freely, right. I’m way ahead of you.”

The glass-breaking came to an end. Others were acting. We’re too passive, Ray thought. He had to refine his tasks, reduce them to the essential two or three. And then he had to find a way to complete them. One was his shoes, he had to get his shoes, or some shoes. Two was Strange News, which he had to get hold of and not let go of again. And the third task was to be sure, be sure, Morel survived the storm that was rolling in. It was obvious. If anything happened to Morel it would be Ray’s fault. Iris would spend the rest of her life counting the ways her husband had been responsible directly and otherwise for the rising new love of her life’s death, an impossibility that would lead to hell. There would always be the suspicion that he had eased Morel’s way into death. His strength had to go into protecting his rival, the victor, like it or not.

Morel looked depressed.

Ray said, “If anything happens to me I want to be cremated. I just realized I don’t think I ever discussed it with Iris. I think it was just assumed. But let me get on the record with you anyway.”

“You may get your wish,” Morel said. A strong odor of smoke was in the air, stronger than the occasional smoke from cooking fires they were used to, and with a chemical taint to it.

They both laughed.

The smell of burning passed. They had nothing to say to one another. Sounds of groups of men, heavily shod men, running, occupied them. But that too came to an end. There was more waiting to do.