had a little brother who acted the way any young man might have. So, did something go “wrong” with his older brother? Or does being a criminal mean something different than it did years ago? Jill is a criminal too, because there were marijuana buds in her ashtray, but is she like the gentlemen from last night? Or like the three children who were here before? When I was much younger, and far more naive, I thought that the line between legal and illegal stayed close to the line between right and wrong. Well, either I was living an illusory life then, or everything has changed now, so that when the two lines intersect it seems only momentary, transitory, coincidental.
Or, more likely, it is because when I do what I must to survive, I am, technically, committing crimes; yet how can what I do be wrong, when it is only what I must do? Still, perhaps this is a justification that has been used by scoundrels ever since the class has existed; I do not know.
I wish I could listen to some music. I’m hearing Chopin in my head, and I would love to truly hear it. With the police nosing around the house, though, I wouldn’t dare put in a stereo system even if I had one.
Hell, I’m a criminal; I could steal one; I’ve been stealing electricity all along. I suppose Professor Carpenter pays the dollar or two a month to keep it on and hasn’t noticed the six or seven cents it costs to run the water pump. I’m glad the place has its own well so that after I managed to turn the water on I didn’t have to worry about him suddenly getting unexplained bills from the city.
I wish, for Jim’s sake, that the woodwork hadn’t gotten messed up.
I have just returned from Susan’s. It occurs to me that I never saw Jill, nor even asked about her. It was a mad and crazy time, and in the end, I nearly-well, it doesn’t matter, I didn’t. When I think of how close I came it does give me to tremble.
I have never been one to rail against the gods, but that passion should be so dangerous is a crime. I do not know what I have done that I should be punished in this way; that the more I love, the more I must fight myself, or else the more I will kill. I know, I know that someday I will lose control, and take her life, and on that day I will weep.
But let me set it down as well as I can remember it-and this, I think, I will be able to set down verbatim, because it is branded on all the cells that constitute my brain. In fact, it may not be necessary to record it, for I cannot imagine a time when the memory will grow dim.
But I will set it down anyway, because in that way I can live it again.
The two roommates from upstairs-I forget their names-were just leaving as I arrived. They nodded to me vaguely, as if they couldn’t remember who I was but thought we might have met once. I knocked on the door, and this time it was Susan who answered. She greeted me with a big smile and showed me in.
“Hello,” I said. “And how are we today?”
“Perky and chipper,” she sang, and twirled around the room, ending in a classic ballet pose, one arm over her head, the other in front of her, knees bent, one foot pointed down, head tilted and face in a china-doll smile.
I bowed gracefully and held out my hand. She took it, I bowed, she curtsied, and we waltzed around the room, sans music, for a minute or two, before I twirled her away. She finally stopped in the same pose that had started the dance, held it for a moment, dimpled, then bowed. I said, “Let’s chat.”
“Hmmm?” she said. “Something on your mind?”
“How many lovers do you have, my dear?”
Her face clouded for a moment, but it was only a cirrus, no thunderhead in sight, and presently it went away, leaving a few pale wisps of puzzled expression in its wake. She said, “Don’t you think that a rather personal question, Jonathan?”
“Well, yes, but I’m a daring individual that way. How many lovers do you have?”
She stood straight, her arms folded, and she frowned an enchanting frown while she decided whether to answer me. At last she said, “You and Jennifer. Why? Do you think I need more?”
I laughed in spite of myself. “Why? Because I am mad with jealousy, my dear. Simply mad. Can’t you tell?”
“Are you jealous, Jonathan?”
I sighed. “I’m not entirely certain. If so, it’s the first time. No, the second, actually. But the first was a long time ago, and about someone it wasn’t worth being jealous about. You are.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Guess.”
“Your friend-what was her name?”
“Laura.”
“You were jealous of her?”
“I think so. Actually, I think there was a time when she wanted me to be jealous, and I tried to oblige but I didn’t quite manage.”
“Why?”
“It was toward the end of our romance, and I think she wanted to end it with me leaving her instead of having to break it off.”
“She didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Maybe. Or she didn’t want to be annoyed. She was quite capable of taking the long way around if it would save her some annoyance.”
Susan looked sad. “I like to play games, Jonathan. But I don’t want you to ever think I’m playing games with your feelings. I’ll never do that, and I’ll be very sad if you ever think I am.”
“I don’t think you are, Susan.”
“Good. Then what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if we have to do anything.”
“I don’t want you to be unhappy.”
“My happiness isn’t your responsibility.”
“I know that. But still-”
“Yes. I understand.”
“What did it feel like, when you were jealous?”
“It was ugly, but only slightly ugly.”
“What does this feel like?”
“It’s uglier.”
She walked up to me (actually, it was more like cross c to r) and put her hands on my shoulders. She looked directly into my eyes and said, “You don’t expect me to leave Jennifer, do you?”
I kept very careful control over myself and said, “No. I don’t expect you to, and I’m not asking you to.”
She remained where she was and said, “Well, then?”
“I don’t know.” I felt myself smile a little. “You are giving me a new experience, for which I thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, and kissed my mouth lightly.
“However,” I said, “I’m not exactly certain what to do, or, for that matter, what I feel.”
“I know what I feel,” said Susan. “I love you.”
I was hit by a sudden, and mercifully brief, sense of vertigo. The heavens were uprooted and the world spun around me, and all I could think was, This is real. I did not make her do this, this is real. This is real.
Now that I think about it, the only other time in my life I’ve felt anything like that is when Young Don got me with the shotgun; there was the same onrush of significance in waves, and the same disorientation, and feeling of, Has my life been nothing but a preparation for this moment? I let the waves pass over me, not really caring if I drowned in them.
When I had regained my equilibrium and opened my eyes again, I found that she was still staring directly into them. I put my hands very lightly on her waist. “That,” I said, “is not one of the possibilities.”
Her eyes widened. “How not?” she said.
“It just isn’t.”
She took my hand and began leading me up the stairs. “I think I can prove you’re wrong,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “You probably can.”
And she did, too.
Steven Brust
Agyar
