Agyar Read online

  This room, the one with the typewriting machine, seems to have been redone in the 1950’s, then partly redone again in the late seventies, probably just before the house was abandoned. There used to be wallpaper, but now there is bare plasterboard thick with splotches of greenish glue. The windows are boarded shut, and I type by the light of a single candle, one of those thick tall ones that can stand on its own without a holder. It has been scented with what someone thought was apple blossom, and I suppose it is closer to that than anything else, but it isn’t very close, nor is it strong. I can still smell the wood as it collects pockets of moisture and rots. The desk drawers, still full of desk things, are heaped next to me, as if when Professor Carpenter moved away he wanted to take it with him, then changed his mind, not thinking the desk worth the trouble. I guess he was right; it is small and cheaply built of plywood. I wonder why he left the typing machine, though. One of the desk drawers contains most of a ream of paper, however; good enough paper to have survived these ten or fifteen years.

  I am pleased at how well my skill at working this machine has returned. The sound of the type bars striking the paper and the little rattle of the keys do not echo, perhaps because of the textured ceiling. There are still a few mice in the walls; I wonder what they live on.

  What else to talk about?

  I suppose I could continue where I left off a few hours ago, and bring matters up to the point where they stand now.

  I left Jill sleeping deeply on the cot in her studio, went back to the train depot, and the next day went and looked at the house. The neighborhood is quiet, not too well lit, and situated not far from Twain. I decided it would do, so I made the arrangements to have my things moved.

  Bah. I don’t want to talk about all of that. It was more than a week ago, and old news is dull, even when writing to one’s self. What about last night? That’s more interesting, because I’ve finally heard from Kellem.

  I spent all night looking for a place to play cards without finding one. When I finally gave up, I made my way to this place that is home for here and now. I threw my coat over the end table next to the window, closed the window against the increasing chill, and opened the front door. There was a small slip of paper in the mailbox. It was in Gaelic for some reason, and said, “Day after tomorrow, 10:30, outside Howard’s—L.” I went back inside, burned the note in the fireplace, and stretched out in what was left of a bulky stuffed gray chair that someone had decided wasn’t worth moving. The springs on one side of it were broken, so I sat with a list to starboard.

  These tenses are interesting. I don’t know whether to write, “the springs were broken,” because they were when I was sitting on it, or, “the springs are broken,” because as I sit here they still are. The first way is somehow more entertaining, like I’m telling myself a nice little story, but it also seems contrived. Funny, the things you never think about until you set about committing them to the page.

  For that matter, I hadn’t given much thought to Laura Kellem, although she is the reason I’ve come to this little star in the map next to Lake Erie. Even now, when I think of her, all I get are moments, ripped out of time, with emotional harmonics but no melody for context. I can close my eyes and see her, looking at me with an expression that, at the time, I took for tenderness, but that I later came to believe was only a vague cousin—the fondness one might feel for a cat who lived with a close friend.

  Odd, that. How long has it been since I have had a close friend? Will I ever again? Perhaps. Jim and I seem to be hitting it off rather well, I suppose because neither of us has anything the other wants. Which, now that I think of it, was never true of Laura and I, even when we were close—or what passed for close between us.

  It was close on my part, I think. I cared for her. I’d have to say that I loved her, with the sort of burning passion that I then knew how to feel, and now know how to inspire. It would probably be trite to say, “What goes around comes around,” but that’s what it feels like.

  I remember how I felt, though, when she would escort me through Vienna or Paris. I can still recall the pressure of her hand on my arm. To this day, I don’t know how much affection she felt for me and how much she just found it amusing to have me so infatuated with her. I certainly can’t ask her. And I’m not even sure I want to find out.

  And yet I know that she is capable of intense feelings, or, at any rate, she was once. I remember sitting in a cafe in, well, somewhere where they had cafes. It was closed, and the streets were deserted, but we were sitting there nevertheless, and she started telling me about a man named Broadwin or something like that. Her eyes became soft, almost misty, and she said, “He had such big hands, Jack. When he held me he was all the world. I’d look up into his face and see nothing but his eyes looking down at me.”

  “Where is he now?” I asked casually, because I felt the stirrings of something like jealousy.

  “He’s dead,” she told me. “Years later, he became involved with some bit of fluff in Scotland, and lost his head. Figuratively, at first.” Then her voice changed and she came back to the present. “Take that as a lesson, Agyar János.”

  “I will,” I told her. And I did, too. A couple of lessons, in fact. One of them is that, at one time in her life, she felt something. I wonder if it could ever happen again? Probably not.

  But where was I? Right. I was sitting in the chair, just at the point when Jim the ghost came noiselessly down the stairs and stood translucently in front of me, nearly six feet tall, well dressed, black, with a round face, thick neck, broad shoulders, and very short white hair. He was dressed, as ever, in his funereal best; white shirt and string tie. “You look disgruntled,” he said.

  “This is a boring city.”

  “Maybe. You seemed to like the party last week.”

  “It wasn’t bad. For a college party. I was surprised at the number of disciplines in attendance.”

  “That’s a trademark of Artie. What did you think of him, by the way?”

  “Artie? Professor Carpenter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Never really had the chance to talk to him. His mistress let me in. Why?”

  “His grandfather was one of my instructors.”

  “Is that how you know him?”

  “No, he used to live here.”

  “Oh. That’s right. Why did he leave?”

  “He began to think the place was haunted.”

  “Oh,” I said. And, “He has an ugly mistress.”

  Jim laughed and looked at the pendant I wear on my chest, which is a large chunk of black petrified wood, polished and set in silver. He was only looking at it because he never looked anyone in the eyes, I suspect even when he was alive. Since I’m an eye-contact person, that always makes conversations with him a little uncomfortable. It was also a little disturbing to see the black vertical line of the fireplace poker through his clothing, as if it were a decoration on his trousers. I should imagine that I’ll become used to this sort of thing, if I remain here for any length of time.

  Which subject, in fact, Jim brought up sometime while we were talking. “Do you know how long you’ll be staying?” he said.

  “You mean in Lakota? Or in this house.”

  “Well, both.”

  “Am I bothering you?”

  “Au contraire. I like the company.”

  “Au contraire?” I said. “What is this au god damn contraire?”

  He winced just a little at the profanity and said, “You forget that I’s a eddicated nigguh.”

  “Right. I don’t know how long I’ll be around. Word reached me that an acquaintance was here and wanted to see me. I’ll see what she wants, then be on my way. I prefer bigger cities, in general.”

  “Why are you going to her rather than the other way around?”

  “She’s older than me.”

  “So?”

  “You ask too many questions.”

  “What are you going to do, kill me?”

  I laughed. “Where and
what is Howard’s?” I said.

  “I don’t know; find a phone book.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “Do you have paper and pens here, in case I want to write to her?”

  “Better than that, there’s a typewriter in one of the upstairs rooms. Can you type?”

  “I used to. I’ll take a look at it tomorrow. There’s paper?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” I said, then yawned.

  “Tired?”

  “Yes. It’s winter. I always get more tired in winter.”

  “Seems reasonable. Shall I light the way, suh?”

  “With what?”

  “Mah two glowin’ eyes.”

  “Don’t bother. Just practice up the poltergeist stuff in case anyone tries to wake me.”

  “Shore, bawse.”

  “Thanks. I’ll double your salary.”

  He probably would have said “Shit,” but, as I had already learned, Jim never, ever swore. I went down to my room and slept.

  Here it is, less than forty-eight hours since I left this machine, and I’m back here again, though I’m not certain why.

  It is always strange to be in the grip of emotion and not know what that emotion is. Or, to put it another way, to have been through the sort of experience that ought to engender a strong response, to be waiting to feel that response. I’m not sure if I want to set it down at all, yet I feel the need to tap on these keys. It’s addicting, I think, this business of putting one word after another. Byron mentioned something about that once while he was sick from taking too much of some drug or another.

  I got up several hours before the appointed hour, so I showered, brushed my teeth (the house, though deserted, has its own well, the pump of which still works), got dressed, then found a flower shop just as it was closing. The proprietor took pity and invited me in, and I ordered a bunch of purple roses to be sent to Jill. I toyed with having a cactus sent to young Don, and I might have done so if I’d known how to reach him.

  I took a turn around part of the city, getting to know it the way as a young man I’d gotten to know the twists and turns and buildings at University. I listened in on a few private conversations, just because they were there, but heard nothing worth the trouble of repeating. Eventually I found a phone booth. The difference between Lakota and Staten Island can be expressed in the fact that the phone booth had a city directory in it, looking as if there was no reason for it not to be there. I looked up the address of Howard’s, asked directions of a young man getting into a blue ’86 Ford Pinto, and set out for Woodwright Avenue, called the Ave, which was in the sort of funky part of town, called the Tunnel, that lies between two of the colleges.

  Howard’s turned out to be a nightclub on the Ave with a fake wood front and a covered entryway complete with doorman and red carpet, just like in a real city. I think it is what they call “trendy.” A useful word. Whenever the door opened I could hear nonthreatening jazz creep hesitantly out onto the street, then change its mind and slink back inside when the door closed. To my eyes, Kellem blended into the scene the way Bette Midler would have blended into a monastery, yet no one seemed to notice her.

  It’s funny how I’d forgotten so much of what she looked like. She is about five feet ten inches tall, has red hair and the pale complexion that goes with it. Her face is thin, with strong bones and very bright blue eyes. She had a thin red scarf wrapped around her throat. Her camel-colored coat was thick, elegant, and short. Beneath it she wore dark trousers and low boots. What I noticed right away, however, was that she had a few bald patches on top of her head. I couldn’t imagine what would cause that, but I made up my mind not to ask unless she brought it up. In any case, the patrons didn’t notice either one of us much.

  She saw me at about the same time I saw her, and walked up to meet me. “Agyar,” she said.

  “Kellem.”

  “How long have you been in town?”

  “A little more than a month.”

  “Really? It took you a while to find a place?”

  “Yes. I didn’t know you were in a hurry.”

  “I’m not. But you’re settled in now?”

  “Pretty well.”

  “Good. Hungry?”

  “No. You?”

  “Always.” She smiled without humor. “But let’s just walk and talk.”

  “Sure. Your place?”

  “Funny, Agyar.

  “You know where I live.”

  “That’s different, as you well know.”

  I shrugged. “Lead on, then.”

  She did, taking us a block away from the Ave, onto a side street called Drewry where there was no traffic and most of the houses already had their lights out. Someone once told me it never really got cold in Northeastern Ohio, but either that someone lied or he was Canadian. A pair of squirrels woke up as we walked by their tree, then went back to sleep. Mama raccoon ducked back into her sewer. She smelled like the rats had.

  “Any trouble finding a place to stay?” asked Laura.

  I shrugged. “As I said, I took my time. There was no problem keeping everything locked up in the train depot.”

  “How did you come across the house?”

  “I just walked around and listened to gossip. I heard about Carpenter deserting a house, tracked him down, got invited to a party, found out where the house was, and moved my things in. I had no trouble gaining entry, because no one lived there. So to speak.”

  She chuckled. “Does Carpenter know?”

  “No.”

  “Well, thanks for coming so quickly.”

  “I had nothing pressing. What’s on your mind?”

  “Settling down.”

  “Not a bad idea. I’ve done it myself, once or twice.”

  “Do you believe in omens?”

  “Does the Pope believe in bears?”

  “What about dreams?”

  “Dreams. I’m not certain about dreams. Why?”

  “I’ve been having some odd ones.”

  “What about?”

  “Children. That is, my own.”

  “Have you any?”

  “Not in the conventional sense.”

  “And that’s the sort you’ve been dreaming of?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it seems significant?”

  “Very.”

  “In what way?”

  “I’m not going to live forever, you know.”

  “An axiom, Kellem, without substance.”

  “Maybe, but that’s not how it’s been feeling.”

  “Is that why you’ve brought me out here? Because you’ve been having dreams?”

  “I brought you out here because I knew how to reach you, and I needed to reach someone.”

  “To talk about your dreams?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well?”

  There were a pair of kids, a boy and a girl, both about seventeen, across the street talking about what they were going to do when the year ended. She’d go to school in town, probably at Twain, and he was going to apply to MIT in Boston. The calendar year would be ending in another few weeks, but I decided they probably meant the school year. That was all right, one is as arbitrary as the other, and the year as measured by the progression of seasons doesn’t really mean anything in a city. Their conversation faded into the background din of man and nature, who keep changing each other and making noise while doing so.

  “The dreams have been affecting me,” she said. “I’ve done some strange things.”

  “Taken chances?”

  “All of that.”

  “What sort of chances?”

  “The sort you take when you’re desperate, and not really in control of your actions.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “If you want help, you must tell Doctor Agyar—”

  “Cut it out.”

  I spread my hands, palms up, and waited. When she didn’t continue I said, “Do you think someone might hav
e noticed?”

  “Yes,” she said in a neutral tone, so I couldn’t tell if she was worried, angry, or only vaguely interested.

  “Can you cut and run?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Why?”

  “I like it here.”

  I looked around elaborately. The streets were lined with trees, mostly oak and sycamore. The houses were working-class one-family dwellings, this one blue, that one yellow, that one green, with nothing to choose among them except lawn ornaments.

  “You don’t understand,” she said.

  “No.”

  “I go into coffee shops and talk with artists who are actually creating something. I go to plays, or movie theaters, and meet people with children who talk about how little Johnny speaks in full sentences and he’s only two years old. I—”

  “And you like it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And now and then you do a convenience store or a bank.”

  “When I’m desperate for cash; not often.”

  “And lately you’ve been committing indiscretions.”

  “That’s right. I think I have it under control now, though.”

  “That’s good. Then what do you want me for?”

  She looked me in the eyes for the first time. Hers were blue, large, and very, very cold. “As I said, the indiscretions have been noticed.”

  “So what do you want me for?”

  “Someone has to take the fall,” she said. “It’s going to be you.”

  The night whispered around us, alive but indifferent.

  TWO

  or⋅gan⋅ic adj … . 2. Of, pertaining to, or derived from living organisms … 4. Having properties associated with living organisms … 6. a. Of or constituting an integral part of something; fundamental; constitutional; structural.

  AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY

  I keep discovering ways in which age affects me. For example, when I was younger and, as I said before, considering a career in journalism, I tried to keep a diary, because this had been recommended to me by a professor at University as a way of training myself, but I could never do it. Yet now I find that, as I go through my day, my thoughts keep coming back to this old typewriting machine and I eagerly await the chance to return to it. I don’t understand the reason for this change, and I haven’t the patience for soul-searching.