In dying he had hoped to escape the debt ever being called in. The longer he’d been away from Mr. Mamoulian-and it was six years since they’d last met-the more the memory of the man had come to frighten Breer. The European’s image had not faded with time: quite the contrary. His eyes, his hands, the caress of his voice had stayed crystal-clear when yesterday’s events had become a blur. It was as if Mamoulian had never quite gone, as though he’d left a sliver of himself in Breer’s head to polish up his picture when time dirtied it; to keep a watch on his servant’s every deed.
No surprise then, that the man had come in when he had, interrupting the death scene before it could be played out. No surprise either that he was talking to Breer now as though they’d never been parted, as though he was the loving husband to Breer’s devoted wife, and the years had never intervened. Breer watched Mamoulian move from sink to table as he prepared the tea, locating the pot, setting out the cups, performing each domestic act with hypnotic economy. The debt would have to be paid, he knew that now. There would be no darkness until it was paid. At the thought, Breer began to sob quietly.
“Don’t cry,” said Mamoulian, not turning from the sink.
“I wanted to die,” Breer murmured. The words came out as though through a mouthful of pebbles.
“You can’t perish yet, Anthony. You owe me a little time. Surely you must see that?”
“I wanted to die,” was all Breer could repeat in response. He was trying not to hate the European, because the man would know. He’d feel it for certain, and maybe lose his temper. But it was so difficult: resentment bubbled up through the sobbing.
“Has life been treating you badly?” the European asked.
Breer sniffed. He didn’t want a father confessor, he wanted the dark. Couldn’t Mamoulian understand that he was past explanations, past healing? He was shit on the shoe of a mongol, the most worthless, irredeemable thing in creation. The image of himself as a Razor-Eater, as the last representative of a once-terrible tribe, had kept his self-esteem intact for a few perilous years, but the fantasy had long since lost its power to sanctify his vileness. There was no possibility of working the same trick twice. And it was a trick, just a trick, Breer knew that, and hated Mamoulian all the more for his manipulations. I want to be dead, was all he could think.
Did he say the words out loud? He hadn’t heard himself speak, but Mamoulian answered him as though he had.
“Of course you do. I understand, I really do. You think it’s all an illusion: tribes, and dreams of salvation. But take it from me, it isn’t. There’s purpose in the world yet. For both of us.”
Breer drew the back of his hand across his swollen eyes, and tried to control his sobs. His teeth no longer chattered; that was something.
“Have the years been so cruel?” the European inquired.
“Yes,” Breer said sullenly.
The other nodded, looking across at the Razor-Eater with compassion in his eyes; or at least an adequate impersonation of same.
“At least they didn’t lock you away,” he said. “You’ve been careful.”
“You taught me how,” Breer conceded.
“I showed you only what you already knew, but were too confused by other people to see. If you’ve forgotten, I can show you again.”
Breer looked down at the cup of sweet, milkless tea the European had set on the bedside table.
“-or do you no longer trust me?”
“Things have changed,” Breer mumbled with his thick mouth.
Now it was Mamoulian’s turn to sigh. He sat on the chair again, and sipped at his own tea before replying.
“Yes, I’m afraid you’re right. There’s less and less place for us here. But does that mean we should throw up our hands and die?”
Looking at the sober, aristocratic face, at the haunted hollows of his eyes, Breer began to remember why he’d trusted this man. The fear he’d felt was dwindling, the anger too. There was a calm in the air, and it was seeping into Breer’s system.