‘—was not Gordon Kramer. There is a Gordon Kramer. Jimmy Thane’s friend. But that man in the airport, was just... ’
‘Dispensable.’
‘Yes,’ she agrees.
And then, thinking perhaps that I need more explanation, she says,
‘You loved Jimmy Thane’s stories. More than all the others, I think. You loved to hear his stories best. They fascinated you. That he was so weak. Such a disaster. You liked the idea of it. A drug-addict trying to turn around his own life – while trying to turn around a company. It seemed so... poetical.’
‘Poetical?’
‘You’ve always been a beautiful, sensitive man.’
‘Yes,’ I agree.
‘Maybe that is the problem. Your true nature comes through. The real Jimmy Thane... he would have accepted the life that you gave him.
He would have taken the money, and accepted the wife. He wouldn’t have asked questions. But you... in your heart, you are too decent, you see? Despite Liago, your true nature comes through. You are too smart. Too good. You can’t just live, and be stupid, and happy.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Maybe that is how Jimmy Thane would have acted. He was trying to change. He wanted to be someone better than he was.’
‘I wonder,’ she says. ‘Was it Jimmy Thane? Or was it you?’
I take her hand. ‘Katerina, who am I?’
‘You know who you are. Why do you always make me say the name?’
Silence. We stare at the ocean. Fog is pressed into a thin band above the horizon. Just beyond, looming through the haze, is a dark mass of land – British Columbia. The sun is behind us, and I can feel it warming my neck, my back, and it makes the water sparkle with pearly iridescence. The world is a beautiful place, I think, if only men didn’t foul it with sin.
I say: ‘And Cole? That little boy?’
‘Yes, the children,’ she says, with something like sadness. ‘They are the worst part for you. You do them yourself. You remember that now, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You never ask other men to bear those crimes. Charles Adams’s little girl. Jimmy Thane’s little boy. Terrible. But you do it.’
‘I’m a monster.’
‘Yes,’ she says, matter-of-factly. ‘But you don’t want to be any more. And that’s what matters. You want forgiveness. You want your sins washed away. It can be done. I know it can. He promises us. It is written, that anyone can be forgiven. Anyone can be reborn. Anyone can start again.’
‘Even me?’
The memories come back.
Rushing back, as if a heavy sea lock has rumbled open deep inside my soul, and the cold grey water has come churning back in. I can see them now – the things that Ghol Gedrosian has done. I can remember them.
He has raped women, in front of husbands and children, and then had those children killed to teach the men a lesson.
He has taken eyes and fingers, made grotesqueries of flesh and bone.
He has listened to men scream like babies as he cut them apart to make them speak.
He has walked into quiet suburban houses at night, and lifted sleeping children, and drowned them in tubs of water while their fathers slept.
I can hear the screams now. I can feel those frantic fingers grasping at mine, the hands of the little boys and girls as they struggle for air.
His deeds are vile. Evil. There is no other word for the things he has done.
For the things I have done.
Yet I know in my heart: I had no choice. These things were required of me. Circumstances required them. Circumstances of birth, of contingency, of chance. Who I was. Where I was born. Who I became. None of these were my choices.
It is easy to live without sin in a monastery in the mountains, or in an American suburb with white picket fences and two cars in the garage. Any man can do that. No one should congratulate himself for living that spotless life.
It is harder to live without sin in Chechnya, to be born in a war that drives children to kill their fathers, and husbands to kill their wives.
‘Please forgive me,’ I say, to no one in particular.
‘Would you like to try again?’ she asks tenderly. She tilts her head, and looks into my eyes. ‘You don’t have to, you know. You have a choice. You always have a choice. You can stay who you are. We can go somewhere together. Somewhere far away, where your enemies cannot find us. We have money. We can go to the other side of the world, and live on an island, and walk on the beach, and make love all day, and be together until we die.’
‘That sounds lovely,’ I admit. I think about it. ‘But... ’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘You will always remember.’
‘I can’t live like this. Being this man. I need forgiveness. I need to be reborn.’
‘I know.’
‘Will we get it right this time?’
She shrugs. ‘Maybe. We will see. Whatever happens, I’ll be with you. Because I love you.’
‘I love you, too.’
She takes my hand, and holds it in hers, and we watch the fog burn off the ocean, and a new day begin.
EPILOGUE
The headmaster didn’t want to like the man who arrived that Wednesday morning at ten o’clock. He was late, first of all, by a full hour. Which is disrespectful, the first day you arrive at a new job.
But more importantly, he was a replacement for Steve Tanner, and the headmaster had liked Tanner – still liked him, even after what had happened. He couldn’t understand what had made Tanner do the thing that he did. Why would you throw away an entire career over a woman? It wasn’t just the fact that it was a woman – although, to be honest, the headmaster tended to be pulled in the other direction by Eros – but, female or otherwise, why would Tanner quit in the middle of the school year, and board an airplane, literally without a day’s notice – and send a mysterious email when he landed, about a lover in Chile, and a need to ‘follow his heart’? It was impetuous, almost crazy – not at all like the Tanner that the headmaster had known.
And now here was the new teacher, the replacement, sitting across the desk from the headmaster, in the expansive office, overlooking the manicured athletic fields, and beyond them, the grey stone buildings that housed the dorms and the classrooms.
The new teacher was older than the headmaster had expected. Dark hair, a bit of a paunch, sleepy eyes, a limp. A nose that had been broken, a bit askew. Not unpleasant looking. But the man’s covering letters, the glowing references he had received from colleagues and superiors – all had made the headmaster expect someone else – someone younger, perhaps – someone more vibrant.
It didn’t matter. As long as the man could run a classroom filled with twenty pubescent eighth-graders, and as long as he was available right now, in the middle of the school year, then he would do. His sudden availability – really extraordinary considering the time of year – meant the headmaster would avoid problems. There would be no pushy parents demanding to know why a teacher had quit an expensive private boarding school in the middle of the year. The fact that his replacement happened to teach Religion and Ethics – the exact subject that Tanner had taught – was an extraordinary break. Not that you ever wished disaster upon someone else, but that horrifying fire in the Vermont boarding school, that had killed so many – young and old – at least had had one salutary effect. The new teacher had not been in the dorm when it had happened, and so he was available, precisely when Tanner went AWOL. So lucky were these circumstances – it was as if God himself were controlling the events, making everything perfect...
...but no, that was an impious thought. God does not set fires, and
God does not fill vacancies at boarding schools.
But still.
It was lucky. So lucky, that the headmaster had taken the unusual step of hiring the teacher sight unseen, without having met him, based solely on written references. So the headmaster was secretly glad when the man who arrived in his office proved to be acceptable
: white, Anglo-Saxon, probably even Christian.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ the new teacher said. ‘It’s really unforgivable. To be late on the first day of a new job.’
‘Yes,’ the headmaster agreed, a bit startled that the man had nearly read his mind. ‘But I suppose you’re not familiar with the area, and the roads up here can be confusing.’
The new teacher inclined his head.
‘Well,’ the headmaster went on, ‘there’s no harm. Your first class doesn’t start until after lunch. I still have time to show you the campus.’
‘I’d like that.’
The headmaster studied the man. There was something about him, a gentle affability. He’d probably do well with the children. The headmaster complimented himself that he was a good judge of people. This man seemed to have a kind quality, something genuine, something that made you trust him.
‘I think you’ll fit in here,’ the headmaster said.
‘Thank you. I hope so.’
‘And, if things work out,’ the headmaster added, feeling suddenly expansive and generous, ‘then we can talk about extending your contract into next year.’
The man smiled. ‘I would like that. I have a good feeling about this school.’
‘No other plans, then?’ the headmaster asked. ‘No desire to seek greener pastures?’
‘Oh, no,’ said the man. ‘If you want me, I can stay here for a long time.’
The headmaster realized that he had perhaps over-extended himself, practically offering a job to this man without even seeing him teach. More cautiously he said, ‘Well, let’s see how these first few months go. We can discuss your future later.’
‘That’s fine,’ the man said. ‘I’m in no hurry.’ He smiled, and added: ‘I have all the time in the world.’
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