by Darren Shan
“You’ll have to,” she says, “because I don’t want you. I’ll never want you. But I love you and I’ll give myself to you. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to endure it — I guess I’ll wind up slashing my wrists in a tub late one night — but you can have me for as long as I last. You’ll get your money’s worth.”
I feel my lower lip quiver and bite down on it quick. I’m The Cardinal, and The Cardinal doesn’t cry, no matter what the circumstances. Steeling myself, I force a sneer. “You flatter yourself if you think I’d give my heart to a whore.”
Her jaw drops. “What?”
“That’s what you’re offering yourself as. You’ll give me your body, to do with as I please, while you lie back, close your eyes and dream of… who? Jeery? Is that who you’d rather be with?”
“I’d rather be with anyone than you,” she snarls, angry tears building.
“Then go,” I shrug, my soul disintegrating with the gesture. “The city’s full of whores. I won’t have difficulty finding another, one who’ll at least pretend her heart’s in it.”
“You… you don’t… want me?” she mumbles.
“Not like this. If you’d come to me with love, I’d have turned you into a queen and placed you above all others. But chaining yourself to me as a slave… that doesn’t tempt me. I can’t love a woman I can’t respect.” I turn my back on her and walk to the window, forcing the words from between my reluctant lips. “And I can’t respect a whore.”
The brutality is necessary. To free her, I must drive her away. She’ll never get over me, just as I’ll never get over her, but if I convince her that I don’t want her, maybe she can live without me. Ferdinand Dorak loved a woman who couldn’t love him back. Rather than imprison her, he behaved as a human for perhaps the only time in his life and set her free. I must do the same, even though I’m more of a monster than he ever was.
“Capac… I don’t understand… I thought…” She stops and stands. I’m captivated by her reflection in the glass. She’s staring at me, crying but smiling. I almost turn and run to her — but don’t. If I did, I wouldn’t be able to let her go. The monster would overwhelm me and she’d be devoured.
“Thank you,” she whispers. I pretend not to hear. Wiping tears away, she walks to the door, turns the handle and steps through, closing it gently behind her.
I stay by the window, gazing at the rear yard of Party Central, thinking about how I sacrificed Ama before and how I’ve given her up now. It was easier the other way. Life’s simpler if you face it as an emotionless beast.
I spot them exiting, black and white specks fifteen floors down. They go to their vehicles — a bicycle and moped — then stop and talk. I wish I could hear what they’re saying. A car pulls up and they exchange words with the passengers in the back. Jeery laughs, slaps the roof of the car, and it drives on. The pair share a few more words, then Jeery hands something to Ama. She ends the conversation by throwing her arms around him and kissing him. I’m too far up to tell whether it’s a kiss of passion or friendship. Then she turns, climbs aboard her moped and departs. Jeery leaves soon after, pedaling slowly, passing through the gates one last time.
I back away from the window and stare around my office, considering my position. I have everything Dorak made me to desire — power, influence, wealth, an army, a city… one day, perhaps, a world. I have more than any man before me, all the attributes and possessions of the gods, and I may well become one before I’m through.
But I’d give it all up if I could trade places with Al Jeery, receive that kiss from Ama, and just walk away to live a normal life and die and never come back.
3: adios!
We say nothing in the elevator going down. Ama’s crying. I’m not sure what went on in Raimi’s office, but I think things didn’t go quite the way she expected them to. I take my time walking from the elevator to the yard, knowing this is the last time I’ll ever make the walk, remembering my years as a Troop, the good years with Ellen, the lost years of drinking… the human years.
When we reach our bikes, I clear my throat. “Did you tell him where to get off?”
Ama smiles. “I told him the truth, that I loved him and would give myself to him, but if I had a choice I’d have nothing to do with him.” She pauses, eyes misting over. “He set me free.”
“Come again?”
“He said he didn’t want me. Told me I was a whore. Kicked me out with orders not to come back.”
I stare at her. “But I thought he was created to love you.”
She nods. “But he always enjoyed more freedom than the other Ayuamarcans. He had the ability to cast me aside. And he did, even though it pained him, for my sake.” Tears trickle down her cheeks, but they’re tears of happiness. “He’s alone, and always will be, but he set me free because he loved me and couldn’t bear to see me suffer.”
“Maybe he really didn’t care that much for you,” I suggest, but she shakes her head confidently.
“He’s in agony but he’ll endure it — for me.” She glances up at the fifteenth floor, then looks down morosely. “It’s almost enough to make me want to go back to him. Almost.”
“What will you do now?” I ask curiously.
“Carry on with Cafran,” she shrugs, drying her cheeks. “Run his new restaurant. Make friends. Try and forget about the past.”
“You could leave with me if you wanted,” I mumble, not daring look at her as I make the proposition.
“Inviting me to elope, Al?” I sense her smile.
“We got on well together that time we…” I cough discreetly.
“Very well,” she giggles.
“So how about it?” I raise my eyes, grinning hopefully.
“No,” she sighs. “I’m not saying I don’t want you — I just don’t want you now. I have to find out who I am, discover what I need from life. This city’s a cemetery for you, but it’s a nursery as far as I’m concerned. I want to grow here and learn. One day, maybe, I can leave too. But not now.”
“Think you might want to look me up when that day comes?”
“I might,” she smirks. “Will you keep in touch, let me know how you get on and where you wind up?”
“Sure. By the way, there’s something I have to give you…”
As I’m reaching inside the bag attached to the back of my bike, a car pulls up. The tinted glass in the rear window rolls down and the grinning faces of Ford Tasso and Jerry Falstaff are revealed.
“Doing a runner, Algiers?” Tasso bellows.
“Bet your wrinkled old ass I am,” I laugh, leaning down for a better view. “How you doing, Jerry?” I haven’t seen him since the attack on Cockerel Square, though I’ve heard he stepped down as head of the Troops shortly after.
“Not too bad,” he smiles. “Getting some grief from the new boss, but with a bit of luck he won’t be around very long.”
“Watch it,” Tasso growls. “I’ll outlast you and all the rest of your soft-as-shit generation.”
“You’re back in control of the Troops?” I ask, mildly amazed. “What happened to your retirement?”
“Fuck that,” Tasso snorts. “I wasn’t meant to grow old gracefully. I got such a buzz being back in the game, there wasn’t a hope of me walking away from it again. I’m in this for the duration, Algiers, however long that might prove to be — and the way I’m feeling, there could be a few decades left in me yet.”
“You’re an insane old bastard,” I chuckle, shaking my head admiringly.
“In this city, you have to be,” he retorts, winking with his one good eye, sitting back and calling to the driver, “Home, Thomas!”
I laugh, step back from the car and slap the roof, seeing them off. I smile as I watch them go and silently wish them well, though I doubt whether they need my good wishes. Some people were born to succeed in this city, and Jerry and Tasso are two of its favored sons. They’ll flourish.
“You’ll miss them, won’t you?” Ama asks.
“Yeah. The old s
on of a bitch especially. But I’ll survive.” Reaching into the bag, I hand her the doll I was going to give her before the interruption. It’s her Ayuamarcan doll, the one I brought from the hall of the Coya. “Take care of that,” I warn her as she turns it around, studying it warily, lifting it to her ear to listen to the tinny beating of its heart. “If anything happens to it, you’re done for. Keep it somewhere safe. Very safe.”
“I will,” she replies, slipping the doll inside her shirt.
She clears her throat. “It’s not any of my business, but your father’s doll… what happened to it?”
I let out a long breath and pat the bag behind me. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t sure what to do with it — what I could do with it — when I came up from the tunnels. But I’ve had time to think. I know how to deal with it now.”
“You’ll make things right?” she asks.
“As right as I can,” I smile.
Ama nods, satisfied, then wraps her arms around me and kisses me deeply. The kiss takes me by surprise and for a few seconds I don’t respond. Then my arms tighten around her and I return the embrace. When we break, we’re both grinning. Maybe I’m kidding myself, but I don’t think this is the last kiss we’ll share. Some day, in some far-flung corner of the world, we’ll kiss again. I’d stake all I have on it.
“See you later, Mr. Jeery,” Ama smirks.
“Not too much later, I hope.”
Blowing me a kiss, Ama mounts her moped and takes off, not looking back, putting the monster on the fifteenth floor behind her forever, surrendering herself to the random uncertainties of the future. I wait until she’s out of sight, then cycle slowly through the gates of Party Central—“Adios!” I roar as I pass the bemused Troops on guard — and head for my final port of call before catching the train out.
The Harpies are absent — they must be with Jennifer — and Bill’s upstairs, painting snakes on a wall. He’s working on a huge rattler when I walk in, using a tiny brush to get the colors just right. I don’t announce myself, just toss my gift — the Paucar Wami doll — at his knees and await his reaction.
Bill’s eyes narrow when he spots me. Then he looks at the doll and slowly picks it up. He studies it silently, running the tip of a finger over the tattooed snakes. “This is the man in my dreams,” he whispers.
“The original Paucar Wami,” I confirm. “The one who tricked you into killing your sister.” Bill’s eyes harden and his fingers close around the doll. “Let’s find a couple of chairs. I’ve got a story to tell you.”
Seated in a bare room at the back of the house, I run Bill through the history of Paucar Wami, how he and the other Ayuamarcans were created by The Cardinal, the part the villacs played in it, how I became aware of my father when Bill drove us together ten years ago, his death, my years mimicking him, his revival, what happened in the tunnels, how the killer’s linked to the doll. I don’t think Bill takes all of it in, but he grasps the most important element. The doll he holds can be used to terminate the assassin of his nightmares — forever.
“I can’t do it,” I finish. “As barbaric as he is, he’s my father and we’ve come through too much together. But I can’t let him roam the world freely either. He has to be stopped. And I think you’re the person most entitled to stop him.”
Bill stares at the doll, saying nothing, his face a blank.
“It’s what you wanted,” I whisper. “The son to rise up and destroy the father. I’m giving him to you, letting you take him down. Your revenge is complete. Once you drive a pin through the doll’s heart, it’s over. You’ll be even. I think you’ll enjoy some measure of peace. It might even stop the nightmares.”
Bill’s eyes lift slowly, painfully. “You think I can escape them?” he croaks.
“Maybe.”
“A life without snakes,” he murmurs, his gaze returning to the doll. “I’ve forgotten what that was like. It’s been so long. To sleep again and not dream of serpents and death and terrible things… It’s too much to hope for.”
“A good night’s sleep isn’t that much,” I disagree. “I think you’ve earned it.” Standing, I search my thoughts for a final comment, but what’s there to say? This man destroyed my life, killed those closest to me, set me on the path to madness and murder. Yet without his interference the villacs would still rule the city, immersing it in chaos whenever it suited their purpose. Ama would be theirs. The Snakes would be puppets in their hands. And maybe I’d belong to them too. The priests were intent on winning me over to their cause. If Bill hadn’t pushed me too far, perhaps I’d have succumbed to their call. I can’t hate him, not anymore. I’m not sure what I feel for this pitiful old man who’s played such a crucial role — both for good and bad — in my life, but it’s not hate.
Abandoning the search for a memorable farewell, I settle for the simplest of all. “Goodbye, Bill.” And after pausing to set down my second gift to the wizened old man — the varnished finger which has hung from a chain around my neck these past ten years — I leave him to his wreck of a house and ruin of a life, sitting on the floor, surrounded by snakes, cradling the Paucar Wami doll to his chest, weeping softly at the thought of the freedom and peace that are his for the taking.
The train station. The sun’s setting in the west and I’ll be heading after it, at least for an hour, before the train turns north. Riding off into a long, rosy sunset like a cowboy. My ticket will take me to the end of the line if I want to travel that far, but I suspect I’ll get off somewhere along the way, in a quiet town or village, or maybe just hop off in the middle of nowhere. I’d like to find a nice spot by a river and do some fishing for a year or two, push all other worries from my mind. Travel later if I feel like it. Sit by the river and grow old slowly if I don’t.
The train pulls out on schedule and I lean back in my seat, casting my weary gaze over the landmarks one final time. Hard to believe I spent so much of my life here, confined by gray buildings, beating blood-drenched streets, living so tensely, so brutally. What keeps people in cities when there are the wide open spaces of the world to explore? It must be madness or an addiction.
I find myself staring at my reflection when the train enters a tunnel. With my snakes painted over, my short crop of hair, and a hunger for new challenges in my eyes, I can almost pass for the man I was ten years ago, before my descent into the subterranean world of the Incas. I must keep the snakes covered. Perhaps one day I’ll pay a surgeon to remove them. Or maybe I’ll hang on to them, reminders of the darkness. It might be good in later years to wipe the paint away every now and then, study the coils of the insane past, and appreciate how fortunate I am to have come out of it alive, intact and in some way human.
Across the aisle, a young boy — four, maybe five — pulls away from his tired mother and makes a break for freedom. She lunges after him but misses. I catch him before he escapes and hand him back. “Thank you,” she smiles, then scolds him in a low, harsh voice. Out of the jumble of words, I hear her warn him, “If you don’t behave, Paucar Wami will come and eat you!”
I turn away to hide a wry smile. Paucar Wami won’t ever eat any little children again, but let him live on in legend if that’s how people want it. I like the idea of him surviving that way. He stepped, fully formed, out of a fantasy and it’s only fitting that he should now return to the land of shadowy myths.
Me? I’m through with legacies. I don’t want anybody telling stories about Al Jeery. I’ll happily pass into obscurity when my time comes, and leave nothing but the dust of my bones behind. Let Capac Raimi have his eternity, and Paucar Wami his notoriety. I’ll settle for whatever years I have left and a soothing, dark hole in the ground at the end.
The train clears the suburbs and picks up speed. I look for a sign to say we’re leaving the city but none materializes. Maybe kids have made off with them, or perhaps nobody bothered to erect any since the city always seems to be expanding, devouring more ground with every passing year. One day it may cover the entire planet, but that’s not m
y problem. Let future generations deal with that one.
As we head into the glow of dusk, away from the shadows of the city, I lie back and close my eyes, basking in the warmth of the sun through the glass, listening to the whine and screech of the engine and the wheels. After a while I doze, not a sound sleep, but that state halfway between dreams and the real world. In that in-between realm, I’m sitting on the greenest bank of grass in all the world, fishing in a river of purest blue. Bill’s close by, fixing bait
(not a worm, but a tiny snake)
to a hook. He catches my eye, winks and casts off. Behind us, ghostly figures flit in and out of the scene — Ellen and Ama, Capac Raimi and Ferdinand Dorak, Nicola Hornyak, Rudi Ziegler, Sard, Ford Tasso. Frank Weld hits the party with Hyde Wornton, both bitching about the way they were killed. My father doesn’t appear. I’ll dream about him often in the years to come, but he has no place at a friendly gathering like this.
There’s a barbecue sizzling in the background. Someone tells Bill and me to get busy — there’s a lot of hungry people who need feeding. We look at each other, laugh, crack open beers and engage in the mother of all contests. Soon the bank around us is overflowing with fish, every shape and variety, but all pale-skinned and blind.
“That’s it!” Bill cries, abandoning his line to the river. “You win.” He stands, claps my back, then vanishes into the crowd behind me, to dance with his young, giggling sister and a smartly dressed, prim and proper lady who would have been Margaret Crowe in another universe. “Coming?” Bill calls faintly.
“Soon,” I murmur, both in the dream and on the train in the real world. Settling back, I slip further into the dream and welcome more familiar faces — Howard Kett, Dr. Sines, Ali. And, arriving like a lord, a playgirl on each arm, the ancient, smirking Fabio. As the party swings into high gear, I cast my line far out into the heart of the river and carry on fishing, savoring the cool breeze and the scent of fried fish, looking forward to a night of wild tales and fond reminiscences, spent in the company of lost, loved friends.
