“You can tell me all you want,” I told her. “I will believe it when I see it.”
“Oh, Grandfather,” Zamatryna said, laughing. “Alini’s an incurable romantic. And she loves him. She always has.”
“If you say so. I still remember the night she threw the clown.”
Zamatryna rolled her eyes. “Yes, but that’s the sign of how much she really loves him. The passion was going in the wrong direction, that’s all.”
“If that is love,” I said, “I will take indifference.”
“No, you won’t. You’re not indifferent, and neither are they. We aren’t indifferent people. Everything will be fine, Grandfather. I promise.”
“That is not your promise to keep,” I told her, and she laughed and kissed me and danced off to get dressed for her date with Jerry that night. Her room has grown much messier, since she no longer has Gallicina to hide. But Zama tells me that Jerry is neat enough for both of them, and Jerry seems to agree, at least for the moment. We will see if he agrees once they begin to live together. If she is messier, she is also happier, for the weight of the beetle has been lifted from her shoulders. It was an awful burden, that peanut butter jar. I wonder how she bore it for so long, beginning when she was so little. I wonder how she hid it from us all. She moves more lightly now, so much so that it seems impossible we never saw her heaviness before. And yet, how could we? We had no basis for comparison except the old days, in Gandiffri: and exile and the camp, and Darroti’s death, would have been weight enough, if we had seen her weariness and questioned it. Instead, we thought her flawless. We saw the child we wanted her to be, not Zama as she was. I like her better now. She shares her flaws now, and her fears, and so I also trust her joy. I think it is no longer a clown’s joy, hiding the tears inside. I think it is real, and growing.
Stan and Lisa are back together, of course. I think that was Darroti’s kindest act. We thought at first that we would not tell them what had really happened, but at last I told Lisa: secrets had hurt us so, and I feared to keep any more.
“Oh, I already knew,” she said. We were in the kitchen, where we always seem to have important conversations: only Lisa and I, for everyone else was gone. “Jerry told me about his dreams, over coffee that day. He told me about your city, and about the door. He thought I’d already known; he was horrified when he realized I didn’t, poor kid, thought he’d spilled the beans and broken his word to Zama. But you know, Timbor, it was okay. I already knew it had to be something like that, the way you guys could never tell anyone where you were from. And it doesn’t matter. You’re here now. That’s the important thing. So anyway, Jerry told me about Darroti, about that funny mole he had, and then when I heard Stan talk about his vision, I figured out what was going on.”
“But if Stan found out,” I said, “his faith would be broken again. And we must not let that happen.”
Lisa shook her head and put her hand over mine. “Timbor, you know what? If he found out, it wouldn’t make any difference. It doesn’t make any difference. Jesus comes to us in other people, always. That’s the way it works. Stan always knew that with his head: he just couldn’t wrap his heart around it. The trick is learning to see Jesus everyplace, learning to see Christ in whatever poor schlub is walking down the street. Stan can talk about that to beat the band, but he was never very good at doing it. Because he was too afraid, you know, afraid of the other people he knew it was his job to love. Afraid that he’d get hurt, or that he’d go to hell for loving somebody who’d done something wrong, even though that’s the entire point, that’s what we’re supposed to do, because everybody does things wrong. So if Stan learned to see Jesus in a ghost, well, then, that’s fine. Because now he’s learning to see Jesus in the checkout kids at the supermarket, too, even when they shortchange him or break the eggs or take too long loading the cart because they’re gossiping with their friends.”
“But you don’t believe in ghosts,” I said, frowning.
“I’m saying ghost because that’s your word, honey. I’d call Darroti an angel, myself.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. American angels are nauseating. “He had no harp or wings.”
Lisa snorted. “I didn’t say he was a Hallmark angel. I don’t believe in those any more than you do. Angel means messenger. And he certainly delivered messages, didn’t he?”
Perhaps Lisa is right, that it wouldn’t make any difference if Stan knew about the ghost. I still have never told him; I will let her do that. Instead, I let him tell me about Jesus, which he does every Saturday when we go to visit the De Soto. We sit on the bench by the beautiful car with the plastic sunbursts on top, and Stan tells me about his vision, about how Jesus came and gave him hope. He never tires of telling me, and because I know it was my son who gave him hope, I never tire of listening. I would surely lose my patience otherwise, for Stan’s sermons now are much more fervent even than they were when first we came here. I wonder sometimes how Lisa can stand it. And yet she is happy, and Stan’s church has begun to grow again: he has found his fire, Lisa says, and its light is drawing others.
“Come to worship tomorrow,” he tells me, every Saturday. “Come and join us, Timbor. Listen to the Word of God.”
“Friend,” I always tell him, “I get your Word of God every Saturday, from you. I do not need it on Sunday also.”
“But it’s different with a group of other people. It’s different when we all pray and sing together. You still don’t believe, Timbor, I can tell you don’t; you’re just being polite and listening to me. You were always polite, but I want you to be happy—”
“Stan,” I tell him, “I am so much happier than I used to be that you would not believe me if I told you. I could not make you believe it. And I believe in the vision you had, because I have seen how it brought you and Lisa back together.”
“The Fruits of the Spirit,” he says, beaming.
Yes, I think, and the Spirit was Darroti’s. “And Stan, tomorrow is my day to spend with Jerry and Zama. You know that.”
This always placates him; he loves the children. And, indeed, I treasure my Sundays, the days they save for me. We go to movies, or we walk along the river. We talk about the wedding. I answer Jerry’s questions about Gandiffri, for he is endlessly curious, and indeed, there is much that Zama also does not know. I tell them about the Elements and the Great Breaking, about the Great Market and the Judges, about the regions of Gandiffri and the carpets in each one. Jerry tells me that one of his sisters-in-law is a weaver, and he has asked her to make a carpet with the colors of the Elements. It will be his house-warming gift to Zama, when they get their apartment. It is a lovely thought; he is a lovely boy.
And sometimes we talk about Darroti and Gallicina, puzzling over the story Macsofo told us, the story that explains so much I never really noticed at the time. I think back now on Darroti’s struggles with liquor, on his odd excitement some days at the Market and his deep despair on others, on the nights he spent away from home, when we simply thought that he was with his friends. I think about all the people who came to buy carpets from us, and wonder if I ever saw Gallicina in the crowd. Sometimes, still, I torment myself, wondering if I could have made the story end a different way if I had noticed more, said more. And yet there is no way for me to know: and would I want a different ending, a story where we never left Gandiffri, never met Stan or Lisa or Jerry? It is unanswerable. I am glad I cannot make that choice.
But I make the children promise not to keep such secrets, ever. I tell them: “When you have children of your own, pay attention. Take nothing lightly, nothing for granted. Always let them know that they can talk to you. Always love them.” And yet I think they would do that anyway; and Darroti’s story has taught them that they must not keep their feelings from each other, that they must not let jealousy or anger grow.
Zamatryna wears Darroti’s necklace now. She and Jerry love the fact that the sign that means a kiss also means forever, in mathematics. I was startled when she began to
wear it; I thought the symbol would bring her too much pain, remind her of all those years hiding the beetle in the peanut butter j ar. But to her it is a symbol of reunion and hope. And so she always wears it, as Lisa always wears her cross, although Zama has replaced the black silk cord, which had begun to fray, with a fine silver chain. And sometimes when she sees me looking at it, she hides it, tucks it into her shirt. “It’s making you look sad today, Grandfather. I know how much you miss him.”
Aye, I miss him. I shall always miss him, my youngest child, the boy who toddled around the garden in the sunshine, pulling the wagon I made for him. Darroti, my clown, the last fruit of my love for Frella, whom I also miss. The family keeps Zamatryna’s doll, the wooden one, on the hutch in the dining room now, where Lisa’s fancy clown used to be. Harani has given it new yarn hair, and eyes of blue beads: it looks happy at last. It is a beloved reminder, but it is not my son.
And yet he visits me, in dreams, and now I know to listen. I listen to his tale of how he read my letters, how they told him what to do. Am I inventing that? I will never—can never—know for sure, and yet I think that I am not. I think that my Darroti, who learned how to be two places at once, is everywhere now. I think he left a part of himself behind with us, when he went through the Door; I think the family still remains together, and always will.
And I dream of him in Lémabantunk, a Lémabantunk different than the one I knew, and yet the same. I dream that the city goes on without us, still vibrant, still beautiful with banners and flowers and festivals. I dream that Darroti and Gallicina dwell now in a tree. It is a lovely elm in one of the ceremonial gardens on the edge of the city, not far from the park where they had their first private meeting. Birds nest in their leaves, and children climb on their branches. I dream that they grow and learn together in death as they did not do in life. The Elements are gracious, to permit them to be together now.
That is a good dream, and I have it often, but it is not my favorite. My favorite is the dream that I had only once, the very night the Door appeared among us and disappeared again.
In that dream, Darroti watches Zamatryna bring the jar out from her bedroom, watches her open it. He feels the beetle land upon the cloth containing him. And then he feels the beetle trace its figure-eight, its kiss, and he knows that Gallicina tried to make the sign before she died. He knows, at last, that she heard him, heard the tale he tried to tell her, sobbing, while her life ran out upon the stones. She heard him say he loved her: she heard and understood that he had been with Stini only to go to the place where he would keep his promise to his love, to forfeit drink.
With her last strength, Gallicina tried to trace the kiss upon his wrist, to tell him she had heard. That strength failed her; she could not complete the pattern.
It is completed now, at last. The pattern is completed, and Darroti knows himself forgiven. His soul rises from the towel to embrace her, as he has yearned to do each moment since she died. And the Door opens, and they fly through it. They fly home, through the blue tunnel, into the glorious sunshine of an autumn day in Lémabantunk, where they will dwell in love forever.
Tor Books by Susan Palwick
Flying in Place
The Necessary Beggar
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
THE NECESSARY BEGGAR
Copyright © 2005 by Susan Palwick
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form.
Edited by Patrick Nielsen Hayden.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
eISBN 9781429959575
First eBook Edition : September 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Palwick, Susan.
The necessary beggar / Susan Palwick.—1 st ed.
p. cm.
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
1. Exiles—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3566.A554N47 2005
813′.54—dc22
2005041919
The Necessary Beggar Page 31
