Propped up on the bed, feeling the signs of life reappearing in his wracked body, Breer watched the European making the tea. They were very different people. Breer had always felt awed by this man. Yet hadn't the European told him once: "I am the last of my tribe, Anthony, just as you are the last of yours. We are in so many ways the same"? Breer hadn't understood the significance of the remark when he'd first heard it, but he'd come to understand in time. "I am the last true European; you are the last of the Razor-Eaters. We should try to help each other. " And the European had gone on to do just that, keeping Breer from capture on two or three occasions, celebrating his trespasses, teaching him that to be a Razor-Eater was a worthy estate. In return for this education he'd asked scarcely anything: a few minor services, no more. But Breer wasn't so trusting that he didn't suspect a time would come when the Last European-please call me Mr. Mamoulian, he used to say, but Breer had never really got his tongue around that comical name-when this strange companion would ask for help in his turn. It wouldn't be an odd job or two he'd ask either; it would be something terrible. Breer knew that, and feared it.
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.
"Drink your tea, Anthony."
"Thank you."
"Then I think you should change your trousers."
Breer blushed; he couldn't help himself.
"Your body responded quite naturally, there's nothing to be ashamed of. Semen and shit make the world go round."
The European laughed, softly, into his teacup, and Breer, not feeling the joke to be at his expense, joined in.
"I never forgot you," Mamoulian said. "I told you I'd come back for you and I meant what I said."
Breer nursed his cup in hands that still trembled, and met Mamoulian's gaze. The look was as unfathomable as he'd remembered, but he felt warm toward the man. As the European said, he hadn't forgotten, he hadn't gone away never to return. Maybe he had his own reasons for being here now maybe he'd come to squeeze payment out of a long-standing debtor, but that was better, wasn't it, than being forgotten entirely?
"Why come back now?" he asked, putting down his cup.
"I have business," Mamoulian replied.
"And you need my help?"
"That's right."
Breer nodded. The tears had stopped entirely. The tea had done him good: he felt strong enough to ask an insolent question or two.
"What about me?" came the reply.
The European frowned at the inquiry. The lamp beside the bed flickered, as though the bulb was at crisis point, and about to go out.
"What about you?" he asked.
Breer was aware that he was on tricky ground, but he was determined not to be weak. If Mamoulian wanted help, then he should be prepared to deliver something in exchange.
"What's in it for me?" he asked.
"You can be with me again," the European said.
Breer grunted. The offer was less than tempting.
"Is that not enough?" Mamoulian wanted to know. The lamplight was more fitful by the moment, and Breer had suddenly lost his taste for impertinence.
"Answer me, Anthony," the European insisted. "If you've got an objection, voice it."
The flickering was worsening, and Breer knew he'd made an error, pressing Mamoulian for a covenant. Why hadn't he remembered that the European loathed bargains and bargainers alike? Instinctively he fingered the noose groove around his neck. It was deep, and permanent.
"I'm sorry..." he said, rather lamely.
Just before the lamp bulb gave out completely, he saw Mamoulian shake his head. A tiny shake, like a tick. Then the room was drowned in darkness.
"Are you with me, Anthony?" the Last European murmured.
The voice, normally so even, was twisted out of true.