Work Text:
- Elizabeth Bishop, "Casabianca"Love's the boy stood on the burning deck
trying to recite "The boy stood on
the burning deck." Love's the son
stood stammering elocution
while the poor ship in flames went down.
Dear Ryan,
I suppose I should begin by assuring you that there's no need to be alarmed, but I suspect such assurances would fall on deaf ears. I can only plead, then, that you suppress your desire to tear this letter to shreds and begin throwing your meager possessions into boxes before you reach the end.
You may wonder why, if I was able to locate you with such ease, I shouldn't have called; the reason for that will soon be made clear. And the lost art of letter-writing is due for a revival, don't you agree? Naturally you must have suspected that I did not perish in that fire, and I imagine that you've been anticipating the day when I would reach out to discuss our next collaboration. Has my death been weighing on your conscience, or are some lives worth more than others? For example, is your friend Agent Weston more worthy of life because he is tethered to traditional notions of morality like a dog chained to a pole? But those are questions for another time; my point is simply that if my purported death was a burden on what remains of your conscience, it is one that can now be released.
I will tell you that the postmark is meaningless, and that I'll have moved on long before you receive this. Accordingly, I am not expecting a written response. The next time we meet (if there is a next time, he allows), perhaps you'll do me the courtesy of responding to a few of the questions to follow, or perhaps this letter will merely inspire you to take the opportunity presented by our current separation to reflect upon a few instances from our shared history that I fear you have forgotten, so blinded are you by your righteous rage.
I hope you're doing well, and that your recovery has continued apace. Surely you must have surmised by now that Molly's attempt on your life (and, of course, Claire's life) was unsanctioned. Had she succeeded, that would have made a most unsatisfying conclusion to both the fiction and nonfiction versions of our story. I should mention that she wanted to be the one to end your life, right from the start, and I'm sure she had her reasons, but obviously her artless fumble was motivated exclusively by emotion. Although I am disappointed, I cannot fault her for striking when she did, given that many of my own recent inadvisable actions were taken in the heat of one prolonged, terrible moment. In any event, I have heard that you took the appropriate corrective action and for that I am in your debt.
I wonder if this is a mistake, if you'll heed my entreaty to keep this letter intact but forward it to your remaining colleagues for "analysis" before you've finished reading. Except that you've already analysed me, haven't you, despite having no real qualifications to do so? Granted, your book was conjecture disguised as fact, a blatant effort to capitalize on a connection you didn't bother to explain before attempting to exploit it. Hasn't anyone ever questioned the nature of your obsession with me, or my work? If you claim it began the night I spared your life, hasn't anyone ever questioned why I would pull that particular punch if we were only acquaintances, as you suggest? Of course, that isn't the way you prefer to tell our story, but surely even you can agree that if I'd wanted to end your life that night, I would have.
I can imagine there is a certain appeal to your “betrayal” narrative, that you were simply seduced, like any other weak-minded individual would be upon encountering a master manipulator. After all, don't I prey on the damaged, bend them to my will? And what are you, if not damaged? That's a tidy framework for you to guide your readers through the underworld of my darker impulses, but it's not the whole truth, is it?
I like to think of my readers as those rare individuals who understand and likely share my worldview. Did you ever think about the sort of people who would be interested in your pulp-fiction “true crime” fantasy? For example, what would it say about someone if they had your book on their shelf? Honestly, Ryan, though I found your account fairly amusing, I do hope you recognize that it is pure fiction. How could it not be considered such, given the numerous relevant facts you chose to omit?
I understand the reasons your editors would have blanched at some of the anecdotes you could have included, not because of the content--surely the prurience of the American public in general and your target audience in particular cannot be overestimated--but because of what your (willing!) involvement in those vignettes would say about you as the author. Suddenly you're an unreliable narrator, though of course some of us knew that all along.
I mention it now because, as you know, my last novel was about you, and Claire, and your journey, and there was no room for some of the stories I have saved up. Perhaps you were relieved to find that I also chose to omit certain incidents from our hero's history. (Or were you disappointed?) Well, no matter: I believe I've found an entry into our next work. What do you think about this?
As the comfortable silences between bursts of conversation extended, and the level of brandy in the bottle continued to decrease, Ryan barely had time to process the unfamiliar, though not entirely unwelcome, sensation of Joe's lips pressing against his, before his body began to betray him.
"Whoa, whoa, no," he stuttered, without breaking contact; later, he would blame it on the brandy, slowing his mental and physical reflexes to a crawl.
It was Joe who recoiled, and even in his haze, Ryan recognised a flash of panic flit across his features, followed closely by concern--not that he would be offended, Ryan realized, but that he might tell Claire.
"No worries," he said, getting to his feet.
Joe reached out, closed a warm hand around Ryan's wrist, firmer than necessary, but he didn't pull away.
"Don't let my indiscretion ruin a nice evening, please," Joe said, but his tone was even, as if he had no doubt that Ryan would not be offended, and that he would not leave. He felt a surge of mild irritation and was tempted to jerk his hand away, get in his car, just to be contrary. Instead, he stared at Joe's fingers and willed his pulse to slow down. Deep breaths. Joe tilted his head and observed this fleeting internal conflict, his lips curving into a maddening smile that did nothing to stem Ryan's physical response.
"Like I said," Ryan repeated, his voice hoarse, "no worries."
Joe pulled him down, kissed him again. If you'd asked Ryan to explain his acquiescence, he wouldn't have been able to form the words to describe the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the unmistakable feeling that this had been inevitable since the moment they met.
“I won't tell,” he whispered, but he couldn't be sure he had actually said the words aloud. Not that it mattered, as he wouldn't remember or admit it either way.
When the night revisited him, again and again, each time he thought he could see a flicker of satisfaction behind Joe's eyes before his feigned panic, which he could identify in retrospect as a callous manipulation, a game Joe had won many times over.
But he knew he didn't see anything like that at the time, and he couldn't blame anyone but himself for what happened; maybe with Claire it might have started as an apology, though he'd clung to a "love at first sight" narrative so long even he had started to believe it.
That first night, Joe's lips traced a path across his jawline, down to his exposed neck, lingering until he found a spot to mark, slowly, taking his sweet time, as Ryan's fingers dug into his shoulders hard enough to bruise, almost resisting, but not quite.
When Joe thought about it later, as he often did, he liked to believe that Ryan knew, somehow, that his own languid movements belied a hunger that verged on animalistic, and what could he do but give in?
Now, if I had called, I could have listened for the hitch in your breath as you remembered what happened next. You would have ignored my words, said something characteristically tough: "What do you want," perhaps, in a low tone that would have sent a shiver down my spine (at the very least).
I would have said something characteristically glib: "You on your knees, of course. I always felt that was your best angle."
And you would have hung up, then called your friends to see if they could trace the number, etc., etc., etc.
No, it's probably better this way, as it allows me to imagine you've returned to my letter some time later, after relieving some tension that's been pent up for quite some time, if you're honest with yourself, not that you ever truly are. Perhaps you've even re-read it, allowed yourself the brief luxury of revisiting those locked-away memories a time or two before skimming the remaining paragraphs and setting fire to these pages. I understand. Can't risk discovery. You're the white hat, Claire's white knight. Only you and I both know that a white knight can't have a black heart. (Too much? Oh, well.)
Don't worry; I won't mention how long it went on, and I'll refrain from getting into the lurid details, such as the guttural shudder that passed for an expression of ecstasy, so intent you were on denying yourself the barest hint of pleasure even then. Should I compare notes with Claire, do you think? Were you able to release that particular burden, as it were, when you were with her?
I should also mention that I found your description of your reaction the night I spared you to be exceedingly disappointing; it's functional, cursory, dull. As I remember it, you noticed a familiar expression on my face as my knife pierced your flesh, close enough to kill, but not quite. (I, of course, have never had any qualms about indulging in acts designed to heighten my own pleasure. For example, you may recall the time you covered my mouth with your hand in a futile effort to quiet me down; I believe that was our second or third encounter. Do you remember which? If anything, I believe that only made it worse.) Perhaps your efforts to numb the physical pain and to absolve yourself of any complicity, real or perceived, have blunted your memory, but mine remains sharp, and, indeed, the image of your face at the precise moment that you realised you could not deny who I was, and that you had known it from the start, has kept me going through many a sleepless night.
Now that you've reached the end, you can go ahead and destroy this letter, as I doubt you want your colleagues reading it now, do you? Well, that's all right. They can buy the book like everyone else. This letter was just to jog your memory, give you a taste of what's in store. I know you were disappointed with the outcome of our last collaboration. Don't worry; I believe our next one will yield a much more satisfying result (creatively, if not commercially).
Give my regards to Claire.
As ever,
Joe