Dialogues of the Dead

Two hours later I returned. Two hours because that was the time my pace along my path required for my preparations, and it was no surprise in time to find my timing perfect, for the visitor was just leaving, slipping out of the street door like the shadow he resembles, with the result that the door didn’t swing back with enough momentum to engage the lock and I was able to enter without having to ring any bell but that to his apartment.

He was surprised to see me though he hid it well and courteously invited me in and offered me a drink.

I said coffee to get him into the kitchen.

And as he turned and left me I felt my aura breathe through my flesh, as time began to slow like a goshawk soaring till it attains its motionless apogee.

Through the half-open door I see he is making filter coffee. In my book, casual and probably unwanted visitors merit no more than a spoonful of instant at best. I am flattered and touched by this courtesy.

And in return, I take just as much care with his drink, pouring a carefully judged measure from my little vial into the open whisky bottle standing by the open book and empty glass on his chairside table. No chance of interruption. I am examining his bookshelf when he comes in with the cafetière.

I see he has brought two mugs. If I were in time, I might have been disconcerted, fearful that by joining me in coffee, he will not take any more whisky till he is in another’s company who might observe his symptoms and make efforts to save him. But out of time, I sit and smile, secure in my certainty that what is written is written, and nothing can change its course.

He pours the coffee, then picks up the bottle, offers to add some to my mug. I hesitate then shake my head. I have work to do, I tell him, work that requires a clear head.

He smiles the smile of a man who does not believe that liquor affects his judgment and, to make his point, adds a good inch of Scotch to his coffee.

Poor doctor. He is right, of course. Drink no longer affects his judgment because it is his affected judgment that makes him drink. Does he yet know where his unhappiness has brought him? Does he realize how unhappy he is? I doubt it, else he might have already sought without my help the quietus I am about to give him.

He drinks his doubly laced coffee with every sign of pleasure. This is well arranged. Two strong tastes to conceal one weak, though strong in everything else.