in making up tales and playing on other peoples credulity. That’s why I ask if this spirit of yours is real.”
“Oh, she’s real enough.”
“Have you actually seen it?”
“Yes. Well… not quite. I’ve almost seen her out of the tail of my eye… a blur of white that vanishes when I focus on it, the way very dim stars do. But I am quite sure she’s here. I can sense her presence in a most palpable way. And it’s not the least a frightening or uncomfortable experience. She’s a gentle spirit… and so terribly sad. So terribly sad.”
“Sad? Why sad?”
“I don’t know. I suppose it was having it all come to an end when she was still so young.”
“Oh? How young is she?”
“Just fifteen and a half.”
I smiled. “Are you sure she’s not fifteen years, five months, and eleven days old? After all, you do have this particular gift for precise measurements.”
She looked at me with operatic seriousness. “Surely you know that it’s very difficult to judge age down to the number of days.”
I chuckled and let the game go, tossing away my stripped twig. “You know, Katya, I understand Paul’s discomfort with the idea of ghosts… spirits. Daydreamer and incurable romantic though you accuse me of being, my grip on reality is mundanely logical. I feel lost and a little uneasy when I consider forces and events that ignore such relationships as cause and effect, deduction and reason. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Are you saying that you don’t believe in the supernatural?”
“I choose not to. I don’t want to. The irrational frightens me. I would feel more at ease in the presence of a brutal and cruel man than I would in the presence of an insane one.”
She frowned. “Paul’s not insane.”
“Oh, no, you misunderstand me. I wasn’t suggesting he is. I was only saying that I share his discomfort with the idea of the supernatural. I’m suggesting that he’s rigidly sane, like me. Inflexibly rational.”
“And you think that’s best?”
“Well… it’s safe.”
She considered this for a moment. “Yes, it’s safe… but limiting.”
We were silent for a time, as I sought a way to phrase the question that had been lurking in my mind all that day. “Katya? It is obvious that there’s something wrong. Something troubling you and your family.”
She responded with surprising frankness. “Yes, of course there is. I would have been surprised if someone as sensitive as you had failed to feel it.”
“Is it something I can help with? Would it be useful to talk about it?”
“Useful? That’s an odd way to express it. But, yes, it might be… useful.” She seemed to struggle with herself, on the verge of sharing something with me, but not quite daring to.
To make it easier for her I said, “You know that you have a sympathetic and… caring… friend in me. Surely you can sense what I feel for you, Katya.”
She shook her head and turned away, as though to arrest my words.
But I pursued the inertia of the moment, fearing it might not come again. “I haven’t dared to give a name to the feelings I have for you… feelings that stir in me at even the most fleeting thought of you—”
“Please, Jean-Marc…”
“—But if I were to give them a name, I know it would be what they call… love.”
“Please…” She rose from the wicker chair as though to flee, but I caught her hand and drew her to me and held her in my arms.
“Katya…”
“No.” She sought to pull away.
“Katya.” A slight shudder passed through her body, then she stiffened and settled her eyes calmly, but distantly, on mine. She did not struggle to escape, but her passive resistance, her immobile indifference, had the effect of chilling my ardor and making me feel quite stupid and boorish to be holding her, not exactly against her will, but against her lack of will. I wanted both to release her and to kiss her, and I didn’t know which to do.
I was young. I kissed her.
Her lips were soft
“Oh, she’s real enough.”
“Have you actually seen it?”
“Yes. Well… not quite. I’ve almost seen her out of the tail of my eye… a blur of white that vanishes when I focus on it, the way very dim stars do. But I am quite sure she’s here. I can sense her presence in a most palpable way. And it’s not the least a frightening or uncomfortable experience. She’s a gentle spirit… and so terribly sad. So terribly sad.”
“Sad? Why sad?”
“I don’t know. I suppose it was having it all come to an end when she was still so young.”
“Oh? How young is she?”
“Just fifteen and a half.”
I smiled. “Are you sure she’s not fifteen years, five months, and eleven days old? After all, you do have this particular gift for precise measurements.”
She looked at me with operatic seriousness. “Surely you know that it’s very difficult to judge age down to the number of days.”
I chuckled and let the game go, tossing away my stripped twig. “You know, Katya, I understand Paul’s discomfort with the idea of ghosts… spirits. Daydreamer and incurable romantic though you accuse me of being, my grip on reality is mundanely logical. I feel lost and a little uneasy when I consider forces and events that ignore such relationships as cause and effect, deduction and reason. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Are you saying that you don’t believe in the supernatural?”
“I choose not to. I don’t want to. The irrational frightens me. I would feel more at ease in the presence of a brutal and cruel man than I would in the presence of an insane one.”
She frowned. “Paul’s not insane.”
“Oh, no, you misunderstand me. I wasn’t suggesting he is. I was only saying that I share his discomfort with the idea of the supernatural. I’m suggesting that he’s rigidly sane, like me. Inflexibly rational.”
“And you think that’s best?”
“Well… it’s safe.”
She considered this for a moment. “Yes, it’s safe… but limiting.”
We were silent for a time, as I sought a way to phrase the question that had been lurking in my mind all that day. “Katya? It is obvious that there’s something wrong. Something troubling you and your family.”
She responded with surprising frankness. “Yes, of course there is. I would have been surprised if someone as sensitive as you had failed to feel it.”
“Is it something I can help with? Would it be useful to talk about it?”
“Useful? That’s an odd way to express it. But, yes, it might be… useful.” She seemed to struggle with herself, on the verge of sharing something with me, but not quite daring to.
To make it easier for her I said, “You know that you have a sympathetic and… caring… friend in me. Surely you can sense what I feel for you, Katya.”
She shook her head and turned away, as though to arrest my words.
But I pursued the inertia of the moment, fearing it might not come again. “I haven’t dared to give a name to the feelings I have for you… feelings that stir in me at even the most fleeting thought of you—”
“Please, Jean-Marc…”
“—But if I were to give them a name, I know it would be what they call… love.”
“Please…” She rose from the wicker chair as though to flee, but I caught her hand and drew her to me and held her in my arms.
“Katya…”
“No.” She sought to pull away.
“Katya.” A slight shudder passed through her body, then she stiffened and settled her eyes calmly, but distantly, on mine. She did not struggle to escape, but her passive resistance, her immobile indifference, had the effect of chilling my ardor and making me feel quite stupid and boorish to be holding her, not exactly against her will, but against her lack of will. I wanted both to release her and to kiss her, and I didn’t know which to do.
I was young. I kissed her.
Her lips were soft
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