more like…” Kahlil tried to think of a way to describe the interplay of the two sets of memories in his mind.
“You know when you look out this window,” Kahlil said at last, “there’s the view outside but there’s also your reflection in the glass. You can watch everything going on outside, but the reflection is always there. And every now and then you notice it, and the entire view outside goes out of focus. But if you shift your focus, the view comes back. That’s kind of how it is for me.”
Kahlil noticed Jath’ibaye’s gaze flick to the window. He nodded. “So which life is it that you plan to focus on?”
“I don’t know,” Kahlil replied. “This entire world is Ravishan’s. His history is consistent with everything that has happened here. But this is also the world that killed him. His place in this history ended twenty-seven years ago, didn’t it?”
“It shouldn’t have,” Jath’ibaye said. He didn’t meet Kahlil’s gaze but instead stared out the window to the courtyard below.
“But it did.” Kahlil shrugged to cover the edge of disappointment that moved through him. He knew that Jath’ibaye would prefer him to become Ravishan, his brave heroic dead lover, resurrected. But as much as Kahlil wanted Ravishan’s life, he couldn’t be any man but who he was. “The way I see it, neither he nor I belong to this world anymore. But I’m the one who lived and he—for better or for worse—died. I can’t change that…Not even you can change that.”
Jath’ibaye averted his bright gaze from Kahlil’s face down to the stack of pages Kahlil had translated. “There are people here who knew him—people who were his friends. When they see you, they’re not going to know what to do. They’re going to want you to be him.”
“I know,” Kahlil said.
“They’ll make mistakes. They’ll want you—” Jath’ibaye cut himself short, and swallowed before continuing, “They’ll want you to remember them the way they remember you. What will you tell them?”
“I’ll just have to tell them that I’m not Ravishan.”
“But you are fundamentally the same man. Not only are you the same flesh and blood, but you also had the same parents, the same upbringing—”
“No. When I prayed to Parfir to send me a new teacher, a man better than Dayyid, I got no one. He got you. It changed his life forever.” Seeing the way Jath’ibaye’s jaw clenched just slightly, Kahlil felt bad for disappointing him and also more jealous of Ravishan than he had imagined possible. “I can’t be Ushiri Ravishan’in’Rathal’pesha any more than you can be John Matthew Toffler from Arlington, Washington.”
Jath’ibaye looked truly surprised at the mention of his own name. Kahlil wondered if he had somehow managed to forget it. He supposed that it had been decades since anyone had called him by his real name.
At first, Jath’ibaye seemed like he might offer some further argument. The muscles of his jaw clenched and flexed but he remained silent. At last he simply said, “It’s getting late.”
Kahlil nodded. The hour would have been early in Nurjima but Vundomu didn’t seem to support the same wild nightlife.
Jath’ibaye gathered the pages Kahlil had translated and then stood. “I should let you get some rest. Tomorrow we’ll talk more about your duties and your disciplinary problems.” He smiled almost ruefully as he said those last words and Kahlil couldn’t help but smile back at him.
“Until then, good night.” Jath’ibaye moved quickly to the door.
Kahlil tried to think of something to say, some other topic to introduce so that Jath’ibaye would not leave. But Jath’ibaye was already at the door. He glanced back at Kahlil once, just briefly. He was dirty and tired and there was an emptiness to his gaze that struck Kahlil as utterly defeated.
“Take care,” Kahlil called out, but Jath’ibaye had already gone. The door closed on Kahlil’s last words.
“You know when you look out this window,” Kahlil said at last, “there’s the view outside but there’s also your reflection in the glass. You can watch everything going on outside, but the reflection is always there. And every now and then you notice it, and the entire view outside goes out of focus. But if you shift your focus, the view comes back. That’s kind of how it is for me.”
Kahlil noticed Jath’ibaye’s gaze flick to the window. He nodded. “So which life is it that you plan to focus on?”
“I don’t know,” Kahlil replied. “This entire world is Ravishan’s. His history is consistent with everything that has happened here. But this is also the world that killed him. His place in this history ended twenty-seven years ago, didn’t it?”
“It shouldn’t have,” Jath’ibaye said. He didn’t meet Kahlil’s gaze but instead stared out the window to the courtyard below.
“But it did.” Kahlil shrugged to cover the edge of disappointment that moved through him. He knew that Jath’ibaye would prefer him to become Ravishan, his brave heroic dead lover, resurrected. But as much as Kahlil wanted Ravishan’s life, he couldn’t be any man but who he was. “The way I see it, neither he nor I belong to this world anymore. But I’m the one who lived and he—for better or for worse—died. I can’t change that…Not even you can change that.”
Jath’ibaye averted his bright gaze from Kahlil’s face down to the stack of pages Kahlil had translated. “There are people here who knew him—people who were his friends. When they see you, they’re not going to know what to do. They’re going to want you to be him.”
“I know,” Kahlil said.
“They’ll make mistakes. They’ll want you—” Jath’ibaye cut himself short, and swallowed before continuing, “They’ll want you to remember them the way they remember you. What will you tell them?”
“I’ll just have to tell them that I’m not Ravishan.”
“But you are fundamentally the same man. Not only are you the same flesh and blood, but you also had the same parents, the same upbringing—”
“No. When I prayed to Parfir to send me a new teacher, a man better than Dayyid, I got no one. He got you. It changed his life forever.” Seeing the way Jath’ibaye’s jaw clenched just slightly, Kahlil felt bad for disappointing him and also more jealous of Ravishan than he had imagined possible. “I can’t be Ushiri Ravishan’in’Rathal’pesha any more than you can be John Matthew Toffler from Arlington, Washington.”
Jath’ibaye looked truly surprised at the mention of his own name. Kahlil wondered if he had somehow managed to forget it. He supposed that it had been decades since anyone had called him by his real name.
At first, Jath’ibaye seemed like he might offer some further argument. The muscles of his jaw clenched and flexed but he remained silent. At last he simply said, “It’s getting late.”
Kahlil nodded. The hour would have been early in Nurjima but Vundomu didn’t seem to support the same wild nightlife.
Jath’ibaye gathered the pages Kahlil had translated and then stood. “I should let you get some rest. Tomorrow we’ll talk more about your duties and your disciplinary problems.” He smiled almost ruefully as he said those last words and Kahlil couldn’t help but smile back at him.
“Until then, good night.” Jath’ibaye moved quickly to the door.
Kahlil tried to think of something to say, some other topic to introduce so that Jath’ibaye would not leave. But Jath’ibaye was already at the door. He glanced back at Kahlil once, just briefly. He was dirty and tired and there was an emptiness to his gaze that struck Kahlil as utterly defeated.
“Take care,” Kahlil called out, but Jath’ibaye had already gone. The door closed on Kahlil’s last words.
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