LITMIR.BIZ

      A pale Devi stood at the door when Julian limped out into the living room in sweats and a pullover.

      “Hello, Julian. I see you’ve returned—again.” Devi sounded so disappointed.

      “You’re minimally observant.”

      “Returned from where?” Ashton said.

      “How are you feeling?” said Devi.

      “How do I look?” said Julian.

      “Like a man who’s been in a hundred and one fights. And lost them all.”

      From the kitchen, Ashton smirked. “So he knows about the boxing? Wow.”

      “Devi, you’ve met Ashton?”

      “Not formally.”

      “Ashton, Devi. Devi, Ashton.”

      With wary reserve, Ashton stepped forward, and the two men shook hands, Ashton silent and blond towering over the little man silent and dark.

      “Returned from where?” Ashton repeated. Neither Julian nor Devi answered. Ashton swore under his breath, grabbed his jacket and said he was going on a food run. Devi said Julian needed some plain chicken and white rice. Julian said no. Ashton said he was getting it anyway and split.

      “You need food,” Devi said, coming closer.

      Julian sank into the sofa.

      “How’s your friend handling you?”

      “Fine.”

      “You haven’t told him?”

      “Told him what.”

      Devi perched stiffly in the corner of the opposite sofa. “Tell me.”

      “You really need to be told? You know what happened.”

      “I don’t.”

      “Is that why you didn’t want me to go? Did you know all along?”

      Devi stared into his crippled hands. “I’m waiting.”

      Julian told him.

      London burned. It burned to the ground. And she along with it. All the glory was laid to dust.

      Then they were mute.

      “Come back to Quatrang with me, Julian,” Devi said. “You need healing.” He added, “Please.”

      “I’ve had just about enough of your healing, don’t you think?”

      “Very often,” Devi said, “what God first helps us with is not virtue itself, but the power of trying again. And you did that. You tried again. What a noble thing that is. What a gallant effort. Don’t minimize it.”

      “Hard to minimize it, Devi.” Julian rolled up his sleeve, thrusting the inside of his forearm across the coffee table into the cook’s face. “You see the ink? Forty-five minimized tattoos.”

      “Is that how many days you had?”

      “No. I got sick of marking them, so I missed some. A week, maybe more.”

      Devi bowed his head.

      “Let’s not minimize it,” Julian said. “Let’s maximize it, shall we? Here on my arm is the answer to the question I asked you before the first time I went. Do you remember?”

      “I remember.”

      “I asked you if I was going to find her young or old. And you said young. But you were wrong. Or lying. Which is it?”

      Devi didn’t speak.

      “I asked you at what point I was going to be inserted into her life, and you told me you didn’t know. Were you lying?”

      “No.”

      “Well, now you know,” Julian said. “And I know. Aren’t you glad we’re both so full of knowledge. When I find her, she’s not young.” Julian fell back against the cushions. “She is old. Each time she is at the end of her life.” Barely able to breathe, as if his lungs were still filled with smoke, he stared at the columns of black dots on his arm. Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

      “Is that too much time, Julian, or not enough?” Devi said. “I’m not clear. Because most of us don’t get even a picosecond extra.”

      “Oh, fuck that.”

      “I told you not to go,” the shaman whispered.

      “You didn’t tell me she would die again!” Julian yelled.

      “Control your temper. I told you, you couldn’t change things. I told you this over and over.”

      “Okay, fine,” Julian said through his teeth. “You told me. I hear you—finally. Loud and clear. I’m done with this bullshit. With all of it.” He glared at Devi.

      “Yes,” Devi said. “By all means live out your days in bitter pity for yourself while your life passes you by.” He stood up, gathering his hat into his hands and left.