By Elisabeth Boyer
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If it is a dream, then it is a waking dream, one that occurs in the nether-world between consciousness and absence. The Burning Man had a name once, but Louis can no longer utter it. His name is not enough to encompass his identity; it is too narrow, too restrictive for what he has become to Louis. He does not think of him as “Errol,” or “Mr. Rich,” or even “Mr. Errol,” which is how he had always addressed him when he was alive. He is now more than a name, much more. Still, once he was Mr. Errol: all brawn and muscle, his skin the color of damp, fertile earth recently turned by the plow; gentle and patient for the most part, but with something simmering beneath his seemingly placid nature, so that if you caught him unawares it was possible to glimpse it in his eyes before it slipped away, like some rare beast that has learned the importance of staying beyond the range of the hunters’ guns, of the white men in the white suits.
It was done with such fluidity, such grace, that Vassily, had he lived long enough, might almost have admired it. Louis’s hand slid beneath the table as he rose, removing the gun that had been concealed beneath it earlier by the man who had accompanied the cleaning crew. In the same movement, his other hand buried the glass in Vassily’s face. By then, Vassily had his own gun drawn, but it was too late for him. The first two bullets took him in the chest, but Louis caught him before he fell, shielding himself with the body as he fired upon the men at the bar.
He was, though, surprised at the men’s willingness to antagonize him in turn when they were unarmed. He considered it both arrogant and unmannerly. “There’s nothing to discuss. ” “I cut my own lawn. I shine my own shoes. ” The Priest leaned forward. ” The Priest laughed. “I think it would bore you. ” His fingers moved the photographs on the table, rearranging them. ” said Louis. ” “You go after the detective, and you’re going to create more problems for yourself with them as well as us. They can be persistent.