Diffidence

“Alexei Fyodorovich, you promised to tell me what happened if I won!” I spat out the words without attempting to conceal my desperation.

“Did I?” He replied. “You know I’m not much of a card player. There was no need to cheat.”

“I know a lot of things. A hell of a lot more than you.” The fury in my voice was echoed by the trembling cards in my grasp. To calm myself, I laid down the cards and I lifted my beer to take a sip.

“But you don’t know how it ends,” Alexei said, a hint of please in his eyes as he spoke.

“No,” I forced calm into my voice. “No, I don’t. I suppose you won’t tell me now.”

“You assume I was going to tell you if I lost.”

“I had your word.”

“Did you? Did I give you my word? That doesn’t sound like something I would wager on a game of cards. To be honest, that part of the conversation is a little fuzzy in my memory.”

Unfortunately, I could tell he was being sincere. I knew him too well. I knew he would not deceive me, or anyone as such. A sliver of doubt began to grow up within me.

“You don’t remember. Do you?”

I could see the haziness of his memory etched in the furrows on his brow. He clearly understood I spoke of what was before, or rather beyond our earlier conversation.

His eyes dropped to the table. He lowered his cards. Where I had felt anger towards him, I felt now only pity.

“No,” he replied with penitence in his voice. “It is not a matter of remembering.”

“Alright,” I hesitated unable to make my concerns audible. After a moment I said, “Then, what is it a matter of?”

He raised his head and caught my eyes. Instantaneously, his countenance changed. A smile played across his lips. I felt my ire rising again.

“It,” he answered, “it, never happened.”

“But the story just ended,” I blurted out.

“It did.”

“That can’t be all!”

“That was all he wrote.”

“Because he died!”

“Because he died.”

“But here you are, right here, right in front of me. It’s you the story was about, was it not?”

“Among others.”

I pulled my glasses from my face, and rubbed the bridge of my nose. “You must know what happened,” I continued, composed once again.

“Regrettably, my new friend,” Alexei Fyodorovich, stated, “I am not the author of my own story. Dostoevsky is dead, and whatever remained of me and my brothers, whatever there was to be told about us, died with him.”

“So that is it?”

“It is.”

“You have nothing to offer me?”

“Nothing, but the warmth of my silent companionship.”

I sighed and rose from the table.

“Is there any cruelness greater than leaving off the tale before the conclusion?” I whispered under my breath.

“It wasn’t his fault,” Alexei offered with a shrug.

“No.”

“It’s not mine either.”

“I know.”

I stepped away from the table.

“Next time," I told myself, "I’ll meet Konstantin Dmitrich Levin.”