Zelazny, Roger - Love Is An Imaginary Number

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Roger Zelazny. Love Is an Imaginary Number

_____________________________________________________________________

They should have known that they could not keep me bound forever.

Probably they did, which is why there was always Stella.

I lay there staring over at her, arm outstretched above her head,

masses of messed blond hair framing her sleeping face. She was more than

wife to me: she was warden. How blind of me not to have realized it sooner!

But then, what else had they done to me?

They had made me to forget what I was.

Because I was like them but not of them they had bound me to this time

and this place.

They had made me to forget. They had nailed me with love.

I stood up and the last chains fell away.

A single bar of moonlight lay upon the floor of the bedchamber. I

passed through it to where my clothing was hung.

There was a faint music playing in the distance. That was what had done

it. It had been so long since I had heard that music...

How had they trapped me?

That little kingdom, ages ago, some Other, where I had introduced

gunpowder-- Yes! That was the place! They had trapped me there with my

Other-made monk's hood and my classical Latin.

Then brainsmash and binding to this Otherwhen.

I chuckled softly as I finished dressing. How long had I lived in this

place? Forty-five years of memory--but how much of it counterfeit?

The hall mirror showed me a middle-aged man, slightly obese, hair

thinning, wearing a red sport shirt and black slacks.

The music was growing louder, the music only I could hear: guitars, and

the steady _thump_ of a leather drum.

My different drummer, aye! Mate me with an angel and you still do not

make me a saint, my comrades!

I made myself young and strong again.

Then I descended the stair to the living room, moved to the bar, poured

out a glass of wine, sipped it until the music reached its fullest

intensity, then gulped the remainder and dashed the glass to the floor. I

was free!

I turned to go, and there was a sound overhead.

Stella had awakened.

The telephone rang. It hung there on the wall and rang and rang until I

could stand it no longer.

"You have done it again," said that old, familiar voice.

"Do not go hard with the woman," said I. "She could not watch me

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Zelazny, Roger - Love Is An Imaginary Number

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