BIA Ch. 130

Whether he knew Samuel was holding his breath under the covers or not, Bran spoke to his lover in the same affectionate voice.

“Do that. Think of me when you see a gun, Isaiah. Even if it’s just for that reason, don’t shoot guns anymore.”

It was strange. He had seen several of Bran’s lovers before, and heard the sweet nothings Bran whispered to them many times. Sometimes they were so ardent it made his face flush, sometimes so sweet it made his whole body squirm. But never before had his heart pounded like this listening to any of those words.

Compared to those numerous affectionate whispers, this conversation was rather plain. It was even playful, making one wonder if it was truly a conversation between lovers. So why was his heart pounding like this? Why did it feel like his heart was not just tickling but tingling?

Only belatedly did Samuel realize. The identity of this unfamiliar, awkward feeling. Bran was asking for something. Desperately, with all his heart.

Until now, it had been the opposite. Bran was always the one being yearned for, not the one yearning. Tell me you love me, kiss me. He merely complied faithfully with his lovers’ endearing requests; he had never once asked anything of them first.

But this time was different.

“Anyway, don’t shoot guns anymore.”

Bran was pleading. He hadn’t said the word ‘please,’ but he was clinging with all his heart. Samuel had never dreamed such earnest words of petition would come from this man’s lips.

Whatever the shrike replied, Bran ended the call, accusing him of being a liar. This too was unusual. Bran was always the one accused by lovers of being a liar, never in the position of accusing.

What on earth was it? What had made this man, Bran Wiseman, like this?

Even after their call ended, Samuel couldn’t easily fall asleep. Partly because he was waiting for Hagan’s contact, but also because his mind was troubled and uncomfortable for various reasons, preventing sleep.

At dawn, the awaited message came from Hagan. Samuel immediately relayed its contents to Jack. Even after that, he tossed and turned under the covers for a long time, finally dozing off just as dawn was breaking.

“Bran is on the first floor.”

Grace said, climbing the stairs again.

“It seems Chester will be a little late, so please eat first.”

“Understood.”

Samuel went down to the first floor. In the drawing-room, Bran and Cedric were watching Fox News together.

“Oh, Samuel. Did you sleep well?”

Cedric acknowledged him first.

“Yes, good morning.”

Samuel greeted Cedric and sat down next to Bran. A moment later, Manny, whose skin was rough and eyes were bloodshot just like Samuel’s, came down and relayed that Chester would be a little late.

“That fellow oversleeps even on a day like today.”

Cedric stood up first with a displeased expression. The four men went to the dining room together.

The table, made of giant Kauri wood, was lavishly decorated with the bouquet Bran had received from Chester yesterday and roses Grace brought from the greenhouse today. Compared to the ornate table, the meal was simple. As the Kalishiga family hosted parties almost every evening, breakfast was usually a simple affair of cereal and toast.

Just as the meal was nearing its end, Chester entered the dining room, practically crawling on all fours. Seeing his son enter the dining room with vomit stains around his mouth, as if he had thrown up violently upon waking, Cedric immediately took off the napkin tucked around his neck and threw it onto the table.

“There are all sorts of ways to ruin one’s appetite.”

Even after Cedric left the dining room, Chester couldn’t pull himself together. Leaving Chester sprawled on the table and Manny behind, Bran and Samuel also left the dining room.

Samuel went up to the second floor and picked up Bran’s briefcase and travel carrier placed in a corner of the guest room. Today finally marked the end of Bran’s stay at the mansion.

While Samuel loaded the luggage into the trunk, Bran was reading a book in the back seat of the car. Judging by the cover, it was the same book he had been reading in bed last night.

“Is that book interesting?”

Samuel asked as he got into the driver’s seat. Bran showed the cover of the book he was holding and said.

“This?”

“Wow, that’s a really old book.”

Samuel was quite surprised. He hadn’t realized it from afar, but looking closely, it wasn’t just any old book. The cover was faded and discolored, and the spine was worn from handling.

“Is it something like, an antique book?”

“Not likely.”

Bran chuckled and opened the book. Finding the page he was reading, he said.

“It’s Slaughterhouse-Five.”

“Ah, Kurt Vonnegut.”

Samuel exclaimed, deliberately cheerful, as he started the car.

“Have you read it?”

“Not likely. I’ve only heard the title.”

“I see.”

Bran said, his gaze falling back to the book.

“I’ve read it about a hundred times.”

“A hundred times?”

Samuel was astonished. If someone else had said it, he would have thought it an exaggeration, but coming from Bran, it sounded genuine. It seemed like something Bran would actually do.

“And you’re reading it again?”

“I like it.”

The car exited the garage and soon began driving across the garden. Perhaps frost had fallen overnight, as white crystals, like handfuls of sand poured here and there, were visible throughout the garden.

“And there are parts that seem new every time I read it. Passages I just skipped over before suddenly catch my eye and stick this time.”

“Really? Even after reading it a hundred times, there are still things like that?”

“There are. Looking now, there was an expression comparing post-bombing Dresden to the surface of the moon. The stones are hot, and all life is dead.”

Samuel suddenly recalled the phone conversation he had eavesdropped on while lying in bed last night. Bran was probably talking about that too.

“Slaughterhouse-Five…”

Samuel cleared his throat unnecessarily before asking.

“I’ve heard the title so many times. What exactly is the story about?”

“Simply put, it’s a war story.”

Bran said, his eyes fixed on the book.

“The protagonist is a man named Billy Pilgrim, who experienced the bombing of Dresden. He was captured as a German prisoner of war and lived quite a rough life.”

“Ah, and he was abducted by aliens, right? Rode a time machine too.”

“Right. It’s quite interesting. The humor is stronger than you might think.”

“But I never really liked this protagonist,” Bran said, turning a page. “He seemed wishy-washy and too passive. I know it’s because of his circumstances, but watching him sometimes made me irritated.”

Bran’s tone was so serious that Samuel couldn’t help but laugh. It sounded like he was talking about a real person.

“There’s another character I liked. Among those who roughed it with the protagonist in the POW camp, there was a former high school teacher. He was full of justice, proactive, and the most sensible person there. He got along well with the protagonist too.”

“Were they friends?”

“Strictly speaking, they were camp comrades, but you could call them friends. This man took care of the protagonist when he was sick. The protagonist also put syrup on a spoon and fed it into the man’s mouth.”

“That’s nice.”

“It was nice.”

Bran turned the page again.

“But that man dies near the very end of the war because of a very trivial greed. He gets shot dead for trying to steal just a teapot. And the protagonist buries his body.”

“Oh dear.”

Samuel unknowingly furrowed his brow.

“As I said, I liked that high school teacher the most, so my heart ached every time I read the scene where he dies. When I was young, I even cried. I thought, so this is war.”

“I can’t imagine that.”

“It was a time when I was full of sensitivity.”

“Ohoho.”

Samuel laughed, his eyebrows still lowered. Bran laughed too. It seemed he found it funny himself.

“But looking at it again now, I think he deserved to die. It was war, what can you do? It was a time when they even rendered fat from human corpses to make soap. Why did he have to get greedy over a mere teapot and suffer such consequences, instead of just living quietly until the war ended? A guy who was even a high school teacher.”

“Your sensitivity has dried up now.”

“It can’t be helped when you do this kind of work.”

As they exited the garden path densely lined with tall birch trees on both sides, the morning sun hit the frost on the flowerbeds, scattering light everywhere.

“Did I mention the name of the man who died because of that teapot?”

“No.”

Samuel reached out to lower the sun visor. Then his eyes met Bran’s in the rearview mirror, who was looking at him. Bran smiled. It was a smile as dazzling as the morning sunlight, yet as cold as frost.

“It’s Edgar Derby.”