The Circle

He has been drawing the circle for some months, now. He will work long into the night, so I prepare a meal to bring up to him. I oil my whetstone and scrape my knife against it in small circles, then wipe down the table and the knife. I peel and chop cerr root, throwing away the withered tips, then chop potatoes and bulb onion, and peel and crush jalari. I pick sprigs or leaves from several of the herbs drying by the window and tie them into a bundle with twine, then wipe down the table and unwrap my half-brisket. I got it from the butcher this morning. He trimmed the fat and silver skin for me, and salted it so that it will stay moist in the braise. I slice it into large chunks. I dig my seasoned pot out from the back of the drawer and pour in some gorseed oil, and light the stove. When the oil is hot I place the pieces of meat in the pot and sear them on each side. Oil spatters onto my apron. Then the vegetables go in, then black wine and bone stock, then the herbs, and it goes into the oven. I tidy the kitchen and wipe down the counter again, then pour myself a cup of wine while I wait. When the sun sets, I light my two new tham' lamps, and watch the tham' streetlights turn on outside the window. The air in the kitchen is warm and good-smelling. Before too long my neck is slick with sweat and I begin to feel a buzz, so I put down my glass and crack the window. The chill breeze and the smell of smoke coming in from the window wakes me up some. I grab the pot with a pair of towels and bring it back to the stove. I stick a piece of the meat with a fork and twist, and it pulls apart with no resistance. It's bright pink on the inside and when I taste it, the fat melts and spreads over my tongue. I shred the meat into the stew and stir. From the jars on my shelf, I select salt-cured green olives in oil. I fish out a dozen or so with a fork, then chop them and add them to the stew. I crush peppercorns in a mortar and slice red cabbage, and add both, simmering the liquid until the cabbage wilts. I cut thick slices of yesterday's bread and toast them over the coals in the oven, then place them into bowls and ladle in the stew. With the bowls balanced on my arm and two mugs of wine in my hand, I head up the stairs. 

When I pass by his room, I notice that the door is open a crack, and I see his thaumaturgical robe hanging on a hook inside. It's right where he hung it up when he arrived, months ago now. At this point I can actually see dust gathering on the shoulders. 

When I open the door and step out onto the roof, he is kneeling down on his pallet, knees wedged in the spaces between the wooden slats. The pallet is very wide and is raised above the ground by runners on three sides. He told me that they have many of these in the Thaumaturgical College, but he needed to have this one fashioned by a joiner and hauled up to the roof by ropes. He leans over the open side, one hand curled around the edge of the wood, and draws on the tightly packed brick below with a long, thin piece of white chalk. The nubs of several other sticks of chalk lie discarded in a bowl at his side. His fingers and palms are caked with chalk and there is white dust up to his forearm. I don't understand how his hands get so dirty when he only handles the chalk with his fingers, in that delicate way he has of gripping it. 

When I announce that I've brought supper, he finishes the line he's drawing and very carefully lifts the chalk from the stone, then deposits his half-spent stick in the bowl. When he turns to look at me, he has an aggrieved expression on his face. He is annoyed at being interrupted, I think, but he says nothing as I sit next to him on the pallet and hand him his bowl and his wine. Since he arrived, he's insisted that he take his meals on the roof, and the only place to sit on the tiny rooftop is the pallet, so that's where we sit, under the high-sloping roofs and plumes of chimney smoke. 

"So few stars out tonight, even though the sky is clear." I lift my spoon and begin to eat. 

"It's not that they're not out. The stars are always out, even in the daytime, but the light of the sun drowns them out. Now, at night, the thaumaturgical streetlamps and the lamps in people's homes drown them out and make them more difficult to see." 

"Oh. I see." 

He sounds annoyed but I don't think he's annoyed at me, exactly. When I look over at him, he's awkwardly holding the bowl with the fingertips of his right hand, the one covered with chalk, and holding his spoon with his left, his weak hand.

"Your robe is getting quite dusty, you know. It ought to be cleaned. I can take it to the laundress tomorrow."

"Why? I don't wear it." He is slumping with his back arched over the bowl, squinting at his food like he's reading small print. "And we were instructed that the uniforms are only to be cleaned in the College laundry."

"It could be damaged if you leave it for too long. It could get mites."

"Don't bother. When I return, they'll probably give me a new one anyway." Sticking out his neck and bringing his mouth down to the spoon, he finally takes a bite of his supper. 

If he's to be believed, he'll be returning to the Thaumaturgical College very soon, and then he'll be gone, along with his rent. Given how hard he's worked these months, I can't think but that they'll let him back in. That, and the circle itself. I know nothing about thaumaturgy, but just looking at the circle is impressive. The space is filled in with such an unbelievable number of lines. I don't know if they're supposed to be letters and words in some strange language or if they're only shapes, like the lines in a builder's plan. The circle is filled so thickly with them that, from a distance, the stone looks almost solid white, but looking closely, I can see that the individual lines are drawn very carefully. And all these months, he hasn't smudged it once, or allowed the elements to smudge it. It's a lucky thing he was expelled during the dry season, or he would have needed to find somewhere indoors to do this, and so much space is hard to come by in the city. 

From the start, he's worked inward, which is why he needs the raised pallet to get at the middle without smudging the outer lines. Now he's almost reached the center, but that's not what will finish the circle—even I know that for thaumaturgy to take place, the circle needs to be closed. That's why the outer edge has a small gap in the chalk, only a finger's width. Even when I light my tham' lamps downstairs I know that's what I'm really doing—twisting the knob slides a little piece of painted ceramic so that it joins with a larger piece and the circle is closed. Once, some weeks after he moved in and began the circle, I looked underneath the paper shade of the lamp, just out of curiosity, and I was surprised because of how simple its circle was. I counted only seven lines—just seven lines to make light from nothing! A circle like the one on my roof, with thousands of little lines… I can't imagine what it's supposed to do. Once I asked him if it would damage the roof or the building, because I know they use thaumaturgy to split stone in quarries, and he said it wouldn't. Other than that he hasn't talked about it at all, and he only ever calls it his 'thesis,' or sometimes his 'formula.' Perhaps when he finally closes the circle, it will do something spectacular. 

I think I will miss him when he leaves. He's not the most pleasant border I've ever had, but he stays out of the way, and he pays extra for the use of the roof even though I wasn't using it anyway. In any case, keeping him would certainly be preferable to the chore of finding someone else who will rent a tiny room at the top of six flights of stairs. 

I watch the starlings on the opposite roof while I eat and don't say anything more. When I'm finished, I glance over to see that his bowl is empty as well. And he's crying. His shoulders are slumped down, and he's holding his face in his hands.

"Ah… What are you doing? You'll smudge your drawing!" Honestly, after all the guff he's given me about not spilling food or wine between the slats of the pallet…

He turns to look at me, bewildered, as I fish a handkerchief from my pocket and press it into his hands. Holding it, he seems to come back to himself suddenly and presses the cloth over his eyes, preventing any tears from falling down to the chalk. 

"Ah… thank you. I just…" He wipes away his tears and removes the handkerchief from his face. His eyes are puffy and pink. "I… It's just… It was a lovely meal you made tonight, Kjala. An incredible meal… thank you."

"Well… you're… quite welcome." All these months, he's never once mentioned my cooking. Very few of my boarders ever do. His gaze is very intense and suddenly I feel awkward looking in his eyes—despite myself, I look away and find his right hand, where the caked-on chalk dust is now streaked by tried tears running down to the wrist

"Well, I'll leave you to your work… ah… with luck, you'll be finished soon, I'm sure." I stand and lean over to collect his plate and cup. I stack the dishes in my arms and step off the pallet. 

I can feel his eyes on me for a long moment, but then I hear him sigh, very softly, and shift around, back onto his knees. I glance at him one more time as I close the door, and he looks to all the world exactly how I found him when I came up—leaned over the edge of the pallet, chalk in hand. 

I go downstairs and drop the dishes in the washbasin, then begin to tidy up the kitchen for the night. For a few moments, my mind is occupied by how nice it was to be complimented on such a thing as my cooking, and by wondering if he always had a taste for my food or if he liked the stew particularly. But I forget all that foolishness and soon I'm finished scrubbing and wiping down the pot and the plates, and replacing my jars on the shelf, and stoking the coals in the oven, and the kitchen is ready again.