one left now. I’m all alone.”
“Listen Morris,” Roy said, “I cannot shoot you. I will not.”
“No? Well, legally I’m still the father of that child. I will not keep
him, though. I have two choices: I can make sure he grows up in a
wealthy family, free from trouble and hard labor. Or I can sell him on
the black market in the third world. It’s up to you. Hey! Black market.
I made a joke.”
Roy flashed white with anger. “Ellie would never allow that.”
“Ellie? Ellie has no say in it. The baby will just disappear. She’ll
never see it again and neither will you. You can invest in its future,
though. Leave the country or engage me in a duel and you’ll have
nothing to worry about. Don’t, and I will fling him into the hands of
fate as one of the ordinary peasants that make up the vast majority of
the world population. He’ll live life as a merely average human: He
will earn his bread by the sweat of his brow. He will drink
contaminated water. He will live in a mud-hut. He will die early of
some easily-treatable disease. Now really, is that so terrible?”
“I suppose I will have to shoot you,” Roy conceded.
“That’s the spirit!” Bidden cried, “Remember though: you still
have the chance to slip away quietly and languish with those peons
you’ve grown so fond of. Indonesia, Jamaica, Colombia. Of course,
this time there’d be no expense account.”
“Give me the gun, Morris,” Roy said. His confidence was
returning. He would follow Pushkin, not Ibrahim. An author, not a
subject.
“Not here. We don’t want to wake little Roy-boy.”
They descended and walked through the living room into the
immense backyard. Morris, anticipating Roy’s decision, had set up a
traditional venue for their duel.
Two long red carpets extended radially along the grass from the
large, black-bottomed swimming pool between them. They were to
walk twenty paces from the water, then turn and begin firing. Roy
was given his choice of guns. He checked to see if there were indeed
bullets in it, which caused Bidden to laugh. “I don’t blame you for
checking. I wouldn’t trust me. But then, you’re far from honorable
yourself.”
“I had no choice, Morris,” Roy explained, “I love her. Honor has
nothing to do with it.”
“Always the romantic,” Morris shook his head. “Well death
trumps love and honor every time. All your ideals, eh? Well here it
ABYSSINIA
110
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