Native Tongue (33 page)

Thomas
had told Aaron! Her own father! The room wavered and twitched before her eyes like a comset screen with interference; things took on the look of flat cardboard cutouts; she stared fixedly at a point behind Thomas’ head. In her ears a single high tone keened unbearably on and on . . . This world, she thought.
This world. Only a male god could have created this repulsive, abominable world.

“Nazareth!”

She didn’t answer, but the vicious slap of the word caught her attention sufficiently that she raised her head a little and looked at her father; it seemed to her that Aaron’s grin had spread all around her like spilled syrup on a steep floor. It came at her from everywhere.

“Nazareth, Jordan gave me his word, as a gentleman and as a man of the Lines, that he had never given you
any
reason to assume that he was interested in you other than to the extremely limited extent necessary to allow you to function together in the course of your professional duties. He was shocked, and very saddened to find that a woman of your heritage and alleged good breeding would read improper advances into simple courtesy.”

He gave me a rose
, Nazareth thought. He said that my throat was lovely . . . and he gave me a rose. But she did not tell them that. Perhaps he had not told them that.

“I am equally shocked, Nazareth, and equally saddened. I value the reputation and the honor of this house highly, and it is not pleasant to know that you have no concern for either. To have a Chornyak daughter thrust herself upon a man like a common whore. . . . Nazareth, it leaves me speechless.”

AND WHY DO YOU GO ON TALKING, THEN? It was a scream, but it was silent.

“You must realize that you put a fine man—a fine Christian man—in a most awkward position. You repaid his courtesy to you and to this Household with insult, and you shamed us all. And you laid upon Jordan Shannontry a distasteful obligation—which, to his credit, he carried out at once. If I were cruel enough to tell your mother how you have betrayed your upbringing, it would break her heart—she is a decent God-fearing woman, Nazareth Chornyak Adiness! As we are decent God-fearing people one and all beneath this roof! What, in the name of all that’s holy, could you have been thinking of?”

“I don’t know.”

“
You don’t know?
”

Aaron spoke then, still grinning, hugely pleased. “She’s telling the truth, Thomas,” he said. “She really doesn’t know. You have my word for that, and I am in a position to guarantee its accuracy. Her ignorance is impenetrable, in every sense of the word.”

WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO TO ME?

It was all she could think of. What would they do to her? Take
her away from her children? Make up some story? Put her in an institution as they had poor Belle-Anne, and only last month Adam’s troublesome Gillian? She was too old to whip, and she had no money or privilege to be taken away—what would they do? What
could
they do? And Aaron . . . he was the injured husband here, when was
he
going to begin telling her what filth she was?

Thomas must have been thinking the same thing; he said, “Aaron, do you have anything to say to this fool I seem to have married you to?”

Aaron chuckled, and had some more wine. The bottle was empty.

“Your husband is taking this with remarkable calm, I should mention,” Thomas told her. “I know very few men who would have seen it as he does. And I want him to know that I am impressed by his good sense.”

“Well . . .” Aaron made a deprecating gesture. “Thomas, you’ll have to admit, it’s really funny.”

FUNNY?

“I’m not sure I see that, son.”

“Well, look at her!” Aaron laughed, waving the hand that wasn’t holding the wineglass. “Can you imagine a man like Jordan Shannontry having any interest in a woman like Nazareth? Come on, Thomas—it’s disgusting, sure, but it’s funny. My
daughters
would have had better sense, infants that they are, but not Nazareth! No sophistication, her hair any old way, God only knows what she was wearing . . . no grace, no elegance, no conversation, and as much erotic appeal as your average rice pudding. . . .” He was laughing openly now, the hearty laughter of the grownup who watched the tiny baby do one of those “cute” things suitable only for tiny babies.

“I have a feeling I wouldn’t have been able to muster up your sense of objectivity, Aaron,” Thomas said. “If it had been Rachel, for instance. Not that Rachel would have done anything so ludicrous. Rachel has a sharp tongue, but she is not a fool. And she has managed to read one or two books that weren’t grammars in her lifetime.”

Aaron just shook his head, and wiped the tears from his eyes.

“I can just see it,” he said weakly, and did his version of the blushing maiden on tiptoe whispering tender confidence into the bashful lover’s ear. “Oh JORdan,” he bleated in falsetto, “I LUUUV you. . . . very. . . . very . . . much . . .” He wiped his eyes again. “Oh my God in heaven, Thomas, it’s funny. It’s so damn funny.”

The corners of Thomas’ mouth moved a little, as if something were tugging at them; and he admitted that in fact it did have its comic aspects.

She sat in her chair, numb, carved of wood. She could not feel anything except the laboring of her heart, and she had no desire to. She sat, as her father first chuckled, and then laughed, and finally as the two men leaned back in their chairs and roared at the magnificent hilarity of it all.

“Nazareth . . . thinking that Shannontry would. . . .”

“That idiot child . . . thinking . . .
say
ing. . . .”

She saw no reason to bear any more of it, but she couldn’t move. Her legs wouldn’t obey her. She sat there while they gasped and laughed and presented one another with ever more elaborate descriptions of what it must have been like when she “accosted” Jordan, what the government men must have thought, how she must have looked as she scuttled for cover, and she was nothing but a bruise twisted round a core of shame; but she couldn’t move.

They did at last stop laughing, after she had decided they never would. Thomas made a quick motion of his fingers, and Aaron nodded, set down his wineglass, and left the room, walking past her without so much as a glance.

“Well, Nazareth,” her father said. “That husband of yours is a remarkable man, I must say.”

He settled himself, and straightened in his chair, and looked at her for just a moment with the smile still on his lips. But when he spoke to her again his voice was cold and hard and there was not even the memory of laughter in it.

“Know this, Nazareth Joanna Chornyak Adiness, daughter of my Household,” he said, as if it were an oath. “Know this. Your husband is a man of enormous tolerance, and enormous good sense, to be able to see the very real humor in this. Jordan Shannontry is a man of honor, and he will put it out of his mind—he has handled it exactly as it should have been handled. I have no intention of making anything more of it, either . . . because it is nothing at all. But . . . Nazareth, are you listening to me?”

“Yes.”

“Nobody is angry with you. This isn’t worth our anger. It’s just nonsense, foolish stupid nonsense, and evidence of how extraordinarily stupid you can be. But do not
ever
let it happen again! Hear me, Nazareth—not ever. You will be sharing a room with your cousin Belle-Anne before you can turn around, if ever I hear even a hint of such a thing again.”

“Yes.”

“All it takes to put you where Belle-Anne is is the signature of two adult males of your Household. Don’t you forget that, girl. You can count on me for one of them—and I believe I can count on Aaron for the other.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, now! I do not mean that if a man comes to me to report that you’ve raped him in the halls of Congress we’ll take action against you! I mean that if I ever hear so much as a
hint
, so much as a rumor at third hand, so much as a whisper, that you’ve in any least way compromised the honor of this Household and the name of Chornyak . . . do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder. You appear to understand very little. Ignorant female, how dare you behave like a common street trollop!”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know . . . one can only wonder what you
do
know! Now get out of here, and go see if you can think of some way to apologize on your knees to your husband, and a way to demonstrate to him your appreciation for his kindness, which you
do not
deserve.”

“Yes.”

Somehow, she got out of the room and out of the house and fled into the orchards. Safe in the darkness, she put her arms around an apple tree, clinging to it with all her strength as the world swung and dipped around her. After a little while, she realized that she was saying the litany of the Encodings aloud. Over and over again, like a charm against evil. She had bruised her mouth against the tree’s rough bark.

If they had been angry, if they had punished her, she thought she could have borne it. But they weren’t angry. For all Thomas’ fierce exit speech, words he no doubt felt bound “as a gentleman and a linguist” to flay her with, they hadn’t even been cross. She was like a little child, a very little child, that had soiled itself and admired its handiwork. It was a matter for laughter, not discipline, except that you must fix it firmly in the child’s mind that nice people didn’t do such things. For its own good.

It was nothing at all. If she had had the skill and the leisure to write it all down, and to somehow bring it to pass that men would read it, it would only bore them. What a fuss a woman makes over nothing at all; that is what they would say, and they would forget it at once. And there were no words, not in any
language, that she could use to
explain
to them what it was that had been done to her, that would make them stop and say that it was an awful thing that had been done to her.

Nazareth ran her hands over the tree a last time, and stood up to ready herself to go into the house and face Aaron. Carefully, she brushed every trace of the earth and of the apple tree from her skin and from her clothing. She tidied her hair, and disciplined her face to a mask of false calm. She had no reason to give Aaron Adiness any additional scrap to humiliate her with, and she did not intend to.

Nazareth was never again to feel even the smallest stirring of affection, or even of liking, for any male past toddling age. Not even for her own sons.

Chapter Eighteen

There are times when I cannot help feeling a certain uneasiness—almost guilt—about the education of the little girls in our Households, and of the older girls as well. It’s true that they have the mass-ed computer lessons, and the socialization of Homeroom, and the endless training in languages. But they get nothing more. We are so careful about our male children; we hire them every kind of special tutor, we provide them with every sort of special instruction; we do everything that
could
be done to ensure that they will learn how to be men in the finest sense of that word. We take that as a sacred responsibility.

But we do almost nothing to help our little girls grow to be womanly women. We don’t even send them to the Marital Academies, because we can’t do without their services for that long. We leave them, instead, to the erratic attentions of the women of our Barren Houses. . . . It isn’t right, and I am aware that it isn’t right. And one of these days I fully intend to do something about it. Something carefully planned, not something haphazard. At the very first opportunity, once the pressure from our business dealings begins to be a little less the dominant force in our lives. I feel that we owe our women that much, and I am not too proud to admit it.

(Thomas Blair Chornyak,

during an interview with

Elderwild Barnes of
Spacetime
,

in a special issue on education in the United States)

FALL 2188. . . .

Michaela Landry’s first reaction to the living arrangements provided for the feeble and ill women of Chornyak Barren House was that it showed the men of that Household to be even more callous than other men, which was saying a good deal. She had looked at the situation, twenty-three women in twenty-three narrow beds, all in one big room with twelve beds down each side in rows that faced each other; and she had felt shock, and distaste, at how
cheap
the Chornyak men would have to be to treat these women so. Surely they could have managed at least the partitions used in the children’s dormitories at the main house, to give their women a semblance of privacy and a place of their own! But no, they were all dumped here like charity patients on a public ward in the oldest hospitals . . . and even there, Michaela thought, there were curtains to be drawn for those women who did not choose to be on public display. Not here. Here, if one woman must undergo some intimate procedure, or was ill in a way that would distress others to watch, someone would bring panelled screens—a practical use for their everlasting needlework—and set them up around the bed. And the moment the situation was back to normal, the screens would be taken away and the woman left in the midst of a crowd again.

But gradually she came to understand that it wasn’t precisely as it seemed to her. The room had high windows along both sides, so that there was always a soft flood of light, and it had ordinary big windows at either end that gave every woman a view of the Virginia woodlands outside. In the spring it was flowering trees and carpets of wildflowers; in the autumn it was a spectacle of scarlet and gold and yellow. For most of the women, who could rarely leave their beds, it meant nothing that the patches of woodland were really only skillful plantings of wild things in an ample yard, and that just past the edge of the glory of dogwood or scarlet maple there was a slidewalk and a public street; from where they lay it looked like the inner heart of a woodland.