her again, said, ‘It is a question of degree, Ben Ata. A half of our population produces these things. A quarter are artisans, using gold, silver, iron, copper, brass, and many precious stones. A quarter are merchants, suppliers, traders, and tellers of stories, keepers of Memory, makers of pictures and statues, and travelling singers. None of our wealth goes into war. There are no weapons in our country. You will not find anything beyond a knife or an axe for household use or the use of a herdsman, in any home in our country.’
‘And what if you are attacked by a wild animal? If an eagle takes a lamb?’
‘The animals are our friends,’ she said, and saw the incredulity on his face. Also, he found her account lacking in any drama.
‘And where has all this got you? Except where we are, in trouble … or so you say we are —’
‘Is your birth rate falling or is it not?’
‘It is. All right, things are unhealthy. I admit it. And now Al·Ith, in this paradise of yours, I want to know what are the men doing?’
‘They are not making war!’
‘What do they do with themselves all day?’
‘Exactly what every one of us does — whatever it is their work is.’
‘It seems to me that with women ruling there is nothing a man can do but—’
‘Make love, you were going to say.’
‘Something of the sort.’
‘And bake, and farm, and herd, grow, and trade and mine and smelt and make artefacts and everything there is to do with the different ways of feeding children, mentally and emotionally, and the keeping of archives and maintaining Memory and making songs and tales and … Ben Ata, you look as if I had insulted you.’
‘All that is women’s work.’
‘How is it possible that They expect us to understand each other? If you were set down in the middle of our land you would not understand anything that was going on. Do you know that as soon as I cross into your land I cease to be my real self? Everything I say comes out distorted and different. Or if I manage to be as I am, then it is so hard, that in itself makes everything different. Sometimes I sit here, with you and I think of how I am, at home, with Kunzor, say, and I can’t—’
‘Kunzor being your husband?’
She was silent, helpless at the utter impossibility of saying anything that could keep in it the substance of truth.
‘Well then, out with it! He is, isn’t he? Oh, you can’t fool me.’
‘But didn’t I tell you myself that Kunzor is the name of one of the men I am with?’
But he kept on his face the look of a man who has with penetration discerned the truth. His stance, arms folded, knees set apart, feet planted, announced that he was not in the least undermined or intimidated.
Yet she could see that he was in fact really trying to understand: she would be wrong to allow herself to be held off from him by his automatic defensiveness. Something she could respect, and from the most real part of her, was at work in him.
Again, automatically, he jeered: ‘And this Kunzor of yours, of course he is a finer fellow than me in every way possible …’
She did not respond to this, but said, ‘If we were not meant to understand each other, what are we doing here at all?’
From within deep thought, thought that was being protected, in fact, by his derisiveness, the stances of what he had always considered ‘strength’, he said, or breathed out, slowly, ‘But what is it … I must understand … what? We have to understand … what …’ He lapsed into silence, eyes fixed on a cup on the table. And she realized, with what delight and relief, that he was in fact operating from within that part of him which meant that he was open and ready for understandings to come into him — as she had been, in the Council Chamber. She sat absolutely still, subduing her breathing, and not allowing her eyes to rest too long on his face for fear of disturbing him.
His own breathing was slower, slower, he was stilled, his eyes fixed on the cup had no sight in them — he was deep within himself. ‘What …’ he breathed. ‘There is something … we have to … they want us to … here we are soldiers … soldiers with no war … you are … you are … what are you? What are we … what are we for … that’s it, that’s it …’
Like someone in sleep, he brought out these words, slow, toneless, each one only a summary, a brief note or abstract, as it were of long processes of inner thought.
The slow rain soaked down, they were inside a bright shell drowned in water, they were inside a hush of wet sound. Neither moved. He breathed now hardly at all. She waited. A long time later he came to himself, saw her there, seemed surprised, glanced around at the cool spaces of this meeting place of theirs, remembered everything, and at once restored face, eyes, and body to alert disbelief.
He did not know what had just happened. Yet she could see on his face a maturity that spoke for the deep processes that had been accomplished in him.
She did not now feel helpless in the face of a diminishing of herself she could not control or direct: she was sustained and comforted, knowing that despite everything, they were in fact achieving what they should … and, speaking from the highest of intentions, from out of her best understanding of what was needed, she now destroyed this precious mood of mutual benefiting.
What she said was this: ‘Ben Ata, I wonder if it would be possible for me to see Dabeeb — you know, Jarnti’s wife.’
He stiffened and stared. This was so violent a reaction that all she could do was to acknowledge that she was back on that level where she could not expect to understand him.
‘You see, we — I mean, in our Zone — we are going to have a festival of songs and tales …’
His face was working with suspicion. His eyes were red, and glared.
‘What is the matter?’
‘Oh, you are a witch all right. Don’t pretend you are anything else.’
‘But, Ben Ata, it seems to me that we may find out what we want to know — or at any rate get some inkling, by listening to old songs. Stories. Not the ones that everyone sings all the time. Ones that have … fallen out of … use … and —’ But he had got up violently, and was leaning over her, gripping her shoulders, his face six inches from hers.
‘So you want to interview Dabeeb!’
‘Any of the women. But I’ve met Dabeeb.’
‘I can tell you this, I’m not going to share one of those orgies of yours, everyone having each other.’
‘Ben Ata, I don’t know what has happened, but you are off again on some wrong track …’
‘So I am! What happens when a group of you and your Fathers get together? I can imagine!’
‘You are imagining something you’ve experienced yourself, Ben Ata, something like what happens when your soldiers
