George Loves Gistla
Page 2
own,George observed, except for the extreme smallness and the color.
"I do not think it will be nice for you or them," she said.
"Ah, listen, Gistla. Don't talk that way. It'll be fine!" But he knewthat he was not deceiving her with the lightness he tried to put intohis voice.
Then, although she had never done it before, she reached out and touchedhis cheek. George had grown used to the emotions that reflected on herface, and he knew she was suddenly very sad. "Yes, George," she said. "Iwill go with you to meet your family." And she said it as though shewere telling him good-by.
* * * * *
It was no better than he had expected. It was worse. Much worse. And hewas growing angrier by the moment. They were all seated in therock-walled patio behind the large white house. Gistla sat beside him,looking very small and frightened and very different. And it was thatobvious difference that George had hoped everyone might ignore. Butinstead, each of them, his father, his mother, his sister, appeared tobe trying to make it even more obvious.
The first strain, when everyone had sat there staring at Gistla asthough she were something behind a cage, had passed. But now his parentsand sister were moving in a new direction. They had relaxed, havingfound control of the situation, and they were cutting her to pieces.
"Tell me," his sister was saying, her eyes dancing slyly, "don't youpeople have some very strange tricks you can do?"
George tightened his fingers against his palms. He heard Gistla answer,"Tricks?"
"Yes." His sister's white smile shined. "You know, like making thingsdisappear, things like that."
"My father," Gistla said seriously, "can do very wonderful things. He isa musician."
George's father leaned forward, blinking amusedly. "Really? What does heplay?"
"Play?" asked Gistla.
"Yes. He's a musician. He must play something, some kind of instrument."
Gistla looked at George, but George did not know what to say. He wishedhe had never tried to do this. He wished he had just ignored his familyand gone on loving Gistla in the privacy of his own emotions.
"Well, now," Mr. Kenington was saying rather impatiently. "Does he playsomething like our violin or clarinet or oboe, or what?" His father,George had noticed, was becoming impatient more frequently since he hadbecome Secretary. The Secretarial post was very important.
"He does not play anything," Gistla said carefully. "He just ... makesthe music and I hear it."
"But how?" Mr. Kenington insisted. "What does he play the music _on_? Hecertainly can't make the music without using something to make it on."
Gistla glanced again at George and he said quickly, "It's pretty hard tounderstand, Father. I don't think--"
"No, now don't interrupt just now, son. This is very interesting. We'dlike to know what she's talking about."
Mrs. Kenington spoke for the first time. "Are you just making this up?"
It was like a whip coming through the air. His mother sat there,blinking, the suspicion and distrust she felt for this creature showingin her eyes and upon her mouth and even in the way she was sitting.
"Now, Lois," Mr. Kenington said, as though he really sympathized withwhat she had said, believing that not only Gistla was making it up, butthat all of her race made everything up. But he was stubborn. "Come now,tell us. Tell us what you mean."
Gistla's smooth head turned this way and that. "Sometimes," she saidslowly, "my father journeys to other places, and if he cannot returnsoon, he sends me music. When the light has gone from the day and I amalone, I hear it."
"You mean he sends it by wires or by radio?" Mr. Kenington asked withsurprise.
"No."
"Now, wait a minute," George's sister leaned forward, smiling. "You justhear this music, is that right? Up here." She tapped her forehead.
"Yes," said Gistla.
"My God," George's sister said. She looked at her parents, arching hereyebrows.
"You shouldn't make things up," George's mother said.
"Mother," George said, his face coloring. "She's not making things up!"
"Just a moment, son," Mr. Kenington said crisply. "You don't want totalk to your mother in that tone."
"No, but, my God," George's sister went on. "Imagine. No wires, noloudspeakers, just ... up here." She tapped her forehead again.
"I'm not talking to my mother in any tone at all," George said,disregarding his sister.
"Well, she shouldn't lie," said Mrs. Kenington with conviction.
George stood up. "She is not lying, Mother."
"I forbid you to argue with your mother that way, George," said Mr.Kenington.
"I mean, my God," said George's sister happily. "This is an innovation!Can you imagine? Gistla, or whatever your name is, could your fathermake his music sometime when we have a dance?"
Gistla's eyes were hurt and she was, George knew, confused. She shookher head.
Mrs. Kenington was blinking accusingly. "Do they teach you to make thesethings up? Is that what they teach you at home?"
"Mother, will you please?" George said. "Why must you talk to her thatway?"
Mr. Kenington stood up quickly. "I did not raise my son to show anattitude like that to his mother."
"But she isn't making this up," George said. "You asked her to tell youand she--"
George's sister had jumped out of her chair and she was waltzing overthe patio. She began humming as she danced. "Can't you just see it?Everyone dancing around, listening to music in their heads? No orchestraor records or anything?"
Mr. Kenington stood very tall. "Are you taking the word of your mother,or this ... this ..." He motioned curtly at Gistla.
George licked his lips, looking defensively at each one of his family."It isn't a matter of taking anyone's word at all. It's just somethingwe don't understand."
George's sister whirled and then suddenly she stopped, putting her handagainst her mouth. "My God, what if everyone got the music different? Imean, does everyone hear the same music, dear? Because if they didn't,what a mess!" She began dancing again, her skirt swirling over thebricks of the patio.
Mr. Kenington's voice was louder. "I think we understand, all right,George. There isn't anything about this we don't understand!"
George's lips were paling.
His sister dipped and turned. "We could call it a Music In The Headdance. Everybody brings his own head!" She laughed merrily. "My God!"
George noticed then that Gistla was disappearing out of the rear gate.He stood, clenching his fists and glaring at his family. His sister hadstopped dancing but she was still laughing.
"I didn't think, George," his mother said resolutely, "that you weregoing to invite someone who lied."
George turned and ran after Gistla.
* * * * *
They sat again in the clearing. George could still feel the angerchurning inside him, and he held his hands together so tightly that hisfingers began to ache. "I hate them for that," he said.
Gistla touched his arm. "No, George. It is all right. It is the waythings are."
"But they don't need to be! My family did that on purpose."
"They just don't understand. My race is very different from yours and itseems strange."
"So does mine," George said, standing and beginning to pace back andforth.
It had been what he really had expected. But still he had hoped,somehow, that his family might have understood. He looked at Gistla,sitting quietly, her large eyes watching him. He knew he loved her verymuch just then, more in fact than he ever had before, because she hadbeen refused by his family.
"Listen, Gistla," he said, kneeling on the grass in front of her. "Itwon't make any difference what anyone thinks or does or says. I loveyou, and I'll go on loving you. We'll build our own life the way we wantit."
She shook her head slowly. "No, George. It does make a difference. Youcannot forget your family or your people. That is important to you. Iwould only hurt you."
/> "Do you love me?"
"Yes."
"Then that's all that's important to me. Not what anyone thinks. Notwhat my sister thinks or my father or my mother."
"We are different, you and I." She sat unmoving, her smooth faceunchanging. "My people seem strange to yours because we can do thingsyour people do not understand. We seem strange because we lookdifferently, we act