“But Thomas, dear, you said NO CHANGES, of any kind!”
“But Thomas, we were only doing as you told us to do . . . Oh dear, it’s so confusing.”
His wife had looked him straight in the eye, presuming a good deal on their years together, and had asked that he please explain to them specifically why a change in the height of the grass or the shape of a hedge did not constitute a change. They would, Rachel had assured him blandly, do better if he would take the time to clarify that for their feeble understanding. Women! Sometimes it amused him and sometimes it infuriated him; always, it made him wonder what in the name of heaven really went on inside their heads. Better that he didn’t know, probably.
Satisfied at last that nothing new was being erected on his premises one grain of sand at a time, and with the light failing rapidly, he turned his key in the antique lock that represented nothing but a concession to female sentimentality—the computer having identified him and released the barriers the moment he stepped within their range—and he went inside. Now, we would have peace. He was looking forward to the evening. He might even get some useful work done.
Except that there was no peace. Instead, there were women running up and down the stairs, there was disorder and bustle and confusion, and there was a low murmur that he recognized sadly as female nervous racket.
Thomas drew a long breath, and he stopped dead in the entrance. He did not fail to notice the row of ornamental pebbles set into the border of the threshold—that had not been there when he went off to the Awards circus, he was sure of it; he made a mental note to take it up with the ladies at the first opportunity, after he’d found out what was responsible for the disturbance he could sense all around him in place of the serenity he had been looking forward to. He let the door slide shut behind him, and coughed gently, and the racket died at once, the silence spreading from where he stood like ripples in still water; the women were passing along the word that he’d come home.
“Well,” he said in the new stillness, “Good evening to you all.”
“Good evening, Thomas.” From all directions.
“Well?”
They said nothing, and he spoke sharply. “What the devil is going on here? I could hear the uproar all the way to the slidewalk . . . what’s it all about?”
One of the older girls, one of the multitude of his nieces, came to the top of the staircase and stood looking at him.
“Well, damn it?”
“It’s Nazareth, Uncle Thomas,” said the girl.
“It’s Nazareth? It’s Nazareth what, child?” Knowing he’d get nowhere with her if he was cross—that would only addle her further—he hid his irritation and spoke gently.
“Nazareth . . . your daughter. She’s sick.”
Thomas considered that for a moment, and took off his coat to hand to the woman who had come up to stand waiting beside him. He remembered the girl now; Philippa, her name was. Superb at Laotian.
“In what way is Nazareth sick, Philippa?” he asked, heading down the stairs toward her, smiling.
“I don’t know, Uncle Thomas. We’ve been wondering whether to call the doctor.”
Thomas made a sharp noise in his throat . . . that was all he needed, one of those bloody Samurai stomping arrogantly around his house all evening . . . not that he’d stay long. Very busy men, the doctors; no time to do more than present their bill and shower their generalized contempt around in all directions. He respected the laser surgeons, who seemed to be capable craftsmen; as for the rest of them, his contempt for their ignorance was matched only by his outrage at their assumption that all humankind owed them automatic and unreasoning devotion. It was a tribute to the skill of the American Medical Association that although there had been Anti-Linguist riots again and again there had never even been an Anti-Physician rumble.
“Surely that’s not necessary, child,” he said. “It can’t be anything serious. What’s Nazareth doing, throwing up?”
His wife came then, finally, hurrying, and he turned to greet her. She hadn’t time to be polite, either, of course. And she looked tired. She always looked tired, and he found it very boring.
“We’ve had an awful time with Nazareth,” she said, without so much as a hello for preamble, “ever since dinner. She has dreadful abdominal pain, and her legs hurt her . . . her muscles keep cramping and knotting, poor thing . . . I feel so sorry for her! And she’s vomited until she has nothing left in her stomach and is just retching. . . .”
“Appendix, maybe?”
“Thomas. She had that out summer before last. And an appendix doesn’t cause muscle spasms in the legs.”
“Her period, then? She’s at the right age to start carrying on about that . . . and I’ve known women to claim everything short of total paralysis on that excuse, Rachel.”
She just looked at him steadily, and said nothing.
“Well, then. A bit of a virus, and the drama of it all. I’m sure she enjoys all the attention.”
“Whatever you say, Thomas.”
There it was. That mechanical whatever-you-say that meant nothing-that-you-say. He hated it. And she was forever doing it, in spite of knowing full well that he hated it.
“You don’t agree with me, Rachel,” he said.
“Perhaps you might consider taking a look at her. Before you make your decision.”
“Rachel, I have a lot of work to do, it’s already very late, and I’ve lost hours in a stupid meeting as it is—not to mention this very inappropriate meeting on my staircase. Do you really feel that I need to waste yet more time fussing over Nazareth? She’s healthy as a mule, always has been.”
“And that is why I’m worried,” Rachel said. “Because she’s never sick—never. Even the appendix was only removed because she had to do that frontier colony negotiation and they didn’t want to chance having her seriously ill with inadequate medical facilities at hand . . . she’s always well. And no, I don’t expect you to waste your time fussing over her.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“That will be enough, Rachel,” said Thomas sternly, glad that Philippa had taken herself off when Rachel appeared and wasn’t there to witness her aunt’s insolence; he would have been forced to do something obvious to counteract it, if she’d been there with them.
Rachel was becoming more and more difficult as she went into middle age, and if it hadn’t been for the extraordinary skill she had in the management of his personal affairs he would not have tolerated her behavior. A quick hysterectomy, and off she’d be to Barren House—it was tempting. But it wouldn’t be convenient for him to have her at Barren House, and so he put up with her. He knew what she would do now . . . she’d turn on her heel and flounce off to the girldorms, her rigid back eloquently saying for her all the things she dared not say aloud.
But she surprised him. She stood her ground, and she faced him calmly, saying, “Thomas, I’m really alarmed. This isn’t like Nazareth.”
“I see.”
“I think we should have a doctor.”
“At this hour? A house call? Don’t be absurd, Rachel . . . you know what that would cost. Furthermore, it’s excessive and hysterical over-reaction. Is Nazareth in coma? Hemorrhaging? Is her heartbeat seriously irregular? Does she have difficulty breathing? Is there anything even remotely resembling an emergency?”
“Thomas, I told you. Severe pain—abdomen and legs. Vomiting that just goes on and on.”
“We have painkillers in the house; give her some. We have drugs to stop the vomiting, give her those. If she’s no better in the morning, by all means take her to the doctor.”
Rachel drew a long breath, and clasped her hands behind her back. He knew what that meant; it meant that she had started to set her arms akimbo and her hands on her hips and then thought better of it.
“Thomas,” she said, “Nazareth has to be at the International Labor Office at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. She’s interpreter for the new labor
treaty negotiations on seldron. And that treaty’s crucial . . . seldron imports are down 39 percent from last year, and there’s no other source. Do you know what the situation would be in the comset industry if we lost our seldron trade contract over a labor dispute? And are you aware of the credits this Household has tied up in seldron stocks?”
“What backup has she got?” Thomas demanded, alert now—this changed things a great deal, as Rachel knew very well. It was typical of her to take fifteen minutes getting to the point, typical and infuriating. “Who’s available?”
“There’s no one to take over for her. The only other native speaker of REM34 we have is four years old—not nearly old enough. Aquina Chronyak does informal backup, but she’s not fluent; she couldn’t handle even trivial negotiations, and these aren’t trivial. And besides that, she’s booked.”
“This is a definite oversight,” said Thomas coldly. “We can’t have this sort of thing.”
Rachel sighed. “Thomas,” she said, staring at his chest. “I have told you again and again. We can only spread the language coverage just so far. Even if every one of us knew fifty languages with flawless native skill, we couldn’t be in more than one place at a time. And we women cannot produce children any faster, or in any greater quantity, than we are doing already—if you have complaints, you men might turn your attention to that problem.”
Thomas was suddenly very much aware that he and Rachel had been standing there in the middle of the house wrangling for a good five minutes, and that the wrangle was on the verge of escalating into a scene. The quiet that surrounded them told him careful attention was being paid to their every word, and he cursed himself silently for not taking Rachel straight to their room the moment he saw that she was upset—heaven knew he should have sense enough by now to know that was required.
“Rachel,” he said quickly, “you’re very tired.”
“Yes, I am. And very worried.”
He took her by one elbow and began moving her firmly down the stairs toward a decent privacy, talking calmly as they went. “I don’t think that either the fatigue or your worry is the result of one child who’s either eaten something she shouldn’t have or has some minor vi-bug bothering her. And I also do not think that it comes from your own work—as I recall, you’ve had only three days’ interpreting in the past five. I think you’ve been wearing yourself out with that nonsense at Barren House.”
He felt her stiffen, and he kept her moving right along.
“I mean what I say, now,” he continued. “I understand that you women have a good time—” he paused to usher her through a door and close it behind them “—playing with your language. For the women at Barren House who have no family responsibilities I think it makes an excellent hobby. It’s perfectly reasonable that women would want an artificial language of their own for a pastime, and I’ve never tried to keep you from participating. But you, Rachel, cannot really spare time right now for a hobby, no matter how fashionable. And I won’t have you wearing yourself out at Langlish meetings and coming home so badtempered and nervous that it’s impossible to get along with you. Is that clear, Rachel?”
“Yes, Thomas. It’s clear.” The lines bit deep in her face, and she was so taut that if he’d touched her she would have quivered like a bowstring. He ignored that, as was suitable.
“Now, I am not concerned personally about this illness of Nazareth’s,” he went on. “She gets excellent medical care. Whatever this is, I’m sure you’ve blown it up completely out of proportion. But I am concerned—very concerned—about the negotiations at the ILO. And I expect Nazareth to be there, and to be in a condition that allows her to carry on her duties with her usual efficiency. For that reason, Rachel, and for that reason only, I’m willing to compromise.”
“In what way?”
“I’ll authorize a contact with the hospital’s Emergency Room computers, to be paid from Household accounts because it’s a business expense—you needn’t put it on the women’s medical accounts. If the ER-comps think a doctor is necessary, I’ll authorize that as well—but not a house call. You can take her to the doctors, if that actually appears to be necessary.”
“Thank you, Thomas.”
Rachel would have turned to leave him then, but he reached out and stopped her, feeling the jerk of her shoulder under his hand with annoyance. Too tightly strung, much too wound up . . . one more thing for him to see to if he could ever get a moment’s spare time.
“Rachel,” he said sternly, “I don’t want any repetition of this.”
“Thomas—”
“I suggest you make a few entries, Rachel. Nazareth is to go to bed one hour earlier; if that crowds her schedule, she’ll just have to give up her evening freetime. I want her diet run through the computers in complete detail, and anything at all that isn’t being provided in proper amounts I want straightened out. I don’t want her allowed to skip any of the manual labor sessions—and I’d add swimming. See that she does twenty laps daily, unless you have permission from me for her to skip them. And don’t come asking me to excuse her because she’s having menstrual cramps, I won’t have that sort of foolishness. Increase the vitamins she’s getting, and if—as I expect—no doctor is needed tonight, you get her in for a complete checkup just as soon as she’s free tomorrow.”
“Before or after she swims the twenty laps, Thomas?”
If Thomas had been many husbands, he would have slapped her face, then. She knew that; and she stood before him as insolent as he’d ever seen her, holding her head tilted and ready to his hand, inviting the blow.
“Get to your daughter,” he said quietly. “I am disgusted with you.”
She went away without a word, leaving him with his heart pounding in his ears, taking slow deep breaths to calm himself. Thank God those last few sentences had been spoken in this room, and not as an entertainment for the Household. And he was quite preprared for the polite knock at the door that came almost immediately—that would be his brother Adam, come to presume on being only two years Thomas’ junior and offer him advice.
“Yes, Adam?”
“She’s a bit above herself, Tom.”
“Penetrating observation on your part.”
“Now, Thomas . . . sarcasm isn’t going to improve the situation.”
Thomas waited. You never had to wait long with Adam, who loved the sound of his own voice.
“I’m not sure I’d be either willing or able to tolerate such behavior from a woman.” Adam said judiciously. “And I’m not sure it’s a good idea, although your patience is admirable. You either keep a woman under tight rein, or she gets beyond you, and then it’s Barren House time. Not that I mean to tell you what to do, of course, Thomas.”
“My apologies for the commotion,” Thomas said. “Sorry it disturbed you.”
“Oh, well.” Adam shrugged, being magnanimous. “You know how women are when they’ve got a sick kid . . . they lose what little sense they started with. Rachel’s been roaring around here for the past hour as if Nazareth was on the point of death . . . she’s worn herself out. I hope you’ve put an end to her hysterics, Thomas—that would let us all get some sleep.”
Thomas nodded, keeping himself on the tight rein that Adam was recommending for the females. Ignoring the implication that because he couldn’t keep his wife in order the entire Household was being disturbed and kept from its rest. As though every bedroom in this house were not completely soundproof . . . Rachel could have played a fife and drum up and down the halls, and not one soul would have had his sleep disturbed.
He knew what was behind Adam’s behavior, and why Adam could never let an opportunity like this pass. It was not because he was an interfering pest, poor sod—it was because he was afflicted with a wife so vindictive and so melodramatic that no one could tolerate her company, and he had absolutely no control over her at all except the law. Which left him with an irresistible drive to control other men’s women, just to prove that he did know how it was done. His control o
f numbers was not sufficient consolation for the way that Gillian humiliated him at every turn.
“Come take a look at something I stumbled over today, Thomas,” the man was saying. “Have a glass of wine with me . . . get your mind off the fool woman.”
“Thanks, Adam, I appreciate it, but I can’t spare the time. I was behind before I got here, and now I’ll be half the night catching up.”
“You’re sure? Hell . . . ten minutes, one glass of wine . . . it’d do you good, Tom.”
He shook his head firmly, and Adam gave it up and wandered off to hunt somebody else who’d help him stave off the inevitable confrontation with sweet Gillian. She’d be at him for hours about the unfavorable contrast between the courtesy Thomas showed Rachel and the discourtesy Adam showed her, blah blah shrieking blah. Poor Adam; he was a good man, steady and reliable, but somewhere along the line he’d missed out on the essential ingredient for managing a woman: never, never for an instant, lose track of the knowledge that when you interact with a woman you interact with an organism that is essentially just a rather sophisticated child suffering from delusions of grandeur. Adam kept forgetting that, when Gillian went at him; he kept dealing with her as if she were a man, with a man’s rational mind and skills. Thomas didn’t think Gillian would be under the roof of his house much longer.
And then, because he at last had solitude, and silence, and peace, he put his brother’s domestic difficulties out of his mind along with his own very different ones and went to his office. He sat down at the comset and waited, with his eyes closed, until the appearance of composure had been replaced by the real thing. And before he turned his attention to the stack of contracts in his computer awaiting his review, he saw to one last chore.
Native Tongue Page 13
