Orson Card - Songmaster

Kyaren, the woman said.

Yes? Kyaren asked, suspicious and prepared openly for hostility, though inwardly she hoped vaguely that this would actually be a friendly overture-she was in the mood for it, now.

That bastard from Death, Josif.

Yes?

Just a friendly warning. Don't bother with him.

Why not?

Parrot-beak's expression grew darker-she was apparently not used to being questioned when she gave unsolicited advice.

Because he's a whore.

That was so far from her impression of Josif that Kyaren could only look surprised and say, What?

You heard me.

But-he didn't try anything, didn't offer anything.

Not to you the woman said, rolling her eyes impatiently heavenward. You're a woman .

And the woman got up and went to her own desk, leaving Kyaren to punch money into the lives of old people while wondering if it was true, insisting that it made no difference, and knowing that the thought of Josif as a homosexual prostitute completely destroyed her delight at the quarter-hour she had spent with him,

She was tempted not to answer his voice at the door. I'm not here, she thought. Not to you.

But when he spoke a second time, she couldn't resist getting up from her bed and opening the door. Just to see him and confirm for herself whether it was true or not.

Hi, Josif said, grinning.

She did not smile back. One question. True or false. Are you a homosexual whore?

His face went ugly, and he didn't answer for a moment. Then he said, quietly, You see? You don't have to be one of the in-group to get the dirt on someone else.

He hadn't said no, and her contempt for people who sold themselves became dominant. She started closing the door.

Wait a minute, he said. You didn't answer my question. You asked two questions. She digested that, All right then.

I'm not a whore, he said. And the other just guarantees you're safe from me tonight, doesn't it?

The whole thing was ugly. Today had been fun, but now she could not think of him except in a sexual context. She knew about homosexuality, of course; the mental picture she had of the act between men was an ugly one, and now she could not stop herself from picturing him performing that act. It made him ugly. His slenderness, the delicacy of his face, the innocence in his eyes-they became deceptive, repulsive to her now.

I'm sorry, she said. I just want to be alone. No you don't, he said. I know what I want. No you don't.

Well, if I don't, you certainly don't.

Yes I do. And he pushed the door open carefully, ducked under her arm, and went inside. You can get out, she said.

I can, he agreed amiably, sitting on the edge of her bed, the only large piece of furniture in her room. She pointedly sat in a chair. Kyaren, he said. You liked me today. No I didn't, she said. And because she knew she was lying, she went on: I didn't like you at all. You were pushy and obnoxious and your attention was completely unwelcome.

Come now, we're statisticians, aren't we? he said. Nothing's complete. Let's say I was seventy percent obnoxious and you sixty percent didn't want me around. Well, I'll be here for only ten percent of the night, so there's plenty of margin. Concentrate on liking me. I mean, I overlooked the fact that you're as mean as the imperial fleet. Surely you can overlook the fact that I do perverted things. I won't do any of them to you.

Why are you bothering me like this?

Believe me, I'm not trying to be bothersome.

Why don't you leave me alone?

He looked at her a long time before answering, and then tears came into his eyes and his face went all innocent and vulnerable and he said, quietly, Because I keep hoping I won't always be the only human being in this zoo.

Just think of me, she said, as one of the animals.

I can't.

Why not?

Because you aren't.

The way he looked at her, his eyes swimming with tears, was getting through to her. Is it an act? she wondered. Is this just an incredibly complex line? Then it occurred to her that he was probably not interested in the thing that lines usually led to.

What do you want?

Perversely, he took the question wrong. Deliberately wrong, Kyaren knew, and yet exactly right,

I want, he said, to live forever.

She started to interrupt. No, I mean--

But he refused to be interrupted. He spoke louder, and got up from the bed and walked aimlessly around the limited floorspace of the room. I want to five forever surrounded by the things I love. A million books, and one person. All of humanity in the past, and only a single example of the human race in the present.

Only one person? she asked. Me?

You? he asked in mock startlement. Then, more subdued, he said, Why not? For a while at least. One person at a time.

All of humanity in the past, she said. You like your work in the Office of Death that much?

He laughed. History, Kyaren. I'm a historian. I have degrees from three universities. I've written theses and dissertations. Feces and defecations, he amended. With my specialty, there's not a chance in the world of my getting a job on this planet. Or a really good job anywhere.

He walked up to her, knelt beside her, and put his head in her lap. She wanted to shove him away, but found that she could not bring herself to do it. I love all mankind in the past. I love you in the present. And he smiled so crazily, reaching up a clawed hand to paw ineffectually at her arm, that she could not stop herself from laughing.

He had won. And she knew it. And he stayed, talking.

He talked about his obsession with history, which began in the library in Seattle, Westamerica, a town on the site of a great ancient city. I didn't get along with other children, he said. But I got along great with Napoleon Bonaparte. Oliver Cromwell. Douglas MacArthur. Attila the Hun. The names meant nothing to Kyaren, but they obviously were rich with memories to Josif. Napoleon is always in dense forest to me. I read about him among trees, huge trees covering ground so moist you could almost swim in it. While Cromwell is always in a little boat on Pungent Bay, in the rain. The library made me pay for the new printout of the book-the ink ran on the copy I had. I dreamed of changing the world. Until I got old enough to realize that it takes more than dreams to make any kind of impression on events. And a reader of books is not a mover of men.

He was so full of memory, which flooded out of him uncontrollably and yet in marvelously subtle order, that Kyaren also remembered, though she said nothing of it to him. She had been raised amid music, constant songs; but here she found a better song than any she had heard on Tew. His cadences, his melodies and themes and variations were verbal, not musical, but because of that they reached her better, and when at last he finished she felt she had listened to a virtuoso perform. She resisted the temptation to applaud. He would have thought she was being ironic.

Instead she only sighed, and closed her eyes, and remembered her own dreams when she first became Groan and thought of one day singing before thousands of people who would watch her intently and admire and be moved. The dreams had been stripped from her one by one, until nothing was left of them but a scar that bled often but never reopened. She sighed, and Josif misunderstood.

I'm sorry, he said. I thought it would matter to you. And he got up to go.

She stopped him, caught his hand and pulled him away from the door, which was closing again because he had not stepped through it.

Don't go, she said.

I bored you.

She shook her head. No, she said. You didn't bore me. I just don't know why you told me.

He laughed softly. Because you're the first person in a long time who looked like she might be willing to hear and capable of understanding.