Doris Lessing - The Sirian Experiments

“Well, lovely lady,” said he, and stopped. I remember how he briefly shut his eyes, sighed, and seemed to fight with himself. He said, in a different voice, patient, but too patient, there was much too much effort in it and he was speaking as from out of a dream or trance: “We come from the same planet, Klorathy and I. We are all similar in appearance.” And there was, again, that flicker of restless laugh—and then a turning aside of the eyes, a sort of painful grimace, a quick shaking of the head, as if thoughts were being shaken away. Then he looked at me again.

“Am I going to see Klorathy this time?”

“One Canopean is the same as another,” he said, and it was like the ghost of a derisive quote.

“You are not like Klorathy,” I said doggedly, surprised that I said it. And knew I had not meant it kindly.

He looked surprised, then laughed—sadly, I could have sworn to that—and said gently: “No, you are right. At this moment, at this time, I am indeed not remotely like Klorathy.”

I did not know what to say.

“I want to ask questions of somebody …” and this was desperate. I was becoming amazed at myself—the tone of this interview or exchange was different from any I had ever known. I, Ambien II, age-long high official of Sirius, with all that meant of responsibility and effectiveness—I did not recognise myself.

It seemed to me, however, that incompetent as I was being, he was arrested by me, and returned to something different from… I could not yet say to myself, simply, that he was in a bad, recognisably wrong and bad state. I said that at this moment at least I could see something in him of Klorathy.

“Ask, fair Sirian.” This I did not like but able to swallow it—because of the element of caricature in what he said, the manner of it.

“First of all. I met a man on the very first evening I was here. I disliked everything about him…” I described him, physically, and waited.

“You must surely be able to work that out for yourself. We are under the aegis of Puttiora here. As I believe you were told. That was one of them . They know everything that happens. Who comes into the city and who goes out. But you passed their test.”

“What test?”

“Obviously, you were of Canopus, and therefore you were not molested.”

“I am not, however.”

“They are an ignorant lot.”

“Why do you tolerate their rule?” I asked, fierce, hot, incredulous. “Why?”

“A good question, fair Sirian. Why? I ask it myself. Every hour of every day. Why? Why do we put up with the nasty, stinking, loathsome, horrible…” and he got up, literally sick and choking, and went to the window and leaned out. From far below I heard the clamour of evening, and imagined the flare-lit streets, the poor posturing women, the sale of flesh, the fighting, the drinking.

At that point there was a very long silence. I could have, then, said things I did not until later. But this was Canopus and so… and when he turned a hunted haunted face towards me, and sighed, and then laughed, and then shook his head, and then put his face in his hands and then flung himself down again, and yet was unable to stay still for even a moment, I said to myself that this was a man disgusted by Shammat.

“Very long term, the perspectives of Canopus, you must learn to understand that,” he said at last.

“And very long term are the perspectives of Sirius,” I said, with dignity. For if there was one thing I understood, it was that… empires and the running of them… but he stared and laughed—he laughed until he flung himself back and lay exhausted, staring at the ceiling.

The thought was in my mind that this was a man who was in very deep situational trouble. And I suppressed it.

“Very well,” I said, “for reasons of long-term development, you tolerate Shammat, you tolerate Puttiora and allow them to believe they are in control. Very well. But what are you doing here?”

“A good question again, fair Sirian.”

I said, "You do not have to call me that. I have a name. But it doesn’t matter. What I want to know is, what is the function of Canopus? What are you?” And I was leaning forward, twisting my hands together, so that they cracked—all my limbs are thin and frail, and I sustain breaks easily. I was using enough strength to break bones. I sat back, carefully relaxing myself.

He was watching me thoughtfully, with respect.

“You are right to ask that question.”

“But you are not going to answer it?”

At this he started up, leaning forward, gazing at me as if incredulous. “Can’t you see …” he began—and then lay back again, silent.

“ See what? ” But he said nothing. “Why do you stop? Why is it that you will never answer? Why is it I always get so far and then you won’t answer?”

He was gazing at me from where he reclined. I could have sworn that this copper man, or bronze man, that bronze-eyed, alert, smiling man was Klorathy. But he was not. The contrast was so absolute, and definite, to the extent that I said to him, not knowing I going to: “What is the matter with you?”

He laughed.

And even then I didn’t pursue it, for if I had he would have answered. He stood up. He collected himself. He smiled—oh, not at all like Klorathy.

“First of all… I have to tell you…” and he stopped, and he sighed. I saw that he was not going to say it!

“I have to go,” he said.

“Why? To work? They say you are a merchant.”

“I am a merchant. In Shammat land do as Shammat does. I am a merchant as you are a servant.” He came close to me then and bent and put out both hands and touched my earrings. “Take care of them,” said he, and sprang back, as if the touch burned him.

“Where are yours?” I asked.

“A good question. But they are on the earlobes of Shammat. They were stolen, you see. Or, more accurately, I got drunk and gave them to the earlobes of Shammat… very bad,” he said. “Not good.”

And he smiled in a way that frightened me, and left.

And now I knew at last that there was something very wrong with this Canopean. I was enabled to search my memory and come up with: the fact that this was a suborned, or disaffected, or rebellious official. I had seen it! I had had to deal with it a hundred times! This was Canopus gone wrong.

And I wrapped myself rapidly in my black cloth and I ran down those stairs after him, catching him halfway, and making him stop.

“Where are you going?”

“To visit my woman. I have a beautiful woman,” he said. “Oh, don’t look like that! Believe me, it is only those who understand nothing that look like that…” and he bounded down the stairs.

I went after him, the alabaster walls of the stairs gleaming around us both, and we reached the dark street that was luridly illuminated and full of sweating shouting demented people. I grabbed him and made him turn.

“Don’t be a fool,” he said. “Do you imagine we are unobserved?” He tore himself away. I did not listen, and went after him. He turned again and said in a low urgent voice: “I may be lost, but do you have to lose yourself, too? Be careful…”

And as we stood there, up came two of the same greenish-grey cold-eyed officials I had seen before, and one reached and wrenched down my headcloth to show my earrings, and a hand was already coming out to wrench them off, while another was pulling Nasar around by the arm, when Nasar said, “Punishment from Canopus!” and the one who had touched my earrings fell, like a stone, and the other ran off into the crowds. Nasar looked full at me, his amber eyes pained and sick, and said: “That cost us a good deal, Sirian, more than you know—get back upstairs. I may be lost, but why should you be?”