Doris Lessing - The Marriages Between Zones 3, 4 and 5

‘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 invade some wretched village and …’ but she saw there was no point in going on. She shrugged. Stung by her contempt, for it was that, he straightened himself, and strode to the arched door which led out to the hill at the foot of which lay the army camp. He shouted into the rain, again, again, again … an answering shout, the sounds of feet running through water, then Ben Ata shouting, ‘Tell Dabeeb to come here. At once.’

And he turned there, arms folded, leaning his weight back on the archway, smiling triumphantly at her.

‘Well, I want to speak to Dabeeb, and I am glad she is coming. But I’ve got no idea why you are behaving like this.’

‘Perhaps you fancy having Dabeeb yourself? Who knows what you and your filthy lot get up to.’

‘Having. Having. What is this word of yours, having. How can one have another person. No wonder you can’t —’ but she had been going to say, ‘No wonder you can’t make love when you think in terms of having—’ but of course had to check it.

‘You had better get the shield to protect her, or something like that,’ she said. ‘She won’t be able to stand up to the air in here.’

‘Thank you so much. It had occurred to me, you know. How do you suppose all these arrangements were made here?’

And he indicated the devices for the protection of the people who had worked, or who still worked in here from time to time — in this case, large clasps or brooches, which were for fastening at throat level.

Soon the sound of squelching feet, and Dabeeb appeared, wrapped in a vast dark cloak, one of her husband’s old army cloaks. She stood in the entrance, not looking at Ben Ata, but very closely, and shrewdly at Al·Ith, who smiled at her. She accepted from Ben Ata the brooch — which was of a yellow dull substance, very heavy — and pinned this at the opening of her dress at the throat, and stepped lightly in, dropping the wet cloak outside the arch on the floor of the portico.

She still did not look at Ben Ata, but was waiting for Al·Ith. Who had suddenly understood what was the probable cause for all the drama. Dabeeb had not looked at Ben Ata. In this awful place, with the antagonisms inseparable from being with — from sex, as they put it — this probably meant they had had each other. She had had him, or he had had her — however these barbarians saw it — but she was not disposed at this particular time even to wonder.

Seeing Dabeeb, the neat, handsome, capable matron, with her air of shrewd humour, standing there waiting for direction, Al·Ith decided to make as much as she could of the situation.

‘Please sit down, Dabeeb,’ she said, nodding at the chair Ben Ata had left empty. And now Dabeeb did glance at Ben Ata. The real danger of this situation — as she had momentarily seen it — had not been enough to allow her to raise her eyes to him, but now that she needed an order, a direction, she did look towards her lord.

But he had left it all to Al·Ith, and stood like a sentinel, watching the scene.

Dabeeb sat.

‘In our country we are going to have a great festival of songs and of stories. We have them often, but this one will be different.’