Four for Tomorrow Part 23

She permitted herself a brief Germanic giggle-more at my starting a sentence with "like" than at my discom- fort-then she started talking.She is a top linguist, so a word from the Village Idiom still tickles her!) I appreciate her precise, furry talk; informational, and all that. I had enough in the way of social pleasantries before me to last at least the rest of my life. I looked at her chocolate-bar eyes and perfect teeth;- at her sun- bleached hair, close-cropped to the headI hate blondes!), and decided that she was in love with me.

"Mr. Gallinger, the Matriarch is waiting inside to be introduced. She has consented to open the Temple rec- ords for your study." She paused here to pat her hair and squirm a little. Did my gaze make her nervous?

130 "They are religious doc.u.ments, as well as their only history," she continued, "sort of like the Mahabharata, She expects you to observe certain rituals in handling them, like repeating the sacred words when you turn pages-she will teach you the system."

I nodded quickly, several times.

"Fine, let's go in."

"Uh-" She paused. "Do not forget their Eleven Forms of Politeness and Degree. They take matters of form quite seriously-and do not get into any discussions over the equality of the s.e.xes-"

"I know all about their taboos," I broke in. "Don't worry. I've lived in the Orient, remember?"

She dropped her eyes and seized my hand. I almost jerked it away.

"It will look better if I enter leading you."

I swallowed my comments, and followed her, like Samson in Gaza.

Inside, my last thought met with a strange correspond- ence. The Matriarch's quarters were a rather abstract version of what I imagine the tents of the tribes of Israel 174.

to have been like. Abstract, I say, because it was all frescoed brick, peaked like a huge tent, with animal- sidn representations like gray-blue scars, that looked as if they bad been laid on the walls with a palette knife.

The Matriarch, M'Cwyie, was short, white-haired, fifty- ish, and dressed like a Gypsy queen. With her rainbow of voluminous skirts she looked like an inverted punch bowl set atop a cus.h.i.+on.

Accepting my obeisances, she regarded me as an owl might a rabbit. The lids of those black, black eyes jumped upwards as she discovered my perfect accent. -The tape recorder Betty had carried on her interviews had done its part, and I knew the language reports from the first two expeditions, verbatim. I'm all h.e.l.l when it comes to picking up accents.

"You are the poet?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Recite one of your poems, please."

"I'm sorry, but nothing short of a thorough translating job would do justice to your language and my poetry, and I don't know enough of your language yet."

"Oh?"

"But I've been making such translations for my own 131 amus.e.m.e.nt, as an exercise in grammar," I continued. 'Td be honored to bring a few of them along one of the times that I come here."

"Yes. Do so."

Score one for me!

She turned to Betty.

"You may go now."

Betty muttered the parting formalities, gave me a strange sidewise look, and was gone. She apparently had expected to stay and "a.s.sist" me. She wanted a piece of the glory, like everyone else. But I was the Schliemann at this Troy, and there would be only one name on the a.s.sociation reporti 175.

M'Cwyie rose, and I noticed that she gained very little height by standing. But then I'm six-six and look like a poplar in October: thin, bright red on top, and towering above everyone else.

"Our records are very, very old," she began. "Betty says that your word for their age is 'millennia.'"

I nodded appreciatively.

"I'm very eager to see them."

"They are not here. We will have to go into the Temple -they may not be removed."

I was suddenly wary.

"You have no objections to my copying them, do you?"

"No. I see that you respect them, or your desire would not be so great."

"Excellent?'

She seemed amused. I asked her what was funny.

"The High Tongue may not be so easy for a foreigner to leam."

It came through fast.

No one on the first expedition had gotten this close. I had had no way of knowing that this was a double-lan- guage deal-a cla.s.sical as well as a vulgar. I knew some of their Prakrit, now I had to leam all their Sanskrit.

"Ouch! and d.a.m.ni"

"Pardon, please?"

"It's non-translatable, M'Cwyie. But imagine yourself having to learn the High Tongue in a hurry, and you can guess at the sentiment."

132 She seemed amused again, and told me to remove my shoes.

She guided me through an alcove . . .

. . . and into a burst of Byzantine brilliance!

No Earthman had ever been in this room before, or I would have heard about it. Carter, the first expedition's linguist, with the help of one Mary Alien, M.D., had V6.

learned all the grammar and vocabulary that I knew while sitting cross-legged in the antechamber.

We had had no idea this existed. Greedily, I cast my eyes about. A highly sophisticated system of esthetics lay behind the decor. We would have to revise our entire estimation of Martian culture.

For one thing, the ceiling was vaulted and corbeled; for another, there were side-columns with reverse flutings; for another-oh h.e.l.l! The place was big. Posh. You could never have guessed it from the s.h.a.ggy outsides.

I bent forward to study the gilt filigree on a ceremonial table. M'Cwyie seemed a bit smug at my intentness, but I'd still have hated to play poker with her, The table was loaded with books.

With my toe, I traced a mosaic on the floor.

"Is your entire city within this one building?"

"Yes, it goes far back into the mountain."

"I see," I said, seeing nothing.

I couldn't ask her for a conducted tour, yet.

She moved to a small stool by the table.

' "Shall we begin your friends.h.i.+p with the High Tongue?"

I was trying to photograph the hall with my eyes, knowing I would have to get a camera in here, somehow, sooner or later. I tore my gaze from a statuette and nod- ded, hard.

"Yes, introduce me."

I sat down.

For the next three weeks alphabet-bugs chased each other behind my eyelids whenever I tried to sleep. The sky was an unclouded pool of turquoise that rippled cal- ligraphies whenever I swept my eyes across it. I drank quarts of coffee while I worked and mixed c.o.c.ktails of Benzedrine and champagne for my coffee breaks.

133 M'Cwyie tutored me two hours every morning, and oc- casionally for another two in the evening. I spent an addi- 177.

tional fourteen hours a day on my own, once I had gotten *

up sufficient momentum to go ahead alone.

And at night the elevator of time dropped me to its bottom floors. . . .

I was six again, learning my Hebrew, Greek, Latin, and Aramaic. I was ten, sneaking peeks at the lliad.

When Daddy wasn't spreading heUfire brimstone, and brotherly love, he was teaching me to dig the Word, like in the original.

Lord! There are so many originals and so many words!

When I was twelve I started pointing out the little differ- ences between what he was preaching and what I was reading.

The fundamentalist vigor of his reply brooked no de- bate. It was worse than any beating. I kept my mouth shut after that and learned to appreciate Old Testament poetry.

-Lord, I am sorry! Daddy-Sir-I am sorry! -It couldn't be! It couldn't be. . .

On the day the boy graduated from high school, with French, German, Spanish, and Latin awards Dad Gal- linger had told his fourteen-year-old, six-toot scarecrow of a son that he wanted him to enter the ministry. I re- member how his son was evasive: "Sir," he had said, "I'd sort of like to study on my own for a year or so, and then take pre-theology courses at some liberal arts university. I feel I'm still sort of young to try a seminary, straight off."

The Voice of G.o.d: "But you have the gift of tongues, my son. You can preach the Gospel in all the lands of Babel. You were born to be a missionary. You say you are young, but time is rus.h.i.+ng by you like a whirlwind. Start early, and you will enjoy added years of service."

The added years of service were so many added tails to the cat repeatedly laid on my back. I can't see his 178.

face now; I never can. Maybe it is because I was always afraid to look at it then.

And years later, when he was dead, and laid out, in black, amidst bouquets, amidst weeping congregational- ists amidst prayers, red faces, handkerchiefs, hands pat- tins your shoulders, solemn faced comforters ... I looked at him and did not recognize him.

134 We had met nine months before my birth, this stranger and I. He had never been cruel-stern, demanding, with contempt for everyone's shortcomings-but never cruel.

He was also all that I had had of a mother. And brothers.

And sisters. He had tolerated my three years at St.

John's, possibly because of its name, never knowing how liberal and delightful a place it really was.

* But I never knew him, and the man atop the catafalque demanded nothing now; I was free not to preach the Word. But now I wanted to, in a different way. I wanted to preach a word that I could never have voiced while he lived.

I did not return for my senior year in the fall. I had a small inheritance coming, and a bit of trouble getting control of it, since I was still under eighteen. But I man- aged.

It was Greenwich Village I finally settled upon.

Not telling any well-meaning parishoners my new ad- dress, I entered into a daily routine of writing poetry and teaching myself j.a.panese and Hindustani. I grew a fiery beard, drank espresso, and learned to play chess.

I wanted to try a couple of the other paths to salvation.

After that, it was two years in India with the Old Peace Corps-which broke me of my Buddhism, and gave me my Pipes of Krishna lyrics and the Pulitzer they de- served.

Then back to the States for my degree, grad work in linguistics, and more prizes. / Then one day a s.h.i.+p went to Mars. The vessel settling 179.

in its New Mexico nest of fires contained a new lan- guage. -It was fantastic, exotic, and esthetically over powering. After I had learned all there was to know about it, and written my book, I was famous in new cir cles: "Go, Gallinger. Dip your bucket in the well, and bring us a drink of Mars. Go, leam another world-but remain aloof, rail at it gently like Auden-and hand us its soul in iambics."

And I came to the land where the sun is a tarnished penny, where the wind is a whip, where two moons play at hot rod games, and a h.e.l.l of sand gives you the in- cendiary itches whenever you look at it.

I rose from my twistings on the bunk and crossed the darkened cabin to a port. The desert was a carpet of endless orange, bulging from the sweepings of centuries beneath it.

"I a stranger, unafraid -This is the land -I've got it madel"

I laughed.

135 I had the High Tongue by the tail already-or the roots, if you want your puns anatomical, as well as cor- rect The High and Low Tongues were not so dissimilar as they had first seemed. I had enough of the one to get me through the murkier parts of the other. I had the gram- mar and all the commoner irregular verbs down cold, the dictionary I was constructing grew by the day, like a tulip, and would bloom shortly. Every time I played the tapes the stem lengthened.

Now was the time to tax my ingenuity, to really drive the lessons home. I had purposely refrained from plung- ing into the major texts until I could do justice to them I had been reading minor commentaries, bits of verse, 180.

fragments of history. And one thing had impressed me strongly in all that I read.

They wrote about concrete things: rock, sand, water, winds; and the tenor couched within these elemental symbols was fiercely pessimistic. It reminded me of some Buddhist texts, but even more so, I realized from my re- cent recherches, it was like parts of the Old Testament.

Specifically, it reminded me of the Book of Ecclesiastes.

That, then, would be it. The sentiment, as well as the vocabulary, was so similar that it would be a perfect exercise. Like putting Poe into French. I would never be a convert to the Way of Malann, but I would show them that an Earthman had once thought the same thoughts, felt similarly.

I switched on my desk lamp and sought King James amidst my books.

Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vani- ties; all is vanity. What profit hath a man . . .

My progress seemed to startle M'Cwyie. She peered at me, like Sartre's Other, across the tabletop. I ran through a chapter in the Book of Locar. I didn't look up, but I could feel the tight net her eyes were working about my head, shoulders, and rapid hands. I turned the page.