Native Tongue

by Suzette Haden Elgin, Susan Squier

  “You are aware,” he’d said, “that we have the widest variety of native speakers of languages, both Terran and offworld, that exists anywhere. We’re equipped to try the strategy I suggested, on the children’s behalf. You’re not. I suggest you let us have them.”

  The arrogance of the man . . . remembering, Dolbe felt his stomach churn. As if, just because business matters forced them to interact with the linguists, they would have turned innocent children over to them—even tubies! What did he think they were, anyway?

  “No,” he repeated, watching Dorcas, “we have nothing to suggest. Give them the same care you’d give any children. Good food. Plenty of exercise, etc. Have them watch the mass-eds. Put them in Homeroom, come the proper age. Etc., etc. And see what happens. And if anything does happen, notify me at once.”

  “All right, Dolbe, all right. If that’s all you know.”

  “That’s all I know.”

  “Arnold?”

  “What?”

  “Are the kids unhappy?”

  “Do they look unhappy?”

  “No . . . they don’t look anything at all.”

  “Well, then. Why borrow trouble? May I have them taken up to the roof, now?”

  “Sure. Go ahead . . . we’ve both got other things to do.”

  Dolbe called his minions to gather up the silent children and cart them back out again. As a concession to Taylor Dorcas, who’d been very civilized about it all, considering, he was careful to send the minions down back halls and direct them to isolated elevators. He could afford to be magnanimous, now. Now that he was getting the eerie little monsters off his hands at last.

  Michaela Landry had shown a decent sorrow, shed a decent tear or two, when Great-grandfather Verdi went a tad prematurely to his heavenly reward. Next she had picked off an aged and decrepit uncle at Belview Household, where it had been a little more risky because there were only a few dozen people instead of the average hundred that lived in a Lingoe den. She had felt obliged after that to wait out the natural death of another old man, at Hashihawa Household, in order to avoid suspicion.

  And now she was job hunting again, armed with references from three different Lines. The position they’d contacted her about, at Chornyak Household, sounded like a murderer’s most beloved fantasy. Forty-three linguist women, all under one roof, and without any men to guard them! Where she could take them one at a time, with great care! Michaela felt this might be a project to fill all the rest of her years . . . after all, every one of those women was expected to die sooner or later, and in many cases sooner. She could make a leisurely life’s work out of them, and perhaps grow old there herself, without ever having to search for another place.

  The description given to her by the State Supervisor of Nurses had been short and to the point.

  “This Barren House place has only female residents, and only twenty-three in need of nursing. None, as I understand it, requires anything elaborate. The patients are old and can’t tend to themselves adequately. And they have the usual list of problems that old ladies are so fond of—arthritis, diabetes, migraines, that kind of thing. But nobody is really ill. Until now the other women in the place have apparently shared the nursing duties among them, but the employer says that there have come to be so many patients that they can’t manage that way any longer. Which is not surprising, in view of the fact that all of them are Lingoes, and not proper women at all.”

  He had looked at her suspiciously, since she seemed to have an unusual tolerance for patients from the Lines; but she’d made him a brief speech detailing the revulsion she felt for linguists that had set his mind at rest.

  “I understand your feelings, Mrs. Landry,” he’d said approvingly. “I might say I share them. But why the devil do you keep taking nursing jobs with them, feeling like you do?”

  “Because they pay extremely well, sir,” she said. “I’m getting some of the people’s money back, Supervisor.”

  He clucked approvingly and reached over to pat her knee, the slimy old pervert, and went on to tell her the usual details about her living quarters and her salary and her days off.

  “Are you sure you’re interested?” he asked, when he got to the end of his spiel. “I’m not certain this job qualifies for your campaign to get back some of the ill-gotten gains from these parasites . . . 200 credits a month plus room and board? That’s not really very much, to look after 23 women . . . although there is the fact that none of them are very sick. How do you feel about it?”

  Michaela cocked her head coyly, and let the lovely corners of her mouth curl for him. Her thick lashes came down, rose, fell again, and she looked at him from under their fringes.

  “I will only be starting at that salary, Supervisor,” she said sweetly.

  He grinned at her.

  “Saucy little piece, aren’t you?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  This time he didn’t just pat her knee, his hand slid a good two inches up her thigh. Michaela managed to move away from him, but she did it in such a way that he was able to believe she had enjoyed his touch and given it up only out of modesty, and he looked absurdly pleased with himself.

  “Opportunity for advancement there, eh?” he asked her, the silly grin still on his silly face. His silly flushed face.

  “Oh yes, Supervisor. I’m sure there is.”

  “Well, I suppose you know what you’re doing . . . a woman of experience like you.”

  “I rather expect I do, Supervisor.” She looked at him sideways, and caught her breath just a little. “And you know a woman of experience when you see one, don’t you, sir?”

  “Oh, I’ve been around, Mrs. Landry!” he snickered. “You bet your sweet little . . . toes . . . I’ve been around! Oh yes, little Widow Landry, I certainly have!”

  He hadn’t been. She could tell by looking at him. If he’d taken a woman to bed more than three times in his whole life, she was a Senator. Thirty-five if he was a day, and she’d wager she knew how he spent his time. He’d have three inflatables at home, carefully rolled up in their waterproof cases: one blonde, one brunette, one redhead. And she’d bet one of them had his mother’s face painted on her. Only a man of his type would even consider spending a lifetime supervising women. Nurses.

  “Oh, and Mrs. Landry . . .”

  “Sir?”

  “I thought it might interest you to know that Thomas Blair Chornyak asked for you specifically. That is, the Lingoe who called on his behalf did. It seems that he recognized your name on the job-wanted notice . . . claims to have seen you once, as a matter of fact.”

  “Really?” Michaela was astonished. “Where could he have seen me, Supervisor?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, sugar. Perhaps he was visiting one of the places where you’ve been working.”

  “Perhaps . . . but you’d think I’d remember.”

  She would have. The top linguist of all linguists? The most responsible of all linguists, and the pinnacle of prey for her? She would not have forgotten.

  But the Supervisor didn’t see it that way.

  “Why on earth would you remember?” he chided her. “What conceivable reasons would your employers have had for telling you he was there? Goodness . . . let’s remember our position in life, shall we? Thomas Blair Chornyak, may he rot in hell and all his relatives with him, is a very important man.”

  “Yes, Supervisor,” said Michaela, blushing skillfully and allowing a small tear of dismay to appear at the corner of one eye. Which earned her a good deal more patting and exploring, in the guise of comforting the poor little thing. She hoped he would rot in hell, and was only sorry she wouldn’t have an opportunity to help him on his way. But she kept the expression of vapid awe on her face, and used her eyelashes to good effect, until he was sufficiently agitated so that he had to let her alone or risk making some move that would be genuinely indiscreet.

  Breathing hard, the supervisor moved away from her and fussed with a stack of papers on his desk, while Michaela
watched him and waited. She was accustomed to wasting her time while men dawdled; her training at the Marital Academy had included the most detailed instruction in that so essential womanly skill. And finally, he told her that everything was in order and wished her good luck.

  “And if you should ever need me . . .” he finished, giving her what he no doubt thought was a significant look.

  That would be the day. If she ever needed him, she would kill herself.

  “Thank you, Supervisor,” said Michaela. “You’ve been so very kind. I’ll go now, and leave you to your work.”

  He gave her permission to leave, and she thanked him again. And as she passed him on her way to the door, the appointment card for her interview at Chornyak Household safely in her pocket, she gave a slow and luxurious roll of her handsome hips in his direction.

  With any luck at all, she’d have made him wet his pants.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The decision to marry a woman who has been properly trained for wifery need not be cold-bloodedly commercial. True . . . the procedure of reviewing threedy tapes of our clients, examining their genetic and personal files, interviewing those women who seem most promising, etc., is reminiscent of the personnel office rather than the romantic idyll. We agree, and we agree that the American man has no wish to proceed in that fashion. Furthermore, it is not necessary. There is no reason why a man cannot see to it that the woman he has chosen as his bride—in the traditional manner—is then enrolled at one of the seven fine marital academies whose graduates are accepted by this agency. In this way he can have the best of both worlds . . . the tender joy of young love, the ecstasy of finding and choosing the girl of his dreams, and the satisfaction of knowing that he will have a wife who is worthy of the role.

  We suggest that you consider the alternative carefully, before deciding that good luck will see you through—and save you our modest fees. Do you really want to begin married life with an untrained woman whose only skill at wifery is the haphazard result of a few mass-ed courses and the confused efforts of her female relatives? Do you really want to risk your career and your home and your comfort to the fumbling trial-and-error techniques of an untutored girl? Do you truly believe that any degree of natural beauty of face and figure can compensate for a constant succession of social embarrassments and personal disappointments? (If you are a father, is that what you want for your sons?)

  We think not. We think you want a wife that you can take with you anywhere without hesitation. We think you want a wife you can bring any guest home to in serene confidence. There are few more important investments a man can make in his future—don’t leave your future to chance. We look forward to serving you.

  (Brochure, from The Perfect Wife, Inc.)

  SPRING 2187. . . .

  Nazareth waited in the government car, staring bleakly at the snarled traffic all around her; they would be late, and the others would be angry. She would have to ask the driver to go in with her and explain that the delay had not been avoidable. . . . Happy nineteenth birthday, Nazareth Joanna Chornyak Adiness.

  She didn’t feel nineteen. She felt old. Old and used up . . . The children of the Lines had little opportunity to be children, and that aged you. And having the children, first the boy born on her sixteenth birthday and then the twin girls two years later . . . that brought a certain maturity. But it wasn’t either of those things that made her feel like one of those ancient wrinkled crones cackling crazy imprecations from the back of a cave. It was living as the wife of Aaron Adiness, who was twenty-five on the outside and just barely three years old on the inside, that had done it.

  Aaron was handsome, and virile—exhaustingly virile—and with most people he was charming. Nazareth knew that many women envied her her husband. His astonishing facility at acquiring languages and learning them had waned as he had become older, but before that happened he had run up an impressive total. She had no idea how many languages he could read and write with ease, but certainly it ran to nearly one hundred.

  It was the sort of thing the media doted on, and they never tired of filling little holes in programming with a feature about “the man who speaks one hundred languages!” Which was absurd, of course—he spoke perhaps a dozen—but the story was better when it was distorted, and it fed the unhealthy fascination the public had for anything to do with the linguist monsters. It was not all that much of an accomplishment, really, not for the human languages. For someone to be fluent in tongues from five different language families was impressive; to know one hundred just demonstrates that you have had a lot of opportunity and that you look on language learning the way others might look on surfing or chess. Human languages are so much alike that by the time you’ve learned a dozen well you’ve seen everything that human languages will ever do, and adding others is almost trivial.

  But people weren’t willing to believe that, and Aaron didn’t mind encouraging the misunderstanding. Him and his “hundred languages”. . . . Let a two-line filler come on the screen with his name in it, never mind that it said the same thing it had said dozens of times before, Aaron would be there jabbing the key to guarantee him a hard copy for his scrapbook. Which Nazareth was obliged to keep up-to-date, of course.

  Living with him, subject to his whims, she felt that she walked from morning to night on eggshells. His feelings were so easily hurt that she rarely knew what had bruised them; but he would say, “You know very well what’s wrong, you smug bitch!” and sulk for hours, until she had apologized not once but several times. And could be awarded his grudging forgiveness for a brief time.

  If she didn’t apologize, she could count on humiliation, because he would make her the butt of his wit—and it was fearsome—on every occasion offered him, the more public the better. In private, he would not speak to her at all; in public, he kept everyone weak with laughter at his jokes about her faults and her weight and her one front tooth that was crooked and any tiny miscalculation that she might have made in the course of the day . . . or the course of the night. He would set her up to fall into his traps, and sit back beaming while they roared at her misery; and he would raise one elegant eyebrow and cluck his tongue at her as you do at a pettish child and say, “Poor sweet baby, you have no sense of humor at all, do you?” It was a blessed relief to go to work and escape from him. Always.

  The other women laughed at his jokes as well as the men, and Nazareth knew why. If they didn’t, two things would happen to them. First, Aaron would include them in his war of ridicule. Second, their husbands would accuse them of being sullen and of being “wet blankets that spoil everybody’s fun” and of being too stupid to understand even the simplest funny line. The men, most of them, thought Aaron was the most entertaining person they’d ever had the pleasure to have around.

  If Nazareth was sufficiently humble, she might gain a day or two of respite, but no more. Not only did things she said hurt his feelings, and looks on her face hurt his feelings, and things she did or failed to do hurt his feelings, he could not bear it if she did anything well. If someone complimented her, Aaron was enraged. If she received a routine note of commendation for a job well done, he was furious. If she had a contract in hand and he had none, he was angry with a foul dark anger. She did not dare beat him at chess or cards, or win a game of tennis from him, or swim a few laps more than he could, because he couldn’t handle any of those things.

  And it was Nazareth who bore the brunt of it when Aaron was bested at something by another man. In public he was the good sport, there to shake the winner’s hand and admire his skill; back in their bedroom he would pace endlessly around the room, raving about the bad luck and the series of mysterious accidents that had kept him from being the winner.

  In public, his children were the apples of his eye, always tucked under Daddy’s arm or bouncing on Daddy’s knee. In private he detested them. They were useful only as possessions, something he could show off as he showed off his collection of swords or his cursed languages; he had no other interest in t
hem. And he made no pretense of having any interest in Nazareth except for her sexual convenience, the money she earned for his private accounts (and how bitterly he complained about the 40 percent of her fees that went into the community accounts when he knew nobody but her could hear him!) and her value as a foil for his wit. If the day came when she could no longer be useful in any of those roles, he would have no more use for her than for a stranger . . . probably less. At least a stranger would have offered him novelty.

  She might have complained, but there was no one to complain to. The men loved Aaron, since he had too much guile ever to turn his petulance on them—he had outgrown that, as Thomas had predicted that he would. And complaining to another woman would have been like shouting down a well. “If you live with a man, it’s like that,” they’d say, if they bothered to say anything. She believed Aaron to be far worse than most men—she knew, for example, that although her father was often angry with her mother he was always courteous to her in public, and she had seen no other man who tormented his wife as Aaron tormented her. But the women who did not have her problem had their own problems. There was no end to the inventiveness of men when their goal was to prove their mastery.

  It was ironic that she had accepted this life for the sake of the Encodings, for there had not been any since the day of her wedding. It was not only that she never had an instant alone when she could have sat down and worked at them, not only the problem of a hidingplace for the work; she felt as if some sort of deadness had crept into her mind and removed forever whatever had been the source of her efforts.

  I am stupid, Nazareth thought. And I am not alone in that opinion. Aaron thought her stupid, certainly; he would teach her sons to think so. And the one and only time that she had slipped and tried to tell another woman what her life was like, that woman had called her stupid.

  “Good Lord, Nazareth,” she had said. “You don’t have to tolerate that kind of thing—you manage him, you little ninny. How can you be so stupid?”