words are set to, at different times,’ said Al·Ith casually.
‘I think that sometimes is so, with us,’ said Dabeeb.
Meanwhile, Ben Ata was as awake as he had never been in his life.
He knew quite well that this encounter between the two women was accommodating levels of understanding he did not, at the moment, in the least grasp. But he had every intention of doing so. But strongest in him, raging among thoughts and intuitions of a quite different character, was suspicion. And he was as forlorn and excluded as. a small child that has had a door shut in his face.
‘Is it something to do with light?’ suggested Al·Ith.
‘Light? Oh, I don’t think so. I haven’t heard that one.’
But her eyes had said yes, and begged and pleaded for Al·Ith not to betray them. Al·Ith was seeing that her idea about the women was not only correct — but had been far from adequate. She saw that here was something like an underground movement.
‘Shall I sing one of the versions for you? It is very popular.’
‘I wish you would.’
‘It is a very old song, my lady.’ And Dabeeb cleared her throat, and stood up behind the chair, holding on to it with one hand. She had a clear strong voice, and evidently used it often.
‘Look at me, soldier! He’s looking!
It’s at me he is looking!
Soon I shall smile, not quite at him, That’ll catch him!’
And now both women heard Ben Ata’s breathing, thick, angry.
Neither looked at him: they knew they would see a man in frenzies of jealousy. Everything was now perfectly clear to Al·Ith. She marvelled at her own clumsiness; and also at the aptness of events, which always pleased her, so inevitably and satisfyingly proceeding from one thing to another, turning facets of truth, the possibilities of development, to the light one after another.
She knew that Ben Ata had wanted to have this woman, and that she had not wanted to be had. She knew that Ben Ata’s mind was inflamed with jealousies and suspicions. There was nothing for it but to go along with whatever was happening and — and wait and see.
Dabeeb was singing:
‘Eyes shine— His, mine …
I know how to please him. Simple and tease him.
I’ll make him hunger. And languish and anger. And give me his pay, A corporal’s pay.’
Her strong voice left a strong silence, supported by the hushing rain.
‘We sing that at the women’s festivals — you know, when women are together.’
Seeing that Al·Ith was smiling and pleased, she said, obviously daring and delighted with herself — and even looking at Ben Ata and allowing herself a half-humorous shudder at the black rage on his face — ‘There is another version, but of course it isn’t fit for your ears, my lady.’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Ben Ata. ‘Don’t run away with that idea. If you knew what they get up to in that Zone of theirs …’
Dabeeb had winked at Al·Ith, then blushed at her audacity, and had begun the song.
‘Come husband! Smooth out my — cushion … ’
‘You are not to sing that,’ said Ben Ata. He was now sustained by a calm, moral loftiness.
‘Perhaps the lady Al·Ith would like to know the worst of us as well as the best, my lord,’ said Dabeeb, in a cosy comfortable voice, motherlike. As Ben Ata did not persist, but merely strode about, snorting, she began again:
‘Come husband, smooth out my — cushion. Quick, get a push-on …’
Dabeeb interrupted herself, and drummed rapidly on the table’s edge.
‘I’m hungry as — winter.
No sin to …’
She drummed again:
‘Warm me up Fill my cup …’
She drummed.
‘Now—go. Quick. Slow.’
She drummed. She winked at Al·Ith again and, animated with the song, winked at Ben Ata, too, who could not suppress a brief appreciative smile.
‘Hard as a board this Good old bed is …’
She drummed.
‘One two three four One two three four …’
She drummed, smiling, alive with challenge and invitation.
‘That’s how we do it. That’s how we do it.
That is our way. That is our way.’
A long sustained drumming, while all her white teeth showed.
‘A fine idea you’ll have of us, my lady.’
Ben Ata was standing with arms folded, feet planted, smiling. As a result of this song, the current was running strong between him and Dabeeb, whose looks at him were confident, inviting.
Al·Ith watched with interest. Rather as she would have done the mating approaches of a couple of horses.
‘There’s a song we have …’ she began casually, and Dabeeb allowed the tension between her and Ben Ata to slacken, and she became attentive to Al·Ith.
Who was thinking that this lie she was telling would not have been possible in Zone Three at all. Occasions for lies did not arise.
Now she was saying: ‘There’s a song we have …’ when they did not, nor anything like it.
‘How shall we reach where the light is. Come where delight is …’
‘Oh, no,’ Dabeeb broke in, ‘we have nothing like that. We don’t go in for that kind of thing.’ She was obviously afraid.
‘You don’t think it might be a good idea if you had a song festival here?’ said Al·Ith.
‘Oh, a very good idea. A very good idea indeed,’ said Dabeeb enthusiastically. And her eyes pleaded with Al·Ith.
‘Perhaps we’ll talk about it, Ben Ata,’ said Al·Ith, and at once went on, speaking to him. ‘Dabeeb was kind enough to agree to give me one of her dresses. I’d like to give her one of mine.’
‘But she has dozens of dresses. She had all those that weren’t good enough for you. What did you do with them, Dabeeb? Flog them?’
‘I sold some of them, my lord. They didn’t all fit me.’ And to Al·Ith, ‘I’d be so grateful. If we could — I mean, I could, have one of your dresses …’
‘Then come with me,’ said Al·Ith, on her way to her rooms.
‘My lady, if I could have the one you have on now? I’ve never seen anything like it …’
The two women went into Al·Ith’s rooms and Ben Ata bounded across and leaned to listen. He could hear the two women, talking about clothes, weaving, sewing. Al·Ith was taking off her dress and Dabeeb was exclaiming over it.
‘Oh, this is too fine for me, oh, it is so beautiful, oh, oh, what a beautiful …’
‘When you make dresses for ordinary wear, do you always make copies for special occasions?’
A brief pause.
‘Nearly always. Al·Ith.’
‘It must be nice wearing