Read Online The Poison Oracle by Peter Dickinson - Free Book Online
Authors: Peter Dickinson
Tags: Mystery
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money, not sex . . .
“The point is,” she said, “I don’t think Bruce is going to let me go. Ever. We’re having a wild time together at the moment, but it can’t last. And when it’s over . . . He hasn’t said anything, but I’ve been listening to the women . . . sometimes he’s taken a fancy to a dancer from Dar or somewhere and had her flown in for a week and given her a present and sent her home . . . they talked about Simoko as if she was one of those. But they talk about me as if I’m one of them —you know, there’s several old women there who were Bruce’s father’s girls—they’ve been shut up in the women’s quarters for years—when it was only a sort of mud fort. OK, I’m enjoying myself right now, but I’ve got work to do.”
“Exactly,” he said.
She stopped grooming Dinah and swung round at him like a gun on a tank turret.
“Who made you judge in Israel?” she snapped. “Slavery for life, is it?”
“I don’t know . . . nobody . . . I’m not a judge . . . to set you free, either.”
“As far as you’re concerned I’m just another monkey in Bruce’s zoo? And you’re one of them? ”
She made a gesture, vivid with passion, towards the oblivious eunuch. Dinah parodied it. Anne didn’t laugh this time.
“I don’t know what I think,” said Morris. “I’m not very clever at either/or situations, I’m afraid. As a matter of fact I don’t really approve of the Sultan keeping a zoo here at all; but since he insists on having one I try to make it tolerable for the animals. And, well, I suppose you’re better off here than you might be in prison.”
“Which is where I belong, you think?”
“I tell you, I don’t know!”
Slowly she swung back to Dinah.
“Sorry, sweetie,” she said. “We got interrupted.”
They returned to the silent ritual of grooming. Morris felt a twitch of jealousy that they should seem to understand each other, instantly, so much better than he understood either of them. Hell, there were things he could accomplish which this girl could never begin on—he began to run his mind over the probable grammar of Dinah’s exploration of the future tense.
“What were you saying about to-morrow night?” said Anne. “About this feast, I mean, and knowing whether you were still Foreign Minister?”
It was uncanny how smoothly she flipped herself back into the unruffled stream of polite chat.
“Oh,” said Morris, “well, there’s this feast. Theoretically it’s held when the floods begin to recede, but it doesn’t work out like that . . .”
“It’s probably something to do with the moon. Like Easter.”
“Yes. Well . . . you know, you ought to go and listen to some of it. The Sultan gives this feast—it lasts six hours—and in between the courses boys from the marshes sing the Testament of Na!ar. There’s one clan—the rock-dove clan—where all the boys have to learn all the traditional songs. Really it’s an astonishing performance, especially if you know that they aren’t allowed to sing them after they’ve reached puberty. Why don’t you make friends with the marshwomen? They could explain. You see, there’s a special gallery with a pierced screen where the women can sit if they want to . . .”
When she had gone, mission unaccomplished, Morris settled again at his work-bench; the whine of his fine-toothed saw, the hum and fizz of his polisher discs, the small feeling of accomplishment as each blue cross took on an almost professional finish—these should have been soothing, but despite them he felt irritated and disappointed. Dinah, too, was suddenly tiresome. Quite soon he had to give up his work to try to occupy both their minds with education.
It didn’t go well. Morris kept thinking about Anne, and perhaps Dinah did too. He was surprised, almost alarmed, by the strength of his wish that she had stayed longer, and how his original awkwardness and resentment in her presence had changed to liking. If the Sultan had
“The point is,” she said, “I don’t think Bruce is going to let me go. Ever. We’re having a wild time together at the moment, but it can’t last. And when it’s over . . . He hasn’t said anything, but I’ve been listening to the women . . . sometimes he’s taken a fancy to a dancer from Dar or somewhere and had her flown in for a week and given her a present and sent her home . . . they talked about Simoko as if she was one of those. But they talk about me as if I’m one of them —you know, there’s several old women there who were Bruce’s father’s girls—they’ve been shut up in the women’s quarters for years—when it was only a sort of mud fort. OK, I’m enjoying myself right now, but I’ve got work to do.”
“Exactly,” he said.
She stopped grooming Dinah and swung round at him like a gun on a tank turret.
“Who made you judge in Israel?” she snapped. “Slavery for life, is it?”
“I don’t know . . . nobody . . . I’m not a judge . . . to set you free, either.”
“As far as you’re concerned I’m just another monkey in Bruce’s zoo? And you’re one of them? ”
She made a gesture, vivid with passion, towards the oblivious eunuch. Dinah parodied it. Anne didn’t laugh this time.
“I don’t know what I think,” said Morris. “I’m not very clever at either/or situations, I’m afraid. As a matter of fact I don’t really approve of the Sultan keeping a zoo here at all; but since he insists on having one I try to make it tolerable for the animals. And, well, I suppose you’re better off here than you might be in prison.”
“Which is where I belong, you think?”
“I tell you, I don’t know!”
Slowly she swung back to Dinah.
“Sorry, sweetie,” she said. “We got interrupted.”
They returned to the silent ritual of grooming. Morris felt a twitch of jealousy that they should seem to understand each other, instantly, so much better than he understood either of them. Hell, there were things he could accomplish which this girl could never begin on—he began to run his mind over the probable grammar of Dinah’s exploration of the future tense.
“What were you saying about to-morrow night?” said Anne. “About this feast, I mean, and knowing whether you were still Foreign Minister?”
It was uncanny how smoothly she flipped herself back into the unruffled stream of polite chat.
“Oh,” said Morris, “well, there’s this feast. Theoretically it’s held when the floods begin to recede, but it doesn’t work out like that . . .”
“It’s probably something to do with the moon. Like Easter.”
“Yes. Well . . . you know, you ought to go and listen to some of it. The Sultan gives this feast—it lasts six hours—and in between the courses boys from the marshes sing the Testament of Na!ar. There’s one clan—the rock-dove clan—where all the boys have to learn all the traditional songs. Really it’s an astonishing performance, especially if you know that they aren’t allowed to sing them after they’ve reached puberty. Why don’t you make friends with the marshwomen? They could explain. You see, there’s a special gallery with a pierced screen where the women can sit if they want to . . .”
When she had gone, mission unaccomplished, Morris settled again at his work-bench; the whine of his fine-toothed saw, the hum and fizz of his polisher discs, the small feeling of accomplishment as each blue cross took on an almost professional finish—these should have been soothing, but despite them he felt irritated and disappointed. Dinah, too, was suddenly tiresome. Quite soon he had to give up his work to try to occupy both their minds with education.
It didn’t go well. Morris kept thinking about Anne, and perhaps Dinah did too. He was surprised, almost alarmed, by the strength of his wish that she had stayed longer, and how his original awkwardness and resentment in her presence had changed to liking. If the Sultan had
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