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Authors: Ursula K. Le Guin
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and got out of the church into the night.
I started to walk up towards the park. The street lamps were big blobs of light with rainbow haloes, and the wind was cold on the tears on my face. My head was hot and light and ringing with the singer's voice. I didn't feel the pavement under my feet, and if I passed anyone I didn't see them. And I didn't care if they saw me walking on the street crying.
There was a glory in it. It was too much for me to take, everything coming together at once, but there was a glory in it. And that was partly love. I mean real love. In the song I had seen Natalie whole, the way she really was, and I loved her. It was not an emotion or a desire, it was a confirmation, it was a glory, like seeing the stars. To know that she could do that, that she could make a song that made people be still and listen, and made me cry, to know that that was Natalie, it really was, it was her, herself, the truth.
But there was so much pain in it, and I couldn't handle it.
After a couple of blocks my tears dried up, I walked on, but by the time I got to the edge of the park I was so tired I turned around and headed for home. It was about fifteen blocks, and as I walked I wasn't thinking or feeling anything that I can remember. I just walked in the night, and I could have been doing it forever and gone on doing it forever. Only the sense of strangeness was gone. Everything was familiar, the whole world, the stars even, I was at home. Now and then there was the smell of fresh earth or flowers from a dark garden. I remember that.
I came to our street and turned down it. Just as I came towards the Fields' house, their car pulled up in front of it, and Mr. and Mrs. Field and Natalie and another young woman got out. They were all talking. I stopped short and just stood. I was between streetlights, and it's very strange that Natalie could see me off there in the dark. But she came straight towards me. I stood there.
"Owen?"
I said, "Yeah, hi."
"I saw you at the concert."
"Yeah. I heard you," I said, and gave a sort of laugh.
She was carrying her viola case. She had on a long dress, her hair still looked very black and smooth, and her face was bright. Playing her music, and then I suppose a reception afterwards with people congratulating her, had got her keyed-up, tense; her eyes looked big.
"You left after my songs."
"Yeah. Is that when you saw me?"
"I saw you earlier. At the back. I was looking for you."
"You thought I'd be there?"
"I hoped you would. No. I thought you would."
Her father called her from the front steps; "Natalie!"
"Is he proud of you?" I asked.
She nodded.
"I have to go in," she said "My sister came for the concert. Do you want to come in?"
"I can't,"
I meant I couldn't, not that anybody was preventing me.
"Will you come tomorrow night?" she said in a sudden voice, fiercely.
I said, "All right."
"I want to see you," she said in the same way. Then she turned around and went to the house and went in, and I walked on past and came home.
My father was watching TV, and my mother was sitting with him doing crewelwork. She said, "Short movie?" and I said it was, and she said, "Did you enjoy it? What was it?" and I said, "Oh, I don't know," and went upstairs, because I'd walked right out of the night wind back into the fog. And I couldn't talk in the fog, I couldn't say anything true.
It was not my parents' fault. If this seems to be one of those books about how everything is the older generation's fault, and even some psychologists have written books like that by the way, then I haven't said it right. It wasn't their fault. All right, so they lived partly in the fog all the time, and accepted a lot of lies without trying to get at the truthâso what? Who doesn't? It doesn't mean they liked it any better than I did. It doesn't mean they were strong. It means just the opposite.
I WENT OVER to Natalie's the next night. It was like the first time: Mrs. Field let me in, and Natalie was
I started to walk up towards the park. The street lamps were big blobs of light with rainbow haloes, and the wind was cold on the tears on my face. My head was hot and light and ringing with the singer's voice. I didn't feel the pavement under my feet, and if I passed anyone I didn't see them. And I didn't care if they saw me walking on the street crying.
There was a glory in it. It was too much for me to take, everything coming together at once, but there was a glory in it. And that was partly love. I mean real love. In the song I had seen Natalie whole, the way she really was, and I loved her. It was not an emotion or a desire, it was a confirmation, it was a glory, like seeing the stars. To know that she could do that, that she could make a song that made people be still and listen, and made me cry, to know that that was Natalie, it really was, it was her, herself, the truth.
But there was so much pain in it, and I couldn't handle it.
After a couple of blocks my tears dried up, I walked on, but by the time I got to the edge of the park I was so tired I turned around and headed for home. It was about fifteen blocks, and as I walked I wasn't thinking or feeling anything that I can remember. I just walked in the night, and I could have been doing it forever and gone on doing it forever. Only the sense of strangeness was gone. Everything was familiar, the whole world, the stars even, I was at home. Now and then there was the smell of fresh earth or flowers from a dark garden. I remember that.
I came to our street and turned down it. Just as I came towards the Fields' house, their car pulled up in front of it, and Mr. and Mrs. Field and Natalie and another young woman got out. They were all talking. I stopped short and just stood. I was between streetlights, and it's very strange that Natalie could see me off there in the dark. But she came straight towards me. I stood there.
"Owen?"
I said, "Yeah, hi."
"I saw you at the concert."
"Yeah. I heard you," I said, and gave a sort of laugh.
She was carrying her viola case. She had on a long dress, her hair still looked very black and smooth, and her face was bright. Playing her music, and then I suppose a reception afterwards with people congratulating her, had got her keyed-up, tense; her eyes looked big.
"You left after my songs."
"Yeah. Is that when you saw me?"
"I saw you earlier. At the back. I was looking for you."
"You thought I'd be there?"
"I hoped you would. No. I thought you would."
Her father called her from the front steps; "Natalie!"
"Is he proud of you?" I asked.
She nodded.
"I have to go in," she said "My sister came for the concert. Do you want to come in?"
"I can't,"
I meant I couldn't, not that anybody was preventing me.
"Will you come tomorrow night?" she said in a sudden voice, fiercely.
I said, "All right."
"I want to see you," she said in the same way. Then she turned around and went to the house and went in, and I walked on past and came home.
My father was watching TV, and my mother was sitting with him doing crewelwork. She said, "Short movie?" and I said it was, and she said, "Did you enjoy it? What was it?" and I said, "Oh, I don't know," and went upstairs, because I'd walked right out of the night wind back into the fog. And I couldn't talk in the fog, I couldn't say anything true.
It was not my parents' fault. If this seems to be one of those books about how everything is the older generation's fault, and even some psychologists have written books like that by the way, then I haven't said it right. It wasn't their fault. All right, so they lived partly in the fog all the time, and accepted a lot of lies without trying to get at the truthâso what? Who doesn't? It doesn't mean they liked it any better than I did. It doesn't mean they were strong. It means just the opposite.
I WENT OVER to Natalie's the next night. It was like the first time: Mrs. Field let me in, and Natalie was
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