He did not take any unfair advantage of the kindness, either. When the meal was over, the old man was led back to the door-room, and there he stayed until the next meal was served.
The old man did not speak to any of the children. He just ate slowly and carefully, and watched his own dish. The children began to feel at ease around him and talk and sing. He never joined in or showed any reaction.
Having the old man in their kitchen actually became a point of pride with them. After all, they had been in the Songhouse for at least five or six years, and they knew all the adults, particularly the old ones; the only new ones were usually singers and Songbirds coming home when they turned fifteen and seekers coming back with new ones for the Common Room. To have someone old be new was unheard of.
And he was a mystery among the children. Stories were told about him, how he had committed terrible crimes in some far-off world and was coming to the Songhouse to hide; how he was the father of a famous singer and he was coming to spy on his child; how he was a deaf mute who felt their songs through the vibrations on the table (which had several children putting cotton in their ears and feeling the tables during meals, trying to sense something); how he was a Songbird who had failed and was now trying to gain a place in the Songhouse. Some of the stories were rather close to the mark in detail. Some were so magic and fantastical that they could not be believed even by the most credulous of the children, though of course they were repeated all the same. Yet in all the telling and retelling of the stories of the old man in the Rainbow Kitchen, not one of the stories was ever told to an adult.
So it was only by chance that Rruk ever learned the old man was there. He had taken to helping clean up after the meal. The Rainbow cook was a Blind, helped by two young Deafs who circulated from kitchen to kitchen. The Deafs were late for cleanup one day, and so the old man got up and began to wash the dishes. The cook was an observant woman, and she realized that while the hands of the old man were strong, they had never done any kind of rough work at all-they were soft on the palms as a baby's hand. But the old man was careful and the dishes got clean, and pretty soon the two young Deafs discovered that if they were later and later for cleanup in the Rainbow Kitchen, they wouldn't have to clean up at all.
The cook mentioned this to the doorkeeper when she led the old man to the kitchen one day, and the doorkeeper shrugged. Why not? Let him feel that he's earning his keep. The cook still believed that someone higher than the doorkeeper had authorized the old man to stay.
It was when the old man carelessly touched a pot that had stayed in the fireplace instead of being put on the table that the cook realized something was wrong. The old man was obviously severely burned. But he made absolutely no sound, showed absolutely no pain. He merely went on about his work after supper, washing dishes, though the pain must have been very annoying. The cook got worried. Because he could think of only two reasons the old man might have touched the pot without even wincing.
Either he's a leper and doesn't feel it, which I doubt, since he has no trouble handling pots and pans, or he's got Control.
Control? asked the head cook. Who is he, anyway?
Someone the doorkeeper brings up. As a kindness, I suppose.
It should have been cleared with me. An extra mouth eating the food, and I'm not told so I can allow for it in my budget?
The Rainbow cook shrugged. We've never run out.
It's the principle of the thing. Either we're organized or we aren't.
So the head cook mentioned it to the purchaser, and the purchaser mentioned it to security, and security asked the doorkeeper what the hell was going on.
He's hungry and obviously very poor.
How long has this been going on?
Three months, more or less. More.
We don't run a hotel. The man should be asked, kindly, to leave. Why did he come?
To see the Songmaster in the High Room.
Get rid of him. No more meals. Be kind, but firm. That's what a doorkeeper's for.
So the doorkeeper very kindly told the old man that he would not be able to eat in the Songhouse anymore.
He said nothing. Just sat in the door-room.
Five days later, the doorkeeper came to the head of security. He plans to starve to death in the door-room.
The head of security came down to meet the old man.
What do you want, old man?
I've come to see the Songmaster in the High Room.
Who are you?
No answer.
We don't let just anybody go see her. She's busy.
She'd be glad if she saw me.
I doubt it. You have no idea of what goes on here.
Again no answer. Did he smile? The head of security was too irritated to know or care.
If the old man had been violent or obtrusive, they might have expelled him forcibly. But force was avoided if it was at all possible, arid finally, because he intended to stay until he died of starvation, the head of security went to the High Room and talked to Rruk.
If he's that determined to see me, and he looks harmless, then certainly he should see me.
And so Rruk went down the stairs and through the labyrinth and came to the door-room, where the old man waited.
To her eyes, the old man was beautiful. Wrinkled, of course, but his eyes were innocent and yet wise, as if he had seen everything and forgiven it all. His lips, which opened in a smile the moment he saw her, were childlike. And his skin, translucent with age and yet harsh by comparison with his white, white hair, was unblemished. The wrinkles had been made more by pain than by joy, but the old man's expression transcended all the history of his face, and he reached out his arms to Rruk.
Rruk, he said, and embraced her.
And in the embrace she startled the doorkeeper and the head of security by saying, Ansset. You've come home.
There was only one Ansset who could come home to the Songhouse. To the doorkeeper, Ansset was the child who had sung so beautifully at his leavetaking. To the head of security, who had never known him, Ansset was the emperor of the universe.
To Rruk, Ansset was a well-beloved friend that she had sorely missed and grieved for when he did not come home more than sixty years ago.
4
You've changed, Rruk said.
So have you.
Rruk compared herself now to the awkward child she had been. Not so much as you might think. Ansset, why didn't you tell them who you were?
Ansset leaned against a shuttered window in the High Room. I tell the doorkeeper who I am, and in ten minutes the entire Songhouse knows I'm here. You might let me visit, and then after a few days you would take me aside and say, 'You can't stay here.'
You can't.
But I have, Ansset said. For months. I'm not that old yet, but I feel like I'm living in my own childhood again. The children are beautiful. When I was their age and size, I didn't know it.
Neither did I.
And neither do they. They throw bread at each other when the cook isn't looking, you know. Terrible breach of Control.
Control can't be absolute in children. Or most children, anyway.
Rruk, I've been away so long. Let me stay.
She shook her head. I can't.
Why not? I can do what I've been doing. Have I caused any harm? Just think of me as another Blind. It's what I am, you know. A Songbird who came back and can't be used as a teacher.
Rruk listened to him and her outward calm masked more and more turbulence inside. He had done no harm in the months he had been in the Songhouse, and yet it was against custom,
I don't care much about custom, Ansset said, Nothing in my life has been particularly customary.
Esste decided--
Esste is dead, he said, and while his words were harsh, she wondered if she could not detect a note of tenderness In his voice. You're in the High Room now. Esste loved me, but compassion was not her style,