In the front hallway, Elwin Dagenham was standing by the front door, talking in a low voice to a fair-haired young man– working for whom? Rhiow wondered. Possibly some PR person, a flack for one of the local columnists or fan magazines — ? Whose secrets, whose pain are being sold off at the moment?… But the Silent Man paused by the front door, looked at Dagenham, nodded to him, mouthed the words: Thank you for a lovely evening.
Dagenham looked at him with an odd stricken expression, and nodded.“Thank you for coming,” he said.
The door was opened for Runyon, and he walked out and headed down the stairs toward where the cars were parked. Out past the house, away down the hill, the lights of Los Angeles glittered. As Rhiow and the others followed him down the stairs, she found herself suddenly feeling as if she was being stared at by many cold, distant, heartless little eyes. But whether the ones before her or behind her were more heartless, she couldn’t tell.
The fur rose all over her. Behind her, she could feel the house watching, silent, waiting, almost like a live thing itself: and in it, something else that watched as well. But what?
Dear Whisperer, let us soon find out…
The car parked again, the doors shut, the cat food dishes outside the rear French doors replenished, Rhiow had thought the Silent Man might now want to get caught up on some of the sleep he was surely still short on after the previous day’s work. But instead he changed out of his party clothes into silk pajamas and bathrobe and slippers, brewed himself a fresh pot of coffee, sat down at the typrwriter, and began to transcribe his notes.
Over on the sofa, Sheba was dozing again. Urruah and Hwaith had tucked themselves up on the bookshelves, meatloafed and compact, with eyes half closed; Rhiow was sitting looking out the garden doors into the darkness, digesting the evening’s events and debating the team’s next move with herself while waiting for news from Arhu and Siffha’h. Behind her, the typing went rattling along, paused, rattled on again.
I hate to ask, she thought, studying at her dark reflection in the dark glass. He’s in enough pain. There’s always the Whisperer.
And indeed the Whisperer could tell her much of what she needed to know. But She could not tell Rhiow the truly important thing, which was what the Silent Man thought and felt about it all. Am I sure we really need to know about this? Is asking him about it merely needlessly increasing the local entropy of emotion, and doing sa’Rraah’s work?
Yet he’s in this quest with us, willingly. We have to know his issues to make sure they don’t interfere with his ability to do this work.
Rhiow sat there quite straight, her tail wrapped around her feet, while the typing went on, stopped, went on again. A page was pulled out of the typewriter, laid aside, coffee was drunk, another page was rolled in, the typing started again. Two or three more times this process was repeated, and Rhiow sat and thought and listened to the night. Outside, to her surprise, she caught the distant sound of something she had only heard in Central Park before now: a nightingale. This one was hidden away up in the gray-needled scrub pines over the wall behind the house, pouring out its little liquid bursts of song and apparently quite untroubled by the staccato song of the typewriter. Amazingly noisy thing, Rhiow thought. Computers have spoiled us, truly—
The noise stopped a few seconds later. Rhiow looked over her shoulder and saw the Silent Man pouring himself another cup of coffee. As he drank and leaned back in his wooden typing chair, staring at the page still in the typewriter, Rhiow stood up, stretched, wandered over to the desk.“Truly,” she said, “as the Queen’s my witness, I’ve never seen an ehhif drink coffee the way you do. It’s a wonder your brain’s not just one big bean.”
The Queen? he said, and yawned.
“God,” said Hwaith.
Oh.
Urruah opened an eye and looked down at Rhiow.“He’d love our – “ She shot him a look. “Where we come from,” Urruah said, closing the eye halfway again. “There’s this chain of stores, they have this coffee that – “
“Urruah,” Rhiow said. The last thing they needed right now was a discursion on grande frappucinos.
“He’d really like them,” Urruah said, “that’s all I’m saying…”
Rhiow waved her tail.“Cousin,” she said to Runyon, “are you finished with that?”
The Silent Man gave Rhiow a tolerant look. Come on up.
She leapt, sat down over to the typewriter’s left, wrapped her tail around her feet again. “Cousin,” Rhiow said, “forgive me this. I dislike having to ask about something that caused you the discomfort we saw. But I must, so that we’re quite clear about what happened tonight. Who is Patrice?”
He sighed, leaned further back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest. Patrice Amalfi del Grande Runyon, he said. My second wife.
“You said earlier that she was away on business,” Urruah said.
Monkey business, said Runyon, as usual.
He was silent for a few breaths. We were married in’32, the Silent Man said. Knew each other for a long time before my first wife died. Another silence fell. His face didn’t change, staying still and cool. But the pause felt so spiny with suppressed guilt and anger that Rhiow wouldn’t have dared break it. For a long time we were happy together. Then, though – I got sick –
Another long silence. Rhiow looked away: Urruah, though, gazed steadily at the Silent Man, in quiet support of something Rhiow could tell was very much a tom-ish kind of pain. She took up with a younger guy, Runyon said. They’ve been living in Reno, where they met when Patrice was posted there for national service during the war. It’s been an open secret in town for a while now. Mostly the publicity people have kept quiet about it. The cool look broke: Runyon smiled bitterly. If you’ve still got enough clout in town to get them in trouble, enough friends at the studios who’d be angry on your behalf, the gossip columns and the two big name ladies with their radio shows know better than to foul their own nests by opening their yaps in public.
The smile faded. But when your star starts to fall, when you start losing that clout, all bets are off. And most people here have noticed that I don’t have any new projects going. Some have noticed that I’m closing the last few down. The real estate agent’s been fielding offers for the house, on the quiet. I’m only here for a little while, before going back to New York — He did not say “for the last time”: it was implicit in his tone. So now the gossip columns see that they’ve got a little while left to get some mileage out of me. Now they think I’m game. Well, I’ve got news for them. The game won’t run.
He reached out to his cup and took a long swig, finishing the cold coffee in it. And why should I? What they’re pulling doesn’t really hurt. Neither does what Patrice just pulled, said the Silent Man. He put the cup down again. Love’s a mug’s game anyway.
He leaned back again, stretching out his legs. To Rhiow there was nothing even slightly relaxing about the gesture: the tension underlying it was terrible. Romance is nothing to me any more. Nothing for anybody, most of the time, not really. But me, I gave it up way back when I realized which way the wind blew.
Rhiow glanced over at Hwaith: he glanced back, his eyes still half-closed but shadowed with pity and pain. Urruah, though, stood up, stretched, stepped down from the bookshelf, and lay down on the desk on the other side of the typewriter, in the pool of light from the single lamp.
He stretched out his own hind legs out thoughtfully, giving the Silent Man a dry look.“Staying right there in character,” Urruah said. “Just what you’d expect in one of your stories from some guy with a glass in front of him in the middle of the night.”
His tone was wry. The Silent Man looked at Urruah and let out a breath, a short one, as if considering and then holding back some other response. No glass for me, he said after a moment. I don’t drink. It always made me sick, even before my present – physical problems. Now I’ve got all these pills, too, and the doctors told me not to be tempted to mix them. I listen to my doctors…like I have a choice.