"Well-" I began.
"Of course, of course," (interrupted this damned fool once again) "you're not a diplomat, but we have to work through the men we have, don't we? Individual man can accomplish ends where Mass-man fails. Eh?"
I nodded, picturing myself as Individual Man. The "woman's work" explains it, of course; it makes him dangerously irritable. He had gotten now into the poignant part, the mystifying and moving account of our Sufferings. This is where the tears come in. It helps to be able to classify what they're going to do, but Lord! it's depressing, all the same. Always the same. I sit on, perfectly invisible, a chalk sketch of a woman. An idea. A walking ear.
"What we want" (he said, getting into stride) "is a world in which everybody can be himself. Him. Self. Not this insane forcing of temperaments. Freedom. Freedom for all. I admire you. Yes, let me say that I do indeed, and most frankly, admire you. You've broken through all that. Of course most women will not be able to do that-in fact, most women-given the choice-will hardly choose to give up domesticity altogether or even" (here he smiled) "even choose to spend much of their lives in the market-place or the factory. Most women will continue to choose the conservative caretaking of childhood, the formation of beautiful human relationships, and the care and service of others. Servants. Of. The.
Race. Why should we sneer at that? And if we find there are certain traits connected with sex, like homemaking, like reasoning power, like certain temperamental factors, well of course there will be, but why derogate one sex or the other on that account? People" (braced for the peroration) "people are as they are. If-"
I rose to my feet. "Excuse me," I said, "but business-"
"Damn your business!" he said in heat, this confused and irritable man. "Your business isn't worth two cents compared with what I'm talking about!"
"Of course not, of course not," I said soothingly.
"I should hope so!"
Numb, numb. With boredom. Invisible. Chained.
"That's the trouble with you women, you can't see anything in the abstract!"
He wants me to cringe. I really think so. Not the content of what I say but the endless, endless feeding of his vanity, the shaky structure of self. Even the intelligent ones.
"Don't you appreciate what I'm trying to do for you?"
Kiss-me-I'm-a-goodguy.
"Don't you have any idea how important this is?"
Sliding down the slippery gulf into invisibility.
"This could make history!"
Even me, with all my training!
"Of course, we have a tradition to uphold."
It'll be slow.
"-we'll have to go slowly. One thing at a time."
If it's practical.
"We'll have to find out what's practicable. This may be-uh-visionary. It may be in advance of its time."
Can't legislate morality.
"We can't force people against their inclinations and we have generations of conditioning to overcome. Perhaps in a decade-"
Perhaps never.
"-perhaps never. But men of good will-"
Did he hear that?
"-and women, too, of course, you understand that the word 'men' includes the word 'women'; it's only usage-"
Everyone must have his own abortion.
"-and not really important. You might even say" (he giggles) " 'everyone and his husband' or 'everyone will be entitled to his own abortion' " (he roars) "but I want you to go back to your people and tell them-"
It's unofficial.
"-that we're prepared to negotiate. But it can't be official. You must understand that I face considerable opposition. And most women-not, you, of course; you're different-well, most women aren't used to thinking a thing through like this. They can't do it systematically. Say, you don't mind my saying that about 'most women,' do you?"
I smile, drained of personality.
"That's right," (he said) "don't take it personally. Don't get feminine on me," and he winked broadly to show he bore me no ill-will. This is the time for me to steal away, leaving behind half my life's blood and promises, promises, promises; but you know what? I just can't do it. It's happened too often. I have no reserves left. I sat down, smiling brilliantly in sheer anticipation, and the dear man hitched his chair nearer. He looks uneasy and avid. "We're friends?" he says.
"Sure," I say, hardly able to speak.
"Good!" he said. "Tell me, do you like my place?"
"Oh yes," I say.
"Ever see anything like it before?"
"Oh no!" (I live in a chicken-barn and eat shit.)
He laughed delightedly. "The paintings are pretty good. We're having a kind of Renaissance lately. How's art among the ladies, huh?"
"So-so," I said, making a face. The room is beginning to sway with the adrenalin I can pump into my bloodstream when I choose; this is called voluntary hysterical strength and it is very, very useful, yes indeed. First the friendly chat, then the uncontrollably curious grab, and then the hatred comes out. Be prepared.
"I suppose," he said, "you must've been different from the start-from a little girl, eh?-doing a job like this. You've got to admit we have one thing up on you-we don't try to force everybody into the same role. Oh no. We don't keep a man out of the kitchen if that's what he really wants."
"Oh sure," I said. (Those chemical-surgical castrati)
"Now you do," he said. "You're more reactionary than we are. You won't let women lead the domestic life. You want to make everyone alike. That's not what I visualize."
He goes into a long happy rap about motherhood, the joys of the uterus. The emotional nature of Woman. The room is beginning to sway. One gets very reckless in hysterical strength; the first few weeks I trained, I broke several of my own bones but I know how to do it now. I really do. My muscles are not for harming anyone else; they are to keep me from harming myself. That terrible concentration, That feverish brightness. Boss-Idiot has not talked to anyone else about his grand idea; he's still in First Cliche' stage and any group discussion, however moronic, would have weeded out the worst of them. His dear Natalie. His gifted wife. Take me, now; he loves me. Yes he does. Not physically, of course. Oh no. Life seeks its mate. Its complement. Romantic rubbish. Its other self. Its joy. He won't talk business tonight. Will he ask me to stay over?
"Oh, I couldn't," says the other Jael. He doesn't hear it; there's a gadget in Boss's ear that screens out female voices. He's moved closer, bringing his chair with him-some silly flub-dub about not being able to talk the length of the room. Spiritual intimacy. Smiling foolishly he says: "So you like me a little, huh?"
How terrible, betrayal by lust. No, ignorance. No-pride.
"Hell, go away," I say.
"Sure you do!" He expects me to act like his Natalie, he bought her, he owns her. What do women do in the daytime? What do they do when they're alone?
Adrenalin is a demanding high; it untunes all your finer controls.
"Get away," I whisper. He doesn't hear it. These men play games, play with vanity, hiss, threaten, erect their neck-spines. It sometimes takes ten minutes to get a fight going. I, who am not a reptile but only an assassin, only a murderess, never give warning. They worry about playing fair, about keeping the rules, about giving a good account of themselves. I don't play. I have no pride.
I don't hesitate. At home I am harmless, but not here.
"Kiss me, you dear little bitch," he says in an excited voice, mastery and disgust warring with each other in his eyes. Boss has never seen a real cunt, I mean as nature made them. He'll use words he hasn't dared to use since he was eighteen and took his first half-changed in the street, mastery and disgust mingling. That slavish apprenticeship at the recreation centers. How can you love anyone who is a castrated You? Real homosexuality would blow Manland to pieces.