The Left Hand Of Darkness (Hainish Cycle #4) - Ursula K. Le Guin Page 0,94
off short. I said at last after a direct rebuff, ‘Harth, I’ve said something wrong again, please tell me what it is.’
He was silent.
‘I’ve made some mistake in shifgrethor. I’m sorry; I can’t learn. I’ve never even really understood the meaning of the word.’
‘Shifgrethor? It comes from an old word for shadow.’
We were both silent for a little, and then he looked at me with a direct, gentle gaze. His face in the reddish light was as soft, as vulnerable, as remote as the face of a woman who looks at you out of her thoughts and does not speak.
And I saw then again, and for good, what I had always been afraid to see, and had pretended not to see in him: that he was a woman as well as a man. Any need to explain the sources of that fear vanished with the fear; what I was left with was, at last, acceptance of him as he was. Until then I had rejected him, refused him his own reality. He had been quite right to say that he, the only person on Gethen who trusted him, was the only Gethenian I distrusted. For he was the only one who had entirely accepted me as a human being: who had liked me personally and given me entire personal loyalty: and who therefore had demanded of me an equal degree of recognition, of acceptance. I had not been willing to give it. I had been afraid to give it. I had not wanted to give my trust, my friendship to a man who was a woman, a woman who was a man.
He explained, stiffly and simply, that he was in kemmer and had been trying to avoid me, insofar as one of us could avoid the other. ‘I must not touch you,’ he said, with extreme constraint; saying that he looked away.
I said, ‘I understand. I agree completely.’
For it seemed to me, and I think to him, that it was from that sexual tension between us, admitted now and understood, but not assuaged, that the great and sudden assurance of friendship between us rose: a friendship so much needed by us both in our exile, and already so well proved in the days and nights of our bitter journey, that it might as well be called, now as later, love. But it was from the difference between us, not from the affinities and likenesses, but from the difference, that that love came: and it was itself the bridge, the only bridge, across what divided us. For us to meet sexually would be for us to meet once more as aliens. We had touched, in the only way we could touch. We left it at that. I do not know if we were right.
We talked some more that night, and I recall being very hard put to it to answer coherently when he asked me what women were like. We were both rather stiff and cautious with each other for the next couple of days. A profound love between two people involves, after all, the power and chance of doing profound hurt. It would never have occurred to me before that night that I could hurt Estraven.
Now that the barriers were down, the limitation, in my terms, of our converse and understanding seemed intolerable to me. Quite soon, two or three nights later, I said to my companion as we finished our dinner – a special treat, sugared kadik-porridge, to celebrate a twenty-mile run – ‘Last spring, that night in the Corner Red Dwelling, you said you wished I’d tell you more about paraverbal speech.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Do you want to see if I can teach you how to speak it?’
He laughed. ‘You want to catch me lying.’
‘If you ever lied to me, it was long ago, and in another country.’
He was an honest person, but rarely a direct one. That tickled him, and he said, ‘In another country I may tell you other lies. But I thought you were forbidden to teach your mind-science to … the natives, until we join the Ekumen.’
‘Not forbidden. It’s not done. I’ll do it, though, if you like. And if I can. I’m no Educer.’
‘There are special teachers of the skill?’
‘Yes. Not on Alterra, where there’s a high occurrence of natural sensitivity, and – they say – mothers mindspeak to their unborn babies. I don’t know what the babies answer. But most of us have to be taught, as if it were a foreign language.