The Female of the Species by Lionel Shriver Page B

delicately. Gray turned her head to the side and pressed her cheek into the pillow.
    There seemed to be a commotion building outside.
    “Don’t worry about it,” said Charles, pushing her back down.
    The sound got more insistent. Waves of discontented murmuring washed through the room.
    “You know, Kaiser,” said Corgie softly, brushing the matted hair away from her forehead, “we’re going to have to put that bone of yours back. You might need it someday.”
    Gray nodded, and tried to smile. “I had,” she said, “grown rather attached—”
    “Shut up,” said Charles fondly.
    Outside, there were shouts. For a few bars the crowd struck up a chorus. Its words were unmistakable: “White skin! Red blood!” Il-Ororen shouted. “White skin! Red blood!”
    Charles acted as if he heard nothing. “I’m going to get you some honey wine. I’d give my right arm right now—if you’ll forgive the expression—for a good bottle of brandy, but then it would also be nice to have morphine and a hospital and the entire faculty of Yale Medical School. Wine will have to do.” Corgie started out the door, paused, turned back to take his gun. As he walked out of the cabin the crowd grew silent.
    “Dugon.” He spoke calmly in Il-Ororen to one of the natives in the front row. “Bring me two jugs of honey wine.”
    Dugon looked at the warriors on either side of him and then at the ground. He shifted his weight from foot to foot.
    “Dugon,” said Corgie with exaggerated patience, “did you hear me? I meant now.”
    “Il-Cor-gie,” said Dugon, not looking Charles in the eye, “is it true about Ol-Kai-zer? That her bones break and her flesh bleeds?”
    “Dugon,” said Charles, bearing down on the warrior with those eyes of his that could do their work awfully well when they had to—even if Dugon was already convinced that Charles was a mere mortal, he was discovering it didn’t make much difference. “You changed the subject. We were speaking of wine.”
    Yet Dugon was surrounded by warriors who made small motions of discouragement; Dugon looked up at Corgie with an expression of appeal.
    Charles let his gun dangle down toward Dugon’s head. “Remember this?” Dugon nodded. “Do you doubt my magic enoughto test it? Because whether or not Ol-Kai-zer bleeds may be in question; whether or not you do is not.”
    Dugon bolted from the crowd. Corgie watched him go, and waited for his wine serenely, looking down at Il-Ororen as if holding court.
    “Odinaye claims Ol-Kai-zer bleeds!” a native braved at last. “Show us the arm of Ol-Kai-zer!”
    “Since when,” said Corgie, “do you tell me to do anything?”
    Since never. His eyes razed the crowd, rich and dangerous. Il-Ororen went silent, back in church. Corgie stood over them, his eyes rather than his gun poised, aimed at them, cocked, until Dugon ran back with a jug of wine sloshing in each hand. He stopped, breathing hard, and then lifted them reverently to Corgie on his porch. With one final freezing glance, Corgie turned his back on Il-Ororen and returned to Gray.
    “Intimidation isn’t going to hold them very long,” said Gray dully from the bed.
    “Why not? It’s held them for five years. Now, drink this.” Gray had several sips, then shook her head. “More.” He poured it in her mouth until the wine dribbled down her chin.
    “Just like a man,” said Gray, wiping the wine away with her good arm. “Trying to get me drunk.”
    “That’s right,” said Charles, “this is what I should have done to you a long time ago.” Charles leaned over and kissed her lightly between the eyes. “Now drink some more.”
    “No, Charles, I can’t. It’s just making me sick. Besides, it’s not going to make that much difference and you know it.”
    Charles stood up and sighed; Gray realized that he was interested in getting her drunk partly in order to put off resetting her arm. Charles looked down at it, its temporary dressing beginning to show red; his face