The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood [10]
This is too sad, she whispers. Why are you telling me such a sad story?
They’re deeper into the shadows now. His arms around her finally. Go easy, he thinks. No sudden moves. He concentrates on his breathing.
I tell you the stories I’m good at, he says. Also the ones you’ll believe. You wouldn’t believe sweet nothings, would you?
No. I wouldn’t believe them.
Besides, it’s not a sad story, completely – some of them got away.
But they became throat-cutters.
They didn’t have much choice, did they? They couldn’t become the carpet-merchants themselves, or the brothel-owners. They didn’t have the capital. So they had to take the dirty work. Tough luck for them.
Don’t, she says. It’s not my fault.
Nor mine either. Let’s say we’re stuck with the sins of the fathers.
That’s unnecessarily cruel, she says coldly.
When is cruelty necessary? he says. And how much of it? Read the newspapers, I didn’t invent the world. Anyway, I’m on the side of the throat-cutters. If you had to cut throats or starve, which would you do? Or screw for a living, there’s always that.
Now he’s gone too far. He’s let his anger show. She draws away from him. Here it comes, she says. I need to get back. The leaves around them stir fitfully. She holds out her hand, palm up: there are a few drops of rain. The thunder’s nearer now. She slides his jacket off her shoulders. He hasn’t kissed her; he won’t, not tonight. She senses it as a reprieve.
Stand at your window, he says. Your bedroom window. Leave the light on. Just stand there.
He’s startled her. Why? Why on earth?
I want you to. I want to make sure you’re safe, he adds, though safety has nothing to do with it.
I’ll try, she says. Only for a minute. Where will you be?
Under the tree. The chestnut. You won’t see me, but I’ll be there.
She thinks, He knows where the window is. He knows what kind of tree. He must have been prowling. Watching her. She shivers a little.
It’s raining, she says. It’s going to pour. You’ll get wet.
It’s not cold, he says. I’ll be waiting.
The Globe and Mail, February 19, 1998
Prior, Winifred Griffen. At the age of 92, at her Rosedale home, after a protracted illness. In Mrs. Prior, noted philanthropist, the city of Toronto has lost one of its most loyal and long-standing benefactresses. Sister of deceased industrialist Richard Griffen and sister-in law of the eminent novelist Laura Chase, Mrs. Prior served on the board of the Toronto Symphony Orchestra during its formative years, and more recently on the Volunteer Committee of the Art Gallery of Ontario and the Canadian Cancer Society. She was also active in the Granite Club, the Heliconian Club, the Junior League, and the Dominion Drama Festival. She is survived by her great-niece, Sabrina Griffen, currently travelling in India.
The funeral will take place on Tuesday morning at the Church of St. Simon the Apostle, followed by interment at Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Donations to Princess Margaret Hospital in lieu of flowers.
The Blind Assassin: The lipstick heart
How much time have we got? he says.
A lot, she says. Two or three hours. They’re all out somewhere.
Doing what?
I don’t know. Making money. Buying things. Good works. Whatever they do. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, sits up straighter. She feels on call, whistled for. A cheap feeling. Whose car is this? she says.
A friend’s. I’m an important person, I have a friend with a car.
You’re making fun of me, she says. He doesn’t answer. She pulls at the fingers of a glove. What if anyone sees us?
They’ll only see the car. This car is a wreck, it’s a poor folks’ car. Even if they look right at you they won’t see you, because a woman like you isn’t supposed to be caught dead in a car like this.
Sometimes you don’t like me very much, she says.
I can’t think about much else lately, he says. But liking is different. Liking takes time. I don’t have the time to like you. I can’t concentrate on it.
Not there,