The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood [109]
“Oh. I see.” I was cornered. It wasn’t as if I had any alternatives to propose.
“They’d take Avilion, as well. They’d sell it.”
“They would?”
“It’s mortgaged up to the hilt.”
“Oh.”
“A certain amount of resolve might be required. A certain amount of courage. Biting the bullet and so forth.”
I said nothing.
“But naturally,” he said, “whatever decision you make will be your own concern.”
I said nothing.
“I wouldn’t want you doing anything you were dead set against,” he said, looking past me with his good eye, frowning a little, as if an object of great significance had just come into view. There was nothing behind me but a wall.
I said nothing.
“Good. That’s that, then.” He seemed relieved. “He has a lot of common sense, Griffen. I believe he’s sound, underneath it all.”
“I guess so,” I said. “I’m sure he’s very sound.”
“You’d be in good hands. And Laura too, of course.”
“Of course,” I said faintly. “Laura too.”
“Chin up, then.”
Do I blame him? No. Not any more. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, but he was only doing what would have been considered – was considered, then – the responsible thing. He was doing the best he knew how.
Richard joined us as if on cue, and the two men shook hands. My own hand was taken, squeezed briefly. Then my elbow. That was how men steered women around in those days – by the elbow – and so I was steered by the elbow into the Imperial Room. Richard said he’d wanted the Venetian Café, which was lighter and more festive in atmosphere, but unfortunately it had been fully booked.
It’s odd to remember this now, but the Royal York Hotel was the tallest building in Toronto then, and the Imperial Room was the biggest dining room. Richard was fond of big. The room itself had rows of large square pillars, a tessellated ceiling, a line of chandeliers, each with a tassel at the bottom end: a congealed opulence. It felt leathery, ponderous, paunchy – veined somehow. Porphyry is the word that comes to mind, though there may not have been any.
It was noon, one of those unsettling winter days that are brighter than they ought to be. The white sunlight was falling in shafts through the gaps in the heavy drapes, which must have been maroon, I think, and were certainly velvet. Underneath the usual hotel dining-room smells of steam-table vegetables and lukewarm fish there was an odour of hot metal and smouldering cloth. The table Richard had reserved was in a dim corner, away from the abrasive daylight. There was a red rosebud in a bud vase; I stared over it at Richard, curious as to how he would go about things. Would he take my hand, press it, hesitate, stutter? I didn’t think so.
I didn’t dislike him unduly. I didn’t like him. I had few opinions about him because I’d never thought much about him, although I had – from time to time – noticed the suavity of his clothes. He was pompous at times, but at least he wasn’t what you’d call ugly, not at all. I supposed he was very eligible. I felt a little dizzy. I still didn’t know what I would do.
The waiter came. Richard ordered. Then he looked at his watch. Then he talked. I heard little of what he said. He smiled. He produced a small black velvet-covered box, opened it. Inside was a glittering shard of light.
I spent that night lying huddled and shivering in the vast bed of the hotel. My feet were icy, my knees drawn up, my head sideways on the pillow; in front of me the arctic waste of starched white bedsheet stretched out to infinity. I knew I could never traverse it, regain the track, get back to where it was warm; I knew I was directionless; I knew I was lost. I would be discovered here years later by some