The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood [130]
Is anyone around? he says. She pauses to look, shakes her head for no. Any animals? No, again. He hangs their clothes on the branches of the tree; then, in the fading light of the saffron and heliotrope and magenta moons, he gathers her up like silk, sinks into her. She’s cool as a melon, and faintly salty, like a fresh fish.
They’re lying in each other’s arms, fast asleep, when three spies who’ve been sent ahead by the People of Desolation to scout out the approaches to the city stumble across them. Brusquely they are awakened, then questioned by the one spy who speaks their language, though far from perfectly. This boy is blind, he tells the others, and the girl is mute. The three spies marvel at them. How could they have come here? Not out of the city, surely; all the gates are locked. It is as if they have appeared out of the sky.
The answer is obvious: they must be divine messengers. They are courteously allowed to dress in their now-dry clothing, mounted together on a spy’s horse, and led off to be presented to the Servant of Rejoicing. The spies are enormously pleased with themselves, and the blind assassin knows better than to say very much. He’s heard vague tales about these people and their curious beliefs concerning divine messengers. Such messengers are said to deliver their messages in obscure forms, and so he tries to remember all of the riddles and paradoxes and conundrums he has ever known: The way down is the way up. What goes on four legs at dawn, two at noon and three in the evening? Out of the eater comes forth meat, and out of the strong came forth sweetness. What’s black and white and red all over?
That’s not Zycronian, they didn’t have newspapers.
Point taken. Scratch that. How about, More powerful than God, more evil than the Devil; the poor have it, the rich lack it, and if you eat it you die?
That’s a new one.
Take a guess.
I give up.
Nothing.
She takes a minute to work it out. Nothing. Yes, she says. That should do it.
As they ride, the blind assassin keeps one arm around the girl. How to protect her? He has an idea, impromptu and born of desperation, but nevertheless it may work. He will affirm that both of them are indeed divine messengers, but of different kinds. He is the one who receives the messages from the Invincible One, but only she can interpret them. This she does with her hands, by making signs with her fingers. The method of reading of these signs has been revealed only to him. He will add, just in case they get any nasty ideas, that no man must be allowed to touch the mute girl in an improper way, or in any way at all. Except himself, of course. Otherwise she will lose the power.
It’s foolproof, for as long as they’ll buy it. He hopes she’s quick on the uptake, and can improvise. He wonders if she knows any signs.
That’s all for today, he says. I need to open the window.
But it’s so cold.
Not for me it isn’t. This place is like a closet. I’m suffocating.
She feels his forehead. I think you’re coming down with something. I could go to the drugstore –
No. I never get sick.
What is it? What’s wrong? You’re worried.
I’m not worried as such. I never worry. But I don’t trust what’s happening. I don’t trust my friends. My so-called friends.
Why? What are they up to?
Bugger all, he says. That’s the problem.
Mayfair, February 1936
TORONTO HIGH NOON GOSSIP
BY YORK
The Royal York Hotel overflowed with exotically garbed revellers in mid-January at the season’s third charity costume ball, given in aid of the Downtown Foundlings’ Crèche. The theme this year – with a nod to last year’s spectacular “Tamurlane in Samarkand” Beaux Arts Ball – was “Xanadu,” and under the skilled direction of Mr. Wallace Wynant, the three lavish ball-rooms were transformed into a “stately pleasure dome” of compelling brilliance, where Kubla Khan and his glittering entourage held court. Foreign potentates from Eastern realms and their retinues – harems, servants,