The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood [17]
But also they wanted to finger the real people in it – apart from Laura, that is: her actuality was taken for granted. They wanted real bodies, to fit onto the bodies conjured up for them by words. They wanted real lust. Above all they wanted to know: who was the man? In bed with the young woman, the lovely, dead young woman; in bed with Laura. Some of them thought they knew, of course. There had been gossip. For those who could put two and two together, it all added up. Acted like she was pure as the driven. Butter wouldn’t melt. Just goes to show you can’t tell a book by its cover.
But Laura had been out of reach by then. I was the one they could get at. The anonymous letters began. Why had I arranged for this piece of filth to be published? And in New York at that – the Great Sodom. Such muck! Had I no shame? I’d allowed my family – so well respected! – to be dishonoured, and along with them the entire town. Laura had never been right in the head, everyone always suspected that, and the book proved it. I should have protected her memory. I should have put a match to the manuscript. Looking at the blur of heads, down there in the audience – the older heads – I could imagine a miasma of old spite, old envy, old condemnation, rising up from them as if from a cooling swamp.
As for the book itself, it remained unmentionable – pushed back out of sight, as if it were some shoddy, disgraceful relative. Such a thin book, so helpless. The uninvited guest at this odd feast, it fluttered at the edges of the stage like an ineffectual moth.
While I was daydreaming my arm was grasped, I was hoisted up, the cheque in its gold-ribboned envelope was thrust into my hand. The winner was announced. I didn’t catch her name.
She walked towards me, heels clicking across the stage. She was tall; they’re all very tall these days, young girls, it must be something in the food. She had on a black dress, severe among the summer colours; there were silver threads in it, or beading – some sort of glitter. Her hair was long and dark. An oval face, a mouth done in cerise lipstick; a slight frown, focused, intent. Skin with a pale-yellow or brown undertint – could she be Indian, or Arabian, or Chinese? Even in Port Ticonderoga such a thing was possible: everyone is everywhere nowadays.
My heart lurched: yearning ran through me like a cramp. Perhaps my granddaughter – perhaps Sabrina looks like that now, I thought. Perhaps, perhaps not, how would I know? I might not even recognize her. She’s been kept away from me so long; she’s kept away. What can be done?
“Mrs. Griffen,” hissed the politician.
I teetered, regained my balance. Now what had I been intending to say?
“My sister Laura would be so pleased,” I gasped into the microphone. My voice was reedy; I thought I might faint. “She liked to help people.” This was true, I’d vowed not to say anything untrue. “She was so fond of reading and books.” Also true, up to a point. “She would have wished you the very best for your future.” True as well.
I managed to hand over the envelope; the girl had to bend down. I whispered into her ear, or meant to whisper – Bless you. Be careful. Anyone intending to meddle with words needs such blessing, such warning. Had I actually spoken, or had I simply opened and closed my mouth like a fish?
She smiled, and tiny brilliant sequins flashed and sparkled all over her face and hair. It was a trick of my eyes, and of the stage lights, which were too bright. I should have worn my tinted glasses. I stood there blinking. Then she did something unexpected: she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Through her lips I could feel the texture of my own skin: soft as kid-glove leather, crinkled, powdery, ancient.
She in her turn whispered something, but I couldn’t quite catch