The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood [172]
I wonder if he goes with any of the whores, she thinks. When I’m not around. Then: How do I know they’re whores?
It’s the best thing here, he says, for the money. He means the hot beef sandwich.
You’ve tried the other things?
No, but you get an instinct.
It’s quite good really, of its kind.
Spare me the party manners, he says, but not too rudely. His mood isn’t what you’d call genial, but he’s alert. Keyed up about something.
He hadn’t been like that when she’d returned from her travels. He’d been taciturn, and vengeful.
Long time no see. Come for the usual?
The usual what?
The usual wham-bam.
Why do you feel the need to be so crude?
It’s the company I keep.
What she’d like to know at the moment is why they’re eating out. Why they aren’t in his room. Why he’s throwing caution to the winds. Where he got the money.
He answers the last question first, even though she hasn’t asked it.
The beef sandwich you see before you, he says, is courtesy of the Lizard Men of Xenor. Here’s to them, the vile scaly beasts, and to all that sail in them. He lifts his glass of Coca-Cola; he’s spiked it with rum, from his flask. (No cocktails, I’m afraid, he’d said while opening the door for her. This joint’s dry as a witch’s thingamajig.)
She lifts her own glass. The Lizard Men of Xenor? she says. The same ones?
The very same. I committed it to paper, I sent it off two weeks ago, they snapped it up. The cheque came in yesterday.
He must have gone to the P.O. box himself, cashed the cheque too, he’s been doing that lately. He’s had to, she’s been away too much.
You’re happy with it? You seem happy.
Yeah, sure . . . it’s a masterpiece. Plenty of action, plenty of gore on the floor. Beautiful dames. He grins. Who could resist?
Is it about the Peach Women?
Nope. No Peach Women in this one. It’s a whole other plot.
He thinks: What happens when I tell her? Game over or eternal vows, and which is worse? She’s wearing a scarf, of a wispy, floating material, some sort of pinkish orange. Watermelon is the word for that shade. Sweet crisp liquid flesh. He remembers the first time he saw her. All he could picture inside her dress then was mist.
What’s got into you? she says. You seem very . . . Have you been drinking?
No. Not much. He pushes the pale-grey peas around on his plate. It’s finally happened, he says. I’m on my way. Passport and all.
Oh, she says. Just like that. She tries to keep the dismay out of her voice.
Just like that, he says. The comrades got in touch. They must’ve decided I’m more use to them over there than back here. Anyway, after that endless beating around the bush, all of a sudden they can’t wait to see the last of me. One more pain out of their ass.
You’ll be safe, travelling? I thought . . .
Safer than staying here. But the word is nobody’s looking too hard for me any more. I get the feeling the other side wants me to scram as well. Less complicated for them that way. I won’t tell anybody which train I’ll be on though. I’m not interested in being pushed off it with a hole in my head and a knife in my back.
What about crossing the border? You always said . . .
The border’s like tissue paper right now, if you’re going out, that is. The customs fellows know what’s going on all right, they know there’s a pipeline straight from here to New York, then across to Paris. It’s all organized, and everyone’s name is Joe. The cops have been given their orders. Look the other way, they’ve been told. They know which side their bread is buttered on. They don’t give a hoot in hell.
I wish I could come with you, she says.
So that’s why the dinner out. He wanted to break it to her some place where she