The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood [215]
Oh, that, he says. You read that piece of tripe? I’d forgotten.
She won’t show dismay. She won’t show too much need. She won’t say it was a clue that proved his existence; a piece of evidence, however absurd.
Of course I read it. I kept waiting for the next episode.
Never wrote it, he says. Too busy getting shot at, from both sides. Our bunch was caught in the middle. I was on the run from the good guys. What a shambles.
Belatedly his arms come around her. He smells malted. He rests his head on her shoulder, the sandpaper of his cheek against the side of her neck. She has him safe, at least for the moment.
God I need a drink, he says.
Don’t go to sleep, she says. Don’t go to sleep yet. Come to bed.
He sleeps for three hours. The sun moves, the light dims. She knows she ought to go, but she can’t bear to do that, or to wake him either. What excuse will she present, once she gets back? She invents an old lady tumbling down stairs, an old lady needing rescue; she invents a taxi, a trip to the hospital. How could she leave her to fend for herself, the poor old soul? Lying on the sidewalk without a friend in the world. She’ll say she knows she should have phoned, but there wasn’t a phone nearby, and the old lady was in such pain. She steels herself for the lecture she’ll get, about minding her own business; the shake of the head, because what can be done about her? When will she ever learn to leave well enough alone?
Downstairs the clock is clicking off the minutes. There are voices in the corridor, the sound of hurrying, rapid pulse of shoes. It’s an in and out business. She lies awake beside him, listening to him sleeping, wondering where he’s gone. Also how much she should tell him – whether she should tell him everything that’s happened. If he asks her to go away with him, then she’ll have to tell. Otherwise perhaps better not. Or not yet.
When he wakes up he wants another drink, and a cigarette.
I guess we shouldn’t do this, she says. Smoking in bed. We’ll catch on fire. Burn ourselves up.
He says nothing.
What was it like? she says. I read the papers, but that’s not the same.
No, he says. It’s not.
I was so worried you might get killed.
I almost did, he said. The funny thing is, it was hell but I got used to it, and now I can’t get used to this. You’ve put on a bit of weight.
Oh, am I too fat?
No. It’s nice. Something to hang on to.
It’s full dark now. From down below the window, where the beverage room empties onto the street, come snatches of off-key song, shouts, laughter; then the sound of glass shattering. Someone’s smashed a bottle. A woman screams.
Some celebration they’re having.
What are they celebrating?
War.
But there isn’t a war. It’s all over.
They’re celebrating the next one, he says. It’s on the way. Everyone’s denying it up there in cloud cuckoo land, but down at ground level you can smell it coming. With Spain shot to hell for target practice, they’ll start in on the serious business pretty soon. It’s like thunder in the air, and they’re excited by it. That’s why all the bottle-smashing. They want to get a head start.
Oh, surely not, she says. There can’t be another one. They’ve made pacts and everything.
Peace in our time, he says scornfully. Fucking bullshit. What they’re hoping is that Uncle Joe and Adolf will tear each other to pieces, and get rid of the Jews for them into the bargain, while they sit on their bums and make money.
You’re as cynical as ever.
You’re as naive.
Not quite, she says. Let’s not argue. It won’t be settled by us. But this is more like him, more like the way he was, and so she feels a little better.
No, he says. You’re right. It won’t be settled by us. We’re small potatoes.
But you’ll go anyway, she says. If it starts up again. Whether you’re a small potato or not.
He looks at her. What else can I do?
He doesn’t know why she’s crying. She tries not to. I wish you’d been wounded, she says. Then you’d have to stay here.
And a fat lot of good that would do you, he says.