The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood [238]
Richard had appointed Winifred as Aimee’s guardian in his will, and also as sole trustee of Aimee’s not inconsiderable trust fund. So she had that in her favour, as well.
As for the book, Laura didn’t write a word of it. But you must have known that for some time. I wrote it myself, during my long evenings alone, when I was waiting for Alex to come back, and then afterwards, once I knew he wouldn’t. I didn’t think of what I was doing as writing – just writing down. What I remembered, and also what I imagined, which is also the truth. I thought of myself as recording. A bodiless hand, scrawling across a wall.
I wanted a memorial. That was how it began. For Alex, but also for myself.
It was no great leap from that to naming Laura as the author. You might decide it was cowardice that inspired me, or a failure of nerve – I’ve never been fond of spotlights. Or simple prudence: my own name would have guaranteed the loss of Aimee, whom I lost in any case. But on second thought it was merely doing justice, because I can’t say Laura didn’t write a word. Technically that’s accurate, but in another sense – what Laura would have called the spiritual sense – you could say she was my collaborator. The real author was neither one of us: a fist is more than the sum of its fingers.
I remember Laura, when she was ten or eleven, sitting at Grandfather’s desk, in the library at Avilion. She had a sheet of paper in front of her, and was busying herself with the seating arrangements in Heaven. “Jesus sits at the right hand of God,” she said, “so who sits at God’s left hand?”
“Maybe God doesn’t have a left hand,” I said, to tease her. “Left hands are supposed to be bad, so maybe he wouldn’t have one. Or maybe he got his left hand cut off in a war.”
“We’re made in God’s image,” Laura said, “and we have left hands, so God must have one as well.” She consulted her diagram, chewing on the end of her pencil. “I know!” she said. “The table must be circular! So everyone sits at everyone else’s right hand, all the way round.”
“And vice versa,” I said.
Laura was my left hand, and I was hers. We wrote the book together. It’s a left-handed book. That’s why one of us is always out of sight, whichever way you look at it.
When I began this account of Laura’s life – of my own life – I had no idea why I was writing it, or who I expected might read it once I’d done. But it’s clear to me now. I was writing it for you, dearest Sabrina, because you’re the one – the only one – who needs it now.
Since Laura is no longer who you thought she was, you’re no longer who you think you are, either. That can be a shock, but it can also be a relief. For instance, you’re no relation at all to Winifred, and none to Richard. There’s not a speck of Griffen in you at all: your hands are clean on that score. Your real grandfather was Alex Thomas, and as to who his own father was, well, the sky’s the limit. Rich man, poor man, beggar-man, saint, a score of countries of origin, a dozen cancelled maps, a hundred levelled villages – take your pick. Your legacy from him is the realm of infinite speculation. You’re free to reinvent yourself at will.
XV
The Blind Assassin Epilogue: The other hand
She has a single photograph of him, a black-and-white print. She preserves it carefully, because it’s almost all she has left of him. The photo is of the two of them together, her and this man, on a picnic. Picnic is written on the back – not his name or hers, just picnic. She knows the names, she doesn’t need to write them down.
They’re sitting under a tree; it must have been an apple tree. She has a wide skirt tucked around her knees. It was a hot day. Holding her hand over the picture, she can still feel the heat coming up from it.
He’s wearing a light-coloured hat, partially shading his face. She’s turned half towards him, smiling in a way she can’t remember smiling at anyone since. She seems