The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood [60]
A disembowelled oorm lies before him. Idly he pokes at the feathers. He doesn’t care about the stars – he no longer believes all that gibberish – but he will have to squint at them for a while anyway and come up with some pronouncement. The multiplying of wealth and a bountiful harvest should do the trick in the short run, and people always forget about prophecies unless they come true.
He wonders whether there’s any validity to the information he’s received, from a reliable private source – his barber – that there is yet another plot being hatched against him. Will he have to make arrests again, resort to torture and executions? No doubt. Perceived softness is as bad for public order as actual softness. A tight grip on the reins is desirable. If heads must roll, his will not be among them. He will be forced to act, to protect himself; yet he feels a strange inertia. Running a kingdom is a constant strain: if he relaxes his guard, even for a moment, they’ll be on him, whoever they are.
Off to the north he thinks he sees a flickering, as if something is on fire there, but then it’s gone. Lightning, perhaps. He passes his hand over his eyes.
I feel sorry for him. I think he’s only doing the best he can.
I think we need another drink. How about it?
I bet you’re going to kill him off. You have that glint.
In all justice he’d deserve it. I think he’s a bastard, myself. But kings have to be, don’t they? Survival of the fittest and so forth. Weak to the wall.
You don’t really believe that.
Is there another? Squeeze the bottle, will you? Because really I’m very thirsty.
I’ll see. She gets up, trailing the sheet. The bottle is on the desk. No need to wrap up, he says. I enjoy the view.
She looks back at him over her shoulder. She says: It adds mystery. Toss over your glass. I wish you’d stop buying this rotgut.
It’s all I can afford. Anyway I’ve got no taste. It’s because I’m an orphan. The Presbyterians ruined me, in the orphanage. It’s why I’m so gloomy and dismal.
Don’t play that grubby old orphan card. My heart does not bleed.
It does, though, he says. I count on it. Apart from your legs and your very fine ass, that’s what I admire most about you – the bloodiness of your heart.
It’s not my heart that’s bloody, it’s my mind. I’m bloody-minded. Or so I’ve been told.
He laughs. Here’s to your bloody mind then. Down the hatch.
She drinks, makes a face.
Comes out the same as it goes in, he says cheerfully. Speaking of which, I have to see a man about a dog. He gets up, goes to the window, raises the sash a little.
You can’t do that!
It’s a side driveway. I won’t hit anyone.
At least keep behind the curtain! What about me?
What about you? You’ve seen a naked man before. You don’t always close your eyes.
I don’t mean that, I mean I can’t pee out a window. I’ll burst.
My pal’s dressing gown, he says. See it? That plaid thing on the stand. Just check to make sure the hall’s clear. The landlady’s a nosy old bitch, but as long as you’re wearing plaid she won’t see you. You’ll blend in – this dump is plaid to the core.
Well then, he says. Where was I?
It’s midnight, she says. A single bronze bell tolls.
Oh yes. It’s midnight. A single bronze bell tolls. As the sound dies away, the blind assassin turns the key in the door. His heart is beating hard, as it always does at such moments: moments of considerable danger to himself. If he is caught, the death that will be prepared for him will be prolonged and painful.
He feels nothing about the death he is about to inflict,