The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood [8]
Where are you supposed to be? he says.
Shopping. Look at my shopping bag. I bought some stockings; they’re very good – the best silk. They’re like wearing nothing. She smiles a little. I’ve only got fifteen minutes.
She’s dropped a glove, it’s by her foot. He’s keeping an eye on it. If she walks away forgetting it, he’ll claim it. Inhale her, in her absence.
When can I see you? he says. The hot breeze stirs the leaves, light falls through, there’s pollen all around her, a golden cloud. Dust, really.
You’re seeing me now, she says.
Don’t be like that, he says. Tell me when. The skin in the V of her dress glistens, a film of sweat.
I don’t know yet, she says. She looks over her shoulder, scans the park.
There’s nobody around, he says. Nobody you know.
You never know when there will be, she says. You never know who you know.
You should get a dog, he says.
She laughs. A dog? Why?
Then you’d have an excuse. You could take it for walks. Me and the dog.
The dog would be jealous of you, she says. And you’d think I liked the dog better.
But you wouldn’t like the dog better, he says. Would you?
She opens her eyes wider. Why wouldn’t I?
He says, Dogs can’t talk.
The Toronto Star, August 25, 1975
NOVELIST’S NIECE VICTIM OF FALL
SPECIAL TO THE STAR
Aimee Griffen, thirty-eight, daughter of the late Richard E. Griffen, the eminent industrialist, and niece of noted authoress Laura Chase, was found dead in her Church St. basement apartment on Wednesday, having suffered a broken neck as a result of a fall. She had apparently been dead for at least a day. Neighbours Jos and Beatrice Kelley were alerted by Miss Griffen’s four-year-old daughter Sabrina, who often came to them for food when her mother could not be located.
Miss Griffen is rumoured to have undergone a lengthy struggle with drug and alcohol addiction, having been hospitalized on several occasions. Her daughter has been placed in the care of Mrs. Winifred Prior, her great-aunt, pending an investigation. Neither Mrs. Prior nor Aimee Griffen’s mother, Mrs. Iris Griffen of Port Ticonderoga, was available for comment.
This unfortunate event is yet another example of the laxity of our present social services, and the need for improved legislation to increase protection for children at risk.
The Blind Assassin: The carpets
The line buzzes and crackles. There’s thunder, or is it someone listening in? But it’s a public phone, they can’t trace him.
Where are you? she says. You shouldn’t phone here.
He can’t hear her breathing, her breath. He wants her to put the receiver against her throat, but he won’t ask for that, not yet. I’m around the block, he says. A couple of blocks. I can be in the park, the small one, the one with the sundial.
Oh, I don’t think . . .
Just slip out. Say you need some air. He waits.
I’ll try.
At the entrance to the park there are two stone gateposts, four-sided, bevelled at the top, Egyptian-looking. No triumphal inscriptions however, no bas-reliefs of chained enemies kneeling. Only No Loitering and Keep Dogs on Leash.
Come in here, he says. Away from the street light.
I can’t stay long.
I know. Come in behind here. He takes hold of her arm, guiding her; she’s trembling like a wire in a high wind.
There, he says. Nobody can see us. No old ladies out walking their poodles.
No policemen with nightsticks, she says. She laughs briefly. The lamplight filters through the leaves; in it, the whites of her eyes gleam. I shouldn’t be here, she says. It’s too much of a risk.
There’s a stone bench tucked up against some bushes. He puts his jacket around her shoulders. Old tweed, old tobacco, a singed odour. An undertone of salt. His skin’s been there, next to the cloth, and now hers