The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood [89]
“I was, sir,” said Alex. “But I had to give it up. We came to a parting of the ways.”
“And now?” said Father, who was used to getting concrete answers.
“Now I live by my wits,” said Alex. He smiled, to show selfdeprecation.
“Must be hard for you,” Richard murmured and Winifred laughed. I was surprised: I hadn’t credited him with that kind of wit.
“He must mean he’s a newspaper reporter,” she said. “A spy in our midst!”
Alex smiled again, and said nothing. Father scowled. As far as he was concerned, newspaper reporters were vermin. Not only did they lie, they preyed on the misery of others – corpse flies was his term for them. He did make an exception for Elwood Murray, because he’d known the family. Drivel-monger was the worst he would say about Elwood.
After that the conversation turned to the general state of affairs – politics, economics – as it was likely to in those days. Worse and worse, was Father’s opinion; about to turn the corner, was Richard’s. It was hard to know what to think, said Winifred, but she certainly hoped they’d be able to keep the lid on.
“The lid on what?” said Laura, who hadn’t said anything so far. It was as if a chair had spoken.
“On the possibility of social turmoil,” said Father, in his reprimanding tone that meant she was not to say any more.
Alex said he doubted it. He’d just come back from the camps, he said.
“The camps?” said Father, puzzled. “What camps?”
“The relief camps, sir,” said Alex. “Bennett’s labour camps, for the unemployed. Ten hours a day and slim pickings. The boys aren’t too keen on it – I’d say they’re getting restless.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” said Richard. “It’s better than riding the rails. They get three square meals, which is more than a workman with a family to support may get, and I’m told the food’s not bad. You’d think they’d be grateful, but that sort never are.”
“They’re not any particular sort,” said Alex.
“My God, an armchair pinko,” said Richard. Alex looked down at his plate.
“If he’s one, so am I,” said Callie. “But I don’t think you have to be a pinko in order to realize . . .”
“What were you doing out there?” said Father, cutting her off. (He and Callie had been arguing quite a lot lately. Callie wanted him to embrace the union movement. He said Callie wanted two and two to make five.)
Just then the bombe glacée made an entrance. We had an electric refrigerator by then – we’d got it just before the Crash – and Reenie, although suspicious of its freezing compartment, had made good use of it for this evening. The bombe was shaped like a football, and was bright green and hard as flint, and took all our attention for a while.
While the coffee was being served the fireworks display began, down at the Camp Grounds. We all went out on the dock to watch. It was a lovely view, as you could see not only the fireworks themselves but their reflections in the Jogues River. Fountains of red and yellow and blue were cascading into the air – exploding stars, chrysanthemums, willow trees made of light.
“The Chinese invented gunpowder,” said Alex, “but they never used it for guns. Only fireworks. I can’t say I really enjoy them, though. They’re too much like heavy artillery.”
“Are you a pacifist?” I said. It seemed like the sort of thing he might be. If he said yes, I intended to disagree with him, because I wanted his attention. He was talking mostly to Laura.
“Not a pacifist,” said Alex. “But my parents were both killed in the war. Or I assume they must have been killed.”
Now we’ll get the orphan story, I thought. After all the fuss Reenie’s been making, I hope it’s a good one.
“You don’t know for sure?” said Laura.
“No,” said Alex. “I’m told that I was found sitting on a mound of charred rubble, in a burned-out house. Everyone else there was dead. Apparently I’d been hiding under a washtub or a cooking pot – a metal container of some kind.”
“Where was this? Who found you?” Laura whispered.
“It’s not clear,” said Alex. “They don’t really know. It wasn’t France or Germany. East of that – one of those