Blind Assassin (111 page)

Ditto. And then a rip-roaring dogfight with those scaly sons of guns from Xenor.

You got the idea.

They decided to go exploring. Despite having been told that Aa’A was the same in every direction, and that they would only find more trees and more bowers and more birds and butterflies and more luscious women, they set out towards the west. After a long time and no adventures whatsoever, they came up against an invisible wall. It was slippery, like glass, but soft and yielding when you pushed on it. Then it would spring back into shape. It was higher than they could possibly reach or climb. It was like a huge crystal bubble.

I think we’re trapped inside a big transparent tit, said Boyd.

They sat down at the foot of the wall, overcome by a profound despair.

This joint is peace and plenty, said Will. It’s a soft bed at night and sweet dreams, it’s tulips on the sunny breakfast table, it’s the little woman making coffee. It’s all the loving you ever dreamed of, in every shape and form. It’s everything men think they want when they’re out there, fighting in another dimension of space. It’s what other men have given their lives for. Am I right?

You said a mouthful, said Boyd.

But it’s too good to be true, said Will. It must be a trap. It may even be some devilish mind-device of the Xenorians, to keep us from being in the war. It’s Paradise, but we can’t get out of it. And anything you can’t get out of is Hell.

But this isn’t Hell. It’s happiness, said one of the Peach Women who was materializing from the branch of a nearby tree. There’s nowhere to go from here. Relax. Enjoy yourselves. You’ll get used to it.

And that’s the end of the story.

That’s it? she says. You’re going to keep those two men cooped up in there forever?

I did what you wanted. You wanted happiness. But I can keep them in or let them out, depending how you want it.

Let them out, then.

Outside is death. Remember?

Oh. I see. She turns on her side, pulls the for coat over her, slides her arm around him. You’re wrong about the Peach Women though. They aren’t the way you think.

Wrong how?

You’re just wrong.

The Mail and Empire, September 19, 1936

Griffen Warns of Reds in Spain

SPECIAL TO THE MAIL AND EMPIRE

In a spirited address to the Empire Club last Thursday, prominent industrialist Richard E. Griffen, of Griffen-Chase Royal Consolidated, warned of potential dangers threatening world order and the peaceful conduct of international commerce due to the ongoing civil conflict in Spain. The Republicans, he said, were taking their orders from the Reds, as had already been shown by their seizure of property, the slaughter of peaceful civilians, and the atrocities committed against religion. Many churches had been desecrated and burnt, and the murder of nuns and priests had become an everyday occurrence.

The intervention of the Nationalists headed by General Franco was a reaction only to be expected. Indignant and courageous Spaniards of every class had rallied to defend tradition and civil order, and the world would look on with anxiety as to the outcome. A triumph for the Republicans would mean a more aggressive Russia, and many smaller countries might well find themselves under threat. Of the continental countries, only Germany and France, and to some extent Italy, were strong enough to resist the tide.

Mr. Griffen strongly urged that Canada follow the lead of Britain, France and the United States, and distance itself from this conflict. The policy of non-intervention was a sound one and should be adopted immediately, as Canadian citizens should not be asked to risk their lives in this foreign fray. However there was already an underground stream of diehard Communists heading for Spain from our continent, and although they should be prohibited by law from doing so, the country should be thankful that an opportunity had arisen whereby it might purge itself of disruptive elements at no cost to the tax-payer.

Mr. Griffen’s remarks were roundly applauded.

The Blind Assassin: The Top Hat Grill

The Top Hat Grill has a neon sign with a red top hat and a blue glove lifting it. Up comes the hat, up it comes again; it never comes down. No head under it though, only one eye, winking. A man’s eye, opening, closing; a conjurer’s eye; a sly, headless joke.

The top hat is the classiest thing about the Top Hat Grill. Still, here they are, sitting at one of its booths, out in public like real people, each with a hot beef sandwich, the meat grey on bread white and soft and flavourless as an angel’s buttock, the brown gravy thick with flour. Canned peas on the side, a delicate greyish green; French fries limp with grease. At the other booths sit lone disconsolate men with the pink, apologetic eyes and the faintly grimy shirts and shiny ties of bookkeepers, and a few battered couples making the most Friday-night whoopee they can afford, and some trios of off-duty whores.

I wonder if he goes with any of the whores, she thinks. When I’m not around. Then: How do I know they’re whores?

It’s the best thing here, he says, for the money. He means the hot beef sandwich.

You’ve tried the other things?

No, but you get an instinct.

It’s quite good really, of its kind.

Spare me the party manners, he says, but not too rudely. His mood isn’t what you’d call genial, but he’s alert. Keyed up about something.

He hadn’t been like that when she’d returned from her travels. He’d been taciturn, and vengeful.

Long time no see. Come for the usual?

The usual what?

The usual wham-bam.

Why do you feel the need to be so crude?

It’s the company I keep.

What she’d like to know at the moment is why they’re eating out. Why they aren’t in his room. Why he’s throwing caution to the winds. Where he got the money.

He answers the last question first, even though she hasn’t asked it.

The beef sandwich you see before you, he says, is courtesy of the Lizard Men of Xenor. Here’s to them, the vile scaly beasts, and to all that sail in them. He lifts his glass of Coca-Cola; he’s spiked it with rum, from his flask. (No cocktails, I’m afraid, he’d said while opening the door for her. This joint’s dry as a witch’s thingamajig.)

She lifts her own glass. The Lizard Men of Xenor? she says. The same ones?

The very same. I committed it to paper, I sent it off two weeks ago, they snapped it up. The cheque came in yesterday.

He must have gone to the P.O. box himself, cashed the cheque too, he’s been doing that lately. He’s had to, she’s been away too much.

You’re happy with it? You seem happy.

Yeah, sure…it’s a masterpiece. Plenty of action, plenty of gore on the floor. Beautiful dames. He grins. Who could resist?

Is it about the Peach Women?

Nope. No Peach Women in this one. It’s a whole other plot.

He thinks: What happens when I tell her? Game over or eternal vows, and which is worse? She’s wearing a scarf, of a wispy, floating material, some sort of pinkish orange.
Watermelon
is the word for that shade. Sweet crisp liquid flesh. He remembers the first time he saw her. All he could picture inside her dress then was mist.

What’s got into you? she says. You seem very…Have you been drinking?

No. Not much. He pushes the pale-grey peas around on his plate. It’s finally happened, he says. I’m on my way. Passport and all.

Oh, she says. Just like that. She tries to keep the dismay out of her voice.

Just like that, he says. The comrades got in touch. They must’ve decided I’m more use to them over there than back here. Anyway, after that endless beating around the bush, all of a sudden they can’t wait to see the last of me. One more pain out of their ass.

You’ll be safe, travelling? I thought…

Safer than staying here. But the word is nobody’s looking too hard for me any more. I get the feeling the other side wants me to scram as well. Less complicated for them that way. I won’t tell anybody which tram I’ll be on though. I’m not interested in being pushed off it with a hole in my head and a knife in my back.

What about crossing the border? You always said…

The border’s like tissue paper right now, if you’re going out, that is. The customs fellows know what’s going on all right, they know there’s a pipeline straight from here to New York, then across to Paris. It’s all organized, and everyone’s name is Joe. The cops have been given their orders. Look the other way, they’ve been told. They know which side their bread is buttered on. They don’t give a hoot in hell.

I wish I could come with you, she says.

So that’s why the dinner out. He wanted to break it to her some place where she wouldn’t carry on. He’s hoping she won’t make a scene in public. Weeping, wailing, tearing her hair. He’s counting on it.

Yeah. I wish you could too, he says. But you can’t. It’s rough over there. He hums in his head:

Stormy weather,

Don’t know why, got no buttons on my fly,

Got a zipper…

Get a grip, he tells himself. He feels an effervescence in his head, like ginger ale. Sparkling blood. It’s as if he’s flying—looking down at her from the air. Her lovely distressed face wavers like a reflection in a troubled pool; already dissolving, and soon it will be into tears. But despite her sorrow, she’s never been so luscious. A soft and milky glow surrounds her; the flesh of her arm, where he’s held it, is firm and plumped. He’d like to grab hold of her, haul her up to his room, fuck her six ways to Sunday. As if that would fix her in place.

I’ll wait for you, she says. When you come back I’ll just walk out the front door, and then we can go away together.

Would you really leave? Would you leave him?

Yes. For you, I would. If you wanted. I’d leave everything.

Slivers of neon light come in through the window above them, red, blue, red. She imagines him wounded; it would be one way of making him stay put. She’d like him locked up, tied down, kept for her alone.

Leave him now, he says.

Now? Her eyes widen. Right now? Why?

Because I can’t stand you being with him. I can’t stand the idea of it.

It doesn’t mean anything to me, she says.

It does to me. Especially after I’m gone, when I can’t see you. It’ll drive me crazy—thinking about it will.

But I wouldn’t have any money, she says in a wondering voice. Where would I live? In some rented room, all by myself? Like you, she thinks. What would I live on?

You could get a job, he says helplessly. I could send you some money.

You don’t have any money, none to speak of. And I can’t
do
anything. I can’t sew, I can’t type. There’s another reason too, she thinks, but I can’t tell him that.

There must be some way. But he doesn’t urge her. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bright idea, her out on her own. Out there in the big bad world, where every guy from here to China could take a crack at her. If anything went wrong, he’d have only himself to blame.

I think I’d better stay put, don’t you? That’s the best thing. Until you come back. You will come back, won’t you? You’ll come back safe and sound?

Sure, he says.

Because if you don’t, I don’t know what I’ll do. If you got yourself killed or anything I’d go completely to pieces. She thinks: I’m talking like a movie. But how else can I talk? We’ve forgotten how else.

Shit, he thinks. She’s working herself up. Now she’ll cry. She’ll cry and I’ll sit here like a lump, and once women start crying there’s no way to make them stop.

Come on, I’ll get your coat, he says grimly. This is no fun. We don’t have much time. Let’s go back to the room.