Blind Assassin (55 page)

She hugs the magazine to her all the way back in the taxi, smuggles it up the stairs, locks herself in the bathroom with it. Her hands, she knows, will tremble turning the pages. It’s a story of the kind bums read on boxcars, or school-age boys by the light of a flashlight. Factory watchmen at midnight, to keep themselves awake; salesmen in their travellers’ hotels after a fruitless day, tie off, shirt open, feet up, whisky in the toothbrush glass. Police, on a dull evening. None of them will find the message that will surely be concealed somewhere within the print. It will be a message meant only for her.

The paper’s so soft it almost falls apart in her hands.

Here in the locked bathroom, spread out on her knees in hard print, is Sakiel-Norn, city of a thousand splendours—its gods, its customs, its wondrous carpet-weaving, its enslaved and maltreated children, the maidens about to be sacrificed. Its seven seas, its five moons, its three suns; the western mountains and their sinister tombs, where wolves howl and beautiful undead women lurk. The palace coup stretches its tentacles, the King bides his time, guessing at the forces deployed against him; the High Priestess pockets her bribes.

Now it’s the night before the sacrifice; the chosen one waits in the fatal bed. But where is the blind assassin? What’s become of him, and his love for the innocent girl? He must be keeping that part for later, she decides.

Then, sooner than she’s expecting it, the ruthless barbarians attack, spurred on by their monomaniac leader. But they’ve just made their way inside the city gates when there’s a surprise: three spaceships make a landing on the flat plain to the east. They’re shaped like fried eggs or Saturn cut in half, and they come from Xenor. Out of them burst the Lizard Men, with their rippling grey muscles and their metallic bathing trunks and their advanced weaponry. They have ray guns, electric lassoes, one-man flying machines. All sorts of newfangled gadgets.

The sudden invasion changes things for the Zycronians. Barbarians and urbanites, incumbents and rebels, masters and slaves—all forget their differences and make common cause. Class barriers dissolve—the Snilfards discard their ancient tides along with their face masks, and roll up their sleeves, manning the barricades alongside the Ygnirods. All salute to each other by the name oftristok, which means (roughly),he with whom I have exchanged blood, that is to say, comrade or brother. The women are taken to the Temple and locked into it for their own safety, the children as well. The King takes charge. The barbarian forces are welcomed into the city because of their prowess in battle. The King shakes hands with the Servant of Rejoicing, and they decide to share command.A fist is more than the sum of its fingers, says the King, quoting an archaic proverb. In the nick of time the eight heavy gates of the city swing shut.

The Lizard Men achieve an initial success in the outlying fields, gained by the element of surprise. They capture a few likely women, who are shut up in cages and drooled at through the bars by dozens of Lizard soldiers. But then the Xenorian army suffers a setback: the ray guns on which they rely don’t work very well on the planet of Zycron due to a difference in gravitational forces, the electric lassoes are efficient only at close quarters, and the inhabitants of Sakiel-Norn are now on the other side of a very thick wall. The Lizard Men don’t have enough one-man flying machines to transport a sufficient assault force to take the city. Projectiles rain down from the ramparts on any Lizard Man who gets close enough: the Zycronians have discovered that the Xenorians’ metal pants are inflammable at high temperatures, and are hurling balls of burning pitch.

The leader of the Lizards has a screaming tantrum, and five Lizard scientists bite the dust: Xenor is evidently not a democracy. Those left alive set to work to solve the technical problems. Given enough time and the proper equipment, they claim, they can dissolve the walls of Sakiel-Norn. They can also develop a gas that will render the Zycronians unconscious. Then they will be able to have their wicked way at leisure.

That’s the end of the fist instalment. But what’s happened to the love story? Where are the blind assassin and the tongueless girl? The girl has been all but forgotten in the confusion—she was last seen hiding under the red brocade bed—and the blind man has never turned up at all. She riffles back through the pages: maybe she’s missed something. But no, the two of them have simply vanished.

Perhaps it will turn out all right, in the next thrilling episode. Perhaps he’ll send word.

She knows there’s something demented about this expectation of hers—he won’t send a message to her, or if he does, this is not how it will arrive—but she can’t free herself of it. It’s hope that spins these fantasies, it’s longing that raises these mirages—hope against hope, and longing in a vacuum. Perhaps her mind is slipping, perhaps she’s going off the tracks, perhaps she is coming unhinged.Unhinged, like a broken door, like a rammed gate, like a rusting strongbox. When you’re unhinged, things make their way out of you that should be kept inside, and other things get in that ought to be shut out. The locks lose their powers. The guards go to sleep. The passwords fail.

She thinks, Perhaps I’ve been forsaken. It’s an outworn word, forsaken, but it describes her plight exactly. Forsaking her is something he might be imagined as doing. On impulse he might die for her, but living for her would be quite different. He has no talent for monotony.

Despite her better judgment she waits and watches, month after month. She haunts the drugstores, the train station, every chance newsstand. But the next thrilling episode never appears.

Toronto High Noon Gossip

BY YORK

April gambolled in like a lamb this year, and taking a cue from his sprightly kick-up-your-heels mood, the Spring season was all aflutter with the gay bustle of arrivals and departures. Mr. and Mrs. Henry Ridelle have returned from a winter sojourn in Mexico, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson Reeves have motored back from their Florida hideaway in Palm Beach, and Mr. and Mrs. T. Perry Grange are back from their cruise amongst the sunny Caribbean isles, while Mrs. R. Westerfield and her daughter Daphne have set out for a visit to France, and to Italy as well, “Mussolini permitting,” while Mr. and Mrs. W. McClelland are off to fabled Greece. The Dumont Fletchers passed an exciting London season and made their entrance upon our local stage once more, just in time for the Dominion Drama Festival, at which Mr. Fletcher was an adjudicator.

Meanwhile, an entrance of another kind was celebrated in the lilac and silver setting of the Arcadian Court, where Mrs. Richard Griffen (formerly Miss Iris Montfort Chase) was glimpsed at a luncheon party given by her sister-in-law, Mrs. Winifred “Freddie” Griffen Prior. Young Mrs. Griffen, as lovely as ever and one of last season’s most important brides, was wearing a smart ensemble of sky-blue silk with a chapeau of Nile green, and was receiving congratulations on the arrival of a daughter, Aimee Adelia.

The Pleiades were all abuzz over the advent of their visiting star, Miss Frances Homer, the celebrated monologuist, who, at Eaton Auditorium, again presented her Women of Destiny series, in which she portrays women of history and the influence they brought to bear upon the lives of such momentous world figures as Napoleon, Ferdinand of Spain, Horatio Nelson and Shakespeare. Miss Homer sparkled with wit and vivacity as Nell Gywn; she was dramatic as Queen Isabella of Spain; her Josephine was a delightful vignette; and her Lady Emma Hamilton was a poignant bit of acting. Altogether it was a picturesque and charming entertainment.

The evening concluded with a buffet supper for the Pleiades and their guests at the Round Room, lavishly hosted by Mrs. Winifred Griffen Prior.

Office of the Director,

The Bella Vista Sanctuary,

Arnprior, Ontario

May 12, 1937

Mr. Richard E. Griffen,

President and Chairman of the Board,

Griffen-Chase Royal Consolidated Industries Ltd.,

20 King Street West,

Toronto, Ontario

Dear Richard:

It was a pleasure to meet with you in February—although in such regrettable circumstances—and to shake your hand again after so many years. Our lives have certainly taken us in different directions since those “good old golden rule days.”

On a more sober note, I am sorry to report that the condition of your young sister-in-law, Miss Laura Chase, has not improved; if anything it has worsened somewhat. The delusions from which she suffers are well entrenched. In our opinion, she remains a danger to herself and must be kept under constant observation, with sedation when necessary. No more windows have been broken, though there has been an incident involving a pair of scissors; however, we will do our utmost to prevent a recurrence.

We continue to do all in our power. Several new treatments are available that we hope to use with positive effect, in particular the “electro-shock therapy,” for which we will have the equipment soon. With your permission we will add this to the insulin treatment. We have firm hopes for an eventual improvement, although it is our prognosis that Miss Chase will never be strong.

Distressing though it may be, I must request that you and your wife refrain from visiting or even from sending letters to Miss Chase at present, as contact with either of you is sure to have a disruptive effect upon the treatment. As you are aware, you yourself are the focus of Miss Chase’s more persistent fixations.

I will be in Toronto this Wednesday week, and look forward to a private conversation with you—at your offices, as your young wife, being a new mother, ought not to be unduly troubled with such disturbing matters. At that time I will ask you to sign the necessary forms of consent relative to the treatments we propose.

I take the liberty of enclosing this past month’s bill for your prompt consideration.

Yours sincerely,

Dr. Gerald P. Witherspoon, Director

She feels heavy and soiled, like a bag of unwashed laundry. But at the same time flat and without substance. Blank paper, on which—just discernible—there’s the colourless imprint of a signature, not hers. A detective could find it, but she herself can’t be bothered. She can’t be bothered looking.

She hasn’t given up hope, just folded it away: it’s not for daily wear. Meanwhile the body must be tended. There’s no point in not eating. It’s best to keep your wits about you, and nourishment helps with that. Small pleasures too: flowers to fall back on, the first tulips for instance. No use going distracted. Running down the street barefoot, shoutingFire! The fact that there is no fire is sure to be noticed.

The best way of keeping a secret is to pretend there isn’t one. Sokind, she says to the telephone.But so sorry. I can’t make it then. I’m tied up.

On some days—clear warm days especially—she feels buried alive. The sky is a dome of blue rock, the sun a round hole in it through which the light of the real day shines mockingly. The other people buried with her don’t know what’s happened: only she knows. If she were to voice this knowledge, they’d shut her away forever. Her only chance is to go on as if everything is proceeding normally, meanwhile keeping an eye on the flat blue sky, watching out for the large crack that is bound to appear in it eventually. After which he might come down through it on a rope ladder. She’ll make her way to the roof, jump for it. The ladder will be drawn up with the two of them clinging to it, clinging to each other, past turrets and towers and spires, out through the crack in the fake sky, leaving the others down below on the lawn, gawking with their mouths open.