Lady Oracle (44 page)

I
finally reached the balcony. The sun was sinking, the balcony was bright with sunlit glass, broken and sharp like fire. In the plate-glass window my reflection ran beside me, the face dark, the hair standing out around my head, a red nimbus.

I unlocked the door and went in. There was no one inside, not yet, I still had time.… I hadn’t seen him clearly. Perhaps I could elude him. I’d wait until he was walking along the balcony; then I’d slip into the bathroom and bolt the door. While he was trying to get in, I could climb up on the toilet and squeeze through the tiny window.

I went into the bathroom to look at the window. It was too small, I’d get stuck. I didn’t want to be either arrested or interviewed halfway out a window. It was too undignified.

Perhaps I could hide among the artichokes. Perhaps I could run down the hill, perhaps I could disappear and never be found. But if I ran I would simply be caught, sooner or later. Instead I was going to defend myself. I refused to go back. I went into the kitchen and got the empty Cinzano bottle out of the garbage can, grasping it by the neck.

I crouched behind the door, out of sight of the window, and waited. Time passed; nothing happened. Perhaps I’d been wrong, perhaps that hadn’t been the right man. Or maybe there was no man at all, Mr. Vitroni had made him up in order to frighten me. I began to be restless. It struck me that I’d spent too much of my life crouching behind closed doors, listening to the voices on the other side.

The door itself was ordinary enough. Through the glass pane at the top I could see a small piece of the outside world: blue sky, some grayish-pink clouds.

It was noon when she entered the maze. She was determined to penetrate its secret at last. It had been a hazard for too long. Several times she had requested Redmond to have it torn down, but he would not listen. It had been in his family for generations, he said. It did not seem to matter to him that so many had been lost in it.

She made several turnings without incident. It was necessary to remember the way she had come, and she attempted to do this, memorizing small details, the shape of a bush, the color of a flower. The pathway was freshly graveled; here and there daffodils were in bloom.

Suddenly she found herself in the central plot. A stone bench ran along one side, and on it were seated four women. Two of them looked a lot like her, with red hair and green eyes and small white teeth. The third was middle-aged, dressed in a strange garment that ended halfway up her calves, with a ratty piece of fur around her neck. The last was enormously fat. She was wearing a pair of pink tights and a short pink skirt covered with spangles. From her head sprouted two antennae, like a butterfly’s, and a pair of obviously false wings was pinned to her back. Felicia was surprised at the appearance of the woman in pink, but was too well bred to show it.

The women murmured among themselves. “We were expecting you,” they said; the first one shifted over, making room for her. “We could tell it was your turn.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“We are Lady Redmond,” said the middle-aged woman sadly. “All of us,” the fat woman with the wings added.

“There must be some mistake,” Felicia protested. “I myself am Lady Redmond.”

“Oh, yes, we know,” said the first woman. “But every man has more than one wife. Sometimes all at once, sometimes one at a time, sometimes ones he doesn’t even know about.”

“How did you get here?” Felicia asked. “Why can’t you go back to the outside world?”

“Back?” said the first woman. “We have all tried to go back. That was our mistake.” Felicia looked behind her, and indeed the pathway by which she had entered was now overgrown with branches; she could not even tell where it had been. She was trapped here with these women.… And wasn’t there something peculiar about them? Wasn’t their skin too white, weren’t their eyes too vague …? She noticed that she could see the dim outline of the bench through their tenuous bodies.

“The only way out,” said the first woman, “is through that door.”

She looked at the door. It was at the other side of the graveled plot, affixed to a doorframe but otherwise unsupported. She walked all the way around it: it was the same from both sides. It had a plain surface and a doorknob; there was a small pane of glass at the top, through which she could see blue sky and some grayish-pink clouds.

She took hold of the doorknob and turned it. The door unlocked and swung outward.… There, standing on the threshold, waiting for her, was Redmond. She was about to throw herself into his arms, weeping with relief, when she noticed an odd expression in his eyes. Then she knew. Redmond was the killer. He was a killer in disguise, he wanted to murder her as he had murdered his other wives.… Then she would always have to stay here with them, at the center of the maze.… He wanted to replace her with the other one, the next one, thin and flawless.…

“Don’t touch me,” she said, taking a step backward. She refused to be doomed. As long as she stayed on her side of the door she would be safe.
Cunningly, he began his transformations, trying to lure her into his reach. His face grew a white gauze mask, then a pair of mauve-tinted spectacles, then a red beard and moustache, which faded, giving place to burning eyes and icicle teeth. Then his cloak vanished and he stood looking at her sadly; he was wearing a turtle-neck sweater.…

“Arthur?” she said. Could he ever forgive her?

Redmond resumed his opera cloak. His mouth was hard and rapacious, his eyes smoldered. “Let me take you away,” he whispered. “Let me rescue you. We will dance together forever, always.”

“Always,” she said, almost yielding. “Forever.” Once she had wanted these words, she had waited all her life for someone to say them.… She pictured herself whirling slowly across a ballroom floor, a strong arm around her waist.…

“No,” she said. “I know who you are.”

The flesh fell away from his face, revealing the skull behind it; he stepped towards her, reaching for her throat.…

I opened my eyes. I could hear footsteps coming down the gravel path. They were real footsteps, they were on the balcony. They stopped outside the door. A hand knocked gently, once, twice.

I still had options. I could pretend I wasn’t there. I could wait and do nothing. I could disguise my voice and say that I was someone else. But if I turned the handle the door would unlock and swing outward, and I would have to face the man who stood waiting for me, for my life.

I opened the door. I knew who it would be.

I
didn’t really mean to hit him with the Cinzano bottle. I mean, I meant to hit someone, but it wasn’t personal. I’d never seen him before in my life, he was a complete stranger. I guess I just got carried away: he looked like someone else.…

And I certainly didn’t think I would knock him out like that; I suppose it’s a case of not knowing your own strength. I felt terrible about it, especially when I saw the blood. I couldn’t just leave him there, he might have had a concussion or bled to death, so I got Mr. Vitroni to call a doctor. I said I thought this man was trying to break into the house. Luckily he was out cold, so he couldn’t contradict me.

It was nice of him not to press charges when he came to. At first I thought it was only because he wanted the story: reporters are like that. I talked too much, of course, but I was feeling nervous. I guess it will make a pretty weird story, once he’s written it; and the odd thing is that I didn’t tell any lies. Well, not very many. Some of the names and a few other things, but nothing major. I suppose I could still have gotten out of it. I could have said I had amnesia or something.… Or I could have escaped; he wouldn’t have been able to
trace me. I’m surprised I didn’t do that, since I’ve always been terrified of being found out. But somehow I couldn’t just run off and leave him all alone in the hospital with no one to talk to; not after I’d almost killed him by mistake.

It must have been a shock for him to wake up in bed with seven stitches, though. I felt quite guilty about that. His coat was a mess, too, but I told him it would come out in the dry cleaning. I offered to pay for it but he wouldn’t let me. I took him some flowers instead; I couldn’t find any roses so they were yellow things, sort of like sunflowers. They were a little wilted, I said maybe he could get the nurse to put them in water for him. He seemed pleased.

It was good of him to lend me the plane fare. I’ll pay it back once I’m organized again. The first thing is to get Sam and Marlene out of jail, I owe it to them. It was Sam’s lawyer that gave away the fact that I was still alive; I shouldn’t hold it against him, he was just doing his job. And I’ll have to see Arthur, though I’m not looking forward to it, all those explanations and his expression of silent outrage. After the story comes out he’ll know the truth anyway. He loved me under false pretenses, so I shouldn’t feel too rejected when he stops. I don’t think he’s even gotten my postcard yet, I forgot to send it air mail.

After that, well, I don’t have any definite plans. I’ll feel like an idiot with all the publicity, but that’s nothing new. They’ll probably say my disappearance was some kind of stunt, a trick.… I won’t write any more Costume Gothics, though; I think they were bad for me. But maybe I’ll try some science fiction. The future doesn’t appeal to me as much as the past, but I’m sure it’s better for you. I keep thinking I should learn some lesson from all of this, as my mother would have said.

Right now, though, it’s easier just to stay here in Rome – I’ve found a cheap little
pensione –
and walk to the hospital for visiting hours. He hasn’t told anyone where I am yet, he promised he
wouldn’t for a week. He’s a nice man; he doesn’t have a very interesting nose, but I have to admit that there is something about a man in a bandage.… Also I’ve begun to feel he’s the only person who knows anything about me. Maybe because I’ve never hit anyone else with a bottle, so they never got to see that part of me. Neither did I, come to think of it.

It did make a mess; but then, I don’t think I’ll ever be a very tidy person.

Margaret Atwood was born in Ottawa in 1939, and grew up in northern Quebec and Ontario, and later in Toronto. She has lived in numerous cities in Canada, the U.S., and Europe.

She is the author of more than twenty-five books – novels, short stories, poetry, literary criticism, social history, and books for children.

Atwood’s work is acclaimed internationally and has been published around the world. She has won many awards, including the Governor General’s Award, the Trillium Book Award, the City of Toronto Book Award, and the Canadian Authors Association Award. Her most recent novel,
Alias Grace
, won the prestigious Giller Prize in Canada and the Premio Mondello in Italy. She is the recipient of numerous honours, most recently
The Sunday Times
Award for Literary Excellence in the U.K., the National Arts Club Medal of Honor for Literature in the U.S., and Le Chevalier dans l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres in France.

Margaret Atwood lives in Toronto with novelist Graeme Gibson.