Blind Assassin (123 page)

Mayfair, June 1939

Royal Style at Royal Garden Party

BY CYNTHIA FERVIS

Five thousand honoured guests of Their Excellencies, Lord and Lady Tweedsmuir, stood spellbound along the garden walks at His Majesty’s birthday party at Government House in Ottawa, as Their Majesties made their gracious rounds.

At half-past four they emerged from Government House by the Chinese Gallery. The King was in morning dress; the Queen chose beige, with soft fur and pearls and a large slightly uptilted hat, her face delicately flushed, her warm blue eyes smiling. All were charmed by her entrancing manner.

Walking behind Their Majesties were the Governor General and Lady Tweedsmuir, His Excellency a gracious and genial host, Her Excellency poised and beautiful. Her all-white ensemble, enhanced by fox furs from Canada’s Arctic, was set off by a splash of turquoise in her hat. Presented to Their Majesties were Colonel and Mrs. F. Phelan, of Montreal; she wore a printed silk, on which bloomed small vivid flowers, and her smart hat had a large clear brim of Cellophane. Brigadier General and Mrs. W. H. L. Elkins and Miss Joan Elkins, and Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone Murray were similarly honoured.

Mr. and Mrs. Richard Griffen were singled out; her cape was of silver fox, the furs placed on black chiffon in the form of rays, worn over an orchid costume. Mrs. Douglas Watts wore chartreuse chiffon with a brown velvet jacket, Mrs. F. Reid was trim and lovely in an organdie and Valenciennes lace gown.

No whisper of tea was heard until the King and Queen had waved farewell, and the cameras had clicked and flashed, and all voices had been raised in
God Save the King.
After that the birthday cakes held centre stage…enormous white cakes, with snowy icing. The cake served to the King indoors was ornamented not only with roses, shamrocks and thistles, but also with flocks of miniature sugar doves with white pennants in their beaks, the fitting symbols of peace and hope.

The Blind Assassin: The Be rage Room

It’s mid-afternoon, cloudy and humid, everything sticky: her white cotton gloves are already smudged just from holding the railing. The world heavy, a solid weight; her heart pushes against it as if pushing against stone. The sultry air holds out against her. Nothing budges.

But then the train comes in, and she waits at the gate as is required of her, and like a promise fulfilled he comes through it. He sees her, comes towards her, they touch each other quickly, then shake hands as if distantly related. She kisses him briefly on the cheek, because it’s a public place and you never know, and they walk up the slanted ramp into the marble station. She feels new with him, nervous; she’s barely had a chance to look at him. Certainly he’s thinner. What else?

I had the hell of a time getting back. I didn’t have much money. It was tramp steamers all the way.

I would have sent you some money, she says.

I know. But I had no address.

He leaves his duffel at the baggage check, carries only the small suitcase. He’ll pick up the bag later, he says, but right now he doesn’t want to be hampered. People come and go around them, footsteps and voices; they stand irresolute; they don’t know where to go. She should have thought, she should have arranged something, because of course he has no room, not yet. At least she’s got a flask of scotch, tucked into her handbag. She did remember that.

They have to go somewhere so they go to a hotel, a cheap one he remembers. It’s the first time they’ve done this and it’s a risk, but as soon as she sees the hotel she knows that no one in it would expect them to be anything but unmarried; or if married, not to each other. She’s worn her summer-weight raincoat from two seasons before, pulled a scarf over her head. The scarf is silk but it was the worst she could do. Maybe they’ll think he’s paying her. She hopes so. That way she’s unremarkable.

On the stretch of sidewalk outside it there’s broken glass, vomit, what looks like drying blood. Don’t step in it, he says.

There’s a bar on the ground floor, although it’s called a Beverage Room. Men Only, Ladies and Escorts. Outside there’s a red neon sign, the letters vertical, and a red arrow coming down and bending so that the arrowhead points at the door. Two of the letters are dead so it reads Be rage Room. Small bulbs like Christmas lights flash off and on, running down the sign like ants going down a drainpipe.

Even at this hour there are men hanging around, waiting for the place to open. He takes her elbow as they go past, hurries her a little. Behind them one of the men makes a noise like a tomcat yowling.

For the hotel part of things there’s a separate door. The black-and-white mosaic tiling of the entranceway surrounds what was once perhaps a red lion, but it’s been chewed away as if by stone-eating moths and so it’s now more like a mangled polyp. The ochre-yellow linoleum floor hasn’t been scrubbed for some time; splotches of dirt bloom on it like grey pressed flowers.

He signs the register, pays; while he does this she stands, hoping she looks bored, keeping her face still, eyes above the glum desk clerk, watching the clock. It’s plain, assertive, without pretensions to grace, like a railway clock: utilitarian.
This is the time,
it says,
only one layer of it, there is no other.

He has the key now. Second floor. There’s a tiny coffin of an elevator but she can’t stand the thought of it, she knows what it will smell like, dirty socks and decaying teeth, and she can’t stand to be in there face to face with him, so close and in that smell. They walk up the stairs. A carpet, once dark blue and red. A pathway strewn with flowers, worn down now to the roots.

I’m sorry, he said. It could be better.

What you get is what you pay for, she says, intending brightness; but it’s the wrong thing to say, he may think she’s commenting on his lack of money. It’s good camouflage though, she says, trying to fix it. He doesn’t answer this. She’s talking too much, she can hear herself, and what she’s saying is not at all beguiling. Is she different from what he remembers, is she much changed?

In the hallway there’s wallpaper, no longer any colour. The doors are dark wood, gouged and gored and flayed. He finds the number, the key turns. It’s a long-shafted old-fashioned key, as if for an ancient strongbox. The room is worse than any of the furnished rooms they’d been in before: those had made at least a surface pretense of being clean. A double bed covered by a slippery spread, imitation quilted satin, a dull yellowy pink like the sole of a foot. One chair, with a leaking upholstered seat that appears to be stuffed with dust. An ashtray of chipped brown glass. Cigarette smoke, spilled beer, and under that another more disturbing smell, like underclothes long unwashed. There’s a transom over the door, its bumpy glass painted white.

She peels off her gloves, drops them onto the chair along with her coat and scarf, digs the flask out of her handbag. No glasses in sight, they’ll have to swig.

Does the window open? she says. We could use some fresh air.

He goes over, hoists the sash. A thick breeze pushes in. Outside, a streetcar grinds past. He turns, still at the window, leaning backwards, his hands behind him on the sill. With the light behind him, all she can see is his outline. He could be anybody.

Well, he says. Here we are again. He sounds bone tired. It occurs to her that he may not want to do anything in this room but sleep.

She goes over to him, slips her arms around his waist. I found the story, she says.

What story?

Lizard Men of Xenor. I looked everywhere for it, you should have seen me poking around the newsstands, they must have thought I was crazy. I looked and looked.

Oh, that, he says. You read that piece of tripe? I’d forgotten.

She won’t show dismay. She won’t show too much need. She won’t say it was a clue that proved his existence; a piece of evidence, however absurd.

Of course I read it. I kept waiting for the next episode.

Never wrote it, he says. Too busy getting shot at, from both sides. Our bunch was caught in the middle. I was on the run from the good guys. What a shambles.

Belatedly his arms come around her. He smells malted. He rests his head on her shoulder, the sandpaper of his cheek against the side of her neck. She has him safe, at least for the moment.

God I need a drink, he says.

Don’t go to sleep, she says. Don’t go to sleep yet. Come to bed.

He sleeps for three hours. The sun moves, the light dims. She knows she ought to go, but she can’t bear to do that, or to wake him either. What excuse will she present, once she gets back? She invents an old lady tumbling down stairs, an old lady needing rescue; she invents a taxi, a trip to the hospital. How could she leave her to fend for herself, the poor old soul? Lying on the sidewalk without a friend in the world. She’ll say she knows she should have phoned, but there wasn’t a phone nearby, and the old lady was in such pain. She steels herself for the lecture she’ll get, about minding her own business; the shake of the head, because what can be done about her? When will she ever learn to leave well enough alone?

Downstairs the clock is clicking off the minutes. There are voices in the corridor, the sound of hurrying, rapid pulse of shoes. It’s an in and out business. She lies awake beside him, listening to him sleeping, wondering where he’s gone. Also how much she should tell him—whether she should tell him everything that’s happened. If he asks her to go away with him, then she’ll have to tell. Otherwise perhaps better not. Or not yet.

When he wakes up he wants another drink, and a cigarette.

I guess we shouldn’t do this, she says. Smoking in bed. We’ll catch on fire. Burn ourselves up.

He says nothing.

What was it like? she says. I read the papers, but that’s not the same.

No, he says. It’s not.

I was so worried you might get killed.

I almost did, he said. The funny thing is, it was hell but I got used to it, and now I can’t get used to this. You’ve put on a bit of weight.

Oh, am I too fat?

No. It’s nice. Something to hang on to.

It’s full dark now. From down below the window, where the beverage room empties onto the street, come snatches of off-key song, shouts, laughter; then the sound of glass shattering. Someone’s smashed a bottle. A woman screams.

Some celebration they’re having.

What are they celebrating?

War.

But there isn’t a war. It’s all over.

They’re celebrating the next one, he says. It’s on the way. Everyone’s denying it up there in cloud cuckoo land, but down at ground level you can smell it coming. With Spain shot to hell for target practice, they’ll start in on the serious business pretty soon. It’s like thunder in the air, and they’re excited by it. That’s why all the bottle-smashing. They want to get a head start.

Oh, surely not, she says. There can’t be another one. They’ve made pacts and everything.

Peace in our time, he says scornfully. Fucking bullshit. What they’re hoping is that Uncle Joe and Adolf will tear each other to pieces, and get rid of the Jews for them into the bargain, while they sit on their bums and make money.

You’re as cynical as ever.

You’re as naive.

Not quite, she says. Let’s not argue. It won’t be settled by us. But this is more like him, more like the way he was, and so she feels a little better.

No, he says. You’re right. It won’t be settled by us. We’re small potatoes.

But you’ll go anyway, she says. If it starts up again. Whether you’re a small potato or not.

He looks at her. What else can I do?

He doesn’t know why she’s crying. She tries not to. I wish you’d been wounded, she says. Then you’d have to stay here.

And a fat lot of good that would do you, he says. Come here.

Leaving, she can scarcely see. She walks by herself a little, to calm down, but it’s dark and there are too many men on the sidewalk, and so she takes a taxi. Sitting in the back seat, she repairs her mouth, powders her face. When they stop, she rummages in her purse, she pays the taxi, goes up the stone steps and through the arched entranceway, and closes the thick oak door. In her head she’s rehearsing: Sorry
I’m late, but you wouldn’t believe what happened to me, I’ve had quite a little adventure.