Blind Assassin (62 page)

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: SorryI’m late, but you wouldn’t believe what happened to me, I’ve had quite a little adventure.

How did the war creep up? How did it gather itself together? What was it made from? What secrets, lies, betrayals? What loves and hatreds? What sums of money, what metals?

Hope throws a smokescreen. Smoke gets in your eyes and so no one is prepared for it, but suddenly it’s there, like an out-of-control bonfire—like murder, only multiplied. It’s in full spate.

The war takes place in black and white. For those on the sidelines that is. For those who are actually in it there are many colours, excessive colours, too bright, too red and orange, too liquid and incandescent, but for the others the war is like a newsreel—grainy, smeared, with bursts of staccato noise and large numbers of grey-skinned people rushing or plodding or falling down, everything elsewhere.

She goes to the newsreels, in the movie theatres. She reads the papers. She knows herself to be at the mercy of events, and she knows by now that events have no mercy.

She’s made up her mind. She’s determined now, she’ll sacrifice everything and everyone. Nothing and nobody will stand in her way.

This is what she’ll do. She has it all planned out. She’ll leave the house one day as if it’s any other day. She’ll have money, money of some description. This is the unclear part, but surely something will be possible. What do other people do? They go to the pawnshop, and that’s what she will have done as well. She’ll get the money by pawning things: a gold watch, a silver spoon, a fur coat. Bits and pieces. She’ll pawn them little by little and they won’t be missed.

It won’t be enough money but it will have to be enough. She’ll rent a room, an inexpensive room but not too dingy—nothing a coat of paint won’t brighten up. She’ll write a letter saying she isn’t coming back. They’ll send emissaries, ambassadors, then lawyers, they’ll threaten, they’ll penalize, she’ll be afraid all the time but she’ll hold firm. She’ll burn all her bridges except the bridge to him, even though the bridge to him is so tenuous.I’ll be back, he said, but how could he be sure? You can’t guarantee such a thing.

She’ll live on apples and soda crackers, on cups of tea and glasses of milk. Cans of baked beans and corned beef. Also on fried eggs when available, and slices of toast, which she’ll eat at the corner café where the newsboys and early drunks also eat. Veterans will eat there too, more and more of them as the months go past: men missing hands, arms, legs, ears, eyes. She’ll wish to talk with them, but she won’t because any interest from her would be sure to be misunderstood. Her body as usual would get in the way of free speech. Therefore she will only eavesdrop.

In the café the talk will be about the end of the war, which everyone says is coming. It will only be a matter of time, they’ll say, before it’ll all be mopped up and the boys will be back. The men who say this will be strangers to one another, but they’ll exchange such comments anyway, because the prospect of victory will make them talkative. There will be a different feeling in the air, part optimism, part fear. Any day now the ship will come in, but who can tell what might be on it?

Her apartment will be above a grocery store, with a kitchenette and a small bathroom. She will buy a house plant—a begonia, or else a fern. She will remember to water this plant and it will not die. The woman running the grocery store will be dark-haired and plump and motherly, and will talk about her thinness and the need for her to eat more, and about what should be done for a chest cold. Perhaps she will be Greek; Greek, or something like it, with big arms and a centre part in her hair, and a bun at the back. Her husband and son will be overseas; she’ll have pictures of them, framed in painted wood, hand-tinted, beside the cash register.

Both of them—she and this woman—will spend a lot of time listening: for footsteps, a telephone call, a knock on the door. It’s hard to sleep under these circumstances: they’ll discuss remedies for sleeplessness. Occasionally the woman will press an apple into her hand, or an acid-green candy from the glass container of them on the counter. Such gifts will be more comforting to her than their low price would suggest.

How will he know where to reclaim her? Now that her bridges have been burned. He’ll know, however. He’ll find out somehow, because journeys end in lovers meeting. They should. They must.

She’ll sew curtains for the windows, yellow curtains, the colour of canaries or the yolks of eggs. Cheerful curtains, like sunshine. Never mind that she doesn’t know how to sew, because the woman downstairs will help her. She’ll starch the curtains and hang them up. She’ll get down on her knees with a whisk and clean out the mouse droppings and dead flies under the kitchen sink. She’ll repaint a set of canisters she’ll find in a junk store, and stencil on them: Tea, Coffee, Sugar, Flour. She will hum to herself while doing this. She’ll buy a new towel, a whole set of new towels. Also sheets, these are important, and pillowcases. She’ll brush her hair a lot.