Blind Assassin (63 page)

These are the joyful things she will do, while waiting for him.

She’ll buy a radio, a small tinny secondhand one, at the pawnshop; she’ll listen to the news, to keep up with current events. Also she’ll have a telephone: a telephone will be necessary in the long run, although no one will call her on it, not yet. Sometimes she’ll pick it up just to listen to it purr. Or else there will be voices on it, having a conversation on the party line. Mostly it will be women, exchanging the details of meals and weather and bargains and children, and of men who are somewhere else.

None of this happens, of course. Or it does happen, but not so you would notice. It happens in another dimension of space.

The telegram is delivered in the usual way, by a man in a dark uniform whose face brings no glad tidings. When they’re hired for the job they teach them that expression, remote but doleful, like a dark blank bell. The closed coffin look.

The telegram comes in a yellow envelope with a glassine window, and it says the same thing telegrams like that always say—the words distant, like the words of a stranger, an intruder, standing at the far end of a long empty room. There aren’t many words, but every word is distinct:inform, loss, regret. Careful, neutral words, with a hidden question behind them:What did you expect?

What’s this about? Who is this? she says. Oh. I remember. It’s him. That man. But why did they send it to me? I’m scarcely the next of kin!

Kin? says one of them. Did he have any? It’s meant to be a witticism.

She laughs. It’s nothing to do with me. She crumples up the telegram, which she assumes they’ve read on the sly before passing it on to her. They read all of the mail; that goes without saying. She sits down, a little too abruptly. I’m sorry, she says. I feel quite strange all of a sudden.

Here you go. This’ll buck you up. Drink it down, that’s the ticket.

Thank you. It’s nothing to do with me, but still it’s a shock. It’s like someone walking on your grave. She shivers.

Easy does it. You look a little green. Don’t take it personally.

Perhaps it was a mistake. Perhaps they got the addresses mixed.

Could have done. Or perhaps it was his own doing. Perhaps it was his idea of a joke. He was an odd duck, as I recall.

Odder than we thought. What a filthy rotten thing to do! If he was alive you could sue him for mischief.

Perhaps he was trying to make you feel guilty. That’s what they do, his kind. Envious, all of them. Dog in the manger. Don’t let it worry you.

Well, it’s not a very nice thing, no matter how you look at it.

Nice? Why would it be nice? He was never what you’d callnice.

I suppose I could write to the superior officer. Demand an explanation.

Why would he know anything about it? It wouldn’t have been him, it was some functionary on this end of things. They just use what’s written down in the records. He’d say it was a snafu, by no means the first, from what I hear.

Anyway, no sense in making a fuss. It would just draw attention, and no matter what you do you’ll never find out why he did it.

Not unless the dead walk. Their eyes are bright, all watching her, alert. What are they afraid of? What are they afraid she’ll do?

I wish you wouldn’t use that word, she says fretfully.

What word? Oh. She meansdead. Might as well call a spade a spade. No sense not. Now, don’t be…

I don’t like spades. I don’t like what they’re used for—digging holes in the ground.

Don’t be morbid.

Get her a handkerchief. It’s no time to badger her. She should go upstairs, have a little rest. Then she’ll be right as rain.

Don’t let it upset you.

Don’t take it to heart.

Forget it.

In the night she wakes abruptly, her heart pounding. She slips out of bed and makes her way silently towards the window, and raises the sash higher and leans out. There’s the moon, almost full, spider-veined with old scars, and below it the ambient sub-orange glow cast up into the sky by the street lights. Beneath is the sidewalk, patchy with shadow and partially hidden by the chestnut tree in the yard, its branches spread out like a hard thick net, its white-moth flowers glimmering faintly.

There’s a man, looking up. She can see the dark eyebrows, the hollows of the eye sockets, the smile a white slash across the oval of his face. At the V below his throat there’s pallor: a shirt. He lifts his hand, motions: he wants her to join him—slip out of the window, climb down through the tree. She’s afraid though. She’s afraid she’ll fall.

Now he’s on the windowsill outside, now he’s in the room. The flowers of the chestnut tree flare up: by their white light she can see his face, the skin greyish, half-toned; two-dimensional, like a photograph, but smudged. There’s a smell of burning bacon. He isn’t looking at her, not at her exactly; it’s as if she is her own shadow and he’s looking at that. At where her eyes would be if her shadow could see.

She longs to touch him, but she hesitates: surely if she were to take him in her arms he would blur, then dissolve, into shreds of cloth, into smoke, into molecules, into atoms. Her hands would go right through him.

I said I would come back.

What’s happened to you? What’s wrong?

Don’t you know?

Then they’re outside, on the roof it seems, looking down on the city, but it isn’t any city she’s ever seen. It’s as if one huge bomb has fallen on it, it’s all in flames, everything burning at once—houses, streets, palaces, fountains and temples—exploding, bursting like fireworks. There’s no sound. It burns silently, as if in a picture—white, yellow, red and orange. No screams. No people in it; the people must be dead already. Beside her he flickers in the flickering light.

Nothing will be left of it, he says. A heap of stones, a few old words. It’s gone now, it’s erased. Nobody will remember.

But it was so beautiful! she says. Now it seems to her like a place she’s known; she’s known it very well, she’s known it like the back of her hand. In the sky three moons have risen. Zycron, she thinks. Beloved planet, land of my heart. Where once, long ago, I was happy. All gone now, all destroyed. She can’t bear to look at the flames.

Beautiful for some, he says. That’s always the problem.

What went wrong? Who did this?

The old woman.

What?

L’histoire, cette vieille dame exaltée et menteuse.

He shines like tin. His eyes are vertical slits. He isn’t what she remembers. Everything that made him singular has been burned away. Never mind, he says. They’ll build it up again. They always do.

Now she’s afraid of him. You’ve changed so much, she says.

The situation was critical. We had to fight fire with fire.

You won, though. I know you won!

Nobody won.

Has she made a mistake? Surely there was news of victory. There was a parade, she says. I heard about it. There was a brass band.

Look at me, he says.

But she can’t. She can’t focus on him, he won’t stay steady. He’s indeterminate, he wavers, like a candle flame but devoid of light. She can’t see his eyes.

He’s dead, of course. Of course he’s dead, because didn’t she get the telegram? But it’s only an invention, all of this. It’s only another dimension of space. Why then is there such desolation?

He’s moving away now, and she can’t call after him, her throat won’t make a sound. Now he’s gone.

She feels a choking pressure around the heart. No,no, no, no, says a voice inside her head. Tears are running down her face.

This is when she wakes up really.

Today it’s raining, the thin, abstemious rain of early April. Already the blue scilla are beginning to flower, the daffodils have their snouts above ground, the self-seeded forget-me-nots are creeping up, getting ready to hog the light. Here it comes—another year of vegetative hustling and jostling. They never seem to get tired of it: plants have no memories, that’s why. They can’t remember how many times they’ve done all this before.

I must admit it’s a surprise to find myself still here, still talking to you. I prefer to think of it as talking, although of course it isn’t: I’m saying nothing, you’re hearing nothing. The only thing between us is this black line: a thread thrown onto the empty page, into the empty air.

The winter’s ice in the Louveteau Gorge is almost gone, even in the shaded crevasses of the cliffs. The water, black and then white, hurtles down through the limestone chasms and over the boulders, effortlessly as ever. A violent sound, but soothing; alluring, almost. You can see how people are drawn to it. To waterfalls, to high places, to deserts and deep lakes—places of no return.

Only one corpse in the river so far this year, a drug-ridden young woman from Toronto. Another girl in a hurry. Another waste of time, her own. She had relatives here, an aunt, an uncle. Already they’re the objects of narrow sideways looks, as if they had something to do with it; already they’ve assumed the cornered, angry air of the consciously innocent. I’m sure they’re blameless, but they’re alive, and whoever’s left alive gets blamed. That’s the rule in things like this. Unfair, but there it is.

Yesterday morning Walter came round, to see about the spring tune-up. That’s what he calls the household fix-it routine he goes through, on my behalf, every year. He brought his toolbox, his hand-held electric saw, his electric screwdriver: he likes nothing better than to be whirring away like part of a motor.

He parked all these tools on the back porch, then stomped around outside the house. When he came back in he had a gratified expression. “Garden gate missing a slat,” he said. “I can whack her in today, paint her when it’s dry.”

“Oh, don’t bother,” I say, as I do every year. “Everything’s falling apart, but it will last me out.”

Walter ignores this, as always. “Front steps too,” he says. “Need paint. One of them should come right off—put a new one on her. You let it go too long, the water gets in and then you get the rot. Maybe a stain though, for the porch, better for the wood. We could put another colour strip along the edges of the steps, so people could see better. The way it is they could miss their footing, hurt themselves.” He useswe out of courtesy, andby people he means me. “I can have that new step in later today.”

“You’ll get all wet,” I said. “The weather channel says more of the same.”

“Nope, it’ll clear up.” He didn’t even look at the sky.

Walter went off to get the necessities—some planks, I suppose—and I spent the interval reclining on the parlour sofa, like some vaporous novelistic heroine who’s been forgotten in the pages of her own book and left to yellow and mildew and crumble away like the book itself.

A morbid image, Myra would say.

What else would you suggest? I would reply.

The fact is that my heart has been acting up again.Acting up, a peculiar phrase. It’s what people say to minimize the gravity of their condition. It implies that the offending part (heart, stomach, liver, whatever) is a fractious, bratty child, which can be brought into line with a slap or a sharp word. At the same time, that these symptoms—these tremors and pains, these palpitations—are mere theatrics, and that the organ in question will soon stop capering about and making a spectacle of itself, and resume its placid, off-stage existence.

The doctor isn’t pleased. He’s been muttering about tests and scans, and trips into Toronto where the specialists lurk, those few who have not fled for greener pastures. He’s changed my pills, added another one to the arsenal. He’s even suggested the possibility of an operation. What would be involved, I asked, and what would be accomplished? Too much of one, as it turns out, and not enough of the other. He suspects that nothing short of a whole new unit—his term, as if it’s a dishwasher we’re talking about—will do. Also I would have to stand in line, waiting for someone else’s unit, one that’s no longer needed. Not to put too fine a gloss on it, someone else’s heart, ripped out of some youngster: you wouldn’t want to install an old rickety wizened-up one like the one you intend to throw away. What you want is something fresh and juicy.

But who knows where they get those things? Street children in Latin America is my guess; or so goes the most paranoid rumour. Stolen hearts, black-market hearts, wrenched from between broken ribs, warm and bleeding, offered up to the false god. What is the false god? We are. Us and our money. That’s what Laura would say.Don’t touch that money, Reenie would say.You don’t know where it’s been.

Could I live with myself, knowing I was carrying the heart of a dead child?

But if not, then what?

Please don’t mistake this rambling angst for stoicism. I take my pills, I take my halting walks, but there’s nothing I can do for dread.

After lunch—a piece of hard cheese, a glass of dubious milk, a flabby carrot, Myra having fallen down this week on her self-appointed task of stocking my refrigerator—Walter returned. He measured, sawed, hammered, then knocked on the back door to say he was sorry for the noise but everything was shipshape now.

“I made you some coffee,” I said. This is a ritual on these April occasions. Had I burned it this time? No matter. He was used to Myra’s.

“Don’t mind if I do.” He removed his rubber boots carefully and left them on the back porch—Myra has him well trained, he’s not allowed to track what she callshis dirt onto what she callsher carpets —then tiptoed in his mammoth socks across my kitchen floor; which, thanks to the energetic scourings and polishings of Myra’s woman, is now as slick and treacherous as a glacier. It used to have a useful adhesive skin on it, an accumulation of dust and grime like a thin coating of glue, but no longer. I really should strew it with grit, or I’ll slip on it and do myself an injury.

Watching Walter tiptoe was a treat in itself—an elephant walking on eggs. He reached the kitchen table, setting his yellow leather work gloves down on it, where they lay like giant, extra paws.

“New gloves,” I said. They were so new they almost glowed. Not a scratch on them either.

“Myra got those. Guy three streets over, took the ends of his fingers off with a fretsaw and she’s all steamed up about it, worried I’ll do the same or worse. But that guy’s a numbnuts, moved here from Toronto, pardon my French but he shouldn’t be allowed to fool with saws, could of took his head off while he was at it, no loss to the world either. I told her, have to be ten bricks short of a load to pull a stunt like that, and anyways I don’t own a fretsaw. But she makes me cart the darn things around anyways. Every time I go out the door, it’s Yoo-hoo, here’s your gloves.”

“You could lose them,” I said.

“She’d buy others,” he said gloomily.

“Leave them here. Say you forgot them and you’ll pick them up later. Then just don’t pick them up.” I had an image of myself, during lonely nights, holding one of Walter’s vacated, leathery hands: it would be a companion of sorts. Pathetic. Maybe I should buy a cat, or a small dog. Something warm and uncritical and furry—a fellow creature, helping me to keep watch by night. We need the mammalian huddle: too much solitude is bad for the eyesight. But if I got something like that I’d most likely trip over it and break my neck.

Walter’s mouth twitched, the tips of his upper teeth showed: it was a grin. “Great minds think alike, eh?” he said. “Then maybe you could dump the suckers in the trash, accidentally on purpose.”

“Walter, you are a rascal,” I said. Walter grinned more, added five spoons of sugar to the coffee, downed it, then placed both hands on the table and levered himself into the air, like an obelisk raised by ropes. In that motion I suddenly foresaw what his last action would be, in relation to me: he’ll hoist one end of my coffin.

He knows it too. He’s standing by. He’s not a handyman for nothing. He won’t make a fuss, he won’t drop me, he’ll make sure I travel in level, horizontal safely on this last, short voyage of mine. “Up she goes,” he’ll say. And up I will go.

Lugubrious. I know it; and sentimental as well. But please bear with me. The dying are allowed a certain latitude, like children on their birthdays.

Last night I watched the television news. I shouldn’t do that, it’s bad for the digestion. There’s another war somewhere, what they call a minor one, though of course it isn’t minor for anyone who happens to get caught up in it. They have a generic look to them, these wars—the men in camouflage gear with scarves over their mouths and noses, the drifts of smoke, the gutted buildings, the broken, weeping civilians. Endless mothers, carrying endless limp children, their faces splotched with blood; endless bewildered old men. They cart the young men off and murder them, intending to forestall revenge, as the Greeks did at Troy. Hitler’s excuse too for killing Jewish babies, as I recall.

The wars break out and die down, but then there’s a flareup elsewhere. Houses cracked open like eggs, their contents torched or stolen or stomped vindictively underfoot; refugees strafed from airplanes. In a million cellars the bewildered royal family faces the firing squad; the gems sewn into their corsets will not save them. Herod’s troops patrol a thousand streets; just next door, Napoleon makes off with the silverware. In the wake of the invasion, any invasion, the ditches fill up with raped women. To be fair, raped men as well. Raped children, raped dogs and cats. Things can get out of control.

But not here; not in this gentle, tedious backwater; not in Port Ticonderoga, despite a druggie or two in the parks, despite the occasional break-in, despite the occasional body found floating around in the eddies. We hunker down here, drinking our bedtime drinks, nibbling our bedtime snacks, peering at the world as if through a secret window, and when we’ve had enough of it we turn it off. Somuch for the twentieth century, we say, as we make our way upstairs. But there’s a far-off roaring, like a tidal wave racing inshore. Here comes the twenty-first century, sweeping overhead like a spaceship filled with ruthless lizard-eyed aliens or a metal pterodactyl. Sooner or later it will sniff us out, it will tear the roofs off our flimsy little burrows with its iron claws, and then we will be just as naked and shivering and starving and diseased and hopeless as the rest.

Excuse this digression. At my age you indulge in these apocalyptic visions. You say,The end of the world is at hand. You lie to yourself—I’m glad I won’t be around to see it—when in fact you’d like nothing better, as long as you can watch it through the little secret window, as long as you won’t be involved.

But why bother about the end of the world? It’s the end of the world every day, for someone. Time rises and rises, and when it reaches the level of your eyes you drown.

What happened next? For a moment I’ve lost the thread, it’s hard for me to remember, but then I do. It was the war, of course. We weren’t prepared for it, but at the same time we knew we’d been there before. It was the same chill, the chill that rolled in like a fog, the chill into which I was born. As then, everything took on a shivering anxiety—the chairs, the tables, the streets and the street lights, the sky, the air. Overnight, whole portions of what had been acknowledged as reality simply vanished. This is what happens when there’s a war.

But you are too young to remember which war that might have been. Every war isthe war for whoever’s lived through it. The one to which I’m referring began in early September of 1939, and went on until…Well, it’s in the history books. You can look it up.

Keep the home fires burning,was one of the old war slogans. Whenever I heard that, I used to picture a horde of women with flowing hair and glittering eyes, making their way furtively, in ones or twos, by moonlight, setting fire to their own homes.