Blind Assassin (73 page)

The Toronto Star, August 25, 1975

Novelist’s Niece Victim of Fall

SPECIAL TO THE STAR

Aimee Griffen, thirty-eight, daughter of the late Richard E. Griffen, the eminent industrialist, and niece of noted authoress Laura Chase, was found dead in her Church St. basement apartment on Wednesday, having suffered a broken neck as a result of a fall. She had apparently been dead for at least a day. Neighbours Jos and Beatrice Kelley were alerted by Miss Griffen’s four-year-old daughter Sabrina, who often came to them for food when her mother could not be located.

Miss Griffen is rumoured to have undergone a lengthy struggle with drug and alcohol addiction, having been hospitalized on several occasions. Her daughter has been placed in the care of Mrs. Winifred Prior, her great-aunt, pending an investigation. Neither Mrs. Prior nor Aimee Griffen’s mother, Mrs. Iris Griffen of Port Ticonderoga, was available for comment.

This unfortunate event is yet another example of the laxity of our present social services, and the need for improved legislation to increase protection for children at risk.

The Blind Assassin: The carpets

The line buzzes and crackles. There’s thunder, or is it someone listening in? But it’s a public phone, they can’t trace him.

Where are you? she says. You shouldn’t phone here.

He can’t hear her breathing, her breath. He wants her to put the receiver against her throat, but he won’t ask for that, not yet. I’m around the block, he says. A couple of blocks. I can be in the park, the small one, the one with the sundial.

Oh, I don’t think…

Just slip out. Say you need some air. He waits.

I’ll try.

At the entrance to the park there are two stone gateposts, four-sided, bevelled at the top, Egyptian-looking. No triumphal inscriptions however, no bas-reliefs of chained enemies kneeling. Only No Loitering and Keep Dogs on Leash.

Come in here, he says. Away from the street light.

I can’t stay long.

I know. Come in behind here. He takes hold of her arm, guiding her; she’s trembling like a wire in a high wind.

There, he says. Nobody can see us. No old ladies out walking their poodles.

No policemen with nightsticks, she says. She laughs briefly. The lamplight filters through the leaves; in it, the whites of her eyes gleam. I shouldn’t be here, she says. It’s too much of a risk.

There’s a stone bench tucked up against some bushes. He puts his jacket around her shoulders. Old tweed, old tobacco, a singed odour. An undertone of salt. His skin’s been there, next to the cloth, and now hers is.

There, you’ll be warmer. Now we’ll defy the law. We’ll loiter.

What about Keep Dogs on Leash?

We’ll defy that too. He doesn’t put his arm around her. He knows she wants him to. She expects it; she feels the touch in advance, as birds feel shadow. He’s got his cigarette going. He offers her one; this time she takes it. Brief match-flare inside their cupped hands. Red finger-ends.

She thinks, Any more flame and we’d see the bones. It’s like X-rays. We’re just a kind of haze, just coloured water. Water does what it likes. It always goes downhill. Her throat fills with smoke.

He says, Now I’ll tell you about the children.

The children? What children?

The next instalment. About Zycron, about Sakiel-Norn.

Oh. Yes.

There are children in it.

We didn’t say anything about children.

They’re slave children. They’re required. I can’t get along without them.

I don’t think I want any children in it, she says.

You can always tell me to stop. Nobody’s forcing you. You’re free to go, as the police say when you’re lucky. He keeps his voice level. She doesn’t move away.

He says: Sakiel-Norn is now a heap of stones, but once it was a flourishing centre of trade and exchange. It was at a crossroads where three overland routes came together—one from the east, one from the west, one from the south. To the north it was connected by means of a broad canal to the sea itself, where it possessed a well-fortified harbour. No trace of these diggings and defensive walls remains: after its destruction, the hewn stone blocks were carried off by enemies or strangers for use in their animal pens, their water troughs, and their crude forts, or buried by waves and wind under the drifting sand.

The canal and the harbour were built by slaves, which isn’t surprising: slaves were how Sakiel-Norn had achieved its magnificence and power. But it was also renowned for its handicrafts, especially its weaving. The secrets of the dyes used by its artisans were carefully guarded: its cloth shone like liquid honey, like crushed purple grapes, like a cup of bull’s blood poured out in the sun. Its delicate veils were as light as spiderwebs, and its carpets were so soft and fine you would think you were walking on air, an air made to resemble flowers and flowing water.

That’s very poetic, she says. I’m surprised.

Think of it as a department store, he says. These were luxury trade goods, when you come right down to it. It’s less poetic then.

The carpets were woven by slaves who were invariably children, because only the fingers of children were small enough for such intricate work. But the incessant close labour demanded of these children caused them to go blind by the age of eight or nine, and their blindness was the measure by which the carpet-sellers valued and extolled their merchandise:
This carpet blinded ten children,
they would say.
This blinded fifteen, this twenty.
Since the price rose accordingly, they always exaggerated. It was the custom for the buyer to scoff at their claims.
Surely only seven, only twelve, only sixteen,
they would say, fingering the carpet.
It’s coarse as a dishcloth. It’s nothing but a beggar’s blanket. It was made by a
gnarr.

Once they were blind, the children would be sold off to brothel-keepers, the girls and the boys alike. The services of children blinded in this way fetched high sums; their touch was so suave and deft, it was said, that under their fingers you could feel the flowers blossoming and the water flowing out of your own skin.

They were also skilled at picking locks. Those of them who escaped took up the profession of cutting throats in the dark, and were greatly in demand as hired assassins. Their sense of hearing was acute; they could walk without sound, and squeeze through the smallest of openings; they could smell the difference between a deep sleeper and one who was restlessly dreaming. They killed as softly as a moth brushing against your neck. They were considered to be without pity. They were much feared.

The stories the children whispered to one another—while they sat weaving their endless carpets, while they could still see—was about this possible future life. It was a saying among them that only the blind are free.

This is too sad, she whispers. Why are you telling me such a sad story?

They’re deeper into the shadows now. His arms around her finally. Go easy, he thinks. No sudden moves. He concentrates on his breathing.

I tell you the stories I’m good at, he says. Also the ones you’ll believe. You wouldn’t believe sweet nothings, would you?

No. I wouldn’t believe them.

Besides, it’s not a sad story, completely—some of them got away.

But they became throat-cutters.

They didn’t have much choice, did they? They couldn’t become the carpet-merchants themselves, or the brothel-owners. They didn’t have the capital. So they had to take the dirty work. Tough luck for them.

Don’t, she says. It’s not my fault.

Nor mine either. Let’s say we’re stuck with the sins of the fathers.

That’s unnecessarily cruel, she says coldly.

When is cruelty necessary? he says. And how much of it? Read the newspapers, I didn’t invent the world. Anyway, I’m on the side of the throat-cutters. If you had to cut throats or starve, which would you do? Or screw for a living, there’s always that.

Now he’s gone too far. He’s let his anger show. She draws away from him. Here it comes, she says. I need to get back. The leaves around them stir fitfully. She holds out her hand, palm up: there are a few drops of rain. The thunder’s nearer now. She slides his jacket off her shoulders. He hasn’t kissed her; he won’t, not tonight. She senses it as a reprieve.

Stand at your window, he says. Your bedroom window. Leave the light on. Just stand there.

He’s startled her. Why? Why on earth?

I want you to. I want to make sure you’re safe, he adds, though safety has nothing to do with it.

I’ll try, she says. Only for a minute. Where will you be?

Under the tree. The chestnut. You won’t see me, but I’ll be there.

She thinks, He knows where the window is. He knows what kind of tree. He must have been prowling. Watching her. She shivers a little.

It’s raining, she says. It’s going to pour. You’ll get wet.

It’s not cold, he says. I’ll be waiting.

The Globe and Mail, February 19, 1998

Prior,
Winifred Griffen. At the age of 92, at her Rosedale home, after a protracted illness. In Mrs. Prior, noted philanthropist, the city of Toronto has lost one of its most loyal and long-standing benefactresses. Sister of deceased industrialist Richard Griffen and sister-in law of the eminent novelist Laura Chase, Mrs. Prior served on the board of the Toronto Symphony Orchestra during its formative years, and more recently on the Volunteer Committee of the Art Gallery of Ontario and the Canadian Cancer Society. She was also active in the Granite Club, the Heliconian Club, the Junior League, and the Dominion Drama Festival. She is survived by her great-niece, Sabrina Griffen, currently travelling in India.

The funeral will take place on Tuesday morning at the Church of St. Simon the Apostle, followed by interment at Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Donations to Princess Margaret Hospital in lieu of flowers.

The Blind Assassin: The lipstick heart

How much time have we got? he says.

A lot, she says. Two or three hours. They’re all out somewhere.

Doing what?

I don’t know. Making money. Buying things. Good works. Whatever they do; She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, sits up straighter. She feels on call, whistled for. A cheap feeling. Whose car is this? she says.

A friend’s. I’m an important person, I have a friend with a car.

You’re making fun of me, she says. He doesn’t answer. She pulls at the fingers of a glove. What if anyone sees us?

They’ll only see the car. This car is a wreck, it’s a poor folks’ car. Even if they look right at you they won’t see you, because a woman like you isn’t supposed to be caught dead in a car like this.

Sometimes you don’t like me very much, she says.

I can’t think about much else lately, he says. But liking is different. Liking takes time. I don’t have the time to
like
you. I can’t concentrate on it.

Not there, she says. Look at the sign.

Signs are for other people, he says. Here—down here.

The path is no more than a furrow. Discarded tissues, gum wrappers, used safes like fish bladders. Bottles and pebbles; dried mud, cracked and rutted. She has the wrong shoes for it, the wrong heels. He takes her arm, steadies her. She moves to pull away.

It’s practically an open field. Someone will see.

Someone who? We’re under the bridge.

The police. Don’t. Not yet.

The police don’t snoop around in broad daylight, he says. Only at night, with their flashlights, looking for godless perverts.

Tramps then, she says. Maniacs.

Here, he says. In under here. In the shade.

Is there poison ivy?

None at all. I promise. No tramps or maniacs either, except me.

How do you know? About the poison ivy. Have you been here before?

Don’t worry so much, he says. Lie down.

Don’t. You’ll tear it. Wait a minute.

She hears her own voice. It isn’t her voice, it’s too breathless.

There’s a lipstick heart on the cement, surrounding four initials. An L connects them: L for
Loves.
Only those concerned would know whose initials they are—that they’ve been here, that they’ve done this. Proclaiming love, withholding the particulars.

Outside the heart, four other letters, like the four points of the compass:

The word torn apart, splayed open: the implacable topography of sex.

Smoke taste on his mouth, salt in her own; all around, the smell of crushed weeds and cat, of disregarded corners. Dampness and growth, dirt on the knees, grimy and lush; leggy dandelions stretching towards the light.

Below where they’re lying, the ripple of a stream. Above, leafy branches, thin vines with purple flowers; the tall pillars of the bridge lifting up, the iron girders, the wheels going by overhead; the blue sky in splinters. Hard dirt under her back.

He smoothes her forehead, runs a finger along her cheek. You shouldn’t worship me, he says. I don’t have the only cock in the world. Some day you’ll find that out.

It’s not a question of that, she says. Anyway I don’t worship you. Already he’s pushing her away, into the future.

Well, whatever it is, you’ll have more of it, once I’m out of your hair.

Meaning what, exactly? You’re not in my hair.

That there’s life after life, he says. After our life.

Let’s talk about something else.

All right, he says. Lie down again. Put your head here. Pushing his damp shirt aside. His arm around her, his other hand fishing in his pocket for the cigarettes, then snapping the match with his thumbnail. Her ear against his shoulder’s hollow.

He says, Now where was I?

The carpet-weavers. The blinded children.

Oh yes. I remember.

He says: The wealth of Sakiel-Norn was based on slaves, and especially on the child slaves who wove its famous carpets. But it was bad luck to mention this. The Snilfards claimed that their riches depended not on the slaves, but on their own virtue and right thinking—that is, on the proper sacrifices being made to the gods.

There were lots of gods. Gods always come in handy, they justify almost anything, and the gods of Sakiel-Norn were no exception. All of them were carnivorous; they liked animal sacrifices, but human blood was what they valued most. At the city’s founding, so long ago it had passed into legend, nine devout fathers were said to have offered up their own children, to be buried as holy guardians under its nine gates.

Each of the four directions had two of these gates, one for going out and one for coming in: to leave by the same one through which you’d arrived meant an early death. The door of the ninth gate was a horizontal slab of marble on top of a hill in the centre of the city; it opened without moving, and swung between life and death, between the flesh and the spirit. This was the door through which the gods came and went: they didn’t need two doors, because unlike mortals they could be on both sides of a door at once. The prophets of Sakiel-Norn had a saying:
What is the real breath of a man—the breathing out or the breathing in?
Such was the nature of the gods.

This ninth gate was also the altar on which the blood of sacrifice was spilled. Boy children were offered to the God of the Three Suns, who was the god of daytime, bright lights, palaces, feasts, furnaces, wars, liquor, entrances, and words; girl children were offered to the Goddess of the Five Moons, patroness of night, mists and shadows, famine, caves, childbirth, exits, and silences. Boy children were brained on the altar with a club and then thrown into the god’s mouth, which led to a raging furnace. Girl children had their throats cut and their blood drained out to replenish the five waning moons, so they would not fade and disappear forever.

Nine girls were offered every year, in honour of the nine girls buried at the city gates. Those sacrificed were known as “the Goddess’s maidens,” and prayers and flowers and incense were offered to them so they would intercede on behalf of the living. The last three months of the year were said to be “faceless months”; they were the months when no crops grew, and the Goddess was said to be fasting. During this time the Sun-god in his mode of war and furnaces held sway, and the mothers of boy children dressed them in girls’ clothing for their own protection.

It was the law that the noblest Snilfard families must sacrifice at least one of their daughters. It was an insult to the Goddess to offer any who were blemished or flawed, and as time passed, the Snilfards began to mutilate their girls so they would be spared: they would lop off a finger or an earlobe, or some other small part. Soon the mutilation became symbolic only: an oblong blue tattoo at the V of the collarbone. For a woman to possess one of these caste marks if she wasn’t a Snilfard was a capital offence, but the brothel-owners, always eager for trade, would apply them with ink to those of their youngest whores who could put on a show of haughtiness. This appealed to those clients who wished to feel they were violating some blue-blooded Snilfard princess.

At the same time, the Snilfards took to adopting foundlings—the offspring of female slaves and their masters, for the most part—and using these to replace their legitimate daughters. It was cheating, but the noble families were powerful, so it went on with the eye of authority winking.

Then the noble families grew even lazier. They no longer wanted the bother of raising the girls in their own households, so they simply handed them over to the Temple of the Goddess, paying well for their upkeep. As the girl bore the family’s name, they’d get credit for the sacrifice. It was like owning a racehorse. This practice was a debased version of the high-minded original, but by that time, in Sakiel-Norn, everything was for sale.

The dedicated girls were shut up inside the temple compound, fed the best of everything to keep them sleek and healthy, and rigorously trained so they would be ready for the great day—able to fulfill their duties with decorum, and without quailing. The ideal sacrifice should be like a dance, was the theory: stately and lyrical, harmonious and graceful. They were not animals, to be crudely butchered; their lives were to be given by them freely. Many believed what they were told: that the welfare of the entire kingdom depended on their selflessness. They spent long hours in prayer, getting into the right frame of mind; they were taught to walk with downcast eyes, and to smile with gentle melancholy, and to sing the songs of the Goddess, which were about absence and silence, about unfulfilled love and unexpressed regret, and wordlessness—songs about the impossibility of singing.

More time went by. Now only a few people still took the gods seriously, and anyone overly pious or observant was considered a crackpot. The citizens continued to perform the ancient rituals because they had always done so, but such things were not the real business of the city.

Despite their isolation, some of the girls came to realize they were being murdered as lip service to an outworn concept. Some tried to run away when they saw the knife. Others took to shrieking when they were taken by the hair and bent backwards over the altar, and yet others cursed the King himself, who served as High Priest on these occasions. One had even bitten him. These intermittent displays of panic and fury were resented by the populace, because the most terrible bad luck would follow. Or it might follow, supposing the Goddess to exist. Anyway, such outbursts could spoil the festivities: everyone enjoyed the sacrifices, even the Ygnirods, even the slaves, because they were allowed to take the day off and get drunk.

Therefore it became the practice to cut out the tongues of the girls three months before they were due to be sacrificed. This was not a mutilation, said the priests, but an improvement—what could be more fitting for the servants of the Goddess of Silence?

Thus, tongueless, and swollen with words she could never again pronounce, each girl would be led in procession to the sound of solemn music, wrapped in veils and garlanded with flowers, up the winding steps to the city’s ninth door. Nowadays you might say she looked like a pampered society bride.

She sits up. That’s really uncalled for, she says. You want to get at me. You just love the idea of killing off those poor girls in their bridal veils. I bet they were blondes.

Not at you, he says. Not as such. Anyway I’m not inventing all of this, it has a firm foundation in history. The Hittites…

I’m sure, but you’re licking your lips over it all the same. You’re vengeful—no, you’re jealous, though God knows why. I don’t care about the Hittites, and history and all of that—it’s just an excuse.

Hold on a minute. You agreed to the sacrificial virgins, you put them on the menu. I’m only following orders. What’s your objection—the wardrobe? Too much tulle?

Let’s not fight, she says. She feels she’s about to cry, clenches her hands to stop.

I didn’t mean to upset you. Come on now.

She pushes away his arm. You did mean to upset me. You like to know you can.

I thought it amused you. Listening to me perform. Juggling the adjectives. Playing the zany for you.

She tugs her skirt down, tucks in her blouse. Dead girls in bridal veils, why would that amuse me? With their tongues cut out. You must think I’m a brute.

I’ll take it back. I’ll change it. I’ll rewrite history for you. How’s that?

You can’t, she says. The word has gone forth. You can’t cancel half a line of it. I’m leaving. She’s on her knees now, ready to stand up.

There’s lots of time. Lie down. He takes hold of her wrist.

No. Let go. Look where the sun is. They’ll be coming back. I could be in trouble, though I guess for you it’s not trouble at all, that kind: it doesn’t count. You don’t care—all you want is a quick, a quick—

Come on, spit it out.

You know what I mean, she says in a tired voice.

It’s not true. I’m sorry. I’m the brute, I got carried away. Anyway it’s only a story.

She rests her forehead against her knees. After a minute she says, What am I going to do? After—when you’re not here any more?

You’ll get over it, he says. You’ll live. Here, I’ll brush you off.

It doesn’t come off, not with just brushing.

Let’s do up your buttons, he says. Don’t be sad.