The Blind Assassin

by Margaret Atwood

  The Servant of Rejoicing rides ahead, his heart pure, his brow furrowed, his eyes burning. Over his shoulders is a rough leather cloak, on his head is his badge of office, a red conical hat. Behind him are his followers, eyeteeth bared. Herbivores flee before them, scavengers follow, wolves lope alongside.

  Meanwhile, in the unsuspecting city, there's a plot underway to topple the King. This has been set in motion (as is customary) by several highly trusted courtiers. They've employed the most skilful of the blind assassins, a youth who was once a weaver of rugs and then a child prostitute, but who since his escape has become renowned for his soundlessness, his stealth, and his pitiless hand with a knife. His name is X.

  Why X?

  Men like that are always called X. Names are no use to them, names only pin them down. Anyway, X is for X-ray - if you're X, you can pass through solid walls and see through women's clothing.

  But X is blind, she says.

  All the better. He sees through women's clothing with the inner eye that is the bliss of solitude.

  Poor Wordsworth! Don't be blasphemous! she says, delighted.

  I can't help it, I was blasphemous from a child.

  X is to make his way into the compound of the Temple of the Five Moons, find the door to the chamber where the next day's maiden sacrifice is being kept, and slit the throat of the sentry. He must then kill the girl herself, hide the body beneath the fabled Bed of One Night, and dress himself in the girl's ceremonial veils. He's supposed to wait until the courtier playing the Lord of the Underworld - who is, in fact, none other than the leader of the impending palace coup - has come, taken what he has paid for, and gone away again. The courtier has paid good coin and wants his money's worth, which doesn't mean a dead girl, however freshly killed. He wants the heart still beating.

  But there's been a foul-up in the arrangements. The timing has been misunderstood: as things stand, the blind assassin will be first past the post.

  This is too gruesome, she says. You have a twisted mind.

  He runs his finger along her bare arm. You want me to continue? As a rule I do this for money. You're getting it for nothing, you should be grateful. Anyway, you don't know what's going to happen. I'm only just thickening the plot.

  I'd say it was pretty thick already.

  Thick plots are my specialty. If you want a thinner kind, look elsewhere.

  All right then. Go on.

  Disguised in the murdered girl's clothing, the assassin is to wait until morning and then allow himself to be led up the steps to the altar, where, at the moment of sacrifice, he will stab the King. The King will thus appear to have been struck down by the Goddess herself, and his death will be the signal for a carefully orchestrated uprising.

  Certain of the rougher elements, having been bribed, will stage a riot. After this, events will follow the time-honoured pattern. The Temple priestesses will be taken into custody, for their own safety it will be said, but in reality to force them to uphold the plotters' claim to spiritual authority. The nobles loyal to the King will be speared where they stand; their male offspring will also be killed, to avoid revenge later; their daughters will be married off to the victors to legitimize the seizure of their families' wealth, and their pampered and no doubt adulterous wives will be tossed to the mob. Once the mighty have fallen, it's a distinct pleasure to be able to wipe your feet on them.

  The blind assassin plans to escape in the ensuing confusion, returning later to claim the other half of his generous fee. In reality the plotters intend to cut him down at once, as it would never do if he were caught, and - in the event of the plot's failure - forced to talk. His corpse will be well hidden, because everyone knows that the blind assassins work only for hire, and sooner or later people might begin to ask who had hired him. Arranging a king's death is one thing, but being found out is quite another.

  The girl who is thus far nameless lies on her bed of red brocade, awaiting the ersatz Lord of the Underworld and saying a wordless farewell to this life. The blind assassin creeps down the corridor, dressed in the grey robes of a Temple servant. He reaches the door. The sentry is a woman, since no men are allowed to serve inside the compound. Through his grey veil the assassin whispers to her that he carries a message from the High Priestess, for her ear alone. The woman leans down, the knife moves once, the lightning of the Gods is merciful. His sightless hands dart towards the jangle of keys.

  The key turns in the lock. Inside the room, the girl hears it. She sits up.

  His voice stops. He's listening to something outside in the street.

  She raises herself on an elbow. What is it? she says. It's just a car door.

  Do me a favour, he says. Put on your slip like a good girl and take a peek out the window.

  What if someone sees me? she says. It's broad daylight.

  It's all right. They won't know you. They'll just see a woman in a slip, it's not an uncommon sight around here; they'll just think you're a ...

  A woman of easy virtue? she says lightly. Is that what you think too?

  A ruined maiden. Not the same thing.

  That's very gallant of you.

  Sometimes I'm my own worst enemy.

  If it weren't for you I'd be a whole lot more ruined, she says. She's at the window now, she raises the blind. Her slip is the chill green of shore ice, broken ice. He won't be able to hold on to her, not for long. She'll melt, she'll drift away, she'll slide out of his hands.

  Anything out there? he says.

  Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Come back to bed.

  But she's looked in the mirror over the sink, she's seen herself. Her nude face, her rummaged hair. She checks her gold watch. God, what a wreck, she says. I've got to go.

  The Mail and Empire, December 15, 1934

  ARMY QUELLS STRIKE VIOLENCE

  PORT TICONDEROGA, ONT.

  Fresh violence broke out yesterday in Port Ticonderoga, a continuation of the week's turmoil in connection with the closure, strike and lockout at Chase and Sons Industries Ltd. Police forces proving outnumbered and reinforcements having been requested by the provincial legislature, the Prime Minister authorized intervention in the interests of public safety by a detachment of the Royal Canadian Regiment, which arrived at two o'clock in the afternoon. The situation has now been declared stable.

  Prior to order being restored, a meeting of strikers ran out of control. Shop windows were broken all along the town's main street, with extensive looting. Several shop owners attempting to defend their property are in hospital recovering from contusions. One policeman is said to be in grave danger from concussion, having been struck on the head by a brick. A fire that broke out in Factory One during the early hours, but which was subdued by the town's firefighters, is being investigated, and arson is suspected. The night watchman, Mr. Al Davidson, was dragged to safety out of the path of the flames, but was found to have died due to a blow on the head and smoke inhalation. The perpetrators of this outrage are being sought, with several suspects already identified.

  The editor of the Port Ticonderoga newspaper, Mr. Elwood R. Murray, stated that the trouble had been caused by liquor introduced into the crowd by several outside agitators. He claimed that the local workmen were law-abiding and would not have rioted unless provoked.

  Mr. Norval Chase, President of Chase and Sons Industries, was unavailable for comment.

  The Blind Assassin: Horses of the night

  A different house this week, a different room. At least there's space to turn around between door and bed. The curtains are Mexican, striped in yellow and blue and red; the bed has a bird's-eye maple headboard; there's a Hudson's Bay blanket, crimson and scratchy, that's been tossed onto the floor. A Spanish bullfight poster on the wall. An armchair, maroon leather; a desk, fumed oak; a jar with pencils, all neatly sharpened; a rack of pipes. Tobacco particulate thickens the air.

  A shelf of books: Auden, Veblen, Spengler, Steinbeck, Dos Passos. Tropic of Cancer, out in plain view, it must have be
en smuggled. Salammbo, Strange Fugitive, Twilight of the Idols, A Farewell to Arms. Barbusse, Montherlant. Hammurabis Gesetz: Juristische Erlauterung. This new friend has intellectual interests, she thinks. Also more money. Therefore less trustworthy. He has three different hats topping his bentwood coat stand, as well as a plaid dressing gown, pure cashmere.

  Have you read any of these books? she'd asked, after they'd come in and he'd locked the door. While she was taking off her hat and gloves.

  Some, he said. He didn't elaborate. Turn your head. He untangled a leaf from her hair.

  Already they're falling.

  She wonders if the friend knows. Not just that there's a woman - they'll have something worked out between them so the friend won't barge in, men do that - but who she is. Her name and so on. She hopes not. She can tell by the books, and especially by the bullfight poster, that this friend would be hostile to her on principle.

  Today he'd been less impetuous, more pensive. He'd wanted to linger, to hold back. To scrutinize.

  Why are you looking at me like that?

  I'm memorizing you.

  Why? she said, putting her hand over his eyes. She didn't like being examined like that. Fingered.

  To have you later, he said. Once I've gone.

  Don't. Don't spoil today.

  Make hay while the sun shines, he said. That your motto?

  More like waste not, want not, she said. He'd laughed then.

  Now she's wound herself in the sheet, tucked it across her breasts; she lies against him, legs hidden in a long sinuous fishtail of white cotton. He has his hands behind his head; he's gazing up at the ceiling. She feeds him sips of her drink, rye and water this time. Cheaper than scotch. She's been meaning to bring something decent of her own - something drinkable - but so far she's forgotten.

  Go on, she says.

  I have to be inspired, he says.

  What can I do to inspire you? I don't have to be back till five.

  I'll take a rain check on the real inspiration, he says. I have to build up my strength. Give me half an hour.

  O lente, lente currite noctis equi!

  What?

  Run slowly, slowly, horses of the night. It's from Ovid, she says. In Latin the line goes at a slow gallop. That was clumsy, he'll think she's showing off. She can never tell what he may or may not recognize. Sometimes he pretends not to know a thing, and then after she's explained it he reveals that he does know it, he knew it all along. He draws her out, then chokes her off.

  You're an odd duck, he says. Why are they the horses of the night?

  They pull Time's chariot. He's with his mistress. It means he wants the night to stretch out, so he can spend more time with her.

  What for? he says lazily. Five minutes not enough for him? Nothing better to do?

  She sits up. Are you tired? Am I boring you? Should I leave?

  Lie down again. You ain't goin' nowheres.

  She wishes he wouldn't do that - talk like a movie cowboy. He does it to put her at a disadvantage. Nevertheless, she stretches out, slides her arm across him.

  Put your hand here, ma'am. That'll do fine. He closes his eyes. Mistress, he says. What a quaint term. Mid-Victorian. I should be kissing your dainty shoe, or plying you with chocolates.

  Maybe I am quaint. Maybe I'm mid-Victorian. Lover, then. Or piece of tail. Is that more forward-looking? More even-steven for you?

  Sure. But I think I prefer mistress. Because things ain't even-steven, are they?

  No, she says. They're not. Anyway, go on.

  He says: As night falls, the People of Joy have encamped a day's march from the city. Female slaves, captives from previous conquests, pour out the scarlet hrang from the skin bottles in which it is fermented, and cringe and stoop and serve, carrying bowls of gristly, undercooked stew made from rustled thulks. The official wives sit in the shadows, eyes bright in the dark ovals of their head-scarves, watching for impertinences. They know they'll sleep alone tonight, but they can whip the captured girls later for clumsiness or disrespect, and they will.

  The men crouch around their small fires, wrapped in their leather cloaks, eating their suppers, muttering among themselves. Their mood is not jovial. Tomorrow, or the day after that - depending on their speed and on the watchfulness of the enemy - they will have to fight, and this time they may not win. True, the fiery-eyed messenger who spoke to the Fist of the Invincible One promised they will be given victory if they continue to be pious and obedient and brave and cunning, but there are always so many ifs in these matters.

  If they lose, they'll be killed, and their women and children as well. They're not expecting mercy. If they win, they themselves must do the killing, which isn't always so enjoyable as is sometimes believed. They must kill everyone in the city: these are the instructions. No boy child is to be left alive, to grow up lusting to revenge his slaughtered father; no girl child, to corrupt the People of Joy with her depraved ways. From cities conquered earlier they've kept back the young girls and doled them out among the soldiers, one or two or three each according to prowess and merit, but the divine messenger has now said that enough is enough.

  All this killing will be tiring, and also noisy. Killing on such a grand scale is very strenuous, also polluting, and must be done thoroughly or else the People of Joy will be in bad trouble. The All-Powerful One has a way of insisting on the letter of the law.

  Their horses are tethered apart. They are few in number, and ridden only by the chief men - slender, skittish horses, with hardened mouths and long woebegone faces and tender, cowardly eyes. None of this is their fault: they were dragged into it.

  If you own a horse you are permitted to kick and beat it, but not to kill it and eat it, because long ago a messenger of the All-Powerful One appeared in the form of the first horse. The horses remember this, it is said, and are proud of it. It is why they allow only the leaders to ride them. Or that is the reason given.

  Mayfair, May 1935

  TORONTO HIGH NOON GOSSIP

  BY YORK

  Spring made a frolicsome entrance this April, heralded by a veritable cavalcade of chauffeured limousines as eminent guests flocked to one of the most interesting receptions of the season, the charming April 6th affair given at her imposing Tudor-beamed Rosedale residence by Mrs. Winifred Griffen Prior, in honour of Miss Iris Chase of Port Ticonderoga, Ontario. Miss Chase is the daughter of Captain Norval Chase, and the grand-daughter of the late Mrs. Benjamin Montfort Chase, of Montreal. She is to wed Mrs. Griffen Prior's brother, Mr. Richard Griffen, long considered one of the most eligible bachelors of this province, at a brilliant May wedding which promises to be among the not-to-be-missed events on the bridal calendar.

  Last season's "Debs" and their mothers were eager to cast eyes on the youthful bride-to-be, who was fetching in a demure Schiaparelli creation of blistered bisque crepe, with slim-cut skirt and peplum, trimmed with accents of black velvet and jet. Against a setting of white narcissi, white trellis-work bowers, and lighted tapers in silver sconces festooned with bunches of faux black Muscadine grapes bedecked with spiralling silver ribbon, Mrs. Prior received in a gracious Chanel gown of ashes-of-roses with a draped skirt, its bodice ornamented with discreet seed pearls. Miss Chase's sister and bridesmaid, Miss Laura Chase, in leaf-green velveteen with watermelon satin accents, was also in attendance.

  Among the distinguished crowd were the Lieutenant-Governor and his wife, Mrs. Herbert A. Bruce, Col. and Mrs. R. Y. Eaton and their daughter Miss Margaret Eaton, the Hon. W.D. and Mrs. Ross and their daughters Miss Susan Ross and Miss Isobel Ross, Mrs. A.L. Ellsworth and her two daughters, Mrs. Beverley Balmer and Miss Elaine Ellsworth, Miss Jocelyn Boone and Miss Daphne Boone, and Mr. and Mrs. Grant Pepler.

  The Blind Assassin: The bronze bell

  It's midnight. In the city of Sakiel-Norn, a single bronze bell tolls to mark the moment when the Broken God, nightly avatar of the God of Three Suns, reaches the lowermost point of his descent into the darkness and after a ferocious comb
at is torn apart by the Lord of the Underworld and his band of dead warriors who live down there. He will be gathered together by the Goddess, brought back to life, and nursed to renewed health and vigour, and will emerge at dawn as usual, regenerated, filled with light.

  Although the Broken God is a popular figure, nobody in the city really believes this tale about him any more. Still, the women in each household make his image out of clay and the men smash him to pieces on the darkest night of the year, and then the women make a new image of him the next day. For the children, there are small gods of sweetened bread for them to eat; for the children with their greedy little mouths represent the future, which like time itself will devour all now alive.

  The King sits alone in the highest tower of his lavish palace, from which he is observing the stars and interpreting the omens and auguries for the next week. He has laid aside his woven platinum face mask, as there is no one present from whom he needs to conceal his emotions: he may smile and frown at will, just like any common Ygnirod. It's such a relief.

  Right now he's smiling, a pensive smile: he's considering his latest amour, with the plump wife of a minor civil servant. She's stupid as a thulk, but she has a soft dense mouth like a waterlogged velvet cushion and tapered fingers deft as fish, and sly narrow eyes, and an educated knack. However, she's becoming too demanding, and also indiscreet. She's been nagging at him to compose a poem to the nape of her neck, or to some other part of her anatomy, as is the practice among the more foppish of the court lovers, but his talents do not lie in that direction. Why are women such trophy-hunters, why do they want mementoes? Or does she wish him to make a fool of himself, as a demonstration of her power?

  A shame, but he'll have to get rid of her. He'll ruin her husband financially - do him the honour of dining at his house, with all of his most trusted courtiers, until the poor idiot's resources are exhausted. Then the woman will be sold into slavery to pay the debt. It might even do her good - firm up her muscles. It's a definite pleasure to imagine her minus her veil, her face bared to every passing stare, toting her new mistress's footstool or pet blue-billed wibular and scowling all the way. He could always have her assassinated, but that seems a little harsh: all she's really guilty of is a lust for bad poetry. He's not a tyrant.