The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood

Author:Margaret Atwood [Atwood, Margaret]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3, pdf
Tags: Literary, Azizex666, Fiction
ISBN: 9780307428172
Google: WVGJeOsebRMC
Barnesnoble:
Goodreads: 8960262
Publisher: Anchor
Published: 2000-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

The Blind Assassin: Red brocade

That was lovely, she says. The bath was lovely. I never pictured you with pink towels. Compared to the usual, it’s pretty opulent.

Temptation lurks everywhere, he says. The fleshpots beckon. I’d say she’s an amateur tart, wouldn’t you?

He’d wrapped her in one of the pink towels, carried her to the bed wet and slippery. Now they’re under the nubbly cherry-coloured silk bedspread, the sateen sheets, drinking the scotch she’s brought with her. It’s a fine blend, smoky and warm, it goes down smooth as toffee. She stretches luxuriously, wondering only briefly who will wash the sheets.

She never manages to overcome her sense of transgression in these various rooms – the feeling that she’s violating the private boundaries of whoever ordinarily lives in them. She’d like to go through the closets, the bureau drawers – not to take, only to look; to see how other people live. Real people; people more real than she is. She’d like to do the same with him, except that he has no closets, no bureau drawers, or none that are his. Nothing to find, nothing to betray him. Only a scuffed blue suitcase, which he keeps locked. It’s usually under the bed.

His pockets are uninformative; she’s been through them a few times. (It wasn’t spying, she just wanted to know where things were and what they were, and where they stood.) Handkerchief, blue, with white border; spare change; two cigarette butts, wrapped in waxed paper – he must have been saving them up. A jackknife, old. Once, two buttons, from a shirt, she’d guessed. She hadn’t offered to sew them back on because then he’d know she’d been snooping. She’d like him to think she’s trustworthy.

A driver’s licence, the name not his. A birth certificate, ditto. Different names. She’d love to go over him with a fine-toothed comb. Rummage around in him. Turn him upside down. Empty him out.

He sings gently, in an oily voice, like a radio crooner:

A smoke-filled room, a devil’s moon, and you –

I stole a kiss, you promised me you would be true –

I slid my hand beneath your dress.

You bit my ear, we made a mess,

Now it is dawn – and you are gone –

And I am blue.

She laughs. Where’d you get that?

It’s my tart song. It goes with the surroundings.

She’s not a real tart. Not even an amateur. I don’t expect she takes money. Most likely she gets rewarded in some other way.

A lot of chocolates. Would you settle for that?

It would have to be truckloads, she says. I’m moderately expensive. The bedspread’s real silk, I like the colour – garish, but it’s quite pretty. Good for the complexion, like pink candle-shades. Have you cooked up any more?

Any more what?

Any more of my story.

Your story?

Yes. Isn’t it for me?

Oh yes, he says. Of course. I think of nothing else. It keeps me awake nights.

Liar. Does it bore you?

Nothing that pleases you could possibly bore me.

God, how gallant. We should have the pink towels more often. Pretty soon you’ll be kissing my glass slipper.

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