Blind Assassin (37 page)

An old-fashioned word.

He hasn’t come to meet her, this time. He said it was better not. She’s been left to make her way alone. Tucked into the palm of her glove there’s a square of folded paper, with cryptic directions, but she doesn’t need to look at it. She can feel the slight glow of it against her skin, like a radium dial in the dark.

She imagines him imagining her—imagining her walking along the street, closer now, impending. Is he impatient, on edge, can he hardly wait? Is he like her? He likes to imply indifference—that he doesn’t care whether she’ll arrive or not—but it’s just an act, one of several. For instance, he’s no longer smoking ready-mades, he can’t afford them. He rolls his own, with one of those obscene-looking pink rubber devices that turns out three at a time; he cuts them with a razor blade, then stows them in a Craven A package. One of his small deceptions, or vanities; his need for them makes her breath catch.

Sometimes she brings him cigarettes, handfuls of them—largesse, opulence. She nicks them out of the silver cigarette box on the glass coffee table, crams them into her purse. But she doesn’t do this every time. It’s best to keep him in suspense, it’s best to keep him hungry.

He lies on his back, replete, smoking. If she wants avowals, she has to get them beforehand—make sure of them first, like a whore and her money. Meagre though they may be.I’ve missed you, he might say. Or:I can’t get enough of you. His eyes shut, grinding his teeth to hold himself back; she can hear it against her neck.

Afterwards, she has to fish.

Say something.

Like what?

Like anything you like.

Tell me what you want to hear.

If I do that and then you say it, I won’t believe you.

Read between the lines then.

But there aren’t any lines. You don’t give me any.

Then he might sing:

Oh, you put your dingus in, and you pull your dingus out,

And the smoke goes up the chimney just the same—

How’s that for a line? he’ll say.

You really are a bastard.

I’ve never claimed otherwise.

No wonder they resort to stories.

She turns left at the shoe repair, then a block along, then two houses. Then the small apartment building: The Excelsior. It must be named after the poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. A banner with a strange device, a knight sacrificing all earthly concerns to scale the heights. The heights of what? Of armchair bourgeois pietism. How ridiculous, here and now.

The Excelsior is red brick with three storeys, four windows each floor, with wrought-iron balconies—more like ledges than balconies, no room for a chair. A cut above the neighbourhood once, now a place where people cling to the edges. On one balcony someone’s improvised a clothesline; a greying dishcloth hangs on it like the flag of some defeated regiment.

She walks past the building, then crosses at the next corner. There she stops and glances down as if there’s something caught on her shoe. Down, then back. There’s nobody walking behind her, no slow car. A stout woman labouring up front steps, a string bag in either hand like ballast; two patched boys chasing a grubby dog along the sidewalk. No men here except three old porch vultures hunched over a shared newspaper.

She turns then and retraces her steps, and when she comes to the Excelsior she ducks into the alleyway beside it and hurries along, forcing herself not to run. The asphalt is uneven, her heels too high. This is the wrong place to turn an ankle. She feels more exposed now, caught in the glare, although there are no windows. Her heart’s going hard, her legs are flimsy, silken. Panic has its hook into her, why?

He won’t be there, says a soft voice in her head; a soft anguished voice, a plaintive cooing voice like a mourning dove’s. He’s gone away. He’s been taken away. You’ll never see him again. Never. She almost cries.

Silly, frightening herself like that. But there’s a real part to it all the same. He could vanish more easily than she could: she’s of a fixed address, he’d always know where to find her.

She pauses, lifts her wrist, breathes in the reassuring smell of perfumed fur. There’s a metal door towards the back, a service door. She knocks lightly.

The door opens, he’s there. She has no time to feel gratitude before he pulls her inside. They’re on a landing; back stairs. No light except what comes through a window, somewhere above. He kisses her, hands to either side of her face. Sandpaper of his chin. He’s shivering, but not with arousal, or not only.

She draws away. You look like a bandit. She’s never seen a bandit; she’s thinking of the ones in operas. The smugglers, inCarmen. Heavy on the burnt cork.

Sorry, he says. I had to decamp in a hurry. Could be a false alarm, but I had to leave some things behind.

Such as a razor?

Among the rest. Come on—it’s down here.

The stairs are narrow: unpainted wood, a two-by-four as banister. At the bottom, a cement floor. The smell of coal dust, a piercing underground smell, like the damp stones of a cave.

It’s in here. The janitor’s room.

But you aren’t the janitor, she says, laughing a little. Are you?

I am now. Or that’s what the landlord thinks. He’s dropped by a couple of times, early in the morning, to make sure I’ve stoked the furnace, but not too much. He wouldn’t want hot tenants, they’re too expensive; lukewarm’s good enough. It’s not much of a bed.

It’s a bed, she says. Lock the door.

It doesn’t lock, he says.

There’s a small window, bars across it; the remains of a curtain. Rust-coloured light comes through it. They’ve propped a chair against the doorknob, a chair with most rungs missing, half matchwood already. Not much of a barrier. They’re under the one mildewed blanket, with his coat and hers piled on top. The sheet doesn’t bear thinking about. She can feel his ribs, trace the spaces between.

What are you eating?

Don’t pester me.

You’re too thin. I could bring something, some food.

You’re not very dependable though, are you? I could starve to death waiting for you to turn up. Don’t worry, I’ll be out of here soon enough.

Where? You mean this room, or the city, or…

I don’t know. Don’t nag.

I’m interested, that’s all. I’m concerned, I want…

Cut it out.

Well then, she says, I guess it’s back to Zycron. Unless you want me to leave.

No. Stay a little. I’m sorry, but I’ve been under a strain. Where were we? I’ve forgotten.

He was deciding whether to cut her throat or love her forever.

Right. Yes. The usual choices.

He’s deciding whether to cut her throat or love her forever, when—with the sensitive hearing conferred on him by his blindness—he detects a metallic noise of grinding and rasping. Chain link against chain link, shackles in motion. It’s drawing nearer along the corridor. He already knows that the Lord of the Underworld hasn’t yet made his purchased visitation: he could tell that by the state the girl had been in. A pristine state, as you might say.

What to do now? He could slip behind the door or under the bed, leave her to her fate, then reappear and finish the job he’ll be paid for. But matters being as they are, he’s reluctant to do that. Or he could wait until things are well underway and the courtier is deaf to the outside world, and slide out the door; but then, the honour of the assassins as a group—as a guild, if you like—would be tarnished.

He takes the girl by the arm, and by placing her hand across her own mouth, he indicates the need for silence. Then he leads her away from the bed and stashes her behind the door. He checks to make sure the door is unlocked, as has been arranged. The man won’t be expecting a sentry: in his deal with the High Priestess, he specified no witnesses. The temple sentry was to have made herself scarce when she heard him coming.

The blind assassin hauls the dead sentry out from under the bed and arranges her on the coverlet, with her scarf concealing the slash in her throat. She’s not cold yet, and has stopped dripping. Too bad if the fellow has a bright candle; otherwise, in the night all cats are grey. Temple maidens are trained to manifest inertia. It might take the man—hampered as he is by his ponderous god costume, which traditionally includes a helmet and visor—some time to discover he’s fucking the wrong woman, and a dead one at that.

The blind assassin pulls the brocade bedcurtains almost shut. Then he joins the girl, squeezing the two of them as flat as possible against the wall.

The heavy door groans open. The girl watches a glow advancing across the floor. The Lord of the Underworld can’t see very well, evidently; he bumps into something, curses. He’s fumbling now with the hangings of the bed. Where are you, my pretty one? he’s saying. It won’t surprise him when she doesn’t answer, seeing that she is so conveniently mute.

The blind assassin begins to ease himself out from behind the door, and the girl with him. How do I get this damn thing off? the Lord of the Underworld is muttering to himself. The two of them creep around the door, then out into the hall, hand in hand, like children avoiding the grownups.

Behind them there’s a shout, of rage or horror. One hand on the wall, the blind assassin begins to run. He pulls the torches from their sconces as he goes, hurls them behind him, hoping they will go out.

He knows the Temple inside out, by touch and smell; it’s his business to know such things. He knows the city in the same way, he can run it like a rat in a maze—he knows its doorways, its tunnels, its bolt-holes and cul-de-sacs, its lintels, its ditches and gutters—even its passwords, most of the time. He knows which walls he can scale, where all the toeholds are. Now he pushes on a marble panel—it has a bas-relief of the Broken God on it, patron of fugitives—and they’re in darkness. He knows this by the way the girl stumbles, and it occurs to him for the first time that by taking her with him he’ll be slowed down. He’ll be hampered by her ability to see.

On the other side of the wall, feet hammer past. He whispers, Take hold of my robe, adding, unnecessarily, Don’t say a word. They’re in the network of hidden tunnels that allows the High Priestess and her cohorts to learn so many valuable secrets from those who come to the Temple to meet or confess to the Goddess or pray, but they have to get out of it as quickly as possible. It is, after all, the first place the High Priestess will think to look. Nor can he take them out via the loosened stone in the outer wall by which he originally entered. The false Lord of the Underworld may know about that, having arranged for the killing and specified the time and place, and must by now have guessed the blind assassin’s treachery.

Muffled by thick rock, a bronze gong sounds. He can hear it through his feet.

He leads the girl from wall to wall, and then down an abrupt, cramped staircase. She’s whimpering with fear: cutting out her tongue hasn’t stopped her capacity for tears. Pity, he thinks. He feels for the disused culvert he knows is there, lifts her up to it, offering his hands for a stirrup, then swings himself up beside her. Now they must worm their way along. The smell is not pleasant, but it’s an old smell. Clotted human effluvium, gone to dust.

Now there’s fresh air. He sniffs it, testing for the smoke of torches.

Are there stars? he asks her. She nods. No clouds then. Unfortunate. A couple of the five moons must be shining—he knows that from the time of month—and three more will shortly follow. The two of them will be clearly visible for the rest of the night, and in daylight they’ll be incandescent.

The Temple won’t want the story of their escape to become general knowledge—it would lead to loss of face, and riots might ensue. Some other girl will be tagged for the sacrifice: what with the veils, who’s to know? But many will be hunting for them, on the hush but relentlessly.

He can put them into a hiding hole, but sooner or later they’d have to come out for food and water. Alone, he might get by, but not the two of them.

He could always ditch her. Or stab her, dump her in a well.

No, he can’t.

There’s always the assassins’ den. That’s where they all go when off-duty, to exchange gossip and share loot and boast about their exploits. It’s hidden audaciously right under the judgment room of the main palace, a deep cave lined with carpets—carpets the assassins were forced to make as children, and have stolen since. They know them by touch, and often sit on them, smoking the dream-inducingfring weed and running their fingers over the patterns, over the luxurious colours, remembering what these colours looked like when they could see.

But only the blind assassins are allowed into this cave. They form a closed society, into which strangers are brought only as plunder. Also, he’s betrayed his calling by saving alive someone he’s been paid to murder. They’re professionals, the assassins; they pride themselves on completing their contracts, they don’t stand for violations of their own code of conduct. They’d kill him without mercy, and her too after a while.

One of his fellows may well be hired to track them. Set a thief to catch a thief. Then, sooner or later, they’ll be doomed. Her fragrance alone will give them away—they’ve perfumed her up to the gills.