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 legitimise theseizure 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.
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 authorised 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.
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 been smuggled. Salammb, Strange Fugitive, Twilight of the Idols, A Farewell to Arms. Barbusse, Montherlant. Hammurabis Gesetz: Juristische Erla terung. 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 scrutinise.