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.
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 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 tolike 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: F U C K 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.