The Toronto Star, August 28, 1935

Society Schoolgirl Found Safe

SPECIAL TO THE STAR

Police called off their search yesterday for fifteen-year-old society schoolgirl Laura Chase, missing for over a week, when Miss Chase was found safely lodged with family friends Mr. and Mrs. E. Newton-Dobbs at their summer residence in Muskoka. Well-known industrialist Richard E. Griffen, married to Miss Chase's sister, spoke to reporters by telephone on behalf of the family. "My wife and I are very relieved," he said. "It was a simple confusion, caused by a letter which was delayed in the post. Miss Chase made holiday arrangements of which she believed us to have been aware, as did her host and hostess. They do not read the newspapers while on vacation or this mix-up would never have occurred. When they returned to the city and became aware of the situation, they rang us immediately."

Questioned about rumours that Miss Chase had run away from home and had been located in curious circumstances at the Sunnyside Beach Amusement Park, Mr. Griffen said he did not know who was responsible for these malicious fabrications but he would make it his business to find out. "It was an ordinary misunderstanding, such as might happen to anybody," he stated. "My wife and I are grateful that she is safe, and sincerely thank the police, the newspapers, and the concerned public for their help." Miss Chase is said to have been unsettled by the publicity, and is refusing interviews.

Although no lasting harm was done, these are by no means the first serious difficulties to have been caused by faulty postal delivery. The public deserves a service it can rely on unquestioningly. Government officials should take note.

Street walk

She walks along the street, hoping she looks like a woman entitled to be walking along the street. Or along this street. She doesn't, though. She's dressed wrong, her hat is wrong, her coat is wrong. She ought to have a scarf tied over her head and under her chin, a baggy coat worn along the sleeves. She ought to look drab and frugal.

The houses here are cheek by jowl. Servants' cottages once, row On row, but there are fewer servants now, and the rich have made other provisions. Sooty brick, two up, two down, privy out back. Some have the remains of vegetable gardens on their tiny front lawns-a blackened tomato vine, a wooden stake with string dangling from it. The gardens couldn't have gone well-it would have been too shady, the earth too cindery. But even here the autumn trees have been lavish, the remaining leaves yellow and orange and vermilion, and a deeper red like fresh liver.

From inside the houses comes howling, barking, a rattle or slam. Female voices raised in thwarted rage, the defiant yells of children. On the cramped porches men sit on wooden chairs, hands dangling from knees, out of work but not yet out of house and home. Their eyes on her, their scowls, taking bitter stock of her with her fur trim at wrists and neck, her lizard handbag. It could be they are lodgers, crammed into cellars and odd corners to help cover the rent.

Women hurry along, heads down, shoulders hunched, carrying brown paper bundles. Married, they must be. The wordbraised comes to mind. They'll have been scrounging bones from the butcher, they'll be toting home the cheap cuts, to be served with flabby cabbage. Her shoulders are too far back, her chin too far up, she doesn't wear that beaten-down look: when they raise their heads enough to focus on her, the glances are filthy. They must think she's a hooker, but in shoes like that what's she doing down here? Way below her league.

Here's the bar, on the corner where he said it would be. The beer parlour. Men are gathered in a clump outside it. None of them says anything to her as she goes past, they just stare as if from thickets, but she can hear the muttering, hatred and lust mixed in the throat, following her like the wash from a ship. Perhaps they've mistaken her for a church worker or some other sniffy do-gooder. Poking scrubbed fingers into their lives, asking questions, offering table scraps of patronising help. But she's dressed too well for that.

She took a taxi, paid it off three blocks away, where there was more traffic. It's best not to become an anecdote: who'd take a cab, around here? Though she's an anecdote anyway. What she needs is a different coat, picked up at a rummage sale, crumpled into a suitcase. She could go into a hotel restaurant, leave her own coat at the check, slip into the powder room, change. Frump up her hair, smudge her lipstick. Emerge as a different woman.

No. It would never work. There's the suitcase, just to begin with; there's getting out of the house with it. Where are you off to in such a hurry?

And so she's stuck doing a cloak-and-dagger number without a cloak. Relying on her face alone, its guile. She's had enough practice by now, in smoothness, coolness, blankness. A lifting of both eyebrows, the candid, transparent stare of a double agent. A face of pure water. It's not the lying that counts, it's evading the necessity for it. Rendering all questions foolish in advance.

There is however some danger. For him too: more than there was, he's told her. He thinks he was spotted once, on the street: recognised. Some goon from the Red Squad, maybe. He'd walked through a crowded beer joint, out the back door.

She doesn't know whether to believe in it or not, this sort of danger: men in dark bulgy suits with their collars turned up, cars on the prowl. Come with us. We're taking you in. Bare rooms and harsh lights. It seems too theatrical, or else like things that occur only in fog, in black and white. Only in other countries, in other languages. Or if here, not to her.

If caught, she'd renounce him, before the cock crowed even once. She knows that, plainly, calmly. Anyway she'd be let off, her involvement viewed as frivolous dabbling or else a rebellious prank, and whatever turmoil might result would be covered up. She'd have to pay for it privately, of course, but with what? She's already bankrupt: you can't get blood from a stone. She'd close herself off, put up the shutters. Out to lunch, permanently.

Lately she's had the sense of someone watching her, though whenever she reconnoitres there's nobody there. She's being more careful; she's being as careful as she can. Is she afraid? Yes. Most of the time. But her fear doesn't matter. Or rather, it does matter. It enhances the pleasure she feels with him; also the sense that she's getting away with it.

The real danger comes from herself. What she'll allow, how far she's willing to go. But allowing and willing have nothing to do with it. Where she'll be pushed, then; where she'll be led. She hasn't examined her motives. There may not be any motives as such; desire is not a motive. It doesn't seem to her that she has any choice. Such extreme pleasure is also a humiliation. It's like being hauled along by a shameful rope, a leash around the neck. She resents it, her lack of freedom, and so she stretches out the time between, rationing him. She stands him up, fibs about why she couldn't make it-claims she didn't see the chalked markings on the park wall, didn't get the message-the new address of the non-existent dress shop, the postcard signed by an old friend she's never had, the telephone call for the wrong number.

But in the end, back she comes. There's no use resisting. She goes to him for amnesia, for oblivion. She renders herself up, is blotted out; enters the darkness of her own body, forgets her name. Immolation is what she wants, however briefly. To exist without boundaries.

Still, she finds herself wondering about things that never occurred to her at first. How does he do his laundry? One time there were socks drying on the radiator-he'd seen her looking, whipped them out of sight. He tidies things away before her visits, or at least he takes a swipe at it. Where does he eat? He's told her he doesn't like to be seen too often in one place. He must move around, from one eatery, one beanery, to another. In his mouth these words have a sleazy glamour. Some days he's more nervous, he keeps his head down, he doesn't go out; there are apple cores, in this or that room; there are bread crumbs on the floor.

Where does he get the apples, the bread? He's oddly reticent about such details-what goes on in his life when she's not there. Perhaps he feels it might diminish him in her eyes, to know too much. Too many sordid particulars. Perhaps he's right. (All those paintings of women, in art galleries, surprised at private moments. Nymph Sleeping. Susanna and the Elders. Woman Bathing, one foot in a tin tub-Renoir, or was it Degas? Both, both women plump. Diana and her maidens, a moment before they catch the hunter's prying eyes. Never any paintings called Man Washing Socks in Sink.)

Romance takes place in the middle distance. Romance is looking in at yourself, through a window clouded with dew. Romance means leaving things out: where life grunts and snuffles, romance only sighs. Does she want more than that-more of him? Does she want the whole picture?

The danger would come from looking too closely and seeing too much-from having him dwindle, and herself along with him. Then waking up empty, all of it used up-over and done. She would have nothing. She would bebereft.

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 janitor

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, in Carmen. 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 bannister. 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.

He'll have to take her out of Sakiel-Norn-out of the city, out of familiar territory. It's a danger, but not as great a one as remaining. Perhaps he can get them down to the harbour, then aboard a ship. But how to sneak past the gates? All eight of them are locked and guarded, as is the nightly custom. Alone, he could scale the walls-his fingers and toes can grip like a gecko's-but with her it would be a catastrophe.

There's another way. Listening at every step, he leads her downhill, towards the side of the city nearest the sea. The waters of all the springs and fountains of Sakiel-Norn are collected into one canal, and this canal takes the water out beneath the city wall, through an arched tunnel. The water is higher than a man's head and the current is swift, so no one ever tries to get into the city that way. But out?

Running water will deaden the scent.

He himself can swim. It's one of the skills the assassins take care to learn. He assumes, correctly, that the girl can't. He tells her to remove all of her clothes and make them into a bundle. Then he sheds the Temple robe and ties his own clothes into the bundle with hers. He knots the cloth around his shoulders, then around her wrists, tells her that if the knots come undone she must not let go of him, no matter what. When they come to the archway, she must hold her breath.

Thenyerk birds are stirring; he can hear their first croaking; soon it will be light. Three streets away, someone is coming, steadily, deliberately, as if searching. He half leads, half pushes the girl into the cold water. She gasps, but does as she is told. They float along; he feels for the main current, listens for the rush and gurgle where the water enters the archway. Too early and they'll run out of breath, too late and he'll strike his head against the stone. Then he plunges.

Water is nebulous, it has no shape, you can pass your hand right through it; yet it can kill you. The force of such a thing is its momentum, its trajectory. What it collides with, and how fast. The same might be said about-but never mind that.

There's a long agonising passage. He thinks his lungs will burst, his arms give out. He feels her dragging behind him, wonders if she's drowned. At least the current is with them. He scrapes against the tunnel wall; something tears. Cloth, or flesh?

On the other side of the archway they surface; she's coughing, he's laughing softly. He holds her head above the water, lying on his back; in this fashion they float down the canal for some distance. When he judges it's far enough and safe enough, he lands them, hauling her up the sloping stone embankment. He feels for the shadow of a tree. He's exhausted, but also elated, filled with a strange aching happiness. He has saved her. He has extended mercy, for the first time in his life. Who knows what may come of such a departure from his chosen path?

Is anyone around? he says. She pauses to look, shakes her head for no. Any animals? No, again. He hangs their clothes on the branches of the tree; then, in the fading light of the saffron and heliotrope and magenta moons, he gathers her up like silk, sinks into her. She's cool as a melon, and faintly salty, like a fresh fish.

They're lying in each other's arms, fast asleep, when three spies who've been sent ahead by the People of Desolation to scout out the approaches to the city stumble across them. Brusquely they are awakened, then questioned by the one spy who speaks their language, though far from perfectly. This boy is blind, he tells the others, and the girl is mute. The three spies marvel at them. How could they have come here? Not out of the city, surely; all the gates are locked. It is as if they have appeared out of the sky.

The answer is obvious: they must be divine messengers. They are courteously allowed to dress in their now-dry clothing, mounted together on a spy's horse, and led off to be presented to the Servant of Rejoicing. The spies are enormously pleased with themselves, and the blind assassin knows better than to say very much. He's heard vague tales about these people and their curious beliefs concerning divine messengers. Such messengers are said to deliver their messages in obscure forms, and so he tries to remember all of the riddles and paradoxes and conundrums he has ever known: The way down is the way up. What goes on four legs at dawn, two at noon and three in the evening? Out of the eater comes forth meat, and out of the strong came forth sweetness. What's black and white and red all over?

That's not Zycronian, they didn't have newspapers.

Point taken. Scratch that. How about, More powerful than God, more evil than the Devil; the poor have it, the rich lack it, and if you eat it you die?

That's a new one.

Take a guess.

I give up.

Nothing.

She takes a minute to work it out. Nothing. Yes, she says. That should do it.

As they ride, the blind assassin keeps one arm around the girl. How to protect her? He has an idea, impromptu and born of desperation, but nevertheless it may work. He will affirm that both of them are indeed divine messengers, but of different kinds. He is the one who receives the messages from the Invincible One, but only she can interpret them. This she does with her hands, by making signs with her fingers. The method of reading of these signs has been revealed only to him. He will add, just in case they get any nasty ideas, that no man must be allowed to touch the mute girl in an improper way, or in any way at all. Except himself, of course. Otherwise she will lose the power.

It's foolproof, for as long as they'll buy it. He hopes she's quick on the uptake, and can improvise. He wonders if she knows any signs.

That's all for today, he says. I need to open the window.

But it's so cold.

Not for me it isn't. This place is like a closet. I'm suffocating.

She feels his forehead. I think you're coming down with something. I could go to the drugstore- No. I never get sick.

What is it? What's wrong? You're worried.

I'm not worried as such. I never worry But I don't trust what's happening. I don't trust my friends. My so-called friends.

Why? What are they up to?

Bugger all, he says That's the problem.

Date: 2016-04-22; view: 704