Margaret Atwood - The Robber Bride

“People knew that; the other people, the ones I didn’t really want to see. I was a bad girl, I did a shell game involving some armaments that turned out not to be where I’d said they’d be. I don’t recommend it—armaments types get sniffy, especially the Irish ones. They tend to be vengeful. They figured out that all they had to do was keep an eye on Mitch and sooner or later he’d dig me up. He was the one I needed to convince, so he’d quit. So he’d lay off”

“Why Beirut?” says Tony.

“If you were going to get yourself accidentally blown up back then, what better spot to pick?” says Zenia. “The place was festooned with body parts; there were hundreds they never identified.”

“You know Mitch killed himself,” says Tony. “Because of „

you. ,

Zenia sighs. “Tony, grow up,” she says. “It wasn’t because of me. I was just the excuse. You think he hadn’t been waiting for one?-All his life, I’d say.”

“Well, Roz thinks it was because of you,” says Tony lamely. “Mitch told me that sleeping with Roz was like getting into bed with a cement mixer,” says Zenia.

“That’s cruel,” says Tony.

“Just reporting,” Zenia says coolly. “Mitch was a creep. Roz is better off without him.”

This is a little too close to what Tony thinks herself. She finds herself smiling; smiling, and sliding back down, back in, into that state she remembers so well. Partnership. Pal-ship. The team. “Why us, at your funeral?” says Tony.

“Window dressing,” says Zenia. “There had to be somebody there from the personal side. You know, old friends. I figured you’d all enjoy it. And anything Roz knew, Mitch would know too. She’d make sure of that! He was the one I wanted. He ducked it though. Prostrate with grief, I guess:”

“The place was crawling with men in overcoats,” says Tony. “One of them was mine,” says Zenia. “Checking up for me, to see who was there. A couple of them were from the opposition. Did you cry?”

“I’m not a cryer,” says Tony. “Charis sniffled a bit:” She’s ashamed, now, of what the three of them had said, and of how jubilant and also how mean-minded they had been.

Zenia laughs. “Charis always did have mush for brains,” she says.

There’s a knock at the door. “It’s the coffee,” says Zenia. “Would you mind going?”

It occurs to Tony that Zenia may have a few reasons for not wanting to open doors. A prickle of apprehension runs up her spine.

But it really is the coffee, delivered by a short brown-faced man. The man smiles and Tony takes the tray and scrawls a tip on the bill, and closes the door softly, and puts on the safety lock. Zenia must he protected from the forces that threaten her. Protected by Tony. Right now, in this room, with Zenia finally incarnate before her, Tony can hardly remember what she’s been doing for the past week—the way she’s been sneaking around in a state of cold fury with a gun in her purse, selfishly planning to bump off Zenia. Why would she want to do that? Why would anyone? Zenia sweeps through life like a prow, like a galleon. She’s magnificent, she’s unique. She’s the sharp edge:

“You said you needed to talk to me,” Tony says, creating an opening.

“Want some rum in your coffee? No?” says Zenia. She unscrews a small bottle from the minibar, pours herself a dollop. Then she frowns a little and lowers her voice confidentially. “Yes. I wanted to ask a favour: You’re the only one I could go to, really.”

Tony waits. She’s alarmed again. Watch it, she tells herself. She should get out of here, right now! But what harm can it do to listen? And she’s avid to find out what Zenia wants. Money, probably. Tony can always say no.

“All I need is to stay somewhere,” says Zenia. “Not here, here’s no good. With you, I thought, just for a couple of weeks.”

“Why?” says Tony.

Zenia moves her hands impatiently, scattering cigarette ashes. “Because they’re looking! Not the Irish, they’re off my track. It’s some other people. They’re not here yet, not in this city. But they’ll get around to it. They’ll hire local professionals:”

“Then why wouldn’t they try my house?” says Tony. “Wouldn’t that be the first place they’d look?”

Zenia laughs, the familiar laugh, warm and charming and reckless, and contemptuous of the idiocy of others. “The last place!” she says. “They’ve done their homework, they know you hate me! You’re the wife. I’m the ex-girlfriend. They’d never believe you’d let me in!”

“Zenia,” says Tony, “exactly who are these people and why are they after you?”

Zenia shrugs. “Standard,” she says. “I know too much:”

“Oh, come on,” says Tony. “I’m not a baby. Too much about what? And don’t say it would he healthier for me not to hear.” Zenia leans forward. She lowers her voice. “Does the name Project Babylon mean anything to you?” she says. She must know it does, she knows what line of knowledge Tony is in. “The Supergun for Iraq,” she adds.

“Gerry Bull,” says Tony. “The ballistics genius. Of course. He got murdered:”

“To put it mildly,” says Zenia. “Well.” She blows out smoke, looking at Tony in a way that is almost coy, a fan dancer’s look. “You didn’t shoot him!” says Tony, aghast. “It wasn’t you!” She can’t believe Zenia has actually killed someone. No: she can’t believe that a person sitting in front of her, in a real room, in the real world, has actually killed someone. Such things happen offstage, elsewhere; they are indigenous to the past. Here, in this California-coloured room with its mild furniture, its neutrality, they would be anachronisms.

“Not me,” says Zenia. “But I know who did.”

She’s lighting another cigarette, she’s practically chain-smoking. The air around her is grey, and Tony is slightly dizzy. “The Israelis,” she says. “Because of Iraq:”

“Not the Israelis, “ says Zenia quickly. “That’s a red herring. I was there, I was part of the setup. I was only what you might call the messenger; but you know what happens to messengers:” Tony does know. “Oh,” she says. “Oh dear.”

“My best chance,” says Zenia eagerly, “is to tell everything to some newspaper. Absolutely everything! Then there won’t be any point in killing me, right? Also I could make a buck, I won’t say that wouldn’t be welcome. But nobody’s going to believe me without proof. Don’t worry, I’ve got the proof, it’s not in this city but it’s on the way. So I figured I could just hole up with you and West until my proof comes through. I know how it’s coming, I know when. I’d be really quiet, I wouldn’t need more than a sleeping bag, I could stay upstairs, in West’s study .. :’

Tony snaps to attention. The word West cracks across her mind: that’s the key, that’s what Zenia really wants, and how does Zenia know that West has a study, and that it’s on the third floor? She’s never seen the inside of Tony’s house. Or has she?

Tony stands up. Her legs are wobbling as if she’s just been pulled back from a crumbling, cliff edge. How nearly she was taken in, again! The whole Gerry Bull story is nothing but a huge he, a custom-designed whopper. Anyone could have cobbled such a thing together just by reading Jane’s Defence Weekly and The Washington Post, and Zenia—knowing Tony’s weaknesses, her taste for new twists in weapons technology—must have done just that.

There is no vendetta, there is no them, nobody’s after Zenia but the bill collector. What she wants is to break into Tony’s castle, her armoured house, her one safe place, and extract West from it as if he were a snail. She wants him fresh and wriggling, speared on the end of her fork.