Margaret Atwood - The Robber Bride

Roz is stupefied; she can’t take it all in. She gets up out of her chair and walks to the window, to the French doors leading onto the balcony. From here she can see a new-moon sliver of the fountain, down below. It hasn’t been drained yet; brown dead leaves are floating in it. Most likely the hotel has a staff shortage, because of the Recession. “I need to talk to him,” she says.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” says Zenia. “He’ll panic, he’ll do something rash. He’s an amateur, he’ll give himself away. And right now he owes his suppliers quite a lot of money. I know who they are and they aren’t nice people. They won’t like it if he flushes the stuff down the toilet. They won’t get paid, and as a rule they react badly to that. They don’t like it either if people get caught and then talk about them. They don’t fool around. Your boy Larry could get his fingers burned. Actually, he could end up in a ditch somewhere, minus a few parts:’

This can’t be happening, thinks Roz. Sweet, serious Larry, in his boy’s room with the school trophies and the pictures of boats? Zenia is a liar, she reminds herself. But she can’t afford to dismiss her story, because what if—for once—it’s true? ,

The thought of Larry dead is too much to bear. She would never survive it. This thought is lodged like a splinter of ice in her heart; at the same time she feels as if she’s been teleported into some horrible daytime soap, with hidden iniquities and sinister intrigues and bad camera angles.

She could sneak up behind Zenia, bop her on the head with a lamp or something. Tie her up with pantyhose. Make it look like a sex killing. She’s read enough trashy novels like that, and God knows it would be plausible, it’s just the kind of sordid ending a woman like Zenia deserves. She populates the room with detectives; cigar-smoking detectives dusting the furniture for fingerprints, fingerprints she will have taken care to wipe away ...

“I don’t have my chequebook with me,” she says. “It’ll have to be tomorrow”

“Make it cash,” says Zenia. “Fifty thousand, and that’s a bargain; if it wasn’t a recession I’d ask double. Small old bills, please; you can send it by courier, before noon. Not here though, I’ll call you in the morning and tell you where. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

Roz takes the elevator down. All of a sudden she has a crashing headache, and on top of that she feels ill. It’s the fear and anger, churning around inside her like a salmonella dinner. So, God, is this my fault or what? Is this the double-cross I have to bear? So you gave with one hand and now you’re taking away with the other? Or maybe you think it’s a joke! It occurs to her, not for the first time, that if everything is part of the Divine Plan then God must have one heck of a warped sense of humour.

LIv

“What’re you going to do?” says Tony.

“Pay up,” says Roz. “What are my options? Anyway, it’s only money.”

“You could talk to Larry,” says Tony. “After all, Zenia lies her head off. She could be making it all up.”

“First I’ll pay,” says Roz. “Then Zenia will take a plane. Then I’ll talk to Larry. “ It strikes her that Tony doesn’t always get it, about kids. Even five per cent true would be too much; she can’t take the risk.

“But what are we going to do about her?” says Charis. “About Zenia?” says Roz. “After tomorrow she’ll be somewhere else. Personally I would like her permanently removed, like a wart. But I don’t see that happening.” She’s lighting another cigarette, from the candle in its red glass holder. Charis gives a timid cough and flaps a hand at the smoke.

“I don’t see,” says Tony slowly, “that there’s anything we can’ do about her. We can’t make her vanish. Even if she does go, she’ll be back if she wants to come back. She’s a given. She’s just there, like the weather.

“Maybe we should give thanks,” says Charis. “And ask for help:” Roz laughs. “Thanks for what? Thank you, God, for creating Zenia? Only next time don’t bother?”

“No,” says Charis. “Because she’s going away, and we’re still all right. Aren’t we? None of us gave in:” She’s not sure exactly how to put it. What she means is, they were tempted, each one of them, but they didn’t succumb. Succumbing would have been killing Zenia, either physically or spiritually. And killing Zenia would have meant turning into Zenia. Another way of succumbing would be believing her, letting her in the door, letting her take them in, letting her tear them apart. They did get torn apart some, but that was because they didn’t do what Zenia wanted. “What I mean is ...”

“I think I know what you mean,” says Tony.

“Right,” says Roz. “So, let’s give thanks. I’m always in favour of that. Who’re we thanking and what do we do?”

“A libation,” says Charis. “We’ve got everything here for it, even the candle.” She lifts her wineglass, in which there’s an inch of white wine left, and pours a thimbleful onto the pink remains of her Assorted Sorbets. Then she bows her head and closes her eyes briefly. “I asked for help,” she says. “For all of us. Now you.” She also asked for forgiveness, for all of them too. She feels this is right, but she can’t say why, so she doesn’t mention it.

“I’m not sure about this,” says Roz. She can see the need for a celebration, touch wood it’s not premature, but she’d like to know which God is being invoked here—or rather which version of God—so she can guard against lightning strikes by any of the others. But she pours. So does Tony, smiling a little tensely, her bite-your-tongue smile. If this were three hundred years ago, she thinks, we’d all be burned at the stake. Zenia first, though. Without a doubt, Zenia first.

“That’s all?” she says.

“I like to sprinkle a little salt, into the candle flame,” says Charis, sprinkling it.

“I just hope nobody’s watching,” says Roz. “I mean, how long before we are three genuine certified batty old crones?” She’s feeling slightly light-headed; maybe it’s the codeine pills she took for her headache.

“Don’t look now,” says Tony.

“Crones is not so bad,” says Charis. “Age is just attitude.” She’s staring dreamily at the candle.

“Tell that to my gynecologist, “ says Roz. “You just want to be a crone so you can mix potions.”

“She already mixes them,” says Tony.

Suddenly Charis sits up straight in her chair. Her eyes widen. Her hand goes over her mouth.

“Charis?” says Roz. “What is it, sweetie?”

“Oh my God,” says Charis.

“Is she choking?” says Tony. Possibly Charis is having a heart attack, or a fit of some kind. “Hit her on the back!”

“No, no,” says Charis. “It’s Zenia! She’s dead!”

“What?” says Roz.

“How do you know?” says Tony.

“I saw it in the candle,” says Charis. “I saw her falling. She was falling, into water. I saw it! She’s dead:” Charis begins to cry. “Honey, are you sure that wasn’t just wishful thinking?” says Roz gently. But Charis is too absorbed in her grief to hear.

“Come on,” says Tony. “We’ll go to the hotel. We’ll check. Otherwise,” she says to Roz, over the top of Charis’s head, which is bowed into her hands now and swaying back and forth, “none of us is going to get a decent night’s sleep:” This is true: Charis will worry about Zenia being dead, and Tony and Roz will worry about Charis. It’s worth a short car ride to avoid that.

As they get their coats on, as Roz settles the bill, Charis continues to sob quietly. Partly it’s the shock; the whole day has been a shock, and this an even bigger shock. But partly it’s because she saw more than she’s told. She didn’t only see Zenia falling, a dark shape turning over and over, the hair spreading like feathers, the rainbow of her life twisting up out of her like grey gauze, Zenia shrinking to blackout. She also saw someone pushing her. Someone pushed Zenia, over the edge.