Lady Oracle

by Margaret Atwood

  A shadow loomed over me. I started and looked up: it was only a stranger though, white teeth and overpressed suit, nylon tie, pink and green. I knew that single women weren't supposed to sit alone in bars, but this wasn't a bar and it was the middle of the day. Perhaps it was the fotoromanzo that had attracted him. I closed it, but he'd already sat down at my table.

  "Scusi, signora." He asked me a question; I had no idea what it meant. I smiled weakly and said, "Inglese, no parlo Italiano," but he grinned even more intensely. In his eyes our clothes fell to the floor, we fell to the floor, the white glass-topped table overturned and there was broken glass everywhere. Don't move, Signora, not even your hand with the wedding ring, where is your husband? Or you will cut yourself and there will be a lot of blood. Stay here on the floor with me and let me run my tongue over your belly.

  I scrambled to my feet, gathering up my purse, hoisting the typewriter. The man behind the counter grinned as I paid my bill. How could I have allowed it, a man with such pointed shoes and a pink-and-green nylon tie? He reminded me of the vegetable man in the market square, with his grape-colored eyes, caressing the furry peaches, hefting the grapefruits possessively as breasts. My hand slid through his lambswool hair, we surged together on a wave of plums and tangerines, grapevines twined around us....

  Arthur, I thought, you'd better get my postcard fairly soon or something regrettable is going to happen.

  It was midafternoon by the time I got back to Terremoto. I went to the post office, as I'd been doing every day, hoping for news from Sam. So far there had been nothing. "Louisa Delacourt," I said as usual, but this time the woman behind the counter turned her whole body, like the wax fortune-teller at the Canadian National Exhibition, who would pick out a card for you if you gave her a dime. Her hand came through the slot in the window, holding a blue airmail letter.

  Outside, beyond the eyes of the lounging policemen, I tore it open and read a single word: BETHUNE. That was the code word for success. If there had been a fiasco, the letter would have said TRUDEAU. Sam was convinced the Mounties examined his mail; not only the mail he received but also the mail he sent out. "That'll fix the buggers," he said. "Let them try to figure that one out."

  I crumpled the thin blue letter and stuffed it into my purse. Relief flooded through me, I was really free now; the inquest had gone all right, the stories of Sam and Marlene had been believed, I'd had a boating accident. I was officially dead even though no body had been found.

  Charlotte was having tea with Mrs. Ryerson, the plump, friendly housekeeper. So far, she was the only person in the entire household that Charlotte could trust. A fire was blazing on the hearth, shedding warmth and rosy reflections. Nevertheless, Charlotte did not feel quite safe. She wondered whether she should tell Mrs. Ryerson about her destroyed wardrobe; but she decided not to, not just yet....

  "Mrs. Ryerson," Charlotte said, buttering a scone, "what is the maze?"

  A shadow crossed Mrs. Ryerson's face. "What maze, miss?"

  "Tom, the coachman, warned me not to go near it."

  "And I wouldn't if I was you, miss," Mrs. Ryerson said emphatically. "It's not a good place, the maze, especially for young girls."

  "But what is it?" Charlotte asked, puzzled.

  "It's one of them mazes, miss, as was planted by the Master's forebears, hundreds of years ago, in the reign of Good Queen Bess it was, or so they say. The Master won't talk of it, ever since the first Lady Redmond was lost there, and the second one too, in broad daylight it was. Some say the Little Folk dance there and they don't like intruders, but that's just superstition. The first Lady Redmond, she said so too, and she went into it just to prove it was harmless, but she never did come out. They searched it later but nothing was found, nothing but one of her gloves, white kid it was."

  Charlotte was astonished. "You mean ... there's been more than one Lady Redmond?" she asked.

  Mrs. Ryerson nodded. "This one's the third," she said. "The second one, a sweet girl she was too, she got so curious about what happened to the first, she went in as well. That time they heard her screaming, but when they went in - Tom the coachman it was and two of the grooms - she was gone. Spirited right away, as you might say. It's all overgrown, you know, miss."

  In spite of herself, Charlotte shivered. "Why.... That's extraordinary," she murmured. She felt a strong desire to visit the maze, to look at it, if only from the outside. She didn't believe in supernatural agencies. "What about ... the present Lady Redmond?" she asked.

  "She don't go near it, as I know of," Mrs. Ryerson replied. "Some say as how there's no center to the maze and that's how they get lost, they gets into it and can't find their way out. Some say as how the first Lady Redmond and the second one are still in there, wandering around in circles." Mrs. Ryerson glanced over her shoulder; despite the warmth of the room, she drew her shawl more closely about her.

  Charlotte finished the scone and licked her fingers fastidiously. "Why, that's ridiculous," she said. "Who ever heard of a maze without a center?" But she was thinking uneasily of the events of the night before.... She'd been in her bedroom, and she'd heard a sound ... a sound that came from outside, below, on the terrace ... the sound of footsteps ... and then, surely she was not mistaken, the sound of someone calling her name. An icy tremor of fear shot through her. She arose and went to the window. There, below her, clearly visible in the eerie light from the moon, which had just appeared from behind a wisp of gauzy cloud, stood a figure ... a figure swathed in a dark cloak, its features concealed.

  As Charlotte gazed, the figure turned and stalked away with measured steps. Who was trying to mystify her? Anger replaced her fear, and curiosity: she would get to the bottom of this. Hastily she made her way down the back stairs, which terminated, she knew, in a side door opening onto the terrace.

  She was just in time to see the figure plunge into a yawning portal at the end of the terrace walk. Charlotte followed rashly; she hurried down a flight of stone steps. Before her was the lawn, with its formal Elizabethan flower plots, and beyond that ... the entrance to the maze. The cloaked figure plunged into the entranceway and disappeared; from somewhere came a low laugh.

  Charlotte stood still.... Suddenly she was terrified. She felt drawn towards the maze, irresistibly, against her will, yet she knew that if she went in, something terrible would happen to her.

  A hand on her arm made her start and scream, and she was looking up into the dark, enigmatic face of Redmond.

  "A little late to be out walking, is it not?" he said mockingly. "Or perhaps you were intending to ... meet someone. You seem dressed for some such occasion."

  Charlotte blushed crimson. She realized she was wearing nothing but her nightrail; beneath its snowy covering her breasts moved with agitation.

  "I ... I must have been walking in my sleep," she said in confusion. "I do not recall ever having done so before."

  "A dangerous custom," Redmond remarked, tightening his grip on her arm - for she had attempted to pull away - "and dangerous customs must be paid for." His face bent closer to her own; his eyes were gleaming in the light from the crescent moon. "And now...."

  I'd been typing at the table, with my eyes closed; but as I paused to consider how Charlotte was going to get away this time (there were no library books around, no candelabra, no pokers from the fireplace she could hit him with; perhaps a good swift knee in the groin? But that was out of bounds in my books; it would have to be an interruption by a third party), I heard a sound.

  There was someone outside, on the path. I could hear stealthy footsteps, coming down towards me. A shoe slid on gravel. The footsteps paused.

  "Arthur?" I said in a small voice. But it wasn't Arthur, it couldn't be, so soon. I wanted to scream, to rush into the bathroom and shut and bolt the door, I could squeeze through the small window and run up the hill to my car, where did I put the keys? Faces formed and disintegrated in my head.... What did they want?

  I realized how visible I must be, back-lit behind the
picture window. I froze, listening, then turned out the light and crouched down behind the table. Was it Mr. Vitroni, come back for some dubious reason in the middle of the night? Was it a stranger, someone, some man, who'd heard I lived alone? I couldn't remember whether or not I'd locked the door.

  For a long time I huddled behind the table, listening for a sound, feet coming toward me, feet retreating. I could hear insects, a distant whine, a car winding up the hill toward the square ... but nothing else.

  Finally I got up and looked out the front window onto the balcony, then out the kitchen window, then out the bathroom window. Nothing and nobody.

  It was nerves, I told myself. I would have to watch that. I climbed into bed, taking my fotoromanzo with me to calm myself down. I could read it without a dictionary, almost, since there were a lot of words and phrases I already knew. I am not afraid of you. I don't trust you. You know that I love you. You must tell me the truth. He looked so strange. Is something the matter? Our love is impossible. I will be yours forever. I am afraid.

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  "So!" cried Felicia, breaking in upon them. "This is how you disport yourself when my back is turned. Really, Redmond, I wish you would have more consideration." She was wearing a dark cloak, thrown loosely over a sumptuous costume of flaming orange silk, with blue velvet trim. In an instant Charlotte was certain that it was Felicia who had called her name, lured her out of the house in her nightrail. It was Felicia who had written BEWARE in blood across her yellowing, warped bedroom mirror.... Perhaps it was a conspiracy between the two of them. But Felicia seemed in earnest and her surprise appeared genuine. Charlotte's conviction wavered as she watched them confront each other.

  "First it was the upstairs maid," Felicia stormed. "Then that girl you hired to repair the leather bindings in the Library. If you must behave this way, you might have a little more taste. Next time have the goodness to select someone from your own class."

  "Of what do you accuse me, madam?" Redmond growled. Despite herself, Charlotte felt a surge of sympathy toward him. Surely he only behaved this way because of the unhappiness of his marriage; surely if he were truly loved, unselfishly and purely instead of with Felicia's jealous possessiveness, he would be a different man. But she quickly suppressed this thought.

  "Of carrying on in a shameless manner with this ... this...."

  "May I ask what you yourself are doing out at this time of night?" Redmond asked, his voice a menacing purr.

  Before Felicia could answer, Charlotte found her own anger coming to her rescue. "I refuse to stand here any longer. You may believe me or not, both of you, as you choose." She turned and ran back toward the house, holding back the tears that she knew would come unbidden as soon as she could reach the safety of her room. She felt humiliated and degraded. Behind her, she could hear Felicia laughing, and perhaps Redmond was laughing too. She hated both of them.

  As she ran along the terrace, a heavy stone jar, one of the ornaments of the balcony above, toppled over and crashed on the balustrade beside her, breaking into pieces, missing her by inches. Charlotte stifled a scream; she glanced up into the darkness. She knew now, it was beyond a doubt, she'd seen a black-cloaked shape whisking away, someone was trying to kill her....

  I'd set up the typewriter on the table. It worked all right, but there was no letter k in the Italian alphabet: I substituted x. And the keyboard was different, which meant I had to look. It was distracting, like some curious Martian code. I began to write the k's in by hand, wondering what "xill" meant. I stared at the word.... A kind of Aztec lizard, a Roman numeral?

  Arthur would have known. He was good at crossword puzzles. But Arthur wasn't there.

  Arthur, I thought, my eyes filling with tears, where are you? Why won't you come and find me? At any moment he might appear at the door, unexpectedly. He had done it once.

  He had arrived at night, in the middle of a rainstorm. The landlady knocked at the door of my room. "Miss Delacourt," she said, "it's ten o'clock. You know you aren't supposed to have visitors after seven." I was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

  "I don't have any visitors in here," I said, opening the door to show her it was true. I never had any visitors.

  "There's one downstairs," she said. "I told him he couldn't come in. Said his name was Arthur something," she said, as she slopped off down the hall in her kimono and shower thongs.

  I ran down the front stairs, clutching the banister. It couldn't be Arthur, I'd given him up for lost. His last letter was dated September 8; it was now November. But if by some miracle it was Arthur and the landlady had sent him away.... I flung open the front door, prepared to gallop down the street after him in my terry-cloth bathrobe. He was just turning to go back down the steps.

  "Arthur," I screamed, throwing my arms around him from behind. He was wearing a yellow plastic raincoat with the collar turned up about his ears; his head was cold and soaking wet. We teetered on the edge of the top step; then I let go and he turned around.

  "Where the hell have you been?" he said.

  I couldn't ask him in, since the landlady was keeping watch around the corner of the upstairs hall, so I got my umbrella and rubber boots and went off into the night with him. We had some granular coffee in a late-night hamburger-and-chili place and unraveled the past.

  "Why didn't you write?" I said.

  "I did but the letters got returned." He'd sent them to my father's address; he, of course, was no longer there.

  "But I sent you my new address," I said, "as soon as I moved. Didn't you get it?"

  "I've been back here since the middle of September," he said. "Slocum was supposed to be forwarding my mail, but I didn't get any of it till today."

  How unjust I'd been to doubt him. I was overjoyed to see him, I felt we should immediately go somewhere to celebrate and then hop into bed. "It's great that you're back!" I said.

  Arthur didn't think it was great. He was quite depressed, and looked it: all his corners were turned down, eyes, mouth, shoulders. "What's the matter?" I asked, and he told me, at some length.

  The Movement had fallen to pieces. He dropped dark hints, but I could never figure out whether it had been crushed by a show of force from without, had been infiltrated and destroyed from within, or had disintegrated through general lack of morale and squabbles among its members. Whatever the reason, something he'd believed in and worked for had failed, and this failure had plunged him into a state of existential gloom. He'd spent some time being torpid, and then in despair he'd agreed to accept money from his parents - surely I must see how bad things had been - and return to the University of Toronto. He was supposed to be writing a paper on Kant.

  So it wasn't purely a longing to see me that had brought him across the ocean. It was inertia and the absence of a sense of purpose. I didn't mind that much, so long as he was there, and he had gone to a lot of trouble to find me. He'd walked at least three blocks in the rain: that meant dedication of a sort.

  We spent the rest of the evening, and many evenings that followed, discussing whether or not it was ethical for him to stay in Toronto and go to the university on money that he considered tainted. "But if it's for a good end -" I would say. I didn't care whether it was ethical or not: I wanted him to stay with me, and the alternative he was proposing was a trip to northern British Columbia to work in an asbestos mine. "It's not for a good end," he would reply mournfully. "What use is Kant anyway? It's all abstract bullshit" But he lacked the willpower to quit.

  All that winter I devoted myself to cheering Arthur up. I took him to movies, I listened to his complaints about the university, I typed his papers for him, complete with footnotes. We ate hamburgers at Harvey's Hamburgers and went for walks in Queen's Park, and on jaunts to the Riverdale Zoo, about the only entertainments, aside from the movies, that we could afford. We slept together, when we could. Arthur was living in residence, and that sort of thing was tolerated only if you did it furtively; my landlady, on the
other hand, would tolerate nothing, no matter how furtive.

  Sometimes during these nights I would wake up to find Arthur clinging to me as if the bed was an ocean full of sharks and I was a big rubber raft. Asleep he was desperate, he sometimes talked to people who weren't there and ground his teeth. But awake he was apathetic and unresponsive, or coldly dialectical. Without his political enthusiasms he was quite different from the way he'd been in England. He allowed me to do things for him, but he didn't participate.

  None of this bothered me very much. His aloofness was even intriguing, like a figurative cloak. Heroes were supposed to be aloof. His indifference was feigned, I told myself. Any moment now his hidden depths would heave to the surface; he would be passionate and confess his long-standing devotion. I would then confess mine, and we would be happy. (Later I decided that his indifference at that time was probably not feigned at all. I also decided that passionate revelation scenes were better avoided and that hidden depths should remain hidden; facades were at least as truthful.)

  In the spring Arthur proposed. We were sitting on a Queen's Park bench, eating take-out hamburgers and drinking milk shakes.

  "I have a good idea," Arthur said. "Why don't we get married?"

  I said nothing. I couldn't think of any reasons why not. Arthur could, though, and he proceeded to analyze them: neither of us had much money, we were probably too young and unsettled to make such a serious commitment, we didn't know each other very well. But to all these objections he had the answers. He'd been giving it quite a lot of thought, he said. Marriage itself would settle us down, and through it, too, we would become better acquainted. If it didn't work out, well, it would be a learning experience. Most importantly, we could live much more cheaply together than we could separately. He'd move out of residence and we'd both move into a larger rented room than the one I had, or even a small flat. I would keep my job, of course; that way he wouldn't have to accept so much money from his parents. He'd been thinking of switching into political science, which would mean several more years at school, and he wasn't too sure his parents would support him through that.