MARGARET ATWOOD

You don’t need to know my name. Let’s just say I’ve been around for a long time, and after my years – my decades – my centuries of immersion in the trade, I know my stuff.

Some people call me Anon., but that can be confusing, as there are a lot of Anons around and the quality varies. Anons write on washroom walls quite a lot – Call me, I’ll surprise you, with a phone number – and they do a roaring business in the Personal Classifieds: Morose MWM seeks afternoon dalliance with well-built SBW, 25–35, non-smoker, spanking. No skill to it, merely the crude particulars. I hate being confused with that sort of riff-raff.

So don’t call me Anon. Don’t call me anything. We’ll just skip the formalities, shall we? When we meet, that is. As we will.

How then will you recognise me?

I used to be well known. I’d go about from city to city, on horseback if times were flush, on foot if the pickings had been slim. I carried a carved staff and wore a pair of sturdy sandals. My garments were a bit eldritch – made the customers believe I was versed in ancient wisdom, which I was, and that I had a pipeline to the invisible forces, which I did. I shouldn’t have had to emphasise these features, but if you’ve got it and you don’t flaunt it who can tell? So I wore the eldritch outfit as a kind of signage. I’d set up shop in the main square, tucked discreetly into a corner, quill and papyrus at my elbow, or later, vellum, or later still, pen and paper. The desperate would know where to find me.

Things changed. They always do. History shunted me here and there, from one prime game park of love to another. A clientele with time on their hands – romance needs that – and a little spare cash, which never hurts either, and an interest in appearing stylish. Nowadays I hang out in Toronto, once a desert for my kind of enterprise, now an oasis. Where there are tapas bars, there are love letters.

You can usually spot me at the Bar Mercurio, an establishment I’ve singled out in tribute to my patron god, Mercury, alias Hermes. He’s the ruler of communication and charm – you can see why I’d want those attributes – and also of trickery and lies, which can come in handy as well. My other patron is Aphrodite, goddess of Looove. That can be sticky, as the two of them don’t get on very well. For Hermes, a roll in the hay is a roll in the hay, after which he’s on his way with no tears shed. If he has to do a cunning imitation of being lost in love, he’ll do it, but that’s all it will be – a cunning imitation. Description, for him, is an end in itself: not for nothing has he been called the Dancing King of the Adjective.

Whereas Aphrodite’s a purist. For her, love is serious to the point of tedium. She’ll push her devotees all the way to the funeral pyre if need be. Your heart really does have to beat triple-time, your longing and despair must be genuine, or she’ll give you what for by making you fall in love with a donkey next time around.

I can draw on either one of them, depending on the wishes of the client: a quick seduction, an in-depth life-altering emotional experience complete with threats of suicide. Your choice.

(Don’t make the mistake of believing that I’m scornful of love. I make jokes about it, yes, but it is after all the most powerful force in the world, and in any case I wouldn’t want to offend my goddess. I have dedicated myself to its service, at least on Wednesdays and Fridays. Essentially I worship it, like everyone else.

It’s only that nowadays its manifestations have become so tawdry, so paltry, so venal, so shrivelled … but enough of that.)

I used to do most of my work at night, but the music has become too loud for me, so I’ve taken to the mornings. The Bar Mercurio is near the Bata Shoe Museum, so I can nip in there when I’m feeling homesick for the old days and ways, and gaze at my outworn shoes – fifteen pairs of them at least, from the aforementioned Roman leather numbers to the pointy toes of Renaissance Florence to the stacked red heels of the eighteenth century French monarchy.

These days I wear comfortable trainers, and the aqua and lilac leisurewear of a plump matron out for a slenderising morning jog. Or, in my male avatar, some good-quality jeans, an admittedly ridiculous though sincere baseball cap – I (heart) The LEAFS – and a black T-shirt, with a gold chain around my neck. Only one gold chain, mind you; I don’t want to stand out.

I sit there with my latte, reading the newspaper – the horoscopes add a touch of comic nostalgia to my day – and wait for customers. If you require my services, just sidle up to me and introduce yourself in the following manner:

‘Hot enough for you?’

(For which Cold, Wet, Foggy, Sunny, Cloudy, Smoggy or Snowy may be substituted as appropriate.) After I have given the standard reply – ‘We’ll suffer for it later’ – you should give the password:

‘O lente, lente currite noctis equi!’

If I like the look of you and feel that we can work together, and that you aren’t likely to stiff me for the fee – I wouldn’t recommend doing that, by the way – I will answer, ‘The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike.’

But if you don’t come up to my standards, I will say, ‘I’m sorry, I only speak English.’ If you persist, and start shouting that you know who I really am and you absolutely have to avail yourself of the essential services only I can provide – if you fall on your knees and start kissing the hems of whatever it is I have on – I will call the manager. I can’t handle complete lunatics, but he can.

You see, although you have to trust me, I must be able to trust you as well. Our enterprise requires teamwork. You’ve got to feed me the emotional raw material. You can’t just sit back and do nothing. That’s why I’m so choosy.

But I’m not turning down as many applicants as I’d like, these days. My stock in trade has always been the graceful and effective manipulation of the written word, directed towards a desired end – copulation at midnight, long-drawn-out sweet’n’sour flirtation, full-throttle white satin wedding bells – but grace seems to be flying out the window. Now a young man can text-message his target on her cellphone – I WON 2 FKU – and she might actually turn up at the video arcade and go through with it. The decline of modesty has not been a plus, from my point of view. It’s bad for trade.

Once there was a heavy demand for well-turned sonnets – Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, that sort of thing – or even for lighter verse – Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, and so forth. It showed a girl – however erroneously – that a man or woman had more on his or her mind than her or his body. Now it’s just URAHOTTEE. Where’s the art in that?

So I’ve had to hustle a bit to keep myself going. I’ve come up with what I think is a subtle yet convincing pitch. Here’s what’s on offer:

SCRIBE OF AGELESS LOVE!
THE MENU OF DESIRE!

TORTURED BY THE PANGS OF LOVE?
THINK YOU CAN’T AFFORD ME?
YOU CAN’T NOT AFFORD ME!

So there you have it.

With each order I can offer a month’s supply of scented notepaper, with tasteful monogram in a rose design – for the gals – and, for the men, a genuine snakeskin card case, with several false names on the cards. Handy when you’re in a hurry.

And here you are, at last! Look into my eyes. You have my full attention. Tell me your love problem. Propose your favoured solution. Don’t be shy: remember, anything you’ve fantasised about, I’ve already done. More than once. Oh, so much more.

Leave it with me overnight. Payment in advance, please: you’ll soon be in such raptures you’ll forget to write the cheque.

Don’t worry. It’s money well spent. I always get results.

Thank you.

You won’t be sorry.