The next name that had come to him was Gertrude. A name like Gertrude had connotations of strength and leadership, which made it ideal for the woman with the white hands and the darkly painted nails. She had laid down the rules on the first day. She did most of the talking. She wore the type of shoes that the police wear. He had the feeling she had been the brains behind the plan to abduct him; she seemed to display all the right qualities—clarity, authority, audacity. He thought she might be older than the others, though this was a hunch based on nothing more than the sound of her voice and the way she moved around the room. True or not, he would still have been prepared to bet that she was the principal decision-maker.
That left Maude. At best, there was something cosy and dependable about the name. At worst, it was heavy, lumpen, just plain slow. It would act as a net for the many unlikely characteristics of the woman with the bitten nails. After all, she carried out most of the chores. She fed him, washed him, shaved him, took him to the toilet. She was reliable and willing. She did not complain. There was also a naïve side to her that didn’t seem at odds with a name like Maude. She seldom spoke, but, when she did, the others usually found her entertaining. Because we love you. Because you’re beautiful. And, once, he had woken to discover her—it could only have been her—lying against him in the dark, her body pressed to his. Perhaps that was all she asked of him, that physical proximity, that solace. . . .
The rain was still falling, flecking the skylight’s glass with silver.
Gertrude, Astrid, Maude. . . .
The names seemed peculiarly appropriate, suggesting a hierarchy, a secret court, in which each woman played a distinct role. And yet, at the same time, they had that “d” in common. Almost as if they shared the same root. This link between the names acted as a kind of understudy to the far more complex link between the women themselves, a link which he had not, as yet, been able to divine. But, lying there, an idea occurred to him: Astrid’s open hostility towards him, Maude’s downtrodden, almost masochistic nature . . . and Gertrude?—well, he didn’t know, but might it not be true that the three women were all, in their different ways, damaged somehow, and that it was the damage they had suffered that had brought them together?
His heart was beating loudly now. He moved his face towards the ring that held his right wrist, located his right eye in the narrow bar of stainless steel and gave himself a wink.
It was a long time before sleep took him.
•
They came to him early in the morning, dark clouds above his head, the skylight trembling as thunder rumbled over it. They came and stood in front of him, all three of them, in their usual hoods and cloaks. He grinned despite himself. He had named them, and they did not know. He had discovered for himself a kind of power—a modest power, admittedly, no match for theirs, but valuable all the same. In their new ignorance, the women seemed less daunting.
“You feel good today?” Astrid said.
His smile lasted, but he did not reply.
Gertrude stepped forwards. They had a proposal, she said. If he went along with it he would be rewarded. He looked up at her, imagining her pointed nose, her skin that flushed too easily. And what would his reward be? he wondered. Freedom? It seemed unlikely. Still, he was in no position to bargain.
“What’s the proposal?” he said.
On the following night, she said, there was to be a banquet, and they had decided that he would play a special part in it. In fact, the event was to revolve around him—quite literally: instead of arranging the food on a table, they would arrange it on his naked body. They would sit around him, on cushions. It was a wonderful idea, wasn’t it? An inspiration. Before he could react, she informed him he would have to wear a hood throughout the dinner. Clearly, he could not be allowed to set eyes on the guests. That was one reason. But also, if he wore a hood, his identity would be protected. The guests would see him as a beautiful man—beautiful, and anonymous.
Maude murmured something, but Gertrude ignored her.
His feet would be chained together, she went on, but his hands would be left free. However, he should not move at all, or make a sound, not unless it was absolutely necessary. He should not speak—obviously. That would break the spell.
“If you do,” Astrid said, “there will be repercussions.”
He didn’t need to ask her to elaborate.
“And the reward?” he said.
“That will be negotiated afterwards.” Gertrude paused. “Can we trust you?”
He nodded slowly.
“Really?” she said. “We’re expecting some important people.”
“Do I have a choice?” he said.
•
That night he dreamed that Milo, a dancer in the company, had died. In the dream he was travelling on a bus through a country that he didn’t recognise. He supposed he must be on tour, between performances. Vivian and Carmela were sitting behind him, talking about how sad it was. Turning in his seat, he interrupted them, saying that he didn’t know, he hadn’t heard. Was it really true?
Oh yes, Vivian said, her eyelashes dark and wet. His heart just stopped.
But I only saw him on Friday—
I know, Vivian said. It happened really suddenly. She put her arm round Carmela, who had started to cry.
He sat back and stared out of the window. The bus shifted into a lower gear. They were passing through mountains now, lush green mountains draped in mist. . . . He could see Milo so clearly—his pale, almost sickly complexion, and his compact, muscular physique. He thought of the histrionic stomach pains that Milo had in class most mornings—his nickname in the company was Milodrama—and yet, despite these afflictions, whether real or imaginary, despite his size too, Milo could jump higher than anybody else, Milo could make space crackle. . . . He remembered how Milo had drunk three glasses of champagne in a restaurant in Buenos Aires once, and how he had then danced an extraordinary, impromptu tango with Fernanda. When it was over, the people eating there had given them a standing ovation. . . .
Little Milo, dead.
When he woke up he lay there quietly. Though he was sure it wasn’t true, the dream had nonetheless disturbed him. It had the stillness of a premonition, the eerie tangibility of the future tense. Yet, at the same time, paradoxically, it felt like reality, or even memory, and because of that, perhaps, it reminded him of what he had lost. Most people have no knowledge of the dancer’s world—how small it is, how intimate, and how complete; it’s a world within the world, and everything you need is there—work, friendship, passion, laughter, love. It was the world he had lived in since he was fourteen years old, and now he had been torn away from it, and it was going on without him. He had no news of it, and he felt alone, so terribly alone. The dream had made that clear to him, more vividly than anything the three women had said or done. He kept going over it and over it, trying to bring back something else, another moment from the journey, another fragment of conversation, until at last the door-handle at the far end of the room turned slowly clockwise and the woman he called Maude walked in.
•
She kneeled on the mat beside him. “You’re unhappy?”
“I had a bad dream,” he said.
“You can tell me, if you like. . . .”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Well,” she said, “I’m sorry for your dream.”
Perhaps it was her imperfect English, or perhaps it was just that she had tried to show him sympathy, but, in that moment, he felt as if he knew exactly what she looked like. Her face was round, with features that seemed to crowd into the middle—all cheeks, in other words, but no chin to speak of, and not much forehead. When she found something amusing, her eyes would half close like a cat’s, and small tucks would appear at the corners of her mouth. She would age well, he thought. In fact, she probably would not age at all.
He allowed her to wash him, to clean his teeth, to take him to the toilet. The sight of the word Sphinx raised its usual, wry smile. Back in t
he room, she brought him his breakfast. They had started giving him the sort of food that he was used to: breakfast was cereal and fruit, for instance, and two or three cups of herb tea.
Almost as soon as he had finished eating, the preparations for the banquet began. While the work was going on, he was kept blindfolded. He lay there and listened to the women talking quickly among themselves in Dutch. Every now and then they called out to him, as if they wanted him to share in the excitement, but he still felt weighed down by the melancholy that he had woken with that morning.
On the removal of the blindfold an hour or two later he found that he was lying inside a structure that resembled a tent, only it was a tent built out of the most sumptuous fabrics, crimson and violet and gold, and furnished with tropical plants, carpets of hand-woven silk, and leather cushions that had been embroidered with velvet, mirror-glass and suede. He could have been transported to a Berber dwelling high in the Atlas Mountains.
“Well?” Gertrude said. “What do you think of it?”
He hadn’t been expecting anything quite so elaborate, and he told her so, which seemed to please her.
The day passed slowly. He had the strangest feeling that he was involved in the venture with them—that they were, all four of them, collaborating. . . . Towards nightfall he was taken to the bathroom. While he was there, they told him that this would be his last visit to the toilet until after the banquet. They could not afford to have any interruptions, they said. They wanted the evening to be seamless.
On his return to the room, they spread a length of gold material over the rubber mat, then asked him to lie down on his back with his arms by his sides and his legs together, like a soldier standing to attention. This created a long, narrow trough which they then began to fill with all kinds of antipasti. They placed artichoke hearts between his ankles, then piled a selection of olives, gherkins and pickled onions on to his calves, along with carrots, sticks of celery, cherry tomatoes and green beans. On either side of his knees they put a risotto of asparagus and prawns. Along his thighs lay salads of rocket and watercress, arugula and radicchio, already dressed with a light vinaigrette. Nestling close to his testicles were wedges of fried aubergine and seared red pepper, with crescents of white onion and thick half-moons of wild garlic. On the soft bed of his pubic hair they arranged the shellfish—mussels, clams, oysters and scallops—all bought fresh that morning, so they claimed. On his belly lay a whole baked salmon, garnished with lemon and parsley. On his solar plexus the sauces and relishes were to be found: mustard, horseradish, aioli, hollandaise. His chest was decorated with medals of cold meat—salami, prosciutto, bresaola. Roast quails nested in his armpits and his collarbones, and, on his shoulders, like armour, lay overlapping slices of turkey, duck and veal. It took more than an hour to arrange the meal, and, by the end, there was scarcely a square inch of his body that was not a receptacle for one delicacy or another. Though naked, he felt strangely clothed.
Maude left the room, returning with two candelabra, which she positioned carefully, one at his head, the other at his feet. His food-encrusted body glistened in the warm, gold light.
“A feast,” Gertrude said. “A real feast.”
“A work of art,” Astrid said.
“Remember,” Gertrude said, and she was addressing him directly now, “not a word from you. Not a sound. Not unless it’s absolutely necessary. If you have to move, move slowly. Nothing sudden or violent. Is that clear?”
He nodded.
At that moment, from somewhere deep in the house, came the clumsy jangle of a bell. Maude leaned down and gently drew a hood over his head, a cloth hood with a drawstring round the neck. One of his hands rose involuntarily towards his face.
“You will be able to breathe quite easily,” Gertrude said.
“Yes,” Maude said. “I have tried it myself.”
•
It was a long evening—seemingly endless, in fact. So far as he could tell, ten people attended the banquet, seven women and three men. Two of the men were American, and both spoke Dutch fluently. Somebody—a woman, presumably—was wearing bangles, which were tortoiseshell, he imagined, or amber; they clicked loudly as they slid up and down her forearm. Somebody else smoked throughout the meal. He could hear the brisk rasp of a lighter in his left ear.
At first he could feel people touching him in different places as they helped themselves to the food that was laid out in front of them. After that, it only happened sporadically, and often took him by surprise, making him jump. Oddly enough, about halfway through the banquet, he fell asleep. Maybe he was lulled by the darkness inside his hood, or maybe it was the effect of listening to three conversations at the same time, none of which he fully understood.
A smell woke him. The heavy, sickly scent of marijuana. One of the American men was talking—in English, this time.
“So tell me,” the American said. “What’s for dessert?”
Somebody chuckled. Glasses chinked.
Astrid spoke next. “It’s a surprise. Can you guess?”
“Well, as far as I can see,” the American said, “there’s only one thing left on the table. . . .”
This was obviously very witty because everybody burst out laughing. But, as soon as the laughter had died down, a silence descended, the silence of anticipation, soft and dense as velvet.
Inside the hood he could hear his blood humming.
A warm and slightly oily hand reached between his thighs. Was it the same person, or another, who then grasped his penis, which was already, for some reason, half erect, and put it in their mouth?
He gasped.
Just then he felt a hand on his upper arm. It was one of the women, he was sure. Though her touch was subtle—perhaps it even went unnoticed by the others—he knew it was a reminder, a warning. At the same time she was telling him that he should relax. Let things take their course.
Remember, not a word from you. Not a sound.
His chest expanded as he took air deep into his lungs. A pool of fluid slid out of a hollow where it had been resting and trickled sideways across his ribs.
Meanwhile the guests were taking turns with him, it seemed. Some were rough, almost greedy. The prickle of a beard, an unshaven chin. The grazing of a tooth. Others were reverential. Delicate. A touching that was on the edge of touching. He found himself thinking of a butterfly alighting on a leaf. That almost negligible weight.
And then, when it took off again, he followed it, past huge garish blurs of colour that were flowers, up into the air, where it was buffeted by the smallest gust of wind, its wings fluttering gamely. . . .
•
When the women finally removed his hood, the lighting in the tent was dim and intimate, just candles, most of which had burned down low. Even so, after the hours he had spent in total darkness, he found it difficult to see at first. Through half-closed eyes he stared down at himself. Blackened strands of salad clung to his legs, almost translucent, like seaweed, and empty clam shells tangled in his pubic hair. His whole body was stained with sauces, juices, traces of saliva. He looked like a piece of wreckage that had washed up on an unknown shore. Curiously, he ached too, as if he had been thrown about by waves.
Gertrude was leaning against the wall to his right, her arms folded beneath her breasts. Her head was covered with a conical black hood, and a bracelet of beaten silver gripped her upper arm. Otherwise she was naked. The candle-flames sent lascivious tongues of shadow flickering across her skin. It was the first time he had been allowed a glimpse of her. She was solid, but slim. Her shoulders were the same width as her hips. She had no waist. Though her breasts were oddly elongated, they did not interfere with the impression her body gave of spareness and economy. She reminded him of the Ancient Greek statues that hold up the roofs of temples—the caryatids—and this was something he could not have predicted. From the way she moved when she was wearing clothes, he had expected her to be much heavier, more fleshy. On his left was Astrid. She was lying on her side on a he
ap of lavish cushions, her head supported by one hand. She was also naked, her face concealed by a matt-black rubber mask that he recognised from the night of her assault on him. She was smoking a cigarette. On the middle finger of her left hand she was wearing a ring that had several inch-long spikes protruding from it. He wondered where Maude was. Downstairs, probably. Washing the dishes.
“A successful evening,” Astrid said, inhaling deeply.
“It was a triumph,” Gertrude said. “A real triumph.”
“The dessert was especially good. . . .”
Both women laughed.
He looked from one to the other. Though they were probably quite close in age—or, at least, much closer than he had originally imagined—Gertrude’s skin was anaemic, almost ghostly, while Astrid’s had a glow to it, like treasure. Astrid had a neat round head, with even features and hair that she kept cut short. Her tight-fitting rubber mask revealed as much. Was Gertrude secretly jealous of the way Astrid looked? Was that why Maude was there, to act as a foil, a distraction, something for them both to ridicule? He wished he knew how the women behaved when they were alone together. But the door that led out of the room was like a science fiction gateway. As soon as the women passed through it they seemed to dematerialise, to become invisible; they crossed into a different dimension.
“You behaved well,” Astrid said, studying the end of her cigarette.
“You behaved impeccably,” Gertrude agreed. “We’d like to reward you.”
She walked towards him, her breasts lolling complacently, the insides of her upper thighs rubbing lightly together. To his surprise, he felt his penis harden. She didn’t seem to notice, though—or, if she did, she took pleasure in pretending that she hadn’t. Up close, her eyes looked bloodshot. He thought she was probably drunk.
The Book of Revelation Page 5