I pressed a key and it made the sound of thunder. I punched a few buttons and made the sound of a lashing whip.
My prey was still at the piano. I did not want to accost him inside the store, as it might make a scene. So I would have to appear busy until he left.
I continued to mess around with the buttons, and by accident I pressed a key that made loud, consecutive kissing sounds that did not stop. I tried punching various buttons to make them stop. I even tried taking a step back from the instrument, but it didn’t help. My prey glanced at me with an amused expression, so I quickly moved away to another synthesizer and tried to look absorbed.
The kissing sounds went on, embarrassingly loud and persistent. I pressed a key on my new synth, hoping to camouflage them with a more neutral, less suggestive sound.
To my regret, the key I pressed produced a panting sound. It was real, quick, earnest, human panting. And to my horror, it did not stop either. The store was now filled with kissing and panting noises and no one came to stop the racket because the salesmen were all busy.
I looked at my prey. He was smiling, and called out, “You have a way with those!”
I nodded and chuckled politely and edged my way out of the store. I could not accost him now. He practically knew me.
I walked a few blocks, breathing deeply, and entered a sporting goods store. I soon spotted a possible prey. I followed him discreetly. He stopped in the water sports section and examined a floating mattress. I stood a little ways off, and tried to look interested in the diving masks. He poked at the mattress and squeezed it, testing its firmness. I placed a mask on my face, pretending to be testing its suction power, while through the mask I watched him tentatively sit on the mattress. As soon as his whole weight was on it the air plug popped out and the mattress went limp, expiring with a wheezing sound. The man got up and glanced around to see if he had been observed. Since no one was nearby except me, his gaze lingered in my direction. So I made sharp jerking motions with my head, to seem utterly engrossed in the suction power of my mask. He relaxed and walked away, believing his dignity to be intact. I followed him.
He went to a corner of the store and wandered behind a display case. I couldn’t follow him there because the space was too tight and he would have seen me. He stayed there awhile, and I wondered what he was doing. By some unexpected stroke of luck, there happened to be, on the other side of the display case, a minitrampoline, on which I climbed after slight hesitation. I bounced, tentatively at first, and tried to look innocent. I was not bouncing high enough to see over the display case, so I bounced higher and caught glimpses of him examining a jump rope. He unraveled it and began jumping rope in that tight corner, the fool. Over the display case, in midair, our eyes met. And then there was a crash, on his side. He must have knocked some things off a shelf.
I decided that he would not do. He was awkward and clumsy to a degree that made him worrisomely unpredictable.
I spotted the next potential victim in a mirror store. We strolled among the mirrors before he stopped to examine one that was full-length and three-way. Being able to see him from three sides simultaneously was wonderful; it gave me a more complete, well-rounded perception of my prey. What ruined it for me was a subtle movement he made, a mere brush of the hand against the back of his pants, but performed in a manner that did not please me. There was nothing horrendously vulgar about the gesture, but it was enough to make me decide he would not do.
I don’t believe I was being picky or trying to get out of my obligation. These last two specimens were clearly not possible, by any standard. I mean, if I had accosted the jump rope one, he probably would have said something like, “Am I on Candid Camera?” And this mirror guy’s response to my statement “I want you now,” might have been something like, “Why? Is it my appearance or my personality that attracts you?”
I had to find better. I wandered into a florist and spotted a man who struck me favorably. I stood behind a high-perched pot of daisies and observed him through the stems and petals. Now this guy was not like the last two. He looked sane and well-balanced, simple and straightforward, sensible, alert, confident, possibly intelligent. He did not hide in a corner of the store and knock pots over. His movements were efficient and coordinated, economical. No frills. He did not touch his own body appreciatively. Though he did have a rather nice body. He was tall, solidly built, with an okay face. When accosted, he was not likely to complicate the situation in some tiresome or whiny way. All in all, he seemed like a real “no-nonsense” type of guy. It was refreshing. I watched him for a while and he did nothing to disappoint me.
He left the store without buying anything, which was just as well since I preferred not to make advances on a man encumbered with a bouquet. I followed him down the street, suddenly nervous because I realized the time had come. I was not likely to find a more perfect accessory for my punishment, a more appropriate recipient for my offensive, than this man.
I trotted up behind him. My tongue stung and my heart was pounding. I was four feet away, my hand was extended toward him. I had to do it now. I cleared my throat and was about to touch his arm when he turned and entered a deli. I followed him in, hurried to the back of the store, and stood behind some jars of mustard. I would accost him as soon as he exited. My mouth and tongue were stinging more than ever, which was something that always happened when I was nervous, particularly before I got on stage.
He paid for his purchase and left. I hurried after him. This time I did not stall. I firmly placed my hand on his arm and said, “Excuse me.”
He turned and looked at me politely, considerately, and said, “Yes?”
Suddenly I wanted to chicken out by only asking him what time it was. No, not allowed.
Then I wondered if I could cut a deal with myself by toning down the punishment to asking him merely if he wanted to have coffee one day. I could then combine this semi-punishment with one of the others, like dumping garbage all over myself.
No. I had to do it: out of respect for my acting. And it couldn’t be a half-hearted attempt either; it had to be convincing. So I dived. I dived into his eyes and said, “I want you. Now or somewhere close. I can’t wait.”
He looked at me, almost with pity, I think, though this might be my imagination.
I placed my hand on his backside, squeezed it, and began to repeat “I want you,” when he slapped my face with the back of his hand.
I felt swatted. Like a mosquito. Or, to be fair, perhaps like something a bit worse: a wasp, or a flying cockroach. But swatted, definitely. It wasn’t a particularly hard slap. I don’t think it was meant to knock me out or anything, but he was wearing a rather sharp ring that cut my upper lip. When I touched my mouth there was blood. I looked up at him, stunned, but he was already walking away.
My lip hurt, and the blood was running into my mouth and down my chin. I pressed my fingers on the cut to stop the flow, but it simply ran down my wrist as well. Dammit. I couldn’t afford to have a scar on my face. My non-existent acting career would be ruined. I probably should get stitches. It was a drag, but I had to be conscientious, to minimize the wreckage.
Perhaps I should go home first and see how bad the damage really was. I hesitated. I was quite far from my apartment, and the hospital was in the opposite direction. I looked at the faces of people who passed me, trying to read from their expressions how serious my cut was. Was it really as bad as all the blood on my hands led me to believe?
Their gaits slowed, but steered clear. In their faces I detected shock, curiosity, and, to my surprise, fear. Why fear? Did they think I was dangerous, that I would attack them, that I had murdered someone? And yet there was no question that they were afraid of me, which was puzzling, until I remembered why and felt like an idiot: the fear of modern blood.
I finally just walked up to a parked car and craned my neck to catch a glimpse of my face in the side-view mirror. I was horrified.
I tried to hail a cab, but none stopped until I wrapped my sc
arf around my face and hid the blood. All I could think about in the taxi was that I would have a huge, disfiguring scar that would annihilate my chances at acting. A scar could never attain the same caliber, glamour, and cachet as a mole, even if situated in approximately the same place. Come to think of it, even a facial tattoo didn’t seem as tragic as a scar.
I went to the emergency room, and after examining me, the doctor said I didn’t need stitches, that in fact it was generally preferable not to stitch that area of the face. He said it was unlikely that I would get a scar, but that to play it extra safe I should avoid smiling or laughing for a couple of days. Talking and eating, however, were okay, he said.
He then went on to explain the situation in more detail. “Cuts on the mouth are a delicate case. One cannot completely rule out the possibility of scarring, because the mouth is an area that normally moves and stretches a lot, which can cause delays in healing. As we know, delays in healing can mean the formation of unsightly scar tissue, especially when the cut extends beyond the lip’s outer limit, as yours does, slightly. That is why I advise you to avoid all social contact during the next two days. If that’s not possible, then you should restrict your contact to people who are not likely to make you laugh or smile. I do realize that this may be impractical. If it can’t be managed, you have only one other alternative, and it is of utmost importance: you have to perform the MMO procedure.”
“What is MMO?” I asked.
“It’s an abbreviation for Manual Merriment-Obstruction. It consists in pressing the tips of your hands on either side of your mouth, like so, to obstruct the formation of a smile.”
He demonstrated the procedure on himself, which was very unflattering to his appearance.
He continued: “The MMO procedure must be performed each and every time anyone in your proximity says, or does, anything funny, and every time you sense you’re about to smile or to—God forbid—laugh. Obviously, alertness is of vital importance, because smiles can be diabolically quick. And be warned: you have to press hard—smiles have tremendous muscle, more than anyone ever imagines until they actually wrestle with one.”
I left the hospital feeling unnerved. There was no way in hell I would not go to that dinner. After everything I had gone through to pay for my sin, I had a right to enjoy it. The doctor had no conception of how dearly I had earned this dinner. Not only would I go, but I would relish every moment of it, absorb it with all my senses, enjoy it to the fullest.
At home, I stood in front of the mirror and practiced the MMO procedure. It looked awful. Something like a cruelly designed cartoon of something that held a vague resemblance to a chipmunk. I would not do it. I would just have to have enough self-control not to laugh or smile. But what if I did not, actually, have enough self-control, and ended up having unprotected laughter? I could just imagine my cut stretching and opening, and the little scar tissue cells getting to work, multiplying. I tried not to think about it. I’d simply have to muster the necessary self-control, period.
Chapter Three
I arrived five minutes early at the restaurant. It was rather small, intimate, and quiet, save for the murmur of a water fountain next to which the headwaiter seated me. Two long candlesticks were burning on the table. I was facing the front door; I would be able to see Damon when he arrived.
I had decided not to diminish the pleasure of this dinner by using it as an exercise in not being myself. I would be myself. As much as I felt like it.
At exactly eight o’clock, Damon entered the restaurant like a body of water. His movements were strikingly fluid, and he was dressed the same way as the first time I met him: his white clothes were made of such thin material that they seemed to float around him, follow his movements in slow motion. He was chewing gum.
Soon after he sat down, I asked him to please not make me laugh this evening or I’d have to do something very unattractive.
“Oh? Really?”
“Yes, I just had an accident, this cut on my lip, and if you make me even just smile I’ll have to perform the MMO procedure, which is an ugly thing.”
“You had an accident?” he said.
“Yes, it was just a fencing accident, I lied.”
“Oh, you fence. Actually, I noticed you were very limber with your wand.”
When he asked what I did in life, I told him I was a Xeroxer and an ear piercer.
“And an aspiring what?”
“Does one need to aspire to anything else?” I retorted.
He shrugged and smiled and said no.
“An aspiring actor,” I said.
He looked struck, even somewhat ill. I asked what was wrong. He shook his head. I asked whether he disliked acting, but he assured me that, quite the contrary, he liked it very much. He said it was a beautiful art form, and he then tried to change the subject by asking if I pierced ears independently or in a store, and where, exactly, was the store located, in case he might have passed by it sometime. I answered his questions.
When I inquired what he did, he replied: “In the past few days? Not much.”
“No, in general,” I said. “In life.”
“This and that.”
“Meaning?”
He said he should warn me that he didn’t like talking about himself, but that he would answer that one question: he was a scientist.
That was the last thing I had expected him to be. “May I ask what area of science?”
“Later, perhaps.”
This time it was my turn to change the subject, and I did so by returning to the subject he had previously changed: “Why did you look upset when I said I was an aspiring actor?”
“You’re persistent.”
“In this case, hardly. I only asked you once before.”
“All right, I’ll tell you. When you said you were an actor, it brought back a bad memory of someone you’ve been reminding me of, painfully, who also happens to be an actor.”
“Someone you hate?”
“No.” He paused. “Just the opposite.”
“A girlfriend?”
“No. A man.”
“A lover?”
He smiled. “No … I’m not …”
“Well, then who?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t talk about it further.”
We read the menu and ordered. His manner of ordering was surprising. When the waiter asked him a multitude of standard questions, such as, How did he want his meat cooked, What kind of dressing did he want on his salad, and Did he want potatoes or rice with his meal, Damon answered one of two things: either that it didn’t matter, or that he didn’t care (also stated as, “I have no particular preference”).
However, when the subject came ’round to that of the water, yes, the table water, he was not satisfied with merely choosing bottled over tap, or plain over sparkling; he demanded to know every brand of plain bottled water the restaurant carried. He requested to be shown each brand (there were two), and he spent at least a minute comparing their labels, as if they were wine, before he made up his mind.
We then chatted, only touching on light topics for a while. The food was good, I could see his nipples through his shirt, and halfway through the meal, as he was pouring me more wine (which he had picked with less concern than the water), he said, out of the blue, “Have you ever felt ceaseless torment?”
I was startled and answered hesitantly. “Perhaps of a kind, I suppose. Depending on how you would define ‘ceaseless’ and ‘torment.’ ”
“Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Have you ever wronged someone terribly?”
“I don’t think so. At least no one other than myself.”
“Save me.”
“Excuse me?”
“Save me, Anna. Why did you save me?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must know. I must know.”
I could have answered “You looked like you could have used some help,” but decided to be more honest. I said, “I felt like i
t.”
He didn’t look happy with my response. It seemed to perturb him. “I don’t understand what you mean,” he said.
“Well, I was … in the mood, I guess.”
He gazed at me for a while, mulling this over, and finally said, “Why?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell him about my meeting with my acting professor, which had been responsible for my dark mood, so I said, “Oh, it was just one of those days, you know.”
“No, I haven’t the faintest notion what you mean. One of what days? I’ve never known of a day that could put someone in the mood to perform such an act.”
“I think I would prefer not to talk about it. It was an unpleasant day.”
It seemed my fears about Damon making me laugh had been unfounded. So far this conversation was very safe for my cut.
“I see,” he said. “All of my days are unpleasant. Particularly the ones since you saved me. Your act has propelled me into a state of such unpleasantness, it is hard to describe. I have hardly been functional. I’ve done little but pace the streets and sit in my apartment in the dark, barely breathing, rarely blinking, having forgotten how to eat. The methods I had perfected, over the years, to soothe my pain, don’t work anymore: being cruel; destroying things; causing fear; taking baths of various liquids such as milk, citrus juice, and wine; burying myself in grass, leaves, or pebbles; subjecting myself to deafening music and noise; riding on roller coasters; watching documentaries on animals eating each other and on concentration camps.”
He paused dramatically, and added, “I, too, you see, have had unpleasant days. I, too, have had days during which I have been disconcerted. All because of how rare, how unsettling it is to find anyone (let alone a young woman), so extraordinarily selfless as to willingly risk her life to save a complete stranger.”
I was so stunned by his mention of the roller coasters and documentaries that it took me a moment to answer. “You give me too much credit. I wasn’t myself that day. And to be honest, I’m not sure I would have done it if I had been.”
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