The Slave

by Laura Antoniou

  But there was no time now! Robin locked the door and ran to the elevator, trying to close out all thoughts of the one job she hadn’t even thought of all day. Maybe tomorrow, she said to herself, waving down a cab. Or the next day.

  She stopped at the hotel, as she had planned, and picked up Parker’s garment bag, and then continued on uptown. The West Side traffic was hellish, and she kept glancing at her watch the whole ride. But she arrived in the neighborhood with plenty of time to spare, and the doorman in the beautiful old building only gave her the slightest look as she walked into the stately lobby.

  It was a beautiful pre-war building, and as she admired the scrollwork inside the elevator, she idly wondered about the costs of living up here. Nothing I could afford, she noted while she looked for the apartment number. She used both keys and let herself into a spacious, airy home with a long hallway leading to a living room that had a magnificent corner view of the river. Below her, trees swayed in the park and cars rumbled past on the expressway, but the river gleamed, a dark, sparkling line of reflections.

  This is beautiful! Robin dropped the luggage and ran over to the windows to look out and down. I could never, never afford a view like this! She turned into the room to look around. Whoever decorated this room knew enough not to take away from the visual centerpiece. Woven rugs lay scattered across a pale, polished wooden floor, and the furniture was arranged so that no one needed to sit with their back toward the scenery. Natural canvas and heavy wooden frames dominated the look, rather southwestern. A desk stood in the corner opposite the windows; it would never lack for natural light.

  Robin spotted several genuine pieces of antique painted pottery on a shelf in a glass-fronted cabinet, and the framed photos on one wall were classic (if somewhat standard) Ansel Adams. On the other hand, there was a definite lack of western kitsch in the room―no bronze replicas of Remington statues, no horseshoe mandalas strung with colored yarn and rabbit fur scraps. It showed not only an interest, but a knowledgeable one, guided by a sense of authenticity and money. It could have been brought together by a good decorator, except that some of the collectible pieces were just slightly out of period and style, something a perfectionist wouldn’t stand for.

  Slavery must pay, was her first thought. Funny, though. I hadn’t figured Parker for the southwestern type. I would have guessed he was an anglophile, and had a place filled with big comfy chairs and a zillion books, all arranged by topic, author and edition date. And, thinking of the man... well, I guess he’s not here yet. A glance at her watch showed that he wasn’t due for another fifteen minutes.

  OK, that leaves me a few seconds to learn my way around. First, grab the garment bag and search for the master bedroom.

  All in all, the apartment was one surprise after another. The larger bedroom was dark and subdued, almost as though it knew that its own view of the building across the street was rather pitiful. But the decadently huge walk-in closet and dressing room which most New Yorkers might have comfortably used as another bedroom, held clothing for a man and a woman. And the man, judging by the length of the raincoat hanging behind one door, had to be taller than the shorter-than-average Mr. Parker.

  And the dresses are just not his style, Robin added mentally. She followed that disrespectful thought with a slight nudge of shame, but hung the garment bag up without any more immediate speculation. And on her way out, she did notice that there was what seemed to be a single-sized futon folded neatly on a rack in one corner of the room. There was no corresponding futon frame, but neither was there a chest or anything to take up space near the foot of the bed.

  The other bedroom door was locked. With visions of pirates and secret rooms dancing through her brain, she went to investigate the kitchen, where, to her delight, she found a fancy Italian cappuccino machine on the counter. Oh good, I’ve always wanted to use one of these things, she thought, examining it. It doesn’t look that hard. Mmmm, café latté for breakfast. Espresso after dinner. Looks like life as a slave won’t be too terrible.

  Her musings were interrupted by the sound of keys in the front door, and for a moment she panicked. He was right on time, but she had no idea what to do! Should she go out into the hall and greet him? Stay where she was? Kneel? Be relaxed and casual? She heard the click of his boot crossing the threshold and a jingling sound of keys, or maybe that was his jacket; it had two chains looped around one shoulder....

  His jacket! I should go take his jacket!

  She dashed out of the kitchen, bumping into the swinging door with one elbow and rounded the corner, trying not to look rushed. Chris was in fact standing with his back to her, and already starting to shrug the jacket off his shoulders. She came up behind him and caught it, drawing it down his arms.

  “You should have been here a little earlier,” he said, pointing to a rack affixed to the wall. She hung the leather jacket up and blushed.

  “Yes, sir, I’m sorry.”

  “Not nearly as sorry as you will be in the future if you fail to meet me at the door. Make some coffee. Have you eaten dinner?”

  “No sir, I haven’t. Would that be regular coffee?”

  “Yes, leave that monstrosity alone and use the Krups. There are beans in the freezer. Have some ready for me in the living room as soon as possible. Milk, no sugar.”

  Damn, another bad guess. I would have thought he took it black. But Robin inclined her head in an acknowledgment bow and went back to the kitchen to do as she was told. He looked interesting tonight, a cross between the two looks she had seen on him so far. His polished engineer boots looked very correct with the black jeans, and the motorcycle jacket was the only correct outerwear to accompany them. But again, he wore a fresh-looking tailored business shirt and a tie. Yuppie from hell, she thought without warning. Ivy-league Angels, their motto is, Think Yiddish, Look British, and Ride American. Good thing she had to grind the beans and figure out where the gold filter was and find the coffee cups, or else she might have actually giggled in front of him.

  Soon, she was sitting on the floor, cross-legged on one of those wool throw rugs, while Parker sipped his coffee and watched the lights across the river. She did not pour a cup for herself, and was not invited to, and she was embarrassed to the core of her being when her stomach complained about the lack of dinner. She would have been fine if Chris hadn’t asked!

  “I’ve sent for some food,” the man commented, stretching his legs out. “It will arrive soon. In the meantime, let’s hear what you’ve done today, and what is left to do.”

  “I’ll need another two days to finish emptying my apartment,” Robin began. “I resigned today, called my gym, and got rid of a lot of stuff I don’t need to store away. I need to visit my bank to store some of my artwork in the safe deposit box. I figured I’d send the rest to... my family, I guess.”

  “So you haven’t told them yet.”

  Robin tapped her nose and tried to smile. “On the nose, sir. I have no idea what to tell them.”

  He nodded.

  “It’s just that I’ve never really vanished on them. I don’t keep in contact that often, really. A call every once in a while. I try to make it home at least once a year.” Robin grimaced. “Jeez, it sounds like they’d barely miss me, doesn’t it?”

  “My guess is that they would miss you at least once a year,” Chris said. “Some Marketplace entrants tell their family and friends that they are leaving the country. I would not advise you to rely on this falsehood. Although you may very well end up doing exactly that, you may also end up being sold to someone who lives right here, which may leave you encountering people you know, who will then want an explanation.”

  “I was thinking about that today. I don’t suppose you could guarantee a buyer outside of the area, huh?”

  The corner of his mouth rose slightly. “No, I’m afraid not. But the market is international. And the northeast is rather a small part of it.”

  Robin shivered for a moment and drew her knees up. “I don’t know,” she said
softly. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “To them, or to me?”

  She looked up. “Both.”

  “Of the two, I would spend more time worrying about me. Because if you somehow fail to assure me that your behavior and dedication is perfect for the block, you won’t have to say a thing to your family, other than perhaps explaining why you suddenly left your old job. But if you manage to get into the Marketplace, at the very worst, you can always simply tell them the truth.”

  “Oh sure. ‘Hi, Mom, just wanted to call and tell you that your daughter has run off to be a slave! Love to Dad!’” Robin’s sarcasm sprang forth without thought, and the horror came immediately after. Her mouth dropped open, and her hand flew up to cover it. “Omigod, I’m so sorry, sir, I didn’t mean that!”

  Chris only smiled. “Yes, you did. Apparently, you are so used to hiding everything about yourself, the very thought of openly declaring it is utterly ridiculous to you. But I tell you that almost half of the Marketplace applicants do actually tell their spouses, parents, lovers, or best friends about where they are going. Now go get the door and our dinner. We will eat informally, in here.”

  She had been so overcome by her embarrassment that the light chiming in the background had gone entirely unnoticed. Now, with a contrite nod, she leapt to her feet and almost ran down the hallway.

  Of all the stupid, dumb ass things to do! Why can’t I watch my mouth? Why can’t I concentrate? Stupid, stupid! You have to watch yourself, girl, or you’re back on the streets with your resume and a lot of explaining to do, to an awful lot of people.

  There was a man at the door, bearing a covered tray. He was tall and slender, with long blond hair, wearing a light silk shirt that was open halfway down his bare chest. Obviously, he had to have come from somewhere in the building. But Robin focused upon his throat, around which was wrapped a heavy gold chain, linked through a ring from which a golden lock was suspended.

  “Hi, you must be Robin!” he said in a friendly drawl. “Here’s dinner. Watch it, it’s a lil’ hot on the right side. Please give mah respects to Chris, will you?” His voice was as light as his attitude and clothing, and as he handed a tray to her, he grinned. “And don’t look so worried, chile, you’ll get all wrinkled up, like a prune!”

  “Thank you,” Robin managed to say. “But... but... who should I give respects from?”

  “Heavens! Where have mah manners gone?” The man drew himself up and bowed politely to her. “I’m Leon, ma’am, and I belong to Mr. Reynolds, 14c. I ’spect we’ll be seeing each other a few times while you’re here. Chris does like mah cookin’!”

  “Thank you,” Robin said again, taken slightly aback by Leon’s ease and friendliness.

  “You’re right welcome! My pleasure to be of service.” He bowed to her again and headed off to the elevator.

  He sounds like he’s from far away, Robin thought, taking the tray into the kitchen. Texas? Arizona? She opened the covered dish, and a luxurious scent filled the air, making her mouth water. Dinner was couscous, with spiced chicken and grilled vegetables on the side. Not exactly what she expected from the blond cowboy at the door.

  Let’s face it, girl. Nothing is like you expected it to be. The only thing you know for sure is that you are not using the furniture in this house. At least that was something that she had read and heard about that seemed true.

  “No, sit up here and put your plate on the table,” Chris said, when she seemed ready to take her place on the floor again. He patted the seat of one of the comfortable chairs. “But you are correct to seek the floor until invited to do otherwise.”

  This time, she managed to catch the exasperated sigh before it came out.

  “Leon sends his regards,” she told him, cutting into a piece of eggplant. “He seemed very friendly.”

  “Yes, he is. I used to liken him to a large golden retriever.” Robin could easily see it; she nodded. Chris continued. “His skill as a cook and a household manager made him an excellent bargain, too.”

  “Then, he is...”

  “Oh, yes. He’s been in the Marketplace for about six years. With his current master for almost two. Before that, he was with a rather large family, and I think he misses caring for a lot of people.” Chris indicated the food. “So, I indulge him. And at the same time, his owner gets to show him off. Now... while we eat, and for some time afterward, I want you to continue your story. This time, I do want it from the beginning. You’ve told and lived lies for too long. You must now get used to exposing yourself, in many more ways than the obvious.”

  Robin blushed, but at least she knew that this was coming. She drank some water and composed her thoughts and began to tell him just how much of a liar she had been.

  Chapter Three

  Robin’s Story: Games of Youth

  From the age of five, Robin lived a life of deceit. There were no warnings, no hints that those thoughts and dreams she was having were wrong or bad. But deep in her heart, beyond any understanding that she could put in words, was the knowledge that no adult should know what she was thinking. And no grown-up should ever, ever know what she was doing.

  It started with the games she played at family gatherings, with cousins and friends. Their feverishly charged, impulse-driven antics ran from quiet playing with blocks and dolls to dashing through the rooms of the house, crawling under tables and through the legs of the grown-ups, creating havoc until their goal had been achieved. Temporary banishment, until their silence became too mysterious, at which time they would be called back to eat or nap or go home.

  During those times of banishment, their imaginations gave way to games that were shrouded in mystery and secrecy. And although some of them were as uninteresting to Robin as any of the earlier frolics, it was during those serious moments that someone could suggest games involving the kinds of stories and play she was so taken with.

  For then, they played Pirates, or House, or Spies, or any variation of a game where some of the kids turned into some kind of authority figure with the power to judge the others and cast sentences upon them. They used roles from Saturday morning cartoons, and they used comic book heroes and villains. They pulled their stories out of the books that their parents read them and the ones they got in school. Some of the older kids brought in ideas, characters and scenes from their favorite movies.

  And then Robin could relax. Because she was one of the youngest kids there, they never let her be the evil Princess, or the Lady Pirate. She couldn’t even be Natasha the Spy. But she could be the Little Princess, the maid, the youngest daughter (or the oldest one, when it seemed that she was the one that was going to get ritually blamed for everything), or the hostage taken by the evil villain to get the good guys to have to come and rescue her.

  And as kids do, they used their overwhelmingly powerful imaginations to come up with scenarios beyond the pat and G-rated endings they were subjected to. They used their own experiences with parental discipline to create fantastic, silly, and sometimes all-too-accurate portrayals of threatened torments and fear. They were children.

  They feared being abandoned, so they acted out scenes of banishment. They feared being lost, so they blindfolded each other. They feared being discovered, so they hid in dark places and whispered. They feared adults and their mysterious one-sided world, so they played at being tyrants and victims.

  Without having to say that she longed for the times when cousin David would tie her to a chair and pretend to be her kidnapper, Robin could throw herself into the role so easily there evolved quiet agreement that these were the kinds of parts she played. It was just as natural as when her older cousin Pete also found himself to be always playing the part of the family dog when they played house, or being the villain whose plots were foiled and then had to be captured and pummeled ruthlessly with pillows and plastic swords before he was finally defeated.

  But as the children grew and the generation was sealed for a while, the older ones drifted away from such games. With no new yo
ung kids to initiate, and more sophisticated games to tempt the participants, the imaginative scripts of evil and good gave way. When cousin David got his own Nintendo, they were destroyed forever.

  And no one ever spoke of them, except to laugh. How silly we were, they could say, so embarrassed at their past play. By age 12, they started to forget.

  Or at least most of them did. But Robin never forgot. Because in many ways, Robin never outgrew those fantasies.

  I am different than everyone else, she once observed, looking at herself in the mirror. I don’t look like it; at least I don’t think so. But I have thoughts that no one else does. I think of things that no one talks about. When the other girls are talking about make-up and hair, and which boy likes them, I’m thinking about being kidnapped. While everyone watches the same TV shows, I still like to watch those movies where bad guys tie their prisoners up in dungeons and people get whipped. Why am I so weird? Why can’t I just talk about what happened on TV last night? There must be something wrong with me.

  So she hid her secret perfectly, growing up to be the perfect middle child. Her older brother was the star of the family, her younger sister the baby.

  Robin herself had a little of her brother’s charm and magnetism, and some of her sister’s sweet nature. But she was also the loner, the bookworm. She read precociously and voraciously, earning excellent English grades in school. She had to be prodded towards athletics, and endured girlish sports until Junior High School, where she discovered track and field. Running, especially alone, gave her even more time to explore her secret thoughts.

  To the rest of the world, she was perfectly normal, smarter than average, good natured, and maybe a little strong willed from time to time. No one could have guessed that as she studied Greek and Roman history, she became a barbarian slave, brought to Rome in chains, to be sold to the highest bidder. No one knew that she deliberately sought out books about slaves and prisons and societies that maintained second and third class citizenships. She was always careful to mix these books in with books on other topics, so that the librarians wouldn’t suspect that she was having evil thoughts.