It feels good to curse, though.
I find enough strength to stand, to shut off the shower, dry off, and dress in a T-shirt and panties.
Seeking comfort, I pad to my library on bare feet, pruned toes. Maybe a few hours with Smilla will calm me.
The door is locked.
I try it again. Rattle it. Shake it. Slam my fists against the wood.
Another punishment.
I twist in place and rest my back against the door, fighting yet more tears. And as I lean back against the door, my eye casts across the room at the remaining bookshelf.
Which has been emptied of every book.
Except one, a new title.
Obedience to Authority: An Experimental View by Stanley Milgram.
SIX
A week with no books is an eternity. I have no television, no radio. No visitors or friends, save my clients. No late-night visits, either; a long and conspicuous absence. I am going mad. After my clients are done for the day, I pace. Walk the perimeter of my world, wall to wall to wall, window to window, corner to corner. I do not mutter to myself, but it takes considerable restraint. At night, I do not sleep. I toss and turn, stare at the ceiling. In the end, I always find myself at the window, forehead pressed to the glass, arms crossed beneath my breasts, hands cupping my elbows, watching. Watching.
Observe the foot traffic, as is my wont.
See her, down there? A young woman, not yet thirty. Less than that even, perhaps. It is hard to tell from this distance. This late at night, past midnight, she is dressed in a business power suit. Tight pencil skirt, navy. Matching blazer folded and draped across one forearm. White blouse, no nonsense, plain yet tailored. Three buttons are undone, though, revealing a bit too much cleavage for her to be going anywhere but home or the bar. A tan purse hangs from one shoulder, slim, small, nearly invisible strap. Dark wedge heels, either navy or dark gray. Hair in a neat bun. Yet the way she walks, it tells a story. Quickly, legs pumping swiftly despite the narrow confines of her knee-length skirt. Too quickly. And her face, buried in her cell phone. The set of her shoulders. She's upset about something. She reaches the corner, pauses at the intersection, and stuffs her phone into her purse. Straightens her shoulders. Breathes deeply. Tosses her head, as if summoning indifference, courage.
Even from here, I can see the screen of her phone light up in her open purse. From this distance it is nothing but a tiny white glow. She hesitantly withdraws her phone, reads the message. Turns it off and stuffs it back into her purse without sending a reply. But instead of walking onward when the light turns, she remains at the intersection, waiting for something.
A sleek, expensive black sedan pulls to a halt on her side of the intersection, approaching her. Stops even with her. The rear passenger door is shoved open from within. She shakes her head. Steps backward. My heart pounds. She's gesticulating angrily, finger stabbing, stabbing. She is shouting, clearly. Backs up another step. Another. The driver's-side rear door is thrown open, and a tall man unfolds from within. My heart skips several beats. That hair, dark, artfully messy. That confident, arrogant, predator stride. Those shoulders.
It isn't possible.
Yet my eyes tell me it is.
The woman backs up, almost out of my field of view. She is shaking her head. Speaking, head shaking. She holds up her hands palms out as if to ward off an attack, but I could tell her, should I be close enough to speak to her, she does so in vain. Those massive, powerful hands lash out with the swiftness of a striking serpent. Grab her shoulders. Tug her close, body to body. I see those thin, expressive lips moving, saying something. She shakes her head, but she doesn't pull away. Why isn't she pulling away?
Because she's being kissed, full and furious, a demanding kiss. Even from here, I can see her knees go weak. All that's keeping her upright is those brutal hands, clutching her backside and keeping her pressed hard against that firm, taut chest. Her hands clutch, grab, feather through hair, possess.
She is allowed to touch?
A kiss?
Those lips do not kiss me.
My hands do not reach up to touch.
What is this fury within me? This disgust? This fear? This confusion? I am nothing but a possession. I know this. I do not want to be kissed. Not by those lips. I do not want to touch, not that body.
I will this to be the truth, despite seeds of doubt.
She, clearly, is held to different rules than I.
Yet just as clear is the domination, the masterful knowledge of female anatomy and arousal, and how to manipulate until ownership is complete. I know that all too well. She is subsumed, there on the sidewalk. She is walked backward until her backside bumps up against the front passenger door of the car. She melts. Surrenders. The sidewalk is not empty; this is New York, and it never sleeps. No one is ever alone on the street. Yet the scene up against the door of the car is a private one, an erotic one. Over a wide shoulder I can see her mouth, hanging open. Hands dig beneath her skirt waistband. I know that touch. The arousal, the inevitability of climax.
Right there on the street.
I watch her come. She goes limp, held up yet again--or still. A moment passes. And then she is left alone, leaning back against the car door, skirt twisted out of place, hair coming free of the bun, blouse rucked and rumpled. Purse forgotten, hanging from an elbow. The rear driver's-side door is closed behind that tall, powerful form. She hesitates. Straightens her skirt. Adjusts her blouse. Replaces the strap of her purse on her shoulder. Fixes her hair.
Takes a deep breath.
Walks away.
Good!
Run!
Keep going, girl. Do not be seduced, do not be ensorcelled.
Three steps, she makes it. And then, like Lot's wife, she turns to look back. Unlike Lot's wife, however, she does not turn to salt. But she is equally doomed, for all that. Her gaze locks on the still-open rear passenger door. She cannot resist. I can almost hear it, the siren song of a carnal god beckoning her closer, drawing her in, closer and closer to a dark, hungry, and merciless maw.
Closer, closer.
And then, the fool, she ducks, bends, and slides into the car. I see a hand reach, tug her off-balance so she falls forward, legs akimbo, skirt wide and showing too much leg, hiking up, baring a skimpy black thong. She kicks, fighting to sit up, and the hand whips down to crack against her backside. She stills, and the hand remains, cupping her buttock. Another hand, and the long suit-sheathed arm attached to it, reaches, grasps the door handle.
I watch, mesmerized, as a face I know all too well appears from out of the shadows of the interior, dark eyes lifting, rising, meeting mine. Lips do not quite smile, because gods do not grin or smirk. But there is a ghost of something like amusement or satisfaction on those beautiful and fiercely masculine features.
A moment, then, when I cannot look away, seeing and being seen.
Was all that for my benefit?
Orchestrated to prove a point?
I turn away, stomach lurching. I could vomit, but I do not.
*
Madame X. How are you today?" Your voice is smooth and polite as you enter, take a seat on the couch.
"I am well, Jonathan," I lie, "and yourself?"
"All right, I suppose." You shrug, but your voice betrays an infinitesimal hesitation.
"You suppose?" I query.
You've come a long way since our first meeting. Some of my best work, you are.
"It's nothing." You wave a hand, glance at my bookshelf, still empty but for that one title, which I dare not remove. Nor do I read it, though; my little act of rebellion. "Where'd all your books go?"
I hunt for a suitable lie. I can think of nothing. I did not expect you to notice or care. I shrug. Say the first thing that comes to mind. "I am having them replaced."
You rise. Stride to the shelf, pick up the book, examine the title. Silence, then, as you read a few pages from the middle. "That's fucked up, X."
"Having my books replaced?"
&n
bsp; You shake your head, lift the book in gesture. "No. This."
I have not read it, know nothing about it. I cannot betray my ignorance, however. "Why do you say that, Jonathan?"
You shrug. "This book. It's a social experiment. There's a teacher, and a student. The teacher asks questions, and if there's a wrong answer the teacher shocks the student with an electric shock machine. Or something like that."
"You gathered that from the little bit you just read?"
You grin at me. "Oh, no. I took a psychology class in college, and we studied this book. It was a while ago, so I don't really remember a lot about it, but I remember even then thinking how fucked up the experiment was. The results though, that stuck with me. Obedience is a social construct. So is authority of one person over another. It's . . . something we agree on, allow ourselves to go along with, even if it's detrimental to our well-being. We agree to give someone else authority over us. Or, vice versa, we take power, authority, or whatever, and use it, even if it goes against our morals in some other way. It's messed up. Shows how dependent we are on social constructs, even though by and large we don't even realize what's happening, what we're doing."
"Aren't social constructs like that what compose the very fabric of society, though?"
You nod. "Yeah, for sure. But when you become aware of them, even briefly, it can mess with your head. I went around questioning everything after we studied that book. Every interaction, I looked at like it was something new. Like when you say a word so many times it loses its meaning, you know?"
"Semantic satiation," I say.
"Yeah, that. Eventually I went back to normal, stopped thinking about things quite so objectively. But for weeks, it was fucking weird. You realize the little tacit agreements we make without realizing it, you know?"
I shake my head. I follow intellectually, but in practice? No. My experience is more . . . limited. "Let's pretend I don't know, Jonathan. What do you mean?"
"Well, in terms of obedience and authority . . . we give people authority over us. Why do I let you boss me around? Why do I come back here week after week, let you say the things you say to me, let you tell me what to say and how to act and how to dress, when I know nothing about you? We aren't friends, we aren't involved like in a relationship, I personally am not even paying you. Yet here I am. Why?"
"Your father."
"Exactly. But I hate my father. I really do, X. So why am I here?"
"Because he holds control over something you want."
"Right. Exactly. Money. The future of the company. I sacrificed my childhood for his company. My father sacrificed my childhood for the company. He was never home, and when he was, he was in his office, working. I was always expected to excel, to be the best. To get the grades so I could go to the Ivy League school, so I could get the degree that would tell him I've earned the right to inherit the company. So I did all that, and yet I don't get to just . . . take over. Or even start near the top. No, I've got to start at the bottom, as an apprentice. Sure, I get it. Work for it, learn the business from the bottom up. Sure. Great. But I went to work with him every weekend, X. Every fucking weekend. I didn't play with my friends, I didn't play sports or video games or go the park or ride my bike. I went to the office with him and watched him work. 'It'll all be yours someday, Jonathan,' he'd say. 'So pay attention.' I paid attention. I know every contact, every account. I know it all. I'm ready. But he still holds out. Makes it impossible for me to move up. Promotes other guys over me when by all objective standards I'm the more qualified, son of the company president or not. He makes me come here and do this with you, because apparently I'm not man enough, either. Which, obviously, means letting some stuck-up bitch boss me around and insult me." You glance at me, cringing. "Sorry. I'm just--"
"It's fine, Jonathan. I'll let it go, this once. And besides, I am a bit of a bitch, but then, I'm paid to be, aren't I?"
You totally ignore the fact that I've spoken. "But the point is, I do it because I still keep hoping I'll be good enough. I give him the power over me, because I want what he has. I want what's mine." You duck your head, briefly, and then glance at me, your eyes perhaps a bit too sharp, a bit too knowing. "We all have a motivation for letting others control us, though, don't we?"
"Why, Jonathan . . . I barely recognize you, right now. Such introspection is unlike you." I must keep the conversation focused on you.
In my current circumstances, I dare not allow this line of discussion to become focused on me. That would be . . . very bad.
"I'm a rich asshole, X. I get that. I own it, and I'm not going to apologize for it. I was given everything I ever wanted, and then some. Except now that I've done everything asked of me to take my place at his side in running the company, now . . . I'm still not good enough. I wasn't good enough for him to want to spend time with me as a kid, so I went to work with him, hoping he'd notice me. He never did. I think he never will. But I still give him authority over me."
"Where is all this coming from, Jonathan?" Against all reason, I find myself thinking that just maybe there might be a decent person under the skin of the rich asshole.
You shrug. "He told me if I did this, came here and let you teach me or whatever, he'd make me junior VP of operations. So I'm here. I'm trying."
"Indeed you are. And making good progress, too. We're actually holding a worthwhile conversation, and that's improvement indeed."
"Yeah, well. The nasty, contrary old fuck just gave Eric Benson that position, even though he outright promised it to me. We still have, what, three more weeks of this? And he gave it to Eric fucking Benson. Benson is a fucking tool. A goddamn sycophantic suck-up prick. Never has any ideas of his own, he just goes along with everyone else and kisses ass and flashes that stupid grin of his with those stupid cheap-ass veneers. Fucking asshole."
I do not know what to say to you. It is not my job to be your confidant, your confessor, your shoulder to cry on, or your friend with whom to commiserate. It is my job to make you less of an asshole.
"When is enough enough, Jonathan?"
You glance at me with miserable eyes. "What?"
"How much is enough? How long will you tilt at the windmill?"
You groan in frustration, lean back, and run your hands through your hair. "Gah. Enough with the fucking riddles, X."
"It's not a riddle, it's an allusion. It's from Don Quixote."
"I know who fucking Don Quixote is, X. I did go to fucking Yale, you know."
I did know that, and I didn't go to Yale, or anywhere else. I don't say that, though. You don't need my superiority right now. You need a nudge in the right direction.
"If you know who Don Quixote is, then what is it I'm trying to tell you, do you think?"
You frown at me, and I can see you thinking. "Stop tilting at windmills."
"What did Don Quixote think the windmills were?" I ask.
"Giants."
"Correct. But what do you think his greatest failing was?"
"Thinking the windmills were giants."
"Wrong. Thinking he could slay them even if those windmills had been real giants. He'd have been squashed like a mosquito."
"And you think I'm not only tilting at windmills, but at a giant I can't slay in the first place."
I remain silent. You must work some things out for yourself.
"What am I not doing right, though? What's wrong with me that he can't just--just--"
"Jonathan," I scold.
"What?"
"Stop whining and think."
You glare at me, but, to your credit, you don't lash out at me. Instead, you rise and pace to the window. My window, the one at which I stand and watch the passersby so far beneath and imagine stories for them.
"When I was three," you say, cutting a regal figure at the window, one hand in your pocket, the other propped on the glass, head ducked, voice quiet, "I drew a picture. I don't remember of what. I was three, so it was probably a bunch of scribbles, right? But I was three, and I wanted to dr
aw a picture and give it to my dad. So I gave it to him, and I remember being excited that he'd looked at me, that he'd looked at my drawing. And you know what he did? He took it, looked at it, at me, and he didn't smile or tell me how good it was. He said, 'Not bad, Jonathan, but you can do better. Try again.'" You let out a long breath. "I was fucking three. And that was . . . that was the first time. I went back to my little desk with my little crayons, and I remember drawing another picture. Being proud of it. Wanting to give it to him and have him tell me it was great, that he loved it. Only he'd left, gone back to work. And the first picture I'd drawn was in the garbage. Not wadded up or anything, I just . . . I remember seeing it shoved down in the trash can with ripped-up envelopes and a Kleenex and other trash. That was the first time I remember feeling not good enough. And I've spent every single fucking day since then trying to get him to look at my goddamned pictures and tell me how nice they are. Twenty-three years."
I sit sideways on the chair, one leg crossed over the other, watching you at the window. I wait for you to speak again, and it is a long silent time before you do.
"He's the giant. Not a windmill, but a real giant. And I have no hope of slaying him, do I? So why am I trying? That's what you're asking, isn't it? Why bother?"
"No, not why bother. That's the wrong question."
I stand up, step carefully over to you, my nude Gucci Ursula high-heel sandals going click-click-click-click on the floor. I am within touching distance, close enough to smell your cologne, which is subdued, faint, and alluring. Close enough to realize how tall you really are, and that I may have done my job a little too well with you.
"Then what's the right question, X?" You turn, a half pivot. I do not back away, and pretend not to notice your gaze flowing over me.
"What should you tilt at? That's the question. We are all of us facing something, charging at something. Aren't we? But we have to choose which giants we attempt to slay."
Hypocrite, I. There is no choice for me. It has been made on my behalf, and that in itself is a giant I cannot slay. But this isn't about me. And I must appear wise.
You nod, understanding. Your eyes are on me. I hold your gaze and wait. A glance at the clock would tell me the hour is up, but then I know that already, I can feel it. I can feel the passage of time. My life is measured in one-hour increments, and thus I am finely attuned to the sensation of an hour's passage, used to the slow caress of each minute, the slippery tread of each quarter hour sliding over me. An hour has passed, yet you are still here. Staring down at me as if seeing me for the first time.
Madame X Page 7