The Skin Room

by Morgan Fleetwood

  I followed Valentina out. Her apricot and lime scent almost covered over the old-house smell that lingered in the corridor. The walls were decorated with a few ugly paintings by my grandfather, depicting rural landscapes beneath a red sun. I didn’t like those paintings, but my mother said you should respect family and not sneer at the paintings even if they weren’t perfect. So I left them hanging there, even though mother was gone now. And it was out of respect for her, and not for my father’s father.

  “This is the ground floor,” I said. “Would you like me to show you around?”

  “Please.”

  “You’ve seen the living room and the dining room.” I wondered if I should show her my mother’s room. Better not. She might disapprove of the way we had left everything just as it was. There were a few items of clothing left on the hangers, retaining her scent. On the desk were black-and-white family photos of us on the beach near Ragusa, one winter. There was a mirror with chipped edges that she had bought at a flea market in Tongeren, Belgium. My mother said it was eighteenth century but I was not so sure, it could have been more recent, though there was a darkness in the glass, a leaden mist. There were some dry red roses on the windowsill that I had brought to her the day she died. All these things we kept untouched, as though she might walk into the room at any moment and start turning the photograph into a film.

  “This way,” I said.

  “Down?”

  I had decided against showing her my mother’s room. The overhang of a life loved. My sister’s room was showroom-clean, a proof of her absence. Mine showed too much of myself. What would she have made of the poster of Marilyn Monroe with her eyes blacked out? What about the sentences I had scrawled on the wall during fits of depression? And what about the collections in the cupboards, the stockings, wigs and bags of fingernails? No, it would be too much. I had to get her downstairs and into the room I had prepared.

  “We can do the upstairs floors later,” I said. “I keep the chocolates in the basement. It helps to keep them cool.”

  “I thought you said you had refrigerators, or glass cabinets?”

  “Oh, I have those too.”

  She bit down on her lower lip. “All right.”

  We walked down the first couple of steps, then she turned to me and asked, “Your father, is he OK?”

  I sighed. “He’s forgetful.”

  “Very.”

  “He has some memory issues.”

  She bit her lip. “Does he have a … sort of disease?”

  I felt uncomfortable, prickly. My patience was dying. I hadn’t made any mistakes until now, but it was getting to the point where she couldn’t leave any more, and I was becoming tired of all this acting.

  “Questions. Why do you have to ask so many questions? I brought you here to show you the work of some of the finest chocolatiers in the world and you interrogate me about my father. I don’t know how sick he is. I’m not a damn doctor.”

  “Perhaps I should be going now,” she said. There was a look of worry in her eyes. “I really must be—”

  She swiveled.

  I grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward me.

  “You’re going nowhere.”

  6

  I clapped my hand over her mouth and her scream curdled in my fingers. She bit my fingers but I did not shout out although the pain was acute. I held one of her arms twisted behind her back and pushed her in front of me all the way down into the basement. If she slowed down or struggled, I shoved her in the back. I do not think I hurt her. The main thing now was to get her into the room without alerting my father. She bit my thumb so hard I heard my bone crack. A pain shot up my arm—electrifying. I slapped her head but she bit down even harder, like a dog champing on a stick.

  How did I shut her up? I let go of her arm for one second and spun her round so that she faced me up close. In that second, anxious to prevent her cry, I fished in my pocket for my knife. It was a switchblade from Laguiole, France, with an ivory handle and a button release. I just had time to eject the blade and wave it in front of her eyes. Even in the semi-darkness she could see the metal glinting, silver-white. It was enough to stop her screaming. She realized now, I think, for the very first time, that her life was in danger.

  She shrank into silence, edging backwards. I let her go—she was moving in the right direction, anyway. I flicked on the light—what a face! You would have thought she had seen the devil himself and not some humble translator with a unique obsession.

  “Don’t move,” I hissed. I was still smarting from her bites. The end of my thumb was gashed and bloody; it felt as though I had placed my hand in a fire. I started sweating at the roots of my hair. I hadn’t anticipated such damage, such pain.

  She shuddered, her eyes large, as if she had witnessed a tragic accident. My heart thudded as I scanned the silence. There was no other movement in the house. The grandfather clock ticked at the end of the corridor. I found the key in my back pocket, turned it in the lock, pushed her through the open door, followed her inside, and locked the door behind me. I closed the switchblade and slipped it back into my pocket.

  It was time to admire my catch. My second milestone, reached.

  “What do you want from me?” She stepped backwards as she spoke even though there was nowhere to go. The room was anything but large.

  I switched on the light inside my studio, my bunker. I had a hiding place underground just like Hitler. And I knew that any sound made in this room stayed in this room. Egg boxes cratered the walls, reminiscent of a lunar surface. I used to bang the drums here as an adolescent and my parents upstairs barely heard a thing. Valentina could scream all she liked, she would never be heard. Except, perhaps, if someone ventured downstairs into the basement, then, if they pressed an ear against the door.… Perhaps I would have to erect another obstacle or two outside in the corridor. I couldn’t have my father poking around.

  “So?” she said.

  There was a quiver in her voice. I noticed the side of her mouth was turned down and trembling. Perhaps she was trying not to cry? I had anticipated various reactions and wondered if she would move toward capitulation or anger. I had hoped for utter defenselessness, but, by the look of her, she seemed intent on fighting and acting as though she still had some control over her destiny. She moved around the room with terrific slowness, taking some time to come to terms with her new living space. It was interesting for me to watch her. I thought of a lab rat taking its first steps through the straw, sniffing the air.

  “What now?” she said, her eyes half-shut, moistening.

  I sat down on a chair and smiled to myself. “This is it,” I said.

  “You want to have sex down here?” she asked, opening her hands. “Then why the knife? There’s no need to get violent, you know. Just give me the money and we’ll do it any way you want. Then you can let me out of here and drive me back home. Or better still, I’ll walk, I’ll take a bus.”

  “It’s a long way to the bus stop,” I said. “It’s kind of isolated up here. There’s just me and my dad. And he’s well sort of, you know, cuckoo.”

  I smiled to myself but I knew it was ungentlemanly to act that way in front of her. You could be cruel in your mind but you shouldn’t show it. I learned that in school. It was better if you were just cruel in your head and didn’t say anything. That way nobody crossed your path.

  She looked around the room, stared at the egg boxes, and shivered. “What are you? A kidnapper? What’s this all about?”

  “I’m not sure how long this will take. I haven’t yet….”

  I remained sitting on the chair and watched as she prowled around, exploring the confines of her space. It reminded me of a poem I had once read about a panther in a cage and the way it padded up and down in its cell. The poem said something about there being bars, and behind the bars, no world. And that was what it was like for her now: bars, and no world.

  “I wanted to have you here,” I said.

  “Yes, but—what for?” She
seemed to be trying to adjust her voice to her new surroundings. “Is it just … sex?”

  “Nothing so crude, believe me. Though I’m sure that’s what you’re used to. From your perverted customers.”

  “I followed you because you seemed nice, a little strange, but I’m used to that. I thought you were maybe just lonely. Is that what this is? You just wanted some company?”

  “We can talk for a while, yes, if you like.”

  She retreated into a corner, turned to look at the mattress. “Is that where you sleep?”

  “That’s where you sleep.”

  She wrapped her arms around her body as if she felt cold, although the temperature was already set at 17oC, around 63oF.

  “You’re going to keep me cooped up here? For how long?”

  She looked frightened and beautiful, all at once. I felt a nice shiver trickling down my neck.

  “That depends. For now, it’s nice just having you here. I think, later on, I will go and get my tools.”

  “Your what?”

  Her eyes glistened too much. They really were shining.

  “Sorry.” I looked down at my shoes, unwilling to see her tears. Somehow I wasn’t prepared for those, at least not so soon. I had expected her to be defensive or violent, or just silent maybe. I hadn’t expected such quick tears.

  I felt in my pockets for a handkerchief, but had none. I chided myself. Normally I carried around at least two clean packets. She was already messing up my routines, and that was part of the problem. No matter how much you thought about having a girl here, in your head, there were always problems when you did it for real. I had handled the encounter with my father pretty well. Even if he did remember her, I could always say she went home on her own. But something unexpected could happen now, despite all the planning.

  My head felt hot and I rubbed my eyes. “Listen, you followed me for the money, you know that. How much were you expecting? Did you think I was a rich client? I’m afraid the reality is very different.”

  She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and ended up smearing her mascara.

  Was this how I had pictured it in my imagination, prior to her arrival, all those months of searching for the right girl, the perfect cheekbones and skin tone? I felt a buzz of adrenalin when I realized that the weird scenes in my head were weird scenes in reality, happening in front of my eyes, and not behind.

  She approached me with a venomous look.

  “You. I should never have followed you. Never. You … fucking bastard.”

  She put her head in her hands and started weeping with shallow, stuttering gasps. It was an unpleasant, faintly pitiful sight, though perhaps it was an appropriate reaction given the trap I had set. It was a dead end for her; an endgame for me.

  I stood up and reached out a hand. I hoped to console her with a gentle, friendly contact, a hand on her shoulder, perhaps, or a stroke of her fine, blonde hair. I longed to feel its thick, strawy texture between my fingertips.

  She screamed.

  I stepped back and crouched, and watched her let off some steam. She had quite a mouth. My ears, covered by my hands, heard the buckshot of echoes.

  “Have you finished now?” I opened one of my eyes.

  She came at me in a rage with flayed fingernails that drew blood from my cheeks and left me struggling to see. Perhaps she thought she could beat me down and escape? She lunged at me in a sudden burst. Defiantly, her blows stung my ears and nose; her fists and arms struck me. Her eyes betrayed a mixture of anger and despair. Had Valentina forgotten that I had a weapon? I ducked one final incoming blow, and flick. Out came the silver blade, flashing in the air like a flute. Oh, the music it could play. The melodies of the flesh…. But I was happy at first with the notion of a deterrent. Valentina had to be reminded that I was in control.

  She moaned, stepped back, and sank down onto her knees. She put her hands over her eyes and muttered, “You fucking asshole.” And then she cried a bit more.

  I sat on the chair, turning the knife’s handle in my palm. Valentina knelt on the tiles. She looked like one of those women painted in mourning at the foot of the cross on Calvary. Mary Magdalene or Mary the mother.

  “I just want you to keep quiet. You understand? You can scream as much as you want. No one will hear you. But it annoys me. And you don’t need to be violent. There’s no point. I’m stronger than you, anyway. You’ll just get tired.”

  She kept crying, and wouldn’t let up.

  “What are you crying for?” I asked.

  “I want to get out of here.”

  “But I will make everything nice for you. At least for a while.”

  She swabbed her tears. “Is it because I ran away the first time? Are you angry with me?”

  “Not at all. I spotted you, that’s all.” I closed the blade, dragged the chair closer to her. I wanted to stroke her hair, to reassure her, but was aware that she would not appreciate my touch.

  “Spotted me?”

  “In the street. Remember? I followed you.”

  “You chose me for something?”

  I took a chance and reached out to stroke her hair. It felt as thick as blades of wheat beneath my fingertips.

  “Is it dyed?” I asked.

  Her hair slipped from my grasp as she pulled her head away.

  “Are you crazy? You’re talking about my hair?”

  “I want to know.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “Your eyebrows are dark,” I said, studying her face closely. “At least they’re darker than the rest of your hair. That’s not normal, is it?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “It’s real.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Would you prefer it if it was fake?”

  I shook my head.

  “I please you in some sick way?” She cocked her head. “Physically? Is that what this is about?” She wiped her hands across her cheeks. Her eyes looked smudged now.

  “I shouldn’t say too much. You might hate me for it.”

  “I hate you already.”

  I shrugged. There was nothing more to say. Nothing consolatory, anyway. She began to move backwards slowly on her hands and knees.

  I shook my head, trying not to smile. “There’s no place to go.”

  “How long will you keep me here?”

  She said the word “keep” very softly as though feared its meaning.

  “It’s maybe best if you don’t know.”

  “What about your father? He knows I’m here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Her eyes darkened. “You think he might ... forget?”

  “Certainly. Otherwise I wouldn’t have introduced you. Twice.”

  She crawled backwards along the floor to the other side of the room.

  “That’s pointless. I can come and get you when I want,” I said.

  “What is it you’re after? A weird kind of sex?” Her eyes closed and opened slowly.

  “That’s nice of you to offer.”

  “I’m not offering. I’m asking.”

  I shook my head. “You have certain attributes I admire.”

  “Attributes?”

  I smiled. “I’m glad you understand.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand a thing.” She raised a hand to her mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  It was true, her face turned a kind of green—not grass-green, but pale, like mint mixed with cream.

  She looked down and touched her stomach. “I want something to drink. Some water. Will you get it for me?” She looked up at me with hopeful eyes.

  I said, “You know you can’t escape.”

  I looked around the room to check: no exits. I had gone over this in my mind a hundred times. No exits. Once she came in she would not go out, at least, not in the same way.

  “Maybe I should leave you for a while, to calm down.”

  Her face looked rigid. “You�
�re locking me in?”

  I nodded.

  She scrambled toward me. “Don’t leave me here on my own.”

  I moved over to the door and felt her clawing at my ankles. I tried to shake her off and kicked out. She grabbed my leg higher up and clasped both arms around my thighs.

  I looked down. “This is stupid. Get off.”

  I wanted to get out and clear my head. Be alone. My thumb had been ripped open by her bites and it burned like hell and needed a bandage. The next phase of her stay required careful preparation, now that I had her here, at last.

  I pushed her away and reached the corridor, only to turn around and see her scurrying toward the door. I remembered my switchblade and flicked it open again, and let the deterrent do its silent work.

  “Get back in there.” I approached her, waving the weapon slowly before her eyes. “This time, don’t move.”

  She backed off, groaned, tugged at her hair and curled up on the mattress in a corner of the room. I switched off the light, left her in darkness, and swung the door shut.

  I locked the door and stood outside at the bottom of the stairwell, and saw a strip of light appear at the foot of the door. She had found the light switch, and anyone coming downstairs might see that bar of illumination. I looked for a cloth or some cardboard to block the bottom of the door, and heard a voice upstairs and then the sound of footsteps coming near.

  I found a crate of tomatoes, turned it over, and watched the red forms drop out on the floor, leaving little bloody stains. I pushed the crate against the door and turned to see my father standing at the top of the stairs in the half-light.

  “Are you all right, son? I thought I heard voices.”

  I moved slowly up the stairs toward him. Blood dripped from my thumb and pattered on the stone. My cheeks still simmered after her scratches.

  He switched on the lamp on the hall table and looked at me with alarm. “What happened?”

  “I fell,” I said, quick to invent an explanation. “Down there among the tomatoes.” I turned back.

  “You’re hurt.”

  “I fell face down.”

  “Let’s get you upstairs. I’ve got just the thing.” He patted me on the arm and looked up at me with concern. “I thought I heard someone shouting.”