Vapor

Chapter Six

Oh, I forgot to show you the pool,” he said, as we walked back. “And I should take you on a tour of the house.”

The swimming pool was in the basement. It was very standard-looking, in a very standard-looking room, except that there were numerous rubber ducks, of various shapes, sizes, and colors, lined up against one wall. I suddenly wondered if he had children or was somehow involved with children. I asked him.

“No,” he answered simply.

He took a yellow duck and carried it to the pool, squeezing it once along the way, which caused it to make the classic rubber duck squeak. He squatted, placed the duck on the water, and gave it a gentle shove. It sank. He looked at me, as if to observe my reaction. I wasn’t sure what reaction he expected me to have. But he kept staring at me expectantly, perhaps waiting for me to seem astonished. Well, I was sorry if I wasn’t astonished, but I wasn’t. Even though rubber ducks usually floated, so what if one sank? So what if there was something wrong with it? Damon took another rubber duck and handed it to me, motioning that I should place it on the water. I did, and the duck sank. Damon was staring at me with so much expectancy that I was suddenly struck by the absurdity of it and burst out laughing.

“Okay,” I said, “I give up. Why are the ducks sinking?”

He seemed relieved by my question. His intense expression disappeared, and to my surprise I saw that it wasn’t just relief, it was sudden mild disinterest.

He waved his hand dismissively and said, “Oh, I’ll tell you another time.”

I decided I would not satisfy him by begging him to tell me. So I ignored my twinge of exasperation and said nothing.

We went back upstairs and sat side by side on the blue vinyl couch. Conveniently, the glass clock was straight in front of us. It was now 11:32 P.M.

Once again, Damon asked me about my dreams and desires, which naturally led us to the topic of acting, among others. But of all my desires, I didn’t mention the one that was the most recent and, right now, the strongest: him.

“I wish this moment didn’t have to end,” he said, to my delight, at five of midnight.

“It doesn’t have to,” I replied, hoping this wasn’t too forward.

“Yes, it does,” he said sadly, and added, “I want to remember the way you’re looking at me now. I wish I could take a picture of it, and I would, if I didn’t loathe photographs.”

“I can look at you this way again.”

“I hope, for your sake, that you will be able to, but even if you are, your look will be a shell — perhaps a very beautiful shell — but a shell, empty of your heart, empty of sincerity.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know. I wish it could stay that way.”

“You’re being enigmatic.”

“Yes. Grant me that, just a little longer.”

He stared at me sadly.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked.

“The alternative,” he answered slowly. “The exquisiteness of it.”

“What alternative? To what? You’re being so mysterious.”

“I asked you to … grant me that,” he almost whispered.

“I should warn you that you are now officially entering the realm of melodrama,” I could not resist teasing. But I immediately felt guilty, for I hadn’t noticed the tears in his eyes.

Choosing to ignore my warning of impending corn, he said, “This moment will never exist again; the innocence of it, the selfishness of it. The simplicity and purity of it. The sweetness. And the open doors, the potential, the blank future. Every path is still possible, but soon will no longer be. Is there anything significant you would like to say to me?”

“Perhaps, but it might be a little premature.”

“And later it will be too late. But that’s the way it is; part of the way things are, part of the sadness. But necessary. And good.” He paused. “There are so many things I would like to say to you now, so many assurances and reassurances, and truths. It would make things easier for me. But I mustn’t. It would be counterproductive. However, having said even this much has made me feel slightly better.”

“Well, not me.”

He laughed. I laughed too, despite my annoyance at his mysteriousness.

He gazed at me. “You are already slipping away, I see.”

I could only attribute this statement to his having sensed my irritation.

“But no,” he continued, “I’m fooling myself. This is but a pale shadow of what will be.” He sighed, and his tone lost its bitterness. “We’ve talked about your dreams at length. Now I’ll tell you one of mine: it is the hope that whatever dreams of yours come true, I will have played even just a small part in their actualization.”

I was touched. Now was the perfect time for me to kiss him. But that was the problem. It was too perfect; so perfect that it would have been silly.

Dong went the clock, slowly. It was the first stroke of midnight, making the moment even more perfectly silly for kissing. Therefore, to create a little diversion, I asked, “At what time is the last train?”

Dong; the second slow stroke.

“You’re not thinking of leaving, are you? I was hoping you could stay.”

Dong.

“I don’t know,” I muttered, trying to appear thoughtful. I then looked at him, pretended to be overcome by the intimacy of the moment (dong), and leaned forward to kiss him.

He moved away, to avoid my kiss.

I smiled faintly, with embarrassment (dong), and got up from the couch.

“Well, I should be (dong) going,” I said, with feigned casualness. The strikes of the clock were tragically making the situation even more awkward and confusing, if such a thing were possible. Not to mention the fact that they were loud, obliging me to raise my voice, making it harder for me to sound casual. “I think the last train is at twelve-thirty,” I lied, to make sure I wouldn’t miss the last train at 12:40. “Would you mind dri(dong)ving me to the station, or should I call a cab?”

I walked to the door, and just as I was about to pick up my overnight bag, he took my (dong) hand. I faced him and waited for him to do whatever he intended to do. Dong. But he did nothing. Dong. We just stared at each other. And then it became awkward. I looked at him sadly, disappointed. Dong. I almost felt sorry for him. He seemed pathetic to me at that moment. I turned away again, to pick up my bag, and did.

“No, Anna (dong), don’t,” he said softly.

I gave him another chance. I waited a few moments to see what he would do, but he did nothing, so I finally gently said, “This is getting silly, don’t you think? I really should be going.”

He took my bag from me, placed it back on the floor, and pulled me toward the staircase.

“What are you doing?” I asked hesitantly, not wanting to ruin the romance, if that’s what it was. But then I decided that if that was what it was, it was so little, so late, that there was not much I could do to ruin it, and things could only go uphill from here.

“Making you happy,” he answered, leading me up the steps.

“I’m not sure you can.”

“I’ll give it my best shot.”

“And make yourself very unhappy in the process, is that it?”

“It’s the least I can do.”

“Please, I don’t want you to force yourself,” I said. Sarcastically, of course.

He didn’t answer, but just kept pulling me up. He held my hand rather tightly, and I started getting the uneasy sensation that I might not be able to free it if I wanted to.

“Perhaps I should let you know that force is not the greatest turn-on for me,” I said.

He did not soften his grip. I had not imagined our trip to the bedroom would unfold in this manner.

“This is very unromantic,” I snapped.

All he answered was, “Come.”

“I’m not interested anymore. Please let go of me. What you’re doing is repellent. Do you care?”

Secretly, I thought: who knows, the approach is not my favorite, but it might turn out to be worth it, or at least interesting.

We arrived at a door at the end of a hallway. When he opened it, I was faced with an unfamiliar sight. Halfway into the room were iron bars extending from the floor to the ceiling, making the back part of the room into a sort of cage.

I immediately turned away and tried to run out, but Damon was apparently prepared for this reaction. His grip was painful, and he dragged me toward the bars. I screamed at him to stop, to let me go. I kicked him, and punched him, and dug my nails into him, everywhere I could. I tore his flimsy outfit. His shirt popped open, a few buttons flew off. But it was all in vain. He flung me inside the cell, and slid its door shut between us.

I tried to slide it open, but it was, predictably, locked.

“I apologize for what just happened,” said Damon, panting. “I feel very bad about it.”

“Let me out of here!” I shouted. “Why do you have me in here?”

“I’m a little shaken up, and so are you, so maybe it’s better if I come back later, when we’ve calmed down.”

“No, don’t leave me in here! Why are you doing this? Tell me!”

He paused by the door and seemed to hesitate. He said, “I can’t right now. I’m not up to it.”

Speechless, I watched him walk out. He left the door to the room, but not to my cell, open. He moved down the hallway and disappeared through a doorway on the left.

I turned and pressed my back against the bars, holding two of them tightly in my hands. For a while I couldn’t let go, afraid the cell would suck me in, absorb me, become my master, my container. Then I realized it already was.

Against the left wall were television monitors eye-level on a shelf. Five of them, side by side.

In the far left corner was a regular-looking television set. Straight ahead were two windows, facing the garden. Then the back of the cell branched out to the right, but from where I was standing, I couldn’t see to where. I stepped forward, hoping that by some miracle the branch led to a way out.

A bowling ball and a hammer were lying in the middle of the cell. I was perplexed, but more interested in the branch, which, to my distress, I now saw was just an extension of the prison; a more private area, with a bed, and a night table topped by a lamp and an alarm clock. These homey furnishings chilled my blood; a bare prison cell was scary enough, but one with plush beige carpeting and a comfortable-looking bed was truly terrifying. I tried to block out what it meant.

There was a door on the right, behind which I was further horrified to discover a pleasant bathroom.

I went back to the TV monitors. Each screen showed a different room of the house. I recognized the living room, and although the other rooms were unfamiliar to me (Damon hadn’t given me the tour after all), I felt it was reasonable to assume they were rooms of this house, for they all had clouds in them.

On one screen I noticed movement. It was him, walking around in a bedroom. I watched him until he plopped down on the bed and lay back.

I wondered why he had these monitors in here with me, and whether I was being filmed as well. I could see no cameras around the ceiling.

I turned to the windows. They were locked, but not barred. I glanced around the room for a heavy object to break them. The one-story jump couldn’t be fatal. But the stay could.

There was the lamp on the night table. And the alarm clock. But then my eyes landed on the bowling ball and hammer, either one of which would do much better. I picked up the hammer, and saw a handwritten note taped to its handle. It read:

Dear Anna,

Here are a hammer and a bowling ball for your convenience, so that you won’t try to use the lamp or the alarm clock to break the windows. I should warn you, however, that the windows are made of soundproof, bulletproof glass, and that trying to break them will only bruise them, limiting your enjoyment of the view from then on, in case you care about such things.

It was signed Damon. Unlike in the instructionless entrance hall, now I felt more like an informed Alice in Wonderland.

Using all my strength, I banged the hammer against the window. Then against the other window. Again, and again.

Then the bowling ball, throwing it at the windows.

But all of this made only bruises on the glass. And tremendous noise. The furniture and walls rattled.

I went back to using the hammer, panicked by the words: “from then on.” Those words implied more than a few hours. Even more than a day, probably. Actually, what was the maximum amount of time those words could imply?

Hammer in midair, I paused and stared into space, thinking about that question.

The hammer came hurling down against the window-pane: “from then on” did not exclude forever.

After a long time, I stopped hammering and throwing the ball. It was obvious I wouldn’t break the glass. I dropped the hammer and went to the TV monitors. Damon was still lying on his bed, apparently undisturbed by the racket. He must have expected it.

So. Damon turned out to be a psycho. I still had a faint hope that this was a game, but it seemed unlikely. And even if it was, Damon was still a psycho.

And the worst part was that it was not so surprising. Looking back, I could not comfortably say, “I would never have expected such a thing from such a person.” He made clouds, after all. But in a way, it was those very clouds that kept me off guard, that occupied my imagination too much to let it do its normal job: creating healthy paranoias of things like … oh, I don’t know, I’ll just say what comes to mind — imprisonments, why not.

I rushed around the cell in circles, inspecting every corner. I should never have saved him that night in the subway, arrogant fool that I was. The businessmen had been right: Who the hell did I think I was, Super Cinderella or something?

I searched the room thoroughly, but found no secret door, no way of escape. There was a closet, near the bed, with only a vacuum cleaner in it.

All I could do now was try to find a way to escape psychologically. Maybe there was something I could say, some way I could act, that might persuade Damon to let me go.

Before settling down to think, I took the hammer and stuffed it under my sweater. The metal was cold against my stomach. I hadn’t worn a T-shirt underneath, to be sexier. The memory brought tears to my eyes. I sat on the floor, near the bars, against the right wall of the cell, so that I’d be able to watch the TV monitors if I felt like it.

I had to figure out why Damon was doing this, what his motives were. Then I would know how to approach him. I replayed in my mind the last half hour before he imprisoned me. I mulled over his cryptic comments. He said he wanted to make me happy. Maybe he was now planning to give me jewels and treat me like a princess, having me live in extraordinary luxury, but somehow I doubted this: although my cell was nice, it didn’t have that kind of opulence; it wasn’t stuffed with satins and precious stones and rose petals and trays of fancy foods and closets full of gowns. But maybe that was because Damon wasn’t yet sure what my tastes were, and he didn’t want to impose satins on me if I preferred some other cloth.

Or maybe he wanted to use me in some pleasant scientific experiments involving his clouds.

Or maybe he knew I had a crush on him, and he wanted to offer himself to me; exactly the way I imagined he would when he was dragging me up the stairs.

But then I realized that with a psycho like him, even if he did, truly, want to make me happy, that did not exclude death. Maybe he felt I would be happier dead.

But if I came to my senses for a moment and stopped assuming he meant it when he said he wanted to make me happy, the field of possibilities opened up considerably and unattractively, ranging anywhere from torture to torture and death. Not knowing which it was, was itself torture. And would his torture, if that’s what it was, be mental or physical? And why the TV monitors?

I frequently got up and changed positions, because I didn’t always want to watch Damon sleeping. Sometimes I wanted to and sometimes I didn’t, and when I didn’t, I didn’t want to have to close my eyes not to, so I went and sat against the opposite wall until I wanted to again.

The hammer was by now warm against my stomach. Tense, I pressed it harder into my skin. I hadn’t managed to devote even a minute to thinking of a strategy. I was completely unprepared.

Damon came in when I was sitting against the no-looking-at-Damon wall. I was startled.

He was carrying a chair in one hand, and my overnight bag in the other. He took only one step into the room and stopped.

“I’ll trade you information for the hammer,” he said. “I don’t want you hurling it at my head.”

I was still sitting on the floor with my legs bent, and there was no way he could have seen I had a hammer under my baggy sweater. I wondered if I had been filmed, after all.

“No, you were not videotaped,” he said, as if reading my mind. “I just know that any reasonably intelligent person would try to hurl the hammer at my head. On the other hand, a brilliant or stupid person might not. I’m not implying you’re not brilliant. I’m sure there must be some brilliant people who would.”

I sat there, considering the offer of trade.

After a while, he said, “You’ll still have the bowling ball.”

What I was hesitating about now was not whether I would agree to trade the hammer for information — I had decided I would — but whether I would gently hand it back to him or hurl it at his head.

I ended up doing neither, because he gave me instructions: “Toss the hammer at least four feet out of your cell, and out of your kicking range.”

I did what he said. He relaxed immediately and bustled about, placing the chair near the cell, out of my kicking range, and putting my bag against the bars.

He then sat on the chair, and said, “Now I can answer your questions.”

“Why am I in here?”

“To receive a present.”

“What present?”

“You.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said.”

“I already have myself.”

“You have a certain version of yourself. But I’ll give you another version.”

“What version?”

“An improved version. If everything goes according to plan, once I’m through with you, the new self I will give back to you will be able to make all your dreams come true.”

I was relieved that so far, at least, it seemed he did not intend to kill me. Unless, in his eyes, an improved version of myself would be a dead version.

I said, “I see. So this will be a sort of self-affirmation seminar. Like ‘How to Be More Successful’ or ‘How to Improve Your Self-Esteem’? You’ll sit there and tell me I’m great? Or you’ll make me listen to subliminal tapes.”

“No. But I’m glad you’re not too upset to make light of this.”

I was furious. “I’m just astonished. And disgusted. I want you to let me out of here right now. I have no interest in your little plan. If you want to make me happy, let me out of here.”

“No.”

“How long are you intending to keep me in here?”

“I’m not sure exactly. Awhile.”

I sighed. “What are you thinking of doing to me?”

“Me? Nothing much. But you’ll be doing things to yourself. And you won’t do other things. I will alter you. Or rather, I will make you alter yourself. My gift to you will be to take away your freedom of choice for a while. Freedom can be very unhealthy and unproductive. Instead, you’ll have freedom from choice.”

“Please, just let me go.”

“Why?”

I spat out: “Because it’s unpleasant to be imprisoned.”

“What would you prefer?”

“Freedom.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Go home.”

“To do what?”

“Oh, please. To live.”

“You can live here for a while.”

Obviously, I had to think of things I could only do at home. “I want to see my family, my friends, go to my jobs, meet new people, work on my acting—”

“Bingo! We will act. Among other things not worth mentioning right now. But most of all, we’ll do some acting.”

He got up, and left me gaping.