Held (19 page)
Authors: Edeet Ravel
“Just come back soon.”
As soon as he’d left I spread the DVDs on the bed.
There were twenty-six movies in all. They were all in English and they were all old. I recognized some of the actors’ names—Doris Day, for example—but apart from one or two famous titles, I’d never heard of any of them.
I chose
Pillow Talk
at random, or maybe because it rang a vague bell. I slid it into the drive and began to watch.
A strange thing happened then. Everything in the movie—every scene, every word, even the credits—excited me. I was thrilled by the tacky furniture, the old cars, the view of a bridge through the window. It was almost as if the characters were keeping me company.
I had no idea how I’d relate to the movie in ordinary circumstances. I just couldn’t tell. I didn’t know whether I’d normally consider the jokes lame, whether I’d consider the whole movie lame. As far as I was concerned,
Pillow Talk
was the greatest film ever made.
The only thing I was still able to judge was the annoying soundtrack and the way people related to sex, which was sometimes odd.
It was the same with all the films. I liked the over-the-top way the women talked in the dramas, I liked their semi-fake accents. Most of the movies were in black and white; I was amazed by how many shades of grey there were. I was aware that the stories were repetitive and meandering, but I didn’t mind because every scene was mesmerizing. I enjoyed the drawn-out plots; I enjoyed drifting along with them.
I remember all the movies vividly—partly because I saw most of them two or three or even four times, and partly because the experience was so intense. I saw
The Philadelphia
Story, I’ll See You in My Dreams, An American in Paris, The
Children’s Hour, Gaslight, All About Eve, East of Eden,
and a dozen others. My sleep was filled with fragmented scenes from the day’s viewings. In some of the dreams I was in the scenes, trying to fit in. It seemed urgent not to let anyone know I was from the future, and I tried frantically to find hats with feathers and old-style clothes so no one would notice.
I didn’t see my hostage-taker for over a week. My meals were brought to me by the invisible person who knocked three times and quickly left.
The food was more conventional now: scrambled eggs or porridge for breakfast; soup, salad, and a cheese sandwich for lunch; lasagna or quiche for supper. Chocolate milk or milkshake twice a day. And for dessert, ice cream, vanilla pudding, cake. Sometimes I left notes on the tray when I sent it back.
Thanks for the salad but could you please put less salt in the dressing?
Or,
I wouldn’t mind pizza, no anchovies.
I was on the bed, lying on my stomach and watching
Christmas in Connecticut
, when my hostage-taker returned. He was carrying a tray with a ceramic serving dish and a large bowl of salad.
I was so desperate for company I didn’t even try to hold back. As soon as he set down the tray, I jumped into his arms and wrapped my legs around him. He was wearing his black jeans but he had on a plaid button-up instead of his usual white shirt. It was a treat, seeing him in a casual top; he was letting me glimpse another side of his life. I felt madly attracted to him.
He tried to lower me onto the bed, but I wouldn’t let go. I brought him down with me. “You’re trapped now,” I said. “Trapped with me. I won’t let you leave.”
“Our meal will get cold,” he said, gently releasing himself from my grasp.
“How long are you staying?” I asked.
“I don’t have to be anywhere else today.”
“Please stay the night. I can’t bear the loneliness in this room.”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“What’s for supper?”
“Fettuccini with cream sauce.”
“Alfredo?” I asked.
“Something like that.”
As we ate I told him about the movies I’d seen. “How come they’re all oldies?” I asked.
“I’m afraid that’s all I could get. I was hoping at least some would be to your liking.”
“I love them.”
“I’m glad.”
Dessert was chocolate ice cream. “My consolation prize,” I said. “For being stuck here. What’s happened to my books, by the way?”
“I haven’t had a chance to pick them up,” he said.
“Could I have a notebook and pen at least? It’s not the same, typing onscreen … Will you stay the night?” I asked again.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Look what happened last time.” He meant the time he held me in his sleep.
“Nothing happened last time,” I reminded him. “Please stay. I can tell you want to.”
“What I want isn’t important.”
“And what about what I want? Doesn’t that count at all?”
“Yes, it counts.”
“Will you at least stay to watch a movie with me? A movie date …”
He considered for a few seconds. Then he said, “All right, I’ll stay the night, Chloe. But there have to be some ground rules.”
I laughed. “You’re a lot like me, you know. Everything has to be planned in advance. That’s a good thing, that we’re alike. It means we understand each other. Okay, what are the rules?”
“I know we might end up kissing again. We’ve crossed that line once and that makes it hard to resist a second time, both for you and for me. But I don’t want you touching me.”
“Okay,” I said, switching off the lamp. The room was thrown into darkness; the only source of light was the glare of the screen.
“It’s not about boundaries,” he said, his face shadowy in the dim light. “It’s a personal request.”
I felt better when he said that. “Can we watch a movie together?”
“Yes. But you must keep your promise.”
“You can tie my hands behind my back again to make sure.”
“Don’t joke about such things,” he said.
Watching a movie on the laptop turned out to be impossible unless we were in the same line of vision. I ended up lying against him, with my head on his chest and his arm around my shoulder. He stroked my arm almost absently as the movie began. It was thrilling, that simple gesture of affection.
I’d chosen
It Happened One Night
because it was light and also because it was about a couple who were thrown together by chance. But I could tell he wasn’t concentrating. Before long we were kissing again.
I wanted more than kissing, but I knew it was out of the question for him. He did something better. He said, “My father was a great Chaplin fan.”
He was bringing down the barrier, if only for a moment. I seized on it. “Is he still alive?”
“No, both my parents died when I was young.”
“How?” I asked, though I didn’t expect an answer. I assumed he’d shut down on me any minute.
But he replied, in his usual casual way, “They were killed by the regime.”
“The regime? What do you mean?”
“They spoke out against the dictatorship and paid the price.”
“How horrible!”
“I had a pet tortoise, and on the day my father was arrested I was in the garden reading a book of stories, and I allowed my tortoise to walk on the pages, which I knew I wasn’t supposed to do, because it was my father’s book, a very nice edition. And my father came into the garden to say goodbye. I think he knew that was the end for him, and that this was a final good-bye. I don’t know how he controlled himself, but he did. I quickly took the tortoise off the page, but he saw that the page was wet, and I was so ashamed that I didn’t answer when he said good-bye. When I realized a few days later that he wasn’t coming back I felt so guilty and miserable I made a small bonfire in the garden and I burned the book.”
“I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed, though I kept my voice low, barely above a whisper. I didn’t want to break the spell of intimacy. “How old were you?”
“I was fourteen when my father was arrested. My mother managed to hold on one more year, then she vanished.”
“I don’t understand. You mean she might be alive?”
“No, they were both killed. But I’ll never know where or how.”
“There wasn’t any sort of … record, or something?”
“No. One day they were there and the next they were gone. All I can hope is that it was fast, though I know the odds are against it.”
“That’s so sad.”
“You lost a parent too, so you know what it’s like.”
“I was very young, and besides, it wasn’t both my parents, and they weren’t just … killed.” Tears welled up in my eyes. “Some stories are too sad to bear.”
“But have you noticed only other people’s stories? Because ours are just the things that happen to us.”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t agree. I think sometimes our own stories are also too sad to bear. That’s why people die of grief.”
“I need some coffee, Chloe,” he said. “I’ll be right back. Would you like something?”
“More ice cream, please.”
“I’m sorry about the locked door—it locks automatically. I’ll only be a few minutes.”
I felt happy and heartbroken at the same time. Happy because he’d trusted me and we were closer now—there was no going back. And heartbroken because of what he’d told me. I wondered what country it had happened in. Unfortunately, there were probably several that fit the description.
He returned a few minutes later with ice cream and coffee. He’d reverted to the casual formality that made him seem detached and remote. When he sat down, he held the coffee mug as if it was a barrier between him and the world.
“How come you were never worried about me seeing you?” I asked, hoping to draw him back to me.
“Even Rembrandt only captured one expression from one angle. Anyhow, I’m not the sort of person anyone would suspect.”
“What about your prison record?”
“I don’t have one. One good thing about that prison, the only good thing, is that there are no records. People came in, died or didn’t die, were executed or not executed, left or didn’t leave. No one knows who was in and who wasn’t.”
“And you complain about the U.S.”
“I don’t remember making any complaints.”
“I just assumed …”
“There’s injustice everywhere. No one is exempt. It’s human nature, apparently.”
We were quiet for a while. I thought about what he’d told me, and suddenly a piece of the puzzle seemed to fall into place. “Is that where you met the prisoner you’re trying to help?” I asked. “In that prison?”
“Yes. He’s older than me, and he saved my life. I owe him this.”
“How did he end up in jail again?”
“Some old enemy seeking revenge, pointing a finger at him, accusing him of planning a terrorist act. With all the paranoia these days he didn’t stand a chance. And he was given life in maximum security, without any evidence other than his enemy’s statements and some meaningless things he had written on scraps of paper found on his desk.”
“What bad luck, to be arrested twice … but what if they try to locate everyone who ever knew the prisoner you’re trying to get released? What if they make a list of all his friends?”
“Luckily I’m not on that list.”
“Someone from that prison might remember you as his friend.”
“We were all just trying to stay alive. No one was interested in anyone else’s name or identity. The less we all knew, the better for our survival, emotionally and otherwise. Unfortunately, almost everyone who was in there with me is probably dead by now.”
“I know I shouldn’t be prying.”
“That word, prying, reminds me of something. In prison there was a man with an incredible sense of humor. If the food was particularly inedible, he would lean over and say in English,
Would I be prying if I asked you whether you detected a
hint of tarragon in the soup?
I think of him always when I make food.”
“Did he make it?”
He stared down into his coffee, and his pain showed in the way his hands held the mug. “No, he died before I left.”
“Was he executed?”
“He came down with a fever and died in the infirmary.”
“They had an infirmary in a place like that?”
“Even Nazi camps had infirmaries. It creates an illusion of normalcy, which for some reason the people in charge need to maintain. It’s just another form of torture, pretending there’s any sort of caring going on. Or maybe it’s just to prevent an epidemic that would kill everyone off and also jeopardize the guards.”
