The Book of Revelation (6 page)

Afterwards, when she had loosened the rings and he was lying on his side, she spoke to him again. “That question you were asking before. Well, the answer’s no. We’re not finished with you yet, not by a long chalk.”

She paused.

“Is that the correct phrase? It sounds kind of strange.”

•

Later that night, when the door opened again, he tensed. He knew it off by heart by now, that sequence of sounds—a squeak as the handle turned, a click as the lock slid sideways in its chamber, a creak as the door moved on its hinges. . . . It meant that something was about to happen, something that could neither be predicted nor controlled. He lay motionless, his bowels stinging, oddly wet, and watched through half-closed eyes as one of the women dimmed the centre-lights. A sigh came out of him. For hours now, the glare of those three lights had burned through the thin skin of his eyelids, seeming to illuminate the whole of the interior of his head. There had been nowhere he could go for privacy, not even inside himself.

He saw two women move towards him, bringing a tin bowl brimming with hot water and a pile of soft white towels. They kneeled on either side of him. Steam rose from the bowl, a ghostly flickering. One of the women dipped a flannel in the bowl, then wrung it out. The glassy trickle of the water. . . .

He flinched when they first touched him, and one of them murmured in Dutch, words that were probably intended to reassure or comfort him. He found unexpected tenderness confusing. Once again, he had the impression that the women were not all of one mind, that the actions of one could invoke the disapproval of the others, that there were differences, in other words, but he still did not feel capable of exploiting these differences to his advantage.

In fact, if anything, he felt less capable now. After his humiliation of that evening, he had plunged into a kind of apathy. The feeling had stayed with him, not so much the feeling of being violated, but the orgasm that had occurred as a result, an orgasm in which he had played no part, an orgasm that had been involuntary, autonomous. It had been like a lesson in which he had been taught the true meaning of the word “powerlessness.”

You might even get some pleasure from it.

How cynical that woman was. How vicious. He would never have called it pleasure—though he had been aware of a definite physical response, like a series of pulses passing along the length of his penis, pulses which he visualised, oddly enough, as rings. It was the opposite of a normal orgasm since it had been triggered from the inside, and, at one particular point, he had experienced a curious and unpleasant sensation of delay: he felt as if he was coming when, in actual fact, the sperm was still deep inside him, still on its way. Just then the woman had murmured something in his ear, though he couldn’t remember what exactly. Another piece of mockery, no doubt.

He stared at the women kneeling on either side of him, one with shiny, slightly swollen knuckles, the other wearing nail-varnish that looked black. Though they were washing him with their usual patience and thoroughness, he thought he detected a brittle quality in the air, a wariness, even a resentment. He had broken the rules. He had been violent. Realising he could not afford to provoke them any further, he lay there quietly, with his eyes closed, as if asleep. He tried to rid his body of all longing, all tension. He tried to think of nothing. . . .

At last, the women left him. He waited until they had switched off the lights and closed the door behind them, then he opened his eyes again. He suddenly saw the room for what it was: an artificial space, a setting—a kind of stage. This was something he was familiar with, of course. The difference was, he had no say. He felt as if he was being asked to sustain a performance with no knowledge of how long it was supposed to last. If he was to survive he would have to look on it as a test of his discipline, his stamina.

It would almost certainly be the hardest test that he had ever faced.

•

In the middle of the night, with rain falling carelessly across the skylight, he woke up in possession of the names. He didn’t know where they had come from. He didn’t even seem to have played a part in their selection. They were just there, ready to be put to use.

Astrid, first of all. This was the name he would give to the tallest of the women, the one with the faint American accent and the photo model’s body. From the very beginning, he had detected a grudge in her. Trouble, he had thought instinctively, would come from that direction. Well, he’d been right about that. What’s more, when she took off her clothes for him and he failed to respond, he had almost certainly insulted her, which had only fuelled her hostility, a hostility she had unleashed on the night of her assault on him. She had claimed to be punishing him, but she had administered the punishment with a ferocity and a relish that bore little or no relation to the offence. Astrid suited her. It was beautiful, as she was, but it also cast a cold, astringent shadow. Rearranged, it almost spelled “disaster.”

The next name that had come to him was Gertrude. A name like Gertrude had connotations of strength and leadership, which made it ideal for the woman with the white hands and the darkly painted nails. She had laid down the rules on the first day. She did most of the talking. She wore the type of shoes that the police wear. He had the feeling she had been the brains behind the plan to abduct him; she seemed to display all the right qualities—clarity, authority, audacity. He thought she might be older than the others, though this was a hunch based on nothing more than the sound of her voice and the way she moved around the room. True or not, he would still have been prepared to bet that she was the principal decision-maker.

That left Maude. At best, there was something cosy and dependable about the name. At worst, it was heavy, lumpen, just plain slow. It would act as a net for the many unlikely characteristics of the woman with the bitten nails. After all, she carried out most of the chores. She fed him, washed him, shaved him, took him to the toilet. She was reliable and willing. She did not complain. There was also a naïve side to her that didn’t seem at odds with a name like Maude. She seldom spoke, but, when she did, the others usually found her entertaining.
Because we love you. Because you’re beautiful
. And, once, he had woken to discover her—it could only have been her—lying against him in the dark, her body pressed to his. Perhaps that was all she asked of him, that physical proximity, that solace. . . .

The rain was still falling, flecking the skylight’s glass with silver.

Gertrude, Astrid, Maude. . . .

The names seemed peculiarly appropriate, suggesting a hierarchy, a secret court, in which each woman played a distinct role. And yet, at the same time, they had that “d” in common. Almost as if they shared the same root. This link between the names acted as a kind of understudy to the far more complex link between the women themselves, a link which he had not, as yet, been able to divine. But, lying there, an idea occurred to him: Astrid’s open hostility towards him, Maude’s downtrodden, almost masochistic nature . . . and Gertrude?—well, he didn’t know, but might it not be true that the three women were all, in their different ways, damaged somehow, and that it was the damage they had suffered that had brought them together?

His heart was beating loudly now. He moved his face towards the ring that held his right wrist, located his right eye in the narrow bar of stainless steel and gave himself a wink.

It was a long time before sleep took him.

•

They came to him early in the morning, dark clouds above his head, the skylight trembling as thunder rumbled over it. They came and stood in front of him, all three of them, in their usual hoods and cloaks. He grinned despite himself. He had named them, and they did not know. He had discovered for himself a kind of power—a modest power, admittedly, no match for theirs, but valuable all the same. In their new ignorance, the women seemed less daunting.

“You feel good today?” Astrid said.

His smile lasted, but he did not reply.

Gertrude stepped forwards. They had a proposal, she said. If he went along with it he would be rewarded. He looked up at her, imagining her pointed nose, her skin that flushed too easily. And what would his reward be? he wondered. Freedom? It seemed unlikely. Still, he was in no position to bargain.

“What’s the proposal?” he said.

On the following night, she said, there was to be a banquet, and they had decided that he would play a special part in it. In fact, the event was to revolve around him—quite literally: instead of arranging the food on a table, they would arrange it on his naked body. They would sit around him, on cushions. It was a wonderful idea, wasn’t it? An inspiration. Before he could react, she informed him he would have to wear a hood throughout the dinner. Clearly, he could not be allowed to set eyes on the guests. That was one reason. But also, if he wore a hood, his identity would be protected. The guests would see him as a beautiful man—beautiful, and anonymous.

Maude murmured something, but Gertrude ignored her.

His feet would be chained together, she went on, but his hands would be left free. However, he should not move at all, or make a sound, not unless it was absolutely necessary. He should not speak—obviously. That would break the spell.

“If you do,” Astrid said, “there will be repercussions.”

He didn’t need to ask her to elaborate.

“And the reward?” he said.

“That will be negotiated afterwards.” Gertrude paused. “Can we trust you?”

He nodded slowly.

“Really?” she said. “We’re expecting some important people.”

“Do I have a choice?” he said.

•

That night he dreamed that Milo, a dancer in the company, had died. In the dream he was travelling on a bus through a country that he didn’t recognise. He supposed he must be on tour, between performances. Vivian and Carmela were sitting behind him, talking about how sad it was. Turning in his seat, he interrupted them, saying that he didn’t know, he hadn’t heard. Was it really true?

Oh yes,
Vivian said, her eyelashes dark and wet.
His heart just stopped
.

But I only saw him on Friday
—

I know,
Vivian said.
It happened really suddenly
. She put her arm round Carmela, who had started to cry.

He sat back and stared out of the window. The bus shifted into a lower gear. They were passing through mountains now, lush green mountains draped in mist. . . . He could see Milo so clearly—his pale, almost sickly complexion, and his compact, muscular physique. He thought of the histrionic stomach pains that Milo had in class most mornings—his nickname in the company was Milodrama—and yet, despite these afflictions, whether real or imaginary, despite his size too, Milo could jump higher than anybody else, Milo could make space crackle. . . . He remembered how Milo had drunk three glasses of champagne in a restaurant in Buenos Aires once, and how he had then danced an extraordinary, impromptu tango with Fernanda. When it was over, the people eating there had given them a standing ovation. . . .

Little Milo, dead.

When he woke up he lay there quietly. Though he was sure it wasn’t true, the dream had nonetheless disturbed him. It had the stillness of a premonition, the eerie tangibility of the future tense. Yet, at the same time, paradoxically, it felt like reality, or even memory, and because of that, perhaps, it reminded him of what he had lost. Most people have no knowledge of the dancer’s world—how small it is, how intimate, and how complete; it’s a world within the world, and everything you need is there—work, friendship, passion, laughter, love. It was the world he had lived in since he was fourteen years old, and now he had been torn away from it, and it was going on without him. He had no news of it, and he felt alone, so terribly alone. The dream had made that clear to him, more vividly than anything the three women had said or done. He kept going over it and over it, trying to bring back something else, another moment from the journey, another fragment of conversation, until at last the door-handle at the far end of the room turned slowly clockwise and the woman he called Maude walked in.

•

She kneeled on the mat beside him. “You’re unhappy?”

“I had a bad dream,” he said.

“You can tell me, if you like. . . .”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m sorry for your dream.”

Perhaps it was her imperfect English, or perhaps it was just that she had tried to show him sympathy, but, in that moment, he felt as if he knew exactly what she looked like. Her face was round, with features that seemed to crowd into the middle—all cheeks, in other words, but no chin to speak of, and not much forehead. When she found something amusing, her eyes would half close like a cat’s, and small tucks would appear at the corners of her mouth. She would age well, he thought. In fact, she probably would not age at all.

He allowed her to wash him, to clean his teeth, to take him to the toilet. The sight of the word
Sphinx
raised its usual, wry smile. Back in the room, she brought him his breakfast. They had started giving him the sort of food that he was used to: breakfast was cereal and fruit, for instance, and two or three cups of herb tea.

Almost as soon as he had finished eating, the preparations for the banquet began. While the work was going on, he was kept blindfolded. He lay there and listened to the women talking quickly among themselves in Dutch. Every now and then they called out to him, as if they wanted him to share in the excitement, but he still felt weighed down by the melancholy that he had woken with that morning.

On the removal of the blindfold an hour or two later he found that he was lying inside a structure that resembled a tent, only it was a tent built out of the most sumptuous fabrics, crimson and violet and gold, and furnished with tropical plants, carpets of hand-woven silk, and leather cushions that had been embroidered with velvet, mirror-glass and suede. He could have been transported to a Berber dwelling high in the Atlas Mountains.