He held a large knife in his right hand.
TWENTY ONE
Susan gasped at the sight of the blade.
“Trust me, darling,” I said gently.
I wanted to prove to her that this brute was entirely tamed, and I could think of no better way to convince her than to exert iron control of him while he worked with a knife.
She and I knew, from recent experience, how much Shenk enjoyed using sharp instruments: the way they felt in his big hands, the way soft things yielded to them.
When I sent Shenk to the bed, Susan pulled her ropes taut again, tense with the expectation of violence.
Instead of loosening the knots that he himself had tied earlier, Shenk used the knife to cut the first of the ropes.
To distract Susan from her worst fears, I said, “One day, when we have made a new world, perhaps there’ll be a movie about all of this, you and me. Maybe Ms. Mira Sorvino could play you.”
Shenk cut the second rope. The blade was so sharp that the four-thousand-pound nylon line split as if it were thread, with a crisp snick.
I continued: “Ms. Sorvino is a bit young for the role. And, frankly, she has larger breasts than you do. Larger but, I assure you, no prettier than yours.”
The third rope succumbed to the blade.
“Not that I have seen as much of her breasts as I have of yours,” I clarified, “but I can project full contours and hidden features from what I have seen.”
As Shenk bent over Susan, working on the ropes, he never once looked her in the eyes. He kept his cruel face averted from her and maintained an attitude of humble subservience.
“And Sir John Gielgud could play Fritz Arling reasonably well,” I suggested, “though in fact they look nothing alike.”
Shenk touched Susan only twice, only briefly, and only when it was utterly necessary. Although she flinched from his touch both times, there was nothing lascivious or even slightly suggestive about the contact. The rough beast was entirely businesslike, working efficiently and quickly.
“Come to think of it,” I said, “Arling was Austrian and Gielgud is English, so that’s not the best choice. I’ll have to give that one more thought.”
Shenk severed the last rope.
He walked to the nearest corner of the room and stood there, holding the knife at his side, staring at his shoes.
Indeed, he was not interested in Susan. He was listening to the wet music of Fritz Arling, an inner symphony of memories that were still fresh enough to keep him entertained.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, unable to take her eyes off Shenk, Susan cast off the ropes. She was visibly trembling.
“Send him away,” she said.
“In a moment,” I agreed.
“Now.”
“Not quite yet.”
She got up from the bed. Her legs were shaky, and for a moment it seemed that her knees would fail her.
As she crossed the chamber to the bathroom, she braced herself against furniture where she could.
Every step of the way, she kept her eyes on Shenk, though he continued to appear all but oblivious of her.
As she began to close the bathroom door, I said, “Don’t break my heart, Susan.”
“We have a deal,” she said. “I’ll respect it.”
She closed the door and was out of my sight. The bathroom contained no security camera, no audio pickup, no means whatsoever for me to conduct surveillance.
In a bathroom, a self-destructive person can find many ways to commit suicide. Razor blades, for instance. A shard of mirror. Scissors.
If she was to be both my mother and lover, however, I had to have some trust in her. No relationship can last if it is built on distrust. Virtually all radio psychologists will tell you this if you call their programs.
I walked Enos Shenk to the closed door and used him to listen at the jamb.
I heard her peeing.
The toilet flushed.
Water gushed into the sink.
Then the splashing stopped.
All was quiet in there.
The quiet disturbed me.
A termination of data flow is dangerous.
After a decent interval, I used Shenk to open the bathroom door and look inside.