One Way or Another: A Novel (10 page)

He picked up the phone and summoned his plane. He would leave at once for the yacht. He would take care of business, return the same day. There were advantages to being rich, after all.

17

ANGIE

I knew I was still on the yacht and that it was moored, not because I could see out but because all movement had stopped. I heard excited shouting, the harsh run of rope, the rattle of chain, then the stillness with just the sound of men’s voices, the cry of a curlew, the groan of the ship against the fenders as it heaved into place.

My hands were bound. There was a gag in my mouth. I did not know how long I had lain on this bed, and now the fact that it was a bed and not a bunk registered. I reached out my hands, bound at the wrists, rolled over a little so I could touch either side of me: cotton sheets, a soft blanket. I did not need to touch my body to know that I was naked. Had I been raped? I felt nothing, no pain, no trickle of blood, no headache. I felt almost normal. Except for one thing.

Lifting my bound hands I touched my face. Higher until I managed to touch my forehead. Back a little. Enough to know.
They had cut off all my hair. My beautiful, long red hair.
The only thing under my fingers was a faint, harsh stubble and a long line of stitches holding together my broken scalp.

Tears coursed down my cheeks, ran into my mouth. I was bald as any baby and I was crying for the hair that had been my only claim to beauty. It occurred to me, through my tears, that I might well be crying for my life too, because I was sure as hell about to lose it. I was trapped on Ghulbian’s boat. I knew it must be him.

The pillow was wet with my tears. I rolled my head to one side in an attempt to escape the cold dampness but now it was under my cheek and still the tears kept on flowing, adding to the soggy mess.

Tears. What good were they? What had tears ever done for mankind other than express grief? Could I really be lying here bound and gagged, a prisoner not knowing my fate, only that it was likely to end in my death, crying like any vain woman for my lost hair? Had it not grown in again when I’d had the cropped Audrey Hepburn look all those years ago? But that was by choice. This was abuse of a kind the perpetrator understood very well. Sadistic. That was the correct word for the man who had done this to me; Ahmet Ghulbian was a sadist.

Eyes closed under the bandage, I thought of Ghulbian telling me to go shopping, buy whatever I liked; after all, he’d said, a girl would need pretty things on a yacht trip. And oh how I had enjoyed that, starting from bare skin up with the prettiest, softest, sexiest little underthings that felt like a second skin on my own, and which also looked, I had to admit, sensational on the body I had toned at the gym at five every morning, five days a week.

The only shadow over my enjoyment had been the thought that I was going to have to show myself in these flimsy outfits to Ghulbian who, while not uninterested in sex, was a man who preferred to devour with his eyes. A voyeur mostly, which left a girl unsatisfied and wondering what she had done wrong that she could not stimulate him sufficiently to make him want to devour her with his mouth, to penetrate her, hard and fast the way I liked. With Ahmet—I cannot go on calling him by his last name, I know him too intimately for that—with Ahmet what you got in a fast few minutes was all you got. Then it was back to business: his phone, his iPad, his inner thoughts, which left a woman very much alone.

If only he had left me alone in the end. Simply sent me on my way with my small suitcase of new clothes, tottering a bit on my new Louboutins, a cheery goodbye and thanks it was lovely maybe we’ll see each other again …

But that was not to be. I remember opening my eyes when I’d felt Ahmet on top of my naked body. I felt his excitement as he pressed himself between my open legs. The next thing I’d felt was the edge of the knife against my throat. I glanced quickly down, saw the gleam of sharp steel, moaned out loud in fear, felt the blade press harder, nicking my skin, felt the thin stripe of blood that now lay over the small wound. He’d yelled out, pushing the knife deeper with one hand. I’d been too afraid even to scream as he raped me.

It was over. He climbed off me. I was still alive. I was still afraid I was going to die but with what had just happened, also fighting the horror, the pain, the man I had not really known, I silently wished I could die right now, this minute.

There were sounds. A door opening. Ahmet was now standing by the bed. He was talking to someone. A woman, who answered in a low voice. Neither of them addressed me and I lay like a frozen slab of meat in the very center of that luxurious bed, stained now with my blood and the excesses of gratified masculine sex.

I heard the woman’s footsteps coming toward me, heard the door close behind Ghulbian, did not dare open my eyes and look upon my fate. I felt her breath on my cheek. She was bent over me, staring directly into my face. Then the sudden vicious prick of a needle in my arm made me whimper. And I knew nothing more.

*   *   *

When I came around I had no idea of how much time had passed. I raised a hand, touched my naked head, held back the moan, told myself at least I was alive. Or was I dreaming again, hovering somewhere between reality and memory? Unable to bring myself even to try to open my eyes, I listened. The soft slap of water against the hull of the boat was all I heard. Not even the cry of gulls. Did that mean I was somewhere out at sea, too far for the greedy gulls to follow, kept at the harbor by the promise of easy food?

I listened again: the slap of the water was rhythmic, quiet, a tiny swell that barely rocked the boat. If we were anchored out at sea surely there would have been more movement. More sound. We had to be in a harbor. And if we were, there must be other boats, other people.

I was suddenly aware that someone was in the room with me. I heard the soft rasp of breath, the quiet subtle movement a leg made swinging gently back and forth. Whoever it was sat opposite, watching me.

Eyes tight shut, still as any mouse, I wished my own breath to be silent so whoever it was might think me already dead. I wished I were dead, oh how I wished. No! I did not. I did not want to die, here at the mercy of the silent watcher. Why had he not already killed me? Was he another pervert, a sadist, wanting to watch me die slowly, painfully? Yet I was not in pain. What’s more, my hands were no longer bound. Nor were my feet. I was free to stand, to move if I wished.

I lay for a moment longer, asking myself if I was really ready for what I might see, who I might see, what might happen if I opened my eyes, came face to face with my potential killer? I thought of my mother, of her courage in the face of her own death, and knew I must.

Putting my hands on either side, I levered myself upright, opened my eyes, and looked directly into the gaze of the woman watching me. Stunned, I said not a word and neither did she.

Her black hair spiraled from her scalp with a life of its own in sharp Medusa-like twists. Instinctively, I put up a hand to feel for my own soft locks, only to experience the shock of the loss all over again. Somehow I knew this woman had done it. She had cut off my natural glory and she had enjoyed every second. What, I wondered, would she do next?

She spoke.

“Do you know your name?”

I nodded.

“Tell me your name.”

“Angie.”

She nodded.

I watched carefully, wondering when she would make her move against me.

“My name is Mehitabel. You will never forget it.”

I knew that name, it came back to me now, something charming, gentle, a cat in a poem, wasn’t it? There was nothing sweetly catlike about this Mehitabel unless it was in the slant of the dark, watchful eyes and the long, clawlike nails, though hers were painted a flawless crimson. She was wearing a gray dress, sleeveless. I could see the muscles in her golden-tan arms ripple as she leaned toward me, smoothing her skirt, still staring intently into my own frightened eyes.

“I have instructions you are not to be bound,” she said. “You will do as you are told, move only when I say you might. We are to take a helicopter ride. You will be strapped in the seat next to me. You will act as if we are friends. The pilot is not to know anything different. I have your small suitcase with your new things. You chose well, particularly the undergarments.” She gave me the smile that lifted only the pointed corners of her scarlet-painted mouth, mean and spiteful. “They will look good on you.”

I became suddenly aware again of my nakedness and hung my head, shamed in front of her. Was she another part of this strange, terrible game I found myself in? Was I to be subjected to a different kind of sexual humiliation? She leaned closer and I felt her fingers on my nipples, shrank from her in shock.

“What a beautiful body you have, Angie,” she whispered, using my name for the first time.

Then suddenly she got to her feet, thrust a bundle of clothes at me, told me briskly to put them on. “You may take a shower first,” she said, already on her way to the door. “I will come back for you in ten minutes.”

I scrambled painfully to my feet. The bathroom was small but it had a window I could see out of.

The boat was moored at a middling-size dock. Yellowish lights beamed from high above and I realized it was night though I had no idea of the time. I saw people coming toward the boat, pushing trolleys piled with baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables. Live chickens squawked in cages. Fish leaped in water-filled glass containers. Crates full of bottles: Evian, Pellegrino, Badoit. Ghulbian and Mehitabel lived well on this grand yacht but there could be no escape for me from this small window.

I turned and looked around the cabin: cream colors and a pale leafy green, a delicate antique gold-rimmed mirror over an old-fashioned organdy-skirted vanity complete with a silver brush set and an embroidered little stool where some old movie diva might have sat to put on her lipstick and fix her hair. It was a room from another era.

I could stand the sweat on my body no longer. I went quickly into the shower, soaped myself, let the cool water slide off me, off my bald head. I wrapped myself in a luxurious towel, soft enough to feel pleasant, crisp enough to dry properly. I even rubbed lotion into my newly clean limbs; the scent was the old Guerlain, L’Heure Bleue. I wondered, did they even make it these days? It was delicious though and gave me a small respite from the horror of my situation, until I remembered the perfume’s name alluded to the hour between the end of the workday and the start of the proper evening: the “blue dusk” hour when men met their mistresses to make love. Oh, God, how strange was this? Was this Mehitabel’s perverse sense of humor?

I got to my feet, went and looked in the spacious closet. It was empty. Wait, though, at the very back a garment swung on a padded satin hanger. I stared at it. The temptation was too much; I had to look, maybe I would find to whom it belonged, to whom this stateroom belonged.

It was a pale blue-green chiffon, draping softly from thin straps, swirling gently at the hem. I held it to me. Looked in the mirror. Saw my naked head, the bold new woman I was, and almost fainted from shock. Then my self-respect, my body awareness, and my selfishness struck me like a blow. There were women around the world who had lost their hair under terrible circumstances, whose bodies were mutilated by cancer, who stood up for themselves, for their integrity, their inner self and the beauty they knew they still owned. I was nothing compared with them. I was not devastated by sickness. What I was, was a victim.

In that moment I knew that if I were about to die, then I was going to do it in this dress. It wasn’t a matter of courage, of defiance, of self-esteem. It was simply that I finally understood who I was. After all these years of being Angie the greeter at the pseudo-posh eatery in Manhattan, if I was to die, I wanted to be someone when I met my maker.

“Put it on,” I heard Mehitabel say.

I swung around, the dress clutched against my nakedness. I had not heard her come in.

“Get dressed, and quickly.”

Her voice snapped at me.

“The underthings are there. Hurry, now. You no longer have ten minutes. You have one.”

I scrambled into the undies, threw the dress over my head, got my arms stuck, struggled with it. She did not come to my aid. Finally, I had it on, smoothed it along my flanks, patted it over my breasts. Automatically, I put up my hands to fix my hair, felt the tears sting as I realized again the truth.

“The helicopter is waiting.”

Mehitabel took my arm, led me out the door along the ship’s deck to the stern. Hers was the long stride of an athlete, a woman who made her body into steel, a weapon to be used against you if necessary.

The helicopter was white, its rotor blades already turning. I could see the pilot at the helm. No one sitting next to him, no one behind him in the passenger area. Mehitabel pushed me up in front of her. There were six seats. She indicated one at the end and I went and sat there, obedient as a child. And as though I were a child, she strapped me in, clicked the seat belt, took the seat opposite me, and before I knew it we were airborne.

The ride must have been forty minutes, an hour maybe. I had no idea of time, it was all simply a sequence of events. I was flying into the dark and did not know where I was going or even where I was. I struggled to find the spirit to care anymore.

Then we were landing, soft as a bird on a grassy meadow, blindingly green under the helicopter’s down-lights. A golf cart with a merrily tasseled striped canopy was waiting as we stepped out. Mehitabel grasped my arm and we took our seats in the cart and were off again.

We drove for several minutes. The lights on the cart were very low, all I could see was what looked like meadowland with here and there the brownish glint of water. And then a house loomed out of the darkness. Large, impressive, and with only a single light over the entrance.

The cart stopped, Mehitabel got out. She came around to my side, took my arm roughly, jerked me out, walked me to the big double wooden doors studded with bronze nail heads. She opened the door then turned and looked at me.