Vanish (15 page)

DEERFIELD ROAD.

For a long time, we drive.

I watch the road signs, reading the names of the towns we are passing through. RESTON and

ARLINGTON and WOODBRIDGE. I look at people in other cars, and I wonder if any of

them can see the silent plea in my face. If any of them cared. A woman driver in the next lane

glances at me, and for an instant our eyes meet. Then she turns her attention back to the road.

What did she see, really? Just a redheaded girl in a black dress, going out for a good time.

People see what they expect to see. It never occurs to them that terrible things can look pretty.

I begin to catch glimpses of water, a wide ribbon of it, in the distance. When the van finally

stops, we are parked at a dock, where a large motor yacht is moored. I did not expect tonight’s

party to be on a boat. The other girls are craning their necks to see it, curious about what this

enormous yacht looks like inside. And a little afraid, too.

The Mother slides open the van door. “These are important men. You will all smile and be

happy. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mother,” we murmur.

“Get out.”

As we scramble from the van, I hear Olena say, in a slurred voice, “Fuck yourself, Mother,”

but no one else hears her.

Tottering on high heels, shivering in our dresses, we walk single file up the ramp and onto the

boat. On the deck, a man stands waiting for us. Just by the way the Mother hurries forward to

greet him, I know this man is important. He gives us a cursory glance, and nods in approval.

Says in English, to the Mother: “Take them inside and get a few drinks in them. I want them in

the mood when our guests arrive.”

“Yes, Mr. Desmond.”

The man’s gaze pauses on Olena, who is swaying unsteadily near the railing. “Is that one going

to cause us trouble again?”

“She took the pills. She’ll be quiet.”

“Well, she’d better be. I don’t want her acting up tonight.”

“Go,” the Mother directs us. “Inside.”

We step through the doorway into the cabin, and I am dazzled by my first glimpse. A crystal

chandelier sparkles over our heads. I see dark wood paneling, couches of cream-colored suede.

A bartender pops open a bottle, and a waiter in a white jacket brings us flutes of champagne.

“Drink,” the Mother says. “Find a place to sit and be happy.”

We each take a flute and spread out around the cabin. Olena sits on the couch beside me,

sipping champagne, crossing her long legs so that the top of her thigh peeks out through the

slit.

“I’m watching you,” the Mother warns Olena in Russian.

Olena shrugs. “So does everyone else.”

The bartender announces: “They’re here.”

The Mother gives Olena one last threatening look, then retreats through a doorway.

“See how she has to hide her fat face?” Olena says. “No one wants to look at
her.
”

“Shh,” I whisper. “Don’t get us into trouble.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, my darling little Mila, we are already in trouble.”

We hear laughter, and hearty greetings between colleagues. Americans. The cabin door opens

and all the girls snap straight and smile as four men walk in. One is the host, Mr. Desmond,

who met us on the deck. His three guests are all men, all nicely dressed in suits and ties. Two

of them are young and fit, men who walk with the confident grace of athletes. But the third man

is older, as old as my grandfather and far heavier, with wire-rimmed glasses and graying hair

that is giving way to inevitable baldness. The guests gaze around the room, inspecting us with

clear interest.

“I see you’ve brought in a few new ones,” the older man says.

“You should come by the house again, Carl. See what we have.” Mr. Desmond gestures

toward the bar. “Something to drink, gentlemen?”

“Scotch would be good,” says the older man.

“And what about you, Phil? Richard?”

“Same for me.”

“That champagne will do nicely.”

The boat’s engines are now rumbling. I look out the window and see that we are moving,

heading out into the river. At first the men do not join us. Instead they linger near the bar,

sipping their drinks, talking only to one another. Olena and I understand English, but the other

girls know only a little, and their mechanical smiles soon fade to looks of boredom. The men

discuss business. I hear them talk about contracts and bids and road conditions and casualties.

Who is vying for which contract and for how much. This is the real reason for the party;

business first, then fun. They finish their drinks, and the bartender pours another round. A few

final pleasantries before they fuck the whores. I see the glint of wedding rings on the hands of

the three guests, and I picture these men making love to their wives in big beds with clean

sheets. Wives who have no idea what their husbands do, in other beds, to girls like me.

Even now, the men glance our way, and my hands begin to sweat, anticipating the evening’s

ordeal. The older one keeps looking toward Olena.

She smiles at him, but under her breath she says to me in Russian: “What a pig. I wonder if he

oinks when he comes.”

“He can hear you,” I whisper.

“He can’t understand a word.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Look, he’s smiling. He thinks I’m telling you how handsome he is.”

The man sets his empty glass on the bar and crosses toward us. I think he wishes to be with

Olena, so I stand up to make room for him on the couch. But it is my wrist he reaches for, and

he stops me from leaving.

“Hello,” he says. “Do you speak English?”

I nod; my throat has gone too dry to answer. I can only gaze at him in dismay. Olena rises from

the couch, flashes me a sympathetic look, and wanders away.

“How old are you?” he asks.

“I am . . . I am seventeen.”

“You look much younger.” He sounds disappointed.

“Hey Carl,” Mr. Desmond calls out. “Why don’t you take her for a little stroll?”

Already, the other two guests have chosen their companions. One of them is now leading

Katya away, down the corridor.

“Any stateroom will do,” our host adds.

Carl stares at me. Then his hand tightens around my wrist, and he leads me down the corridor.

He pulls me into a handsome stateroom, paneled with gleaming wood. I back away, my heart

hammering as he locks the door. When he turns back to me, I see that his pants are already

bulging.

“You know what to do.”

But I don’t; I have no idea what he expects, so I am shocked by the sudden blow. His slap

sends me to my knees and I huddle at his feet, bewildered.

“Don’t you listen? You stupid slut.”

I nod, dropping my head and staring at the floor. Suddenly I understand what the game is, what

he craves. “I’ve been very bad,” I whisper.

“You need to be punished.”

Oh god. Let this be over soon.

“Say it!”
he snaps.

“I need to be punished.”

“Take off your clothes.”

Shaking now, terrified of being hit again, I obey. I unzip my dress, pull off my stockings, my

underwear. I keep my gaze lowered; a good girl must be respectful. I am completely silent as I

stretch out on the bed, as I open myself to him. No resistance, just subservience.

As he undresses, he stares at me, savoring his view of compliant flesh. I swallow my disgust

when he climbs on top of me, his breath sharp with scotch. I close my eyes and concentrate on

the growl of the engines, on the slap of water against the hull. I float above my body, feeling

nothing as he thrusts into me. As he grunts and comes.

When he is finished, he does not even wait for me to dress. He simply rises, puts on his

clothes, and walks out of the stateroom. Slowly, I sit up. The boat’s engines have quieted to a

low purr. Looking out the window, I see that we are returning to land. The party is over.

By the time I finally creep from the stateroom, the boat is once again docked, and the guests

have left. Mr. Desmond is at the bar sipping the last of the champagne, and the Mother is

gathering together her girls.

“What did he say to you?” she asks me.

I shrug. I can feel Desmond’s eyes studying me, and I am afraid of saying the wrong thing.

“Why did he choose you? Did he say?”

“He only wanted to know how old I was.”

“That’s all?”

“It’s all he cared about.”

The Mother turns to Mr. Desmond, who has been watching us both with interest. “You see? I

told you,” she says to him. “He always goes for the youngest one in the room. Doesn’t care

what they look like. But he wants them young.”

Mr. Desmond thinks about this for a moment. He nods. “I guess we’ll just have to keep him

happy.”

Olena wakes up to find me standing at the window, staring out through the bars. I have lifted

the sash and cold air pours in, but I do not care. I want only to breathe in fresh air. I want to

cleanse the evening’s poison from my lungs, my soul.

“It’s too cold,” Olena says. “Close the window.”

“I am suffocating.”

“Well, it’s freezing in here.” She crosses to the window and pulls it shut. “I can’t sleep.”

“Neither can I,” I whisper.

By the glow of moonlight that shines through the grimy window, she studies me. Behind us,

one of the girls whimpers in her sleep. We listen to the sound of their breathing in the darkness,

and suddenly there is not enough air left in the room for me. I am fighting to breathe. I push at

the window, trying to raise it again, but Olena holds it shut.

“Stop it, Mila.”

“I’m dying!”

“You’re hysterical.”

“Please open it. Open it!” I’m sobbing now, clawing at the window.

“You want to wake up the Mother? You want to get us in trouble?”

My hands have cramped into painful claws, and I cannot even clutch the sash. Olena grabs my

wrists.

“Listen,” she says. “You want air? I’ll get you some air. But you have to be quiet. The others

can’t know about it.” I am too panicked to care what she’s saying. She grabs my face in her

hands, forces me to look at her. “You did not see this,” she whispers. Then she pulls

something from her pocket, something that gleams faintly in the darkness.

A key.

“How did you—”

“Shhh.” She snatches the blanket from her cot and pulls me past the other girls, to the door.

There she pauses to glance back at them, to confirm they are all asleep, then slips the key into

the lock. The door swings open and she pulls me through, into the hallway.

I am stunned. Suddenly I’ve forgotten that I am suffocating, because we are out of our prison;

we are free. I turn toward the stairs to flee, but she yanks me back sharply.

“Not that way,” she says. “We can’t get out. There’s no key to the front door. Only the Mother

can open it.”

“Then where?”

“I’ll show you.”

She pulls me down the hallway. I can see almost nothing. I put my trust entirely in her hands,

letting her lead me through a doorway. Moonlight glows through the window, and she glides

like a pale ghost across the bedroom, picks up a chair, and quietly sets it down in the center of

the room.

“What are you doing?”

She doesn’t answer, but climbs onto the chair and reaches toward the ceiling. A trap door

creaks open above her head, and a ladder unfolds downward.

“Where does it go?” I ask.

“You wanted fresh air, didn’t you? Let’s go find some,” she says, and climbs the ladder.

I follow her up the rungs and scramble through the trap door, into an attic. Through a single

window, moonlight shines in, and I see the shadows of boxes and old furniture. The air is stale

up here; it is not fresh at all. She opens the window and climbs through. Suddenly it strikes me:

this window has no bars. When I poke my head out, I understand why. The ground is too far

below us. There is no escape here; to jump would be suicide.

“Well?” says Olena. “Aren’t you going to come out, too?”

I turn my head and see that she is sitting on the roof, lighting a cigarette. I look down again at

the ground, so far away, and my hands go clammy at the thought of climbing out onto the

ledge.

“Don’t be such a scared rabbit,” says Olena. “It’s nothing. The worst that can happen is you

fall and break your neck.”

Her cigarette glows, and I smell the smoke as she casually exhales a breath. She is not nervous

at all. At that moment, I want to be exactly like her. I want to be fearless.

I climb out the window, inch my way along the ledge, and with a heavy sigh of relief, settle

down beside her on the roof. She shakes out the blanket and throws it over our shoulders so

that we sit snug together, under a warm mantle of wool.

“It’s my secret,” she said. “You’re the only one I trust to keep it.”

“Why me?”

“Katya would sell me out for a box of chocolates. And that Nadia is too stupid to keep her

mouth shut. But you’re different.” She looks at me, a gaze that is thoughtful. Almost tender.

“You may be a scared rabbit. But you’re not stupid, and you’re not a traitor.”

Her praise makes the heat rise in my face, and the pleasure is a rush better than any drug. Better

than love. Suddenly, recklessly, I think: I would do anything for you, Olena. I move closer to

her, seeking her warmth. I have known only punishment from men’s bodies. But Olena’s

offers comfort, and soft curves, and hair that brushes like satin against my face. I watch the