Dangerous (17 page)

More applause.

“Thank you, Brent.” Val paused briefly, then assumed a more pedagogical tone.

“Art, at its most basic level, is the visual embodiment of Myth. Just as a mythology is the interface between the known and unknown, so art seeks to represent things which cannot be seen directly. Myth and Art, you see, are both a kind of lie.
Beautiful
lies which illuminate the mystery of being. Lies based on truths which transcend our mundane reality.

“One of the greatest mysteries of all is that of our own identity. Who am I?” she asked, “Or you, or any of us, for that matter? We cannot say because we are enigmas, even to ourselves. Yet we desperately wish to know.

“And so we enlist the help of others to see past the masks, into ourselves. How might this be done? Can photographs or videos alone capture our essence? No. For that, we need the hand and eye of a true artist, guided by the inspiration which flows from that place where Truth dwells.

“There were primitive people who believed a camera could steal their soul. I wonder what they would make of today’s digital technologies, with which an artist can tell bigger lies, build stronger cages for the soul—and in so doing help us to discover the core of our individual mysteries.”

As she spoke hypnotically, Val slowly walked to the leftmost of the veiled paintings. She gripped the satin and pulled away the covering.

It was the photograph of me, wearing nothing but a mermaid tail, tangled in a net between the feet of two fishermen.

Oh my god.

These weren’t my paintings, as I had been allowed to believe. They were Val’s photographs of me, taken two months earlier. And I was going to be stripped and displayed before all these people, Val’s prize butterfly.

Had Val not taken my champagne glass earlier, I would have dropped it now, as my hands clutched defensively before my chest. The room lurched. The guests gave a quiet murmur, but I scarcely heard it over the pounding of my heart.

“Here we see the essence of the model, represented in the metaphor of the classical elements. First Water, and now Earth.”

She walked to the next piece. Beneath the second shroud was another photograph of me, naked and bound in roots, writhing in an effort to struggle free. The brown smudges of dirt on my skin appeared almost black in the cool blue-green subterranean lighting. Hair had fallen to cover my eyes, but my visible mouth was open with a despairing cry. It seemed far more erotic from the camera’s perspective than it had been from mine, at the time.

“The aspect of Air,” Val said, exposing one of the fallen angel images. It was shot from chest height, looking down upon my limp body. The straps had been completely painted out and the wings now appeared an integral part of me. I lay twisted on the rocks, left wing broken with a scarlet splash staining its glowing white feathers. Blood trickled from my nose and mouth, and an arrow pierced my bare breast, a digital enhancement which hadn’t been part of the original shoot.

The tragedy and pathos of the image evoked sounds of sympathy.

“The trial of Fire,” Val said as she revealed a shot from the branding sequence.
Oh, no.
It had been snapped just before the touch of the iron, when I had believed it to be searing hot. In the photograph I was looking over my shoulder, screaming, really screaming, muscles taut as I vainly struggled to pull away. My back and thighs were slick with sweat (in reality, vegetable oil) and glistened in the hellish red light. At the far left side of the photograph, Val’s hand gripped the glowing brand. An orange glow had been added digitally, as well as a wisp of smoke.

Upon seeing this, a plump woman in front of me whispered something to her male companion.

“But beyond these known elements lies the
quintessence
, the Fifth Element, immanent within the other four. This, then, is the fundamental Truth we seek.”

Val pulled the cover from the upper picture.

I didn’t recognize it immediately, as it wasn’t part of any of the four setups. Then I remembered: the cropping I received for whining about Trish being stranded at the airport.

It was a black and white photo, very crisp, but with an asymmetric framing that gave it a kind of documentary immediacy. I lay on the hardwood floor, freshly beaten, propped up on weak arms. My anguished face was raised to Val, who stood over me with crop in hand. One could make out faint lines upon my arms, back, and legs.

The photo was raw, unrehearsed, utterly real, and the audience knew it to be of an entirely different nature from the elaborately staged elemental images.

I remembered the exchange:

“What am I?”

“My Keeper.”

It was profoundly disorienting to see that private moment laid bare, rendered from a wholly unexpected vantage point. Val must have warned Stephan to be ready for what was about to happen, so as to capture the ordeal from the kitchen doorway.

All in preparation for this precise moment, months later. I wanted to bolt, to run out of that place, but I couldn’t move.

There were gasps of astonishment from the guests. Val drank in the audience’s reaction with vast satisfaction. And gradually, all those eyes came to rest upon
me
, connecting the dots, filled with an x-ray view of my total surrender to Valeria Stregazzi. A red flower of hatred bloomed within my breast.

Val came to stand beside me like a proud mother, with her arm around my waist.

“You
lied
to me,” I hissed quietly.

“No, in fact I did not,” she whispered back. When I tried to shrug away she held tight. “This is for you, little koi. Enjoy it.”

Milton was the first to cross no-man’s land and approach us. “Wonderful, powerful images, Koishi. You are indeed an artist,” he said, loud enough for the room to hear. He shook my hand gently, and his callouses felt like warm leather.

Milton’s gesture was a calculated mercy, for the pretense of
art
was enough to take the edge off the guests’ discomfort. In art, anything is permissible so long as it stirs the soul.

Yet in the minutes which followed, that secret x-ray knowledge still brightened the eyes of everyone who came to congratulate me.
Us
, rather, for it was clear Val had been the driving force behind these images, that she was the other woman partially glimpsed in some of them, holding the branding iron, standing over me in the fifth picture.

After the shock of the photos, this prolonged display was the hardest part of the evening. Val had introduced me to everyone before the unveiling, knowing I’d be rendered that much more naked afterward. And it had worked perfectly. Even as I seethed, I could not leave her side, for outside the circle of her arm I would be alone to face the full power of my shame. Within, I was shielded.

“Such a talented girl,” a Botoxed older woman told Val. “I wonder…would you consider selling prints of these works?” The woman’s husband studied me lecherously. They both wore far too much jewelry.

“I’m sorry. The prints are not for sale.”

“Then maybe you could let her pose for us someday? My husband is a
very
good photographer, you know. Bill, dear, give her your card.”

Val took the card and promised to consider it. The couple made my skin crawl: I had no desire to learn what ridiculous kinks they practiced in their Beverly Hills mansion. If Val ever commanded me to pose for them, I’d refuse. A whipping was preferable to that.

But it was Brent’s visit I dreaded the most, and when he came forward I felt my soul shrivel like a dried leaf.

“Well, well, well,” he said to me. I couldn’t tell if he was pleased, indifferent, or shocked by the content of the photos. Humiliation chased words from my lips.

“Koishi, be a good girl and thank him for his hospitality,” Val prompted. I knew her well enough to recognize the razor-thin edge of danger under those warm tones.

“Tha…” My voice cracked. “Thank you, Brent.”

“You’ve caused quite a stir,” he said to us both. “I won’t be surprised to read about this in tomorrow’s gossip blogs. You might just be a celebrity after tonight, Koishi.” His bad-boy smile took me back to when we’d dated. He looked the same now, except for a hint of premature gray in his hair, and a few lines at the corners of his laughing eyes.

“I’m glad we didn’t disappoint,” said Val.

“I’m a little surprised at how things have turned out, though. You two seem to have hit it off since the Christmas party.”

“Oh, yes,” Val said, but I could only glower. She arranged my bangs in a motherly gesture. I fought the urge to turn my head away.

Brent sensed the dark, private energy flowing between Val and me. After another minute’s pleasantries, he blessed us and made a graceful exit. When he’d gone, Val looked at me sternly. “Someone is sulking.”

I simmered and said nothing.

She took my hand and pulled me to the hallway, under the massed gaze of the room. There, she found the hall bathroom and drew me inside before closing the door. As the motion-sensing light flickered on, she faced me and pressed close, forcing me hard against the edge of the marble sink.

“Why, I believe doll is shocked,” she purred, kissing my unyielding lips with rising heat. “Doll is angry.”

My vision distorted, and hot tears traced wet tracks down my cheeks, to be tasted by Val. When I tried to push her away she caught my wrists in an iron grip. I began to quietly cry with the evening’s accumulated rage and shame.

“I hate you,” I spat.

“For now, yes. But I know you, Koishi mine. Each outrage makes you crave me more, in the end.”

I tried to pull my hands free, and failed. The struggle only made us both breathe faster. Val’s pale face was flushed; her face bore a new expression, that of extreme, selfish pleasure. She pinned me with her eyes before yanking up my skirt and thrusting her hand roughly between my legs. I made a wordless growl of anger and…not lust, but something akin to it. When I made a stronger effort to get out from under her, she slapped me hard enough to briefly star my vision.

The shock of it unhinged me, and I wept. All my resistance had melted away.

“What am I?” she demanded, her lips and teeth at my neck.

I didn’t answer. I wouldn’t, this time.

She took me there, trapped in the close space of that bathroom, while my heart burned with too many emotions to name. I loved her. I wanted to kill her.

part two

13     
milton

BEFORE THE DEBUT’S end, Val had extracted a promise from Milton to meet for dinner the following night, while he was still in town. She did not ask if I was free to join them both, it was simply assumed. Were it anyone but Milton I would have seethed, perhaps even rebelled; I was that upset. But he fascinated me, and he knew things about Val I
ached
to learn.

These were Val’s instructions, emailed the next morning:

Koishi,

You will wear a short skirt and buttoned blouse tonight. Don’t bother with underwear. Here is a link with directions to Le Grand Chateau; meet us there promptly at eight.

One more thing. This evening you will refer to yourself only in the third person, with terms such as “this doll”, “she”, or “her”. No “I”, “me”, etc.

—Val

The embedded link gave directions to an old French restaurant on Lankershim, in North Hollywood. To my surprise I knew the place, having previously worked for two different effects companies in the vicinity. I’d often driven past it, but never had occasion to eat there.

Just to be safe I studied the menu and picked out complete meals for all three of us in advance. If nothing else, I might impress Milton while also denying Val the small pleasure of seeing me struggle with a task.

As it turned out, I needn’t have bothered.

§

I had forgotten it was the first day of Daylight Savings Time and very nearly left an hour late for dinner. Luckily, I saw a reminder on a web page just before it was really time for me to leave.

The evening was hot, much warmer than the night before. I discovered my car’s air conditioner had died since the last time I used it. Dammit.

I pulled up just as Milton relinquished his midnight-blue rental Jaguar to the valet; he smiled upon seeing me get out of my car. I thought he looked rather dashing.

“Good evening, Koishi,” he said warmly, his words sweetened by that soft southern accent I’d noticed last night. When he took my offered hand, it was like being caught between two gentle rocks.

“Hello…Sir,” I said, unsure of how to address him.

“Just call me Milton,” he said.

We entered the restaurant, where the air-conditioning felt cold after the warm ride here. Milton told the hostess we had a reservation under Val’s name, but that she hadn’t arrived yet. We were shown to a table beside a large, curtained window. I took the place on Milton’s right, reserving the seat opposite him for Val.

“It’s not like Vee to be late,” Milton said. “I’m sure she’ll have an interesting story to relate.”

“Vee?” I asked. Of course he meant Val, but I couldn’t tell if he used it in a cute, nicknamey sense of “Vee” or a more sinister-sounding initial “V”, as one might read in a French erotic novel filled with dark cars, stormy nights, and mysterious Châteaux run by a secret society. Each possibility lent a very different spin on their relationship.

Milton simply nodded.

Afraid to speak, I looked around. The room was half-full, and I saw half a dozen other dining parties at various tables. The restaurant was clean and well-kept, yet gave the impression of having long passed its heyday. Now that I’d had a chance to acclimate, the room still felt about five degrees too cool. I regretted not being allowed to wear a bra.

“You’ve been with Vee for some time now, yes?” Milton asked.

“About nine and a half weeks…” I stopped myself from saying “Sir.”