Slave in Training

by Danny Tyran

  “Oh, but don’t worry about that. I will work too, so I won’t be suffering from your absence during your classes. Nevertheless, during the day and evening, even at night, you will be my slave, Max. Of course, I’ll give you time to study, but you’ll work for me the rest of the time. You’ll not have a moment to yourself. Don’t get any ideas about going out on Saturday nights with your college friends. And you’ll have to report all your comings and goings to me. If you have a free afternoon in your schedule, I would expect to find you working on your psychology courses, training yourself or taking care of your chores. If, during those hours, you must meet fellow students for doing teamwork, I prefer that you meet them at our home, whenever it’s possible, or you should tell me if it’s necessary to work elsewhere. Do you understand?”

  I understood that I had just heard him say “our home” when talking about his future home, and I was very happy. For the rest, I didn’t want anything but to serve him to the very best of my ability.

  My master gave me a whole new set of physical and mental exercises to perform in the meantime at my parents’ place. He lent me new books and described how I should write my comments on their contents. He suggested as well others to me that I could borrow from the library. I was also given a new cookbook, more international this time.

  He provided me with guides about car driving and maintenance and the Highway Code. I had read all about it, learning the rules by heart. He told me that if I could get my father or my mother to help me learn to drive, practicing with their car, it would be nice. Otherwise, he’d teach me. Thus I would be able to be his chauffeur.

  Then, as the sun had set long ago, he gave me a gift. It was a silver chain, on which hung the last white phalanx of a finger made of mother-of-pearl and wearing a silver ring.

  “This represents the gift that you shall give me when I’ll consider you have completed your slave’s training. It’s possible that at that time, I will take this one back and offer you another finger whose nacre is a different color. There are three different colors: pink, black and white, of course. Each represents a different kind of slave for me. When the time comes, I’ll offer the one that best suits your personality.”

  “What does each color mean?”

  “I don’t want to tell you right away. When the time comes, I will explain the differences and why I have decided to give you one rather than the other.”

  “Do you already know what color it’ll be?”

  “No, not for sure. But if you continue as you’ve begun, I know what it will be. As I have yet no certainty and, in total, we’ve only been together for a few days, I’d rather not tell you.”

  I then left to spend the night at my parents’ place. I’d have preferred a hundred times over to sleep on the floor next to my master’s bed, but I couldn’t do it yet. I wore my pendant against my flesh under my T-shirt; I didn’t want my parents to question me about it.

  When I arrived at my parents’ place, my mother was waiting for me. She wanted to resume the discussion about my relationship with my master, but I told her it was of no use. I locked myself in my bedroom and resumed recording the history of my relationship with James Teka. After I finished, I went to sleep and dreamed about my master. I was living in the jungle with him. That was our home. At the end of my chain hung a human finger. It was black.

  Chapter 11

  Over the next few days, my parents, especially my mother, didn’t stop asking me what I intended to do with my life. Was I was planning to go to a technical college or a university, and if so, which one and what programs would I choose. They also wanted to know whether I intended to see my master again. My mother persisted in calling him “this dude” and my father, “this guy.”

  When I told them that I had applied for admission to a technical college in Montreal and a graduate program at the University of Toronto, my mother exclaimed, “Why must you go so far?”

  “I no longer want to live here in this rat hole you call a ‘city’.”

  My father tried to play the common sense card. “But there is no hurry, son, why not go to the nearby college in the meantime, and avoid getting yourself into more debt?”

  But how to tell him that I wouldn’t be needing to pay for anything, without mentioning my master? To think that they had expected never to hear me lie to them again! I learned to avoid their questions, to approximate the truth or find a way not to respond at all.

  My legs, feet and buttocks hurt for several days. Evenings were the worst, so I spent them reading books lent or suggested by my master; then writing, with the utmost seriousness, my comments about them. One night after I came home, in a break between two chapters, I had to get up and stretch my legs. My parents looked at me quizzically, when they noticed I was limping a little, but I didn’t enlighten them about the cause. Every morning, it seemed to me that the pain became a little more distant, weaker. I almost missed it when it left.

  I practiced religiously every exercise my master had given me, and repeated the hardest ones the most. I strove to ensure my legs and feet regained all their former vigor, and more. I strengthened my body and mind for him and the life I wanted to live.

  After having obtained a temporary driver’s license, I managed to convince my father to lend me the family car and come along to help me practice. As far as I could see, driving wasn’t rocket science. I just had to focus on all the little procedures necessary to accomplish this task. It helped that I was now used to concentrating to meet more difficult challenges.

  “You learn very fast,” my father told me a week later.

  “I have an excellent teacher,” I answered him.

  “You are a diligent student. I think you’d succeed as well with any teacher.”

  One day, during one of those car rides along a quiet road, he asked me, “Are you in love with this guy, Max?”

  I answered, “Oh, no! Let’s not have one of those horrible discussions again. I don’t know how to describe what I feel for him, Dad. It’s more profound respect and veneration than romantic love. He is my guide, the mentor whom I have chosen. I want to continue to walk in his footsteps for some time.”

  “But this notion of master and slave... I don’t understand how you can want to live in such a relationship.”

  “They are just words, Dad. Imperfect and crude to refer to something which, I suspect, has no corresponding words in any language. You know, Dad, when guys climb Everest, do you believe their way is easy? And what do they get in the end, other than some fame? Do you think they do it for that reason? Have you ever wondered what could really be their motivation? And what about all those people who want to participate in the Olympics? They live a hard life for years, spending most of their leisure time striving to achieve their goal. But why? To be able to grasp a few minutes on a podium which they may never reach? Or do they have other, more profound reasons, which they speak of only rarely and then only with those who know them the best?”

  “Yes, but those people don’t agree to be dominated by someone who inflicts unspeakable sufferings on them.”

  “You think so? Really, Dad? Look more closely. Think again.”

  “But, Max, it’s different.”

  “What’s so different?”

  This conversation was a great exercise. I had to continue to drive safely while showing good reasoning in my questions and answers. I’d probably have to do so often in the future with my master. And conversations with him would be more intense and often take a more personal and inquisitive turn, requiring all my attention. It would be difficult for me to drive well while participating in such discussions.

  “They... You...”

  “What? Tell me what you think.”

  “They don’t fuck with their coaches.”

  I laughed at my father’s hesitation and embarrassment in talking to me about sex. But it wasn’t really at him that I laughed. I rather laughed at our Judeo-Christian, almost Victorian prejudice regarding the subject. “In general, maybe indeed they do not.
But the same applies to me; I’ve never done it either.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Get the polygraph, Dad,” I replied, smiling and turning my head for a moment to look him straight in the eye.

  “But I thought you and him, you...”

  “Yes. You and mom believe a lot of wrong things. You look at the world through your narrow bourgeois vision.”

  “It is not necessary to insult us.”

  “Dad, I’m not trying to insult you. But what do you want me to say? You never left the village where you grew up. And you lead a petty bourgeois life. Tell me something that proves me wrong. Rarely, have I seen you with a book in hand, other than the Bible. And even that... How can I hope to help you understand something that is light-years ahead of your experience?”

  “We’re not so... mediocre.”

  “No. You’re not. I’d say that, overall, you are quite above average. I don’t have any reason to reproach you for the way you raised me. But, I have to jump the fence and look elsewhere.”

  “Why go somewhere else with him?”

  “Because he is the door and the key to this ‘elsewhere’ where I want to go. I will go wherever he takes me, whether you like it or not. Whatever you do, you and Mom, will not change anything. You can delay my project, but not prevent it. I heard you talk about the possibility of denouncing my master to the police. You can accuse him of assault, but what else? And what will happen if I deny it? You can try to detain me in a madhouse, so they’ll try to make me more ‘normal’. Mom thinks my master made me undergo brainwashing; it would take an incredible amount of brainwashing to make me like you want me to be. Because deep down I’m different and always will be.”

  “Are you sure this guy has nothing to do with the vision you have of yourself now?”

  “He created nothing. He only revealed what was in me since I was born.”

  During almost every one of our driving lessons, we talked about dominance and submission, and related topics. My father had doubts about several aspects of the master-slave relationship, even finding some practices objectionable. This led him to fear the implications and possible consequences of my dedication to my master. We debated our sometimes very different, but sometimes oddly similar ideas, highlighting the strengths and weaknesses of our reasoning. More than once, the depth and richness of my father’s comments surprised me. I thought I would be opening his eyes to a new world, using my experiences to discuss these questions, but I soon realized that this territory was not as unknown to him as I had believed. Despite our disagreements, our discussions brought us closer. I wondered if this was exactly what my master intended. I was only sad that my father would never dare to speak so frankly about what he thought and felt in my mother’s presence.

  There were only a few days left before my eighteenth birthday. I started to pack my bags, mainly clothes. I didn’t have much else worth the trouble of moving: some souvenirs that I wanted to keep, a photo album of my family, a watch that wasn’t working but that I kept because it reminded me of a long lost friend, my tape recorder and tapes of my story. All my goods fitted into one suitcase and a large canvas bag.

  Emptying my closet and drawers, folding and storing my meager possessions in the suitcase and bag, allowed the magnitude of the commitment I was preparing to make to penetrate. I suddenly felt dizzy at the idea of the jump ahead of me.

  During our final car ride, my father spoke to me once again about my master. I now detected in his words a certain fascination with the person he always called ‘this guy’. “Were you limping after the graduation party because of something he inflicted on you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he do to you?”

  “He tested me. He wanted me to be quite certain of my choice of lifestyle. He tried to dissuade me from going with him.”

  “Really? You really think he tried to get you to leave him?”

  “Above all, he tried to make me realize to what extent I wanted him and what he means to me.”

  “One day you spoke of punishment. Did he ever hit you?”

  “Yes, but so far he has never done it without a good reason. And, as I’ve already said, it has been nothing that I can’t bear. He doesn’t want to destroy me. He seeks to build something instead.”

  “What? What can we build by hitting a kid?”

  “You still see me as your little boy, huh? Don’t forget that you also struck me with your belt a few times. Were you looking to destroy or build, Dad?”

  “I’m not sure I was right to hit you. I am not even sure if doing that had any impact. You were always so stubborn.”

  I laughed. “I haven’t changed much, then, have I?”

  “Not in that respect. I love you, Max. I don’t want you to be hurt. And your mother is so disoriented because of all the changes she sees in you. She is afraid of losing you for good.”

  “I love you too. But whether my master was around or not, one day, I’d leave you anyway. It may be harder for you because the break is cleaner, but I’m still your son.”

  “Will you come and see us sometimes? Will you call us and write?”

  “If and when my master permits it, I most definitely will.”

  “But he has no right to prevent you from seeing your parents!”

  “He has every right as far as I’m concerned. He is my master and I am his slave, remember. I can’t be sure he’ll permit it, so I can’t promise you anything, but I don’t think that he’ll forbid it.”

  “I’ll call him, tell him what I think.”

  “If you want.” I didn’t know if my father’s intervention would change something that my master had already planned for me. But I was glad he wanted to try. My father’s desire to find some common ground about me and my master proved he was now able to recognize the existence of my master in my life and acknowledge his power over me.

  I was in the next room when he called, and I heard my father’s half of their conversation.

  “Hello Mr. Teka. It’s Michel Lemay, Max’s father.”

  “...”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I’m calling to talk about Max. I know that he intends to go with you. I talked to him about his future holidays and vacations and asked him to phone and write to us. But he told me he couldn’t promise anything, that it all depends on you.”

  “...”

  “We’d like him to spend the Christmas holidays, Easter and summer holidays with us. And I assume you don’t intend to stop him from calling and writing.”

  My father had to listen longer this time. “But this is our son we’re talking about. He’s still young and he needs us.”

  “...”

  “Yes, of course, but there must be a way to find common ground.”

  “...”

  I heard my father’s anxious reactions as he listened to the answer. “What do you suggest then?”

  “...”

  “You mean we’ll not see him for more than a few days each year?! And what about phone calls and letters?”

  “...”

  “What do you mean you can’t guarantee anything? How come he may not always be able to do it?”

  “...”

  “I don’t understand. What do you intend to do to make it impossible for him to call us or write to us?”

  “...”

  “Max is still our son, as far as I am concerned. And we love him. Promise me not to hurt him.”

  “...”

  “My God! How can you say such things to his father? How dare you tell me that it’s possible that you will be hurting my child?”

  “...”

  My father listened intently for a moment to my master’s answer, and then began to cry. It was the first time I had ever heard him do that. He began sobbing. I wanted to go and hug him, but I let him continue his conversation.

  “Max is a good boy,” he finally muttered. “It’d be a crime to destroy what is good in him.”

  “...”

  “It’s not possible to surpass one
self, Mr. Teka. Nobody can overcome their limits.”

  After a pause, my father hung up without saying another word. That day, a fair while after the phone call, he approached me, saying, “Nothing is ever easy with this guy, huh? I feel like I’ve been taking part in a boxing match and only managed to land a few ineffective blows.”

  “Nothing is easy, but nothing is impossible. So what are the points you scored?”

  “He agrees to let you come here and spend a few days with us at Christmas and next summer. He says that you can call or write regularly, since it will not harm your training or your other tasks, but there will definitely be times when it will be impossible for you to get in touch with us. I wanted to know when and why. He told me he could not say in advance when this would happen. As for the reasons, they are parts of your training.” My father grew silent. Lost in his thoughts. He passed a hand through his hair. He was frowning, and his furrowed brow was an obvious sign of his distress.

  “What did he say when you asked him about my training?”

  “Did you phone him afterward? Did he speak to you about our conversation?”

  “No. I haven’t spoken to him since our memorable celebration. It was inevitable that you would try to learn more about it. So what did he say?”

  “He answered dryly that this training concerns only you and him. I told him you were still our son and we loved you. He continued in a kinder tone of voice that he understood our concerns. But he could not promise not to test you, punish you, or hurt you. I wanted to know how he could calmly talk to a father about hurting his child. He asked me if I’d rather have him lying to me. I started to cry, Max. I sobbed in that guy’s ear. I told him you were a good boy. He said: ‘I know. I know very well, Mr. Lemay. I would not be interested in him if he had not been’. Then he repeated what he said here on Saturday evening when he came over for dinner. He said he does not want to hurt you, but he wants to help you to surpass yourself. I told him we can’t go beyond our own limits, but he only laughed and said that sometimes what we believe to be an insurmountable obstacle may actually be overcome, but even when we can’t get over certain limits, it’s very important we try to do it anyway because doing it is what one calls living, otherwise we might just as well sit and wait for death.”