Vapor

by Amanda Filipacchi

  Then report came in that Damon had not been found, nor any machines that produced fog, nor any fog (I had told them the house was filled with fog instead of clouds, not wanting them to think I was crazy). They said the cage had been found empty, with its door open. There was only blood, and half a finger.

  I was very upset.

  The police sent out reports to hospitals to be on the lookout for a man with an amputated finger.

  Finally, at 3:30 in the morning, we drove back to the city. My mother cried in the car. And to my astonishment, my brother cried. My father seemed lost in thought. A couple of times he said, “How could anyone do that?”

  I slept at my parents’ apartment that night. When I woke up in late morning, my mother had a troubled, careful expression on her face, which piqued my curiosity.

  “The police called,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “They know how Damon escaped.”

  “How?”

  “Apparently … there were fifteen keys hidden in the cell.”

  I stared at her, stunned, and said, “No.”

  She frowned and shook her head. “I told them I found that hard to believe, that I was sure you would have found them. At least one.”

  I was silent for a while, thinking, and said, “I didn’t even look, really. What reason would I have to think he had hidden keys in my cell? What reason could he have?”

  “He did it in case he died. So that then you wouldn’t die. Of starvation.”

  “Are you guessing, or do you know this?”

  “At nine o’clock this morning, while the police were still inspecting Damon’s house, a video was broadcast on one of the monitors in your cell. It was a written message on the screen, saying that in case Damon died unexpectedly, or disappeared, or was, for any other reason, unable to tend to you, there were fifteen keys hidden in the cell. Then he describes in detail the fifteen hiding places. Evidently this video was programmed to go on every day at 9:00 A.M. unless he turned if off each day.”

  “So where were the keys?”

  “I only remember a few of the places, but the police can tell you the others if you want. I know one key was in the rod of the shower curtain. Another was taped behind the toilet. There was one in the leg of your bed. One was inside one of the monitors. Another was hidden in the vacuum cleaner. One was stapled under the carpet. And I forget where the others were.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The days passed, but I had trouble adjusting to the real world. It weighed on me. I was not used to facing life without Damon’s interruptions, without having to change into character many times a day. I felt caged within myself. When I fought with people now, it bothered me that I was not ordered, suddenly, to “act singular” or “bald” and was instead actually expected to continue the argument until its bitter end. It was suffocating.

  I had the urge to ask my family and friends to make me act in any way they wanted, at any time. But I never dared ask, afraid they would either take advantage or think I was insane. Instead, I settled for ordering myself, out of the blue and at awkward times, to do “angry” or “suspicious” or whatever. And I would do it, subtly, I thought, but probably not subtly enough, judging from people’s gazes.

  I had other problems as well, other confusions.

  One of them was my escape, or that strange thing I had participated in. What had it been? An escape, or a release?

  Also, I felt disturbed about having cut off Damon’s finger. Especially after hearing about the keys.

  And that was another problem. The keys. Fifteen, no less. They touched me. They moved and affected me. I didn’t need these new emotions in my emotion salad, a huge salad composed of already too many miscombined, hard-to-digest states: slices of sadness, slivers of stress, crushed exhaustion, ripe indignation, bits of bitterness, anger rind, grated outrage, hard-boiled horror, soft-boiled perspective, steamed embarrassment, a teaspoon of denial, cubes of contempt, superiority peel, canned tolerance, crunchy curiosity, dried humor, leaves of relief, a pinch of guilt, melted melancholy, and a dab of fresh fear.

  And now I was adding chunks of being “moved” and “affected”? Movement and affection were not good ingredients to add to my salad. My brain would throw up, or my heart, or my soul; wherever emotional fruits get digested. A brain throwing up; how does that manifest itself? Is it insanity? Yes, it must be; insanity is the vomit of the brain.

  But since one has little control over one’s emotional salad, the fifteen keys did, in fact, move me, and there wasn’t much I could do about it. In addition, I was furious at myself for not having searched the cell more thoroughly. What kind of a kidnapee was I?

  But the biggest problem I had after my return to the real world was that I no longer knew what I wanted to do with my life. I was tempted to abandon acting, just to spite Damon.

  After thinking about it, I decided that the great victory, of course, would be to not let Damon make any difference to how I ran my life.

  Nevertheless, something was frequently on my mind: the pursued woman. Armory Jude, the female impostor who had pretended she was the legitimate pursued woman, had, during my kidnapping, starred in three low-budget movies, due to all the attention she got. She was considered a mediocre actress with no future, but still, it was better than nothing. Nothing—that was what I had. It made me jealous; it disturbed me. It made me wonder whether I might not like to be in her shoes. I was nagged by temptations to reveal to the media that I was the real pursued woman. I fantasized about it. I tried not to, but couldn’t help myself. I decided to go and ask my mother for advice.

  I agreed to bout with her, as this was the best way for us to have a serious conversation.

  The clink of our foils echoed in the entrance hall of the building to which my father was the super. We bouted in silence for a few minutes, absorbed, ignoring the doorman or the residents who went in and out.

  Finally, as we continued, I broached the topic: “Have you heard of the pursued woman?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Well, I am the real pursued woman. The other one’s a fake.”

  “You feel pursued? Are you pursued?”

  I sighed. My mother’s mind was best described by saying that it was beside the point. She thought beside the point, and she talked beside the point, as I was sure was often the case with geniuses. It was actually an asset for fencing. To win at fencing you had to move and attack and even think in a way that was beside the point.

  “Not now,” I answered. “I’m not being pursued now, but I was then. Don’t you follow the news? The pursued woman isn’t being pursued now, she was pursued then, just one afternoon. And I am the pursued woman! It’s me!”

  “How do you know?”

  “What do you mean how do I know? I was there, being pursued by Chriskate Turschicraw, the Shell. And we were being filmed by the paparazzi. I was wearing that sweater you gave me for Christmas. Remember, the yellow one? Don’t you recognize it from the video?”

  “Okay, and?”

  “She’s getting some pretty interesting movie roles. It just seems unfair, since I’m the real one.”

  “But is it a worthwhile achievement to be chased down the street by someone famous? Couldn’t you just ask Chriskate Turschicraw, since you seem to know her, to hook you up with some connections?”

  “That would be asking for a favor, whereas the chase is something that just happened. I wasn’t trying to get anything. On the contrary.”

  “Still, I don’t think it would be very dignified to go in that direction. It would be degrading, don’t you see that?”

  “What would be degrading?” asked my father, marching toward us from the elevator. His foil was at his waist, as always, and he joined in on our bouting. My mother briefly described my dilemma.

  “Degrading indeed!” he said, stabbing me. “Don’t you have any sense of pride?”

  “Not really,” I replied. “But you both know that.”

  Despite my lack of prid
e, my parents’ advice had appeased my tormenting temptation to reveal my true identity to the media. I felt more at peace and was only left with occasional fantasies of confronting the fake pursued woman and saying to her, “I am the real you.”

  I resumed my job at the Xerox shop and my job piercing ears at my uncle’s jewelry shop. I made every effort to live my life as before. Which also meant: I started going to auditions again. Everything was now just like before, but not for long, because something extraordinary happened at the auditions: I got the parts. Although it may be hard to believe, I had not predicted it. Not that I expected not to get parts, or that I thought my acting hadn’t improved; I simply hadn’t allowed myself to think about it, afraid I would get wrapped up in the dynamics of caring, consequently getting stressed and anxious.

  I wasn’t comfortable, or even pleased, with this turn of events. It complicated my plans about my life staying the same. In addition, and on a separate level, it was offensive. Those auditioners may as well have been saying: “Yes, it was worth it. We would not be hiring you if you had not gone through such pain. Damon was absolutely right all along, down to the last shard. He did a good job. And now you will be rewarded.”

  At first my only consolation was that I was unhappy, which meant Damon had lost, which made me happy. But then I lost even my unhappiness. It was hard to be unhappy with so much respect and admiration coming my way. I tried to maintain at least my original bitterness, but it wore off too and became harder and harder to recapture. Since I couldn’t feel bitter, I settled for acting bitter. And of course I did it wonderfully. But acting it did not make me feel it. So I was unhappy again, which made me happy. I wished I could send Damon a postcard saying, “Witness my splendid unhappiness, you bastard.”

  Now that I was getting parts, I had to either give up acting or go with the flow. There was, actually, a third option, but it was too absurd to consider: I could systematically refuse the parts I was offered and keep going to auditions. My life could then be just like before, except the part about getting the parts.

  I decided instead to go with the flow. I didn’t like it, but what choice did I have? Giving up acting meant Damon had ruined my life, and refusing parts meant I was nuts.

  But I would not just go with the flow, or be dragged by it, or controlled by it: I would lead the flow.

  I turned down the four parts I was offered, because that would have been “being dragged by the flow” (for they were student movies). I got a new head-shot of myself, which I sent to three agents. All three called, I met them, was interviewed by them, and got accepted by them. The one I chose seemed intelligent and down to earth, yet nurturing.

  I auditioned for a low-budget science-fiction movie. I got it. I also auditioned for a low-budget, imitation Jane Austen movie. I got it. I was able to accept both offers because one started filming after the other ended.

  This advancement in my career didn’t make me happy the way it should have, nor unhappy the way it might have. I felt vaguely bewildered and blank. Although my decision to lead the flow was yielding results, it didn’t take away the unpleasant sensation that Damon was still controlling my life. I didn’t feel free.

  This changed as soon as the filming of the science-fiction movie began. I played a good scientist who fought the bad scientists, and the whole movie alternated between me being tough while destroying the bad scientists, and me screaming my head off while being tortured or on the verge of being destroyed. I felt exhilarated and happy. Everything else in my life, like who was controlling whom, or petty issues of freedom, seemed trivial. I was absorbed in the moment.

  I then immediately went off and did the imitation Jane Austen movie. Since all the Jane Austen novels had been made into films, the screenwriters came up with a plot that was vaguely similar to one without being one. It was also vaguely similar to my life, although they didn’t know it. The story contained a theme of transformation that had a whiff of familiarity and that occasionally brought me bad memories. The story was about a plain and homely girl, played by me, who is suddenly possessed by ambition and decides to transform herself into a more desirable person. But not wanting people to consciously notice the change, she decides to do it very gradually. There were also the essential Jane Austen ingredients, such as me and the other female characters whispering, giggling, gossiping, being obsessed with men. And some romantic intrigue. On the whole, this movie as well was a lot of fun to work on.

  Nevertheless, I often thought about Damon. Sometimes, I thought I missed him. I wondered if this might be an emotional hallucination. In any case, I did wonder what happened to him and his amputated finger.

  I started seeing the cellist/stripper/etiquette-expert/Weight Watchers counselor, Nathaniel, again. He had gotten back in touch with me after my return from my kidnapping. At first he was struck by my physical transformation, and then he wanted to know every detail of what had happened to me, and once he knew, he became concerned, and then obsessed, every time he saw me, with whether I had seen Damon again; whether Damon had attempted any form of contact.

  “No, why would he?” I asked.

  “I’m sure he will. It’s inevitable.”

  I interpreted this statement as sick jealousy.

  I asked him how Chriskate was doing.

  “She has a boyfriend,” he said. “You really helped her get over me. I thank you. Chriskate has become much more sane, easier to deal with. She and I even have lunch occasionally, as friends.”

  “I’m glad she’s happy. But I’m surprised. I didn’t think she’d ever get over you. I didn’t get the impression I was being of the slightest help to her.”

  “Maybe she just needed time to digest your wise words, whatever they were.”

  Nathaniel and I, by the way, became lovers. It happened after the filming of the imitation Jane Austen movie, and it was his doing. Under normal circumstances, I would resist the sexual overtures of a man in whom I had no strong romantic interest. But I didn’t care anymore. It all seemed of little importance. So I allowed Nathaniel to play with me. And he made good and constant use of me. The more he noticed my indifference, the more his usage became urgent. When I say I was indifferent, I don’t mean unaroused. I was indifferent to the fact that I was aroused. And I was indifferent on a more general level as well. He claimed he loved me. He said this made him happy because he never thought he’d be capable of loving someone like me.

  “Like me? What do you mean like me?”

  He didn’t want to say. I pressured him to no end. I withheld sex. He finally insinuated that what he meant by “like me” was someone whose degree of beauty was not significantly above average. I laughed. Insults to my degree of beauty had never bothered me much, but even if they had, I could not have been offended in this case: he hadn’t been able to love Chriskate, the most beautiful woman in the world.

  During the usage, I was passive. He used me like an object, and he used me with fascination. Sometimes he had sex with me as if wishing it to be an insult to me. I didn’t know why, and I didn’t care, and maybe I was wrong anyway. It was never anything specific he said, or anything violent he did. The attempted insult was all in his thrusting. That’s where I got the vibe of it.

  And then, he turned out to be right: I saw Damon again. It was on a crowded subway platform. I saw him far away, tall, looking at me above people’s heads. He moved toward the exit. I was rooted to my spot, and then made a dash to intercept him.

  He was gone. I called the police who had worked on my case, and told them about it. They said I should be careful; that I should not go alone to deserted places. I repeated that this had been a crowded subway platform. They said they knew, but that regardless, I should not go alone to deserted places. I said okay, but what should I do to catch him. They said I should keep doing what I was doing.

  “Which is?” I asked.

  “Ask the help of a nearby police officer, if there happens to be one.”

  I reminded them that that wasn’t what I had done:
I had tried to catch Damon myself. They said they knew, but that they were sure that if there had been a police officer nearby, I would have asked for his or her help.

  I was relieved when the absurd conversation ended.

  I wanted Damon to be caught. He had altered my life against my will, and so what if it turned out well? That was beside the point. It was the principle of it that mattered.

  If he were to be caught, it would make an interesting trial.

  When I told Nathaniel I had seen Damon, he became agitated, said he wasn’t surprised, asked what my plan was for next time. I told him I had no plan. He said that was okay, that I shouldn’t scare Damon off or he would be harder to catch.

  A few days later, I was walking down the street and saw Damon driving by me slowly in a car. He was looking at me with a very focused expression. He seemed to be scrutinizing my face. I stood still on the sidewalk and watched him drive away. At the last moment, I looked at his license plate, but its number was covered with masking tape.

  A couple of days later, I went off to star in a medieval movie, thinking it would be fun to fight with swords while acting. I was offered the part before they even knew I fenced, and they were very pleased when I gave them a demonstration. I had finished the Jane Austen movie a month before and had been able to rest, but my encounter in the street with Damon caused me to be plagued by thoughts of him during the filming, which spoiled my enjoyment of the experience and of my fighting with the swords. I did my job anyway, and well, but I was in a constant state of anxiety. That’s when, and why, I first came up with the germ of the idea for my plan.

  Two months later, the medieval movie was done. And a few weeks after that, my first two movies came out in theaters simultaneously, due to the fact that one had been delayed and the other had been completed unusually quickly. It was the most exciting moment of my life, and I wanted to savor the experience to the fullest. I bought myself a pair of Rollerblades, donned a black coat, a hat, and a beard and mustache that Chriskate had left behind at Nathaniel’s apartment and which he lent me for my purpose. With my beard flowing in the breeze of my skating, I spent my days zooming from one theater to the next, watching my movies, watching people’s faces watching my movies, devouring their facial expressions, and listening to their comments. I always brought a notebook with me to write down what I heard, what I saw, and my impressions of both. I also brought a small tape recorder to capture the sounds of the audience in relation to the sounds of the film. Nathaniel came with me sometimes, when his multiple jobs schedule allowed it. We would sit at opposite ends of the audience, and he would report back to me his findings, so that I’d have a double dose of information.