‘You’re going to!’
While Clodon searched his confusion for the anger the slaps kept knocking aside, leaving only fear, the man suddenly stepped back. (They’d been standing belly to belly, thigh to thigh—which only registered when the bunched cloth of the man’s tunic and the hard links of his belt pulled away.) Clodon said:
‘Hey, what were you—?’
‘What I mean,’ the man said, ‘is, did you ever, with someone, say, smaller than you, younger than you perhaps, or not as sure of himself as you were, use the fact that surprise, intensity, and intimidation can effect the most amazing changes in what one person will do for another?’
‘Why did you do that—?’
‘Only to demonstrate exactly what I was referring to—so that you, thinking back on your history, might recognize the action we’re speaking of here.’
‘You hurt my arm!’ Clodon rubbed his wrist.
‘Not that much. If you can feel it in the morning, I’ll give you an extra coin. But tell me, did you—’
‘Yeah!’ Clodon said. ‘Sure, with kids sometimes, when you’re fooling with them—and they’re trying to show you how big and bad they are. Sometimes you have to do that. Don’t you? If they’ve got something you want, and they won’t give it to you … something like that.’
‘There,’ the man said. ‘I thought so. And now I’ll ask you this. Have you ever tormented someone who couldn’t fight back? Perhaps because you’d tied them up. Or because they were caught somewhere and couldn’t get loose. Maybe you tickled them. Or perhaps you beat them—with a rope or a bit of leather. Oh, not hard—necessarily. I seem to remember earlier, when we were talking before, that you told me about one boy whom you once—’
‘But that was just fooling!’ Clodon insisted, at this point not sure which of the many things he’d told the man was being re-presented to him among all these flickering lights. ‘I don’t under—’
‘Fooling? Very good! Because it’s only another sort of fooling that I’m asking you to consider. Have you ever—’ the man interrupted himself again—‘though, on this point I don’t even have to ask—in your anger, called someone humiliating and insulting names. Just from this afternoon I know the kind of language you use in your normal accounts. Certainly under the heat of injury, your invectives must grow even more colorful. For instance, try calling me a … sick piece of maggoty mule shit!’
Clodon paused. ‘Is all this stuff—’ he frowned slowly—‘what you want me to do, to you …?’ He stepped away from the wall. (The man still smiled.) ‘You are some kind of sick piece of shit …’
‘There!’ The man opened his hand and extended it toward Clodon. Somehow, he’d managed to get out another coin, without Clodon seeing from where. The dark disk lay on the dark palm. ‘You see? My point is merely that there’s nothing you’d be called on to do you haven’t already done at one time or another—and done because you chose to do it. And when you were just fooling, at that. You’ve done very well, so far. Take your first pay.’ The man flipped the coin, spinning, through the air.
Clodon reached out for it—and missed.
It fell to the rug between his feet. Because of the nap, it did not roll. Clodon looked up. ‘You really want me to do stuff like that to … I don’t know. You’d have to pay me a lot for it!’
‘But I don’t want you to do it to me,’ the man said. ‘At least not now. But many other people will. And they will pay you far more handsomely than you probably even imagine. My proposition for you tonight is this. Stay here this evening. Wear the collar. Tomorrow morning, return to the bridge. And do not remove it. Wear it there for … oh, only a single week. Night and day. You will be approached by people very differently, I can assure you, from the ones who have approached you up till now. You will do, I assure you equally, far better than you have done till now.’
‘But people are going to think I’m some kind of slave—’
The man laughed. ‘If you wear a slave collar; and if you carry the scars of a marked rebel; and if you stand out on the Bridge of Lost Desire—well, these, taken all together, become a kind of sign. Some who see it and come will be wearing collars themselves. Some who come to you will not. Mistaken for a real slave? I very much doubt it. But consider: if you were an actual slave, then somewhere you would have an actual master, am I right? And you would be his responsibility, no one else’s—believe me, everyone, at least in that neighborhood, will leave you alone.’
‘Well …’ Clodon said. What about you?’
‘I said my proposition is that you wear your collar—for I’m giving it to you, as of now—seven days. Work the bridge in it, making whatever you can. And I assure you you will make quite a lot. After a week, I will come down to see you. If you are still wearing it, I will come up to you—and pay you whatever you ask. If you have decided to discard it, well, then … I will smile, nod, and go on walking. And find someone else. We need never mention it again—if, indeed, we ever have anything further to do with one another.’
‘But you really don’t want to do anything now?’ Somehow all of this was beginning to seem funny. ‘Why not try me out—see how I am?’
‘There are people who will truly appreciate your novice status in this profession; they are the ones whom you should go with while you’re a novice. Myself, I know from experience I will enjoy it far more if you have had a week’s practice.’
‘Suppose they want me to do something I don’t want to? I mean, going with men and doing that kind of thing just—’
‘My country friend,’ the man said, leaning forward, ‘though the first who approach you will, most certainly, be men, there are just as many women in this rich, rich city who are seeking what you may now provide. Do your job well, with as much skill as you can bring to it, and before the week is out, I promise you, the reputation of a committed craftsman—if that’s what you turn out to be—will spread far beyond that bit of stone that runs above the water. You will soon have your choice of whomever you want. You ask what happens if someone wishes you to do something that does not please you?’ The man laughed. ‘I would have thought you’d have already known the answer there. You simply say, “No.”’ The man turned away and walked across the room. ‘What all those signs mean, brought together and placed in the positions that we have discussed, as I’m sure you’ve now understood, is that you—’ He turned from a cabinet, where he had taken out two ceramic cups—‘are the Master.’ He set them on a table. ‘Now come. Let’s have a drink. It will lighten all this heavy talk.’
It was cider, not beer. And this time—perhaps it was the amount he’d already drunk—Clodon didn’t mind it. What Clodon wanted to talk more about was the women. ‘You really think they’ll be women—I don’t mean at first, like you said. But after a while?’
‘I know there’ll be.’ They sat on cushions across from each other, sipping strong drink. ‘It makes a great deal of difference to you now. But I think shortly you’ll find that it seems a less and less important distinction—assuming you take to your task. Here: say you blindfold someone. And they want to be beaten. They, of course, will want to be hit on the genitals. But you will strike them on the face, instead—gently when they expect to be hit roughly. And roughly when they expect to be hit gently. Ask them questions; and make your response of anger or approbation to their answers wholly random. In most cases that will excite far more than simply whips and chains. And always be sure to agree on some sign to let you know when the game is over: a word, a gesture—that need be all. Uttered by them or you, it simply means it’s time to stop, put up the toys, settle accounts, and go home. But because you come to it with dispassion, you are not likely to let the heat of it all carry you away. You’re a rough looking boy, even handsome, in a low, country-bred manner. Nor are you dull. If you can apply the brains you have to your job, you’ll be able, with a bit of rope and a length of leather, to drive your clients—both the men and the women—to pleasure that others, with whole dungeons at their disposal, cann
ot achieve. What you embark on now is an admirable profession, and ought to have its own god of craft, however nameless, to oversee it. But because we do not have such a god, it must, in the end, be overseen by men and women, like me, like you …’ Thus the conversation ran on through the night, while one lamp and then another guttered out. ‘And remember—’ The man yawned, then recovered, looking down into his cup—‘there’s nothing you need do really foreign to that nature you’ve already drawn for me in some detail.’
Clodon said: ‘This is really something. Nobody at my home would believe it. You do this a lot? I mean … is this how you get people to do things for you …?’ He frowned. ‘How many times have you done this? Before I mean. With others?’
The man mused. ‘Let me see … was it a load of nine old broken collars that I purchased from that market harridan? I have two left. That means, over three years, you’ll be the seventh.’
Clodon grinned. ‘And it works?’
‘As a matter of fact I’ve … never seen any of you again. Oh, in a week I’ll certainly be on the bridge, looking. But you won’t be there—or if you are, you’ll have discarded—or sold—your collar days since. That’s what experience has told me will happen. But I go on doing it. I suppose I shall keep on, until I succeed—or run out of collars … Oh, certainly I’ll keep one for myself. Maybe, someday, I’ll even learn why it is I fail. But, then, perhaps such failure can’t be understood.’ He looked up, slowly, sleepily. ‘Or perhaps that’s what desire is about …?’
Which to Clodon, just—at that hour—seemed even funnier.
He had no memory of the conversation halting or of settling down among the cushions to sleep.
Sometime later, though, the man was shaking his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry—you have to go now.’
Clodon opened his eyes, unsure where he was. In the dark room there was the deepest blue around the door hanging. All but one lamp, in the corner, beneath its thread of smoke, were out. Clodon lifted his head from the cushion, shook it—and felt sick.
‘You have to go now,’ the man repeated. ‘Here, get up. I’ve got money for you. But you have to go. Get up, now. Please. I’m sorry. But Father’s returned from his trip—much earlier than I expected. He’s outside now and will be upstairs shortly. He’s much less tolerant about these things than my mother. Really. But you must be on your way!’ The man tugged Clodon almost to his feet.
‘All right. All … I’m going. All right, now. Don’t do that—’
‘Some money,’ the man repeated. ‘Take it now.’
‘Huh?’ Clodon said. What—?’
It was a small purse. As Clodon got it in his fist, he could feel, through the leather, there were not a lot of coins in it—but more than he’d had on any day since he’d been in the city. ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said. ‘All right, I mean …’
‘And now you have to go! Just a moment—’ The man loped across the room, pushed back the door hanging, and looked out into the blue, then dropped it to hurry back. ‘No, he’s not up yet. Come. Let’s go.’ With a hand on Clodon’s shoulder, he hurried the boy, who stumbled once on another cushion, forward.
‘Wait a minute, now! Wait a minute, will you? Wait—’
Movement caught Clodon’s eye to the left.
But it was his own figure, staggering, dark, on the metal.
Then they were outside and crossing between the shrubs and ivy. The paving slates were wet, as though it had rained. Or perhaps the pool had overflowed? Before he could see, the man pushed Clodon through another hanging.
‘Hey, don’t throw me down the stairs—!’
‘Be quiet!’ The man breathed heavily. ‘I’m not throwing you down the stairs!’ He sounded peevish. ‘But you have to go. And go now!’
Clodon held on to the walls, the purse still in one fist. He put his foot down on the step below.
There was a sound behind them.
The man said: ‘You simply must get out. Now. I told you, my father is back! I didn’t expect him till this afternoon. But he’s returned early—oh, it’s not your concern! But those are his wagons outside.’ Somewhere beyond the wall, it did sound like wagons; someone who could have been a driver called to someone else. ‘Look. Go right down there!’ The man pointed with a sharp gesture over Clodon’s shoulder. ‘You won’t come out where we came in; but you turn straight to the left and keep on … oh, seven, eight blocks. You’ll cross a big intersection. At this hour, you’ll probably see the sun rising at the end. Go towards it. You’ll hit the Pavē after another few streets—you’ll recognize the paving stones. You take that right back to the bridge. Now, go! I’m not kidding!’
‘All right …!’ Clodon said thickly, and turned to start, unsteadily, down.
‘I’ll see you in a week back on the bridge!’ Which, at this point, meant almost nothing to Clodon.
But he paused anyway, because he’d suddenly remembered where he was. He looked back over his shoulder. ‘Do I have to go through all those dead people—?’
‘Go!’ the man hissed.
Clodon started again. At the bottom, somehow he dropped the purse. But, stooping, he got it up from the dusty floor; he stood, feeling all of last night’s drink at once, and barrelled through the hanging out into gray morning. The street was wet in irregular patches. Perhaps it was not rain but fog. The sound of the wagons reached him again from around the building’s corner. He wondered if he should go look. But he felt too queazy. He started off, left, down the street.
When he reached the intersection, there was no sun either way. It was too overcast to see the sunrise. Oh, it was a little lighter in that direction. So that was the direction Clodon walked in.
Once he stopped a woman with a water jar on her shoulder to ask directions to the Old Market. She pointed down a narrow street which made him think, for a while, he’d gotten completely turned around. But three minutes later he came out at the familiar mouth of the bridge.
He was halfway across when he remembered the collar. It was still closed on his neck. Suppose, he thought, the lock was not broken; and the man had fixed it to him permanently … In a moment’s panic, he raised his hands to grasp it.
‘Hey—?’
Clodon hesitated at the woman’s voice behind him, then turned.
He’d seen the pudgy barbarian prostitute there several times. Black triangles spread up across her pale brows, out to her temples.
‘I got an old man down there,’ she said, nodding over her shoulder. ‘He wants to do something with you—the two of us together. He’s got money. And a place. He’s okay. I know. I’ve been with him a lot of times.’
Clodon looked beyond her shoulder. Several men stood or walked near the bridge’s far end. He could not tell which one she meant. But the idea that the sexual traffic, which he’d always assumed was an afternoon or evening activity, had begun at this early hour made him frown.
‘He told me to come talk to you,’ she went on. ‘I’m supposed to find out how much you’ll take.’ She wore a colorful piece of cloth around her bulging belly. Her breasts hung over it, wide, smudgy aureoles centered with nipples small as a man’s. ‘He told me to ask you,’ she repeated. ‘Don’t worry. He’s all right.’
‘What does he want to do?’ Clodon asked.
Though there was no one near them, she stepped closer and began to talk more softly.
When she had gone on a minute, Clodon suddenly said: ‘No. No. I don’t do that. You tell him I don’t do that.’
‘Why not?’ she said. He’ll pay you good.’
‘No,’ Clodon said. Then he said, ‘No, don’t tell him … Tell him I’m—busy. Tell him I’m supposed to meet somebody here. This morning. In a few minutes. That’s all. So I can’t go with you, see?’
She shrugged. I don’t care.’ She turned away. ‘I’ll tell him you’re busy.’
On her wide, uninteresting feet, she started down the bridge.
Clodon started up toward the market.
Here, he thought, he’d not even bee
n looking, and already one proposition had come along. There’d even been a woman involved with it. Not that he liked barbarian women. Fat or thin, he didn’t find them attractive. The men who did—there were always enough of them around the bridge—he thought were strange.
Before he reached the end, a sort of tiredness rolled through Clodon’s body that at first seemed part of the sickness left over from the drink. He leaned against the wall and raised his hands again to the iron around his neck. With the tiredness, came a heaviness to his arms. Fingers not quite touching it, he waited. I could take it off now, he thought. Stash it somewhere. Seven days from now I’ll put it on again—if I still want to. Maybe that time I can get his purse.
But Clodon had a purse already. The man had given it to him. It was tucked under the leather he wore at his waist now. There’d be enough in it to eat for a couple of days, if he was careful.
There was nothing to fear from the collar. It had come open once last night …
Now Clodon thought about the woman with the water jar.
Then, he hadn’t even realized he had it on! He’d just gone up to her, asked her directions as if he were any normal person. And as if he were any normal person, she had given them. Certainly she’d seen it.
Was it, perhaps, like his scars? You couldn’t go round, all your life, never speaking to this one, not going here, not doing this, just because someone might have something to say about it. That’s what he thought—though it wasn’t always what he did. Still, most of the time people ignored them. Or at least pretended to. Perhaps it was the same with the iron.
And maybe a scarred slave—at least out here on the bridge—was a better person to be than a criminal.
The scars were permanent. There was something intriguing in wondering if, somehow, the collar was, now, permanent too.
A large market wagon was rolling by, its bed heaped with gray-green melons toward the front and yellow squash at the rear. Beside it, holding the halter to the pair of oxen, the driver walked, a tall, bearded bear of a fellow.
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