by P. J. Fox
It was her feet, and the story they told.
The fat man matched his bid again.
Ash lifted his fingertip. “Five hundred.”
NINE
Belle sat with the other girls who’d been bought. Some were sobbing, and some looked bored. She didn’t try to talk to any of them, didn’t know if any of them even spoke English. There were ten girls in all, and each of them was off in their own private world.
Their own private hell.
Not all the girls had sold. She didn’t know what happened to the ones who hadn’t and wanted to ask, but didn’t dare. She was still naked but sitting on the floor with her back pressed to the wall behind her and her knees drawn up under her chin, she didn’t feel quite so vulnerable. Almost as if, down this low, she could fade into the floor. Or into the wall.
The girls who’d been sold were led here, into this room. It was to the left of the stage. The girls who hadn’t…who knew. She’d overheard the men joking about them. Their callous tone sent chills up her spine. Moreover, she couldn’t figure out why some girls had sold and some hadn’t—or why the girls who hadn’t, hadn’t. There had been five or so, she thought. They were all beautiful. What made a human being buy another human being? What qualities did he, or she, look for?
Part of her devoutly wished that she’d been among the group who hadn’t sold. At least then she’d be her own person for one more night. But part of her, the more rational part—which, somewhat to her surprise, she’d discovered still existed beneath the terror—wondered if whatever fate awaited them might not be worse.
She wrapped her hands around her feet, and rested her chin on her knees. A kind of calm had settled over her: the calm, not of having been drugged, but of shock. She found herself counting the other girls’ freckles, the specks of color in the linoleum, anything and everything. Even as she wondered, dreaded, what would happen next.
One of the girls was talking. In German, so Belle could understand her. She was telling another girl that this was her third time being sold. She sounded so casual about it. “Yah,” she said, “I was hired to work as a singer. To entertain all the rich men who came into the club. Not here, in Berlin.” She paused. “I’m from Kiev, originally. From a village near Kiev,” she corrected herself. “But no one’s heard of it so I just say Kiev.”
“Oh,” her companion said noncommittally.
“It’s not too bad.” She looked up and saw Belle watching her. Their eyes met. “You get used to it. And I tell myself, better here with rich men than at home with some farmer.”
Belle didn’t respond. Was this how she’d be in a few years? So cold? So hard? A girl who sat naked on a grimy linoleum floor, casually discussing her own purchase and sale? A girl who talked to convince herself that things were alright?
“The last place, I wasn’t allowed to wear clothes.” Belle glanced up, surprised to hear English. The new voice belonged to a mousy-looking girl with long legs. She spoke quietly, almost too quietly to be heard. As if the simple fact of her existence demanded apology. She’d been up after Belle, and Belle had heard her described as an experienced submissive.
“I hope I get to wear clothes this time,” she said wistfully.
“The girls who weren’t sold, they’ll get another shot later on. At the next party.” The German girl again. She made it sound as though the others had missed out on some wonderful opportunity. And…party? Maybe for the men. Belle hadn’t been able to see them; the lights had been in her eyes. All she’d seen were a few vague outlines.
Since then, she’d tried hard not to think about them. Or about much of anything at all. The future was just…too overwhelming.
“This group is special. They’re the richest. They pay a fee to belong to this club, and part of the package is that they only see each girl once.” She lifted her hand and then dropped it, a peculiar gesture that Belle recognized from Charlotte. This girl was a smoker in real life. Charlotte, when she was in class or other places she wasn’t allowed to smoke, often got so wrapped up in what she was doing that she forgot she didn’t have a cigarette in her hand. Strange, Belle didn’t think of sex slaves as being allowed to smoke.
But, she supposed, anything to keep them quiet.
“A friend of mine—well, a girl I knew, you know, before—got bought by some Scottish lordling and they’re still together a year later. I saw her at a party.” She smiled briefly, a sad expression and the first real emotion she’d shown all night. “They seemed happy enough.”
A notion that Belle had a hard time crediting. But anyone could dream. Vaguely, she nodded. She had nothing to contribute to the conversation. She almost wished, now, that she had gone home with some random person. One or two of Charlotte’s friends had been interested. They’d asked her out for coffee but Belle, mistrusting their motives, had said no. And she didn’t like Eurotrash, and all of Charlotte’s friends—her male friends, at least—were Eurotrash. They wore Armani off the rack and complained loudly and vociferously that these shoddy Mercedes they were being forced to drive by their parents were trash where they came from. Which wasn’t true; Mercedes was famous for having designed the only chassis bed that didn’t allow sand into the engine. It had produced the premier desert car, now, for over a hundred years.
Belle liked to work with her hands. She liked to work. She’d had a series of odd jobs during high school; ballet was expensive. Each pair of en point shoes cost eighty or so dollars, a lot of money to a girl whose parents were a waitress at a Waffle House and an out of work fisherman, and each pair didn’t last very long. A professional ballerina went through, on average, one pair of shoes per performance.
Each time a dancer got a new pair of shoes, she had to break them in. Just like the dancer, herself, the shoes only looked dainty. In reality they were evil contraptions made mostly of cardboard. The dancer’s toes went inside a box made from the same material that professional bookbinders used to make hardcover books. Between the balls of her feet and her toes, a triangular sort of spreader helped her to maintain her position; for the duration of her performance, her entire body weight would rest on that juncture.
Belle tried different methods of breaking in her shoes. Some were recommended by instructors; others, she’d read about on the internet. She pounded the box of the shoe with a hammer. She opened and closed a door on her shoes, yelling at them to soften up. She cut the satin off the bottom of the box—the satin was just a glued-on covering, anyway, to give the illusion of these being real shoes—and roughed up the cardboard with a file to give herself some traction. And on more than one occasion, when funds were running low, she lined the inside of the box with floor polish to prolong wear.
Thinking about shoes was easier than thinking about…other things.
She’d hated being drugged, but she hated being sober more. And she almost was; whatever she’d been injected with had all but worn off, leaving her with no barrier between her and the terror. No fugue state into which she could retreat. That had been the only saving grace of her exam, if she could even call it that. Her invasion. That her memories, even now, were fuzzy. She’d drifted in and out of consciousness, only really coming to near the end. Partly, the doctor’s bizarre confession had shocked her into wakefulness.
And her advice.
Belle felt like Alice, going down the rabbit hole.
The door opened.
She started, surprised even though she’d been expecting it. A man came through, a fat man whose bulk strained at the seams of his suit. He didn’t so much as glance at the girls; his attention was focused on the other man, the second man Belle recognized from earlier. He said something, and the fat man laughed. He was sweating, and the harsh fluorescent light—no extra funds had been spared on ambiance in here—was unforgiving on his skin. His eyes were small and piggish. His wasn’t the kind of fat that some men developed as they aged, a gradual softening of hard muscle. This was the pendulous fat of overindulgence. He looked like he’d been inflated with a bicycle p
ump.
He turned, and his eyes met Belle’s. Even that little contact was enough to make her skin crawl. He had a way of looking at her that made her intensely aware, not simply that she was naked but that she was without protection of any kind. And then his eyes were gone, his attention back to the second man. He whispered something under his breath and the second man nodded politely. His smile looked a little fixed.
He stepped aside as, just then, a third man came in wheeling a cage. It looked like the stainless steel cages you found at the pound, but slightly larger. Only slightly larger.
“Load her in there, and meet me downstairs.” The fat man turned to leave, as disinterested now as when he’d arrived. “Oh,” he added, stopping, his hand resting on the doorframe. His fingers were like sausages. “Have the collar on, this time.”
Belle’s eyes widened in horror as one of the girls was pulled roughly up from the floor and pulled, howling, toward the cage. It took three men to force her inside, bending her limbs and pushing as a fourth man snapped on a collar. The collar itself was nothing much, the type of braided nylon thing available at any pet store. And perhaps that was the point: to degrade her. More dehumanizing than the fact of wearing a collar was the anonymous nature of it: forest green nylon, one of a hundred thousand just like it.
Not even a treasured pet.
Belle thought she might vomit.
The girl was screaming, now, a high-pitched keening wail that didn’t even sound human. And Belle had been right: the cage was barely large enough to contain her, even on all fours. No one else reacted; what was there to do? The handlers didn’t seem phased. Apparently, horrifyingly, they’d seen things like this before. None of the girls so much as flinched. The implications of their disinterest were horrifying. This wasn’t the disinterest of people who genuinely didn’t care but of true slaves: people who’d given up. Who knew that the key to survival lay in drawing as little attention to themselves as possible.
Belle glanced at the German girl.
Her eyes were closed.
TEN
There was a very long wait before the door opened again.
Belle had turned slightly to the side, her cheek resting against the wall. Her eyes were closed. She’d taken her cue from the German girl; she didn’t want to see anything, either. Whatever happened, happened. The apathy in the room was tangible, and it was seeping into her. This wasn’t like her at all, just sitting here, and she knew that; but this situation wasn’t like her. How one would respond when one was kidnapped, poked and prodded and sold at auction wasn’t typically a thing most people rehearsed in their minds.
The grease pencil markings were still on her thigh. How much had she sold for? And to whom? She devoutly hoped it wasn’t someone like the fat man. A lot of things, she thought she could handle. But being in a cage…? She shuddered.
It seemed impossible that somewhere, perhaps mere yards from where Belle sat now, Charlotte was dancing. She wondered if Charlotte had even noticed that she was gone. Probably not. Belle felt like she’d entered one of those alternate universes where time moved differently; like the children who, after having lived a lifetime in Narnia, stepped back through the wardrobe only to discover that it was barely even teatime. Only in this case, it was Belle who’d gone somewhere. And nowhere good.
Not that Narnia had been all that good. Not really. It had been a hotbed of war, conniving villains, and mind control.
Gradually, Belle realized that they were talking about her. As much as she tried to tune them out, certain key phrases filtered through the walls she’d erected around her consciousness.
“…Must have been stamped when she took the train,” a man said, “but it indicates here that she has a student visa. Ah…yes, for TUD. Smart, then.” He made a noncommittal noise.
Belle wondered how intelligence could have anything to do with it. Sparkling wit couldn’t be a much sought-after quality in a sex slave. Particularly not one who lived in a cage. And besides, she wasn’t very smart at all. She was here.
“Do you want it?” He was referring to the passport.
“Yes,” said the second voice. And then, “I see…American.”
Recognition hit her like a bucket of ice cold water, snapping her to alertness.
“Yes.” The first man’s tone turned appreciative.
Belle looked up, into the eyes of the man who’d bought her. She’d thought earlier that nothing could be worse than ending up with someone disgusting like the fat man, or someone who wanted her to spend her life in a cage. She’d been wrong. Unthinkably, the man standing over her was the man who’d accosted her outside the bathroom.
Only now he was wearing an overcoat. Charcoal gray, plain but very well cut. A bespoke piece, no doubt; off the rack garments never fit that well through the shoulders. Charlotte had taught her that. Charlotte, and a summer working behind the counter at a tailor’s.
She couldn’t have been more mortified, possibly. On top of the mind-numbing terror and the shame and the just—revulsion, she was acutely aware of the fact that she was naked and that her hair hung in stringy clumps over her shoulders and someone had written on her like she was for sale at some flea market. And her least favorite person in all the world was gazing at her with an expression very much like curiosity.
She wanted to glare, but she didn’t. She didn’t do anything. She couldn’t sum up the energy. At that exact moment, all she wanted to do was die.
She chewed her lip, hoping that the pain might keep her from crying. Part of her wanted to promise herself that if she ever escaped this nightmare, she’d never take anything for granted again. She’d rejoice at the chance to fold laundry! But part of her couldn’t envision a future beyond this moment.
Didn’t want to.
Was too scared to.
“It’s time to go,” he said.
She didn’t move. She stared down at her feet. A second later, she felt the caress of warm fabric as he bent down and draped his coat over her shoulders. Warm, from his body heat. The wool was lined in silk and smelled faintly of expensive cologne.
“Come,” he repeated, an edge to his voice. “Or I’ll carry you.”
Carefully, hesitantly, she stood up. Her head swam, and then cleared. There were still traces of the drug in her system; she felt like she was recovering from the flu. She wasn’t tired, though. Or, rather, she didn’t know if she was tired. She didn’t know how she felt, or what.
She pulled his coat around her, holding it closed across her breasts with clenched fists. The expensive garment had reached to just above his knee; on her, it was almost floor length. She felt better, having something to wear. Even if it belonged to him.
She felt…almost human again.
He studied her for a long moment, but said nothing. He touched her shoulder; she flinched. He led her toward the door. She took one step, and then another, scarcely believing that she was doing this of her own free will. Reaching the door, she hesitated. Just as the fat man had, she put her hand on the door frame. She turned, gazing back into the room. No one met her eyes. No one spoke. No one but the German girl had even acknowledged her existence and now, not even the German girl looked up. Belle felt like a ghost.
The pressure on her shoulder increased. Finally, she gave up and gave in, letting her new owner lead her down the hall. Things looked the same as they had a few hours ago, a fact that seemed impossible to credit. Surely, she must have been in that suite of rooms a lifetime. She’d half expected the world outside to have decayed into dust.
He didn’t speak. He seemed disinterested in her, intent on some train of thought that she couldn’t even begin to guess. She glanced over at him, briefly, before returning her gaze to the floor. In the dark of the club, his eyes had looked black. She saw now that they were gray. She wondered if he was, in fact, Indian. Or if he was from Pakistan or even Afghanistan. She knew, from her coursework, that certain ethnic groups within both countries had light skin and gray eyes.
“Where are we
going?” she asked hesitantly.
“Home.” His response was blunt.
She felt a surge of hope before she remembered that home didn’t mean her home. “Where…is that?”
But he didn’t answer. Clearly, he didn’t want to talk. Which was disappointing; she’d hoped that he’d tell her something about himself, and what he wanted. So she’d know what she was in for. So she could prepare. Instead, her imagination was left to run wild.
They descended a flight of stairs to a filth-ridden hall barely larger than a jail cell. Belle wondered for the first time if all this dirt might not be on purpose; no one, coming into this place, would want to investigate further. The suspicious stains, the crumpled up papers and dead rats and other detritus, and the overwhelming stench of urine were more effective than any security system could be at keeping out the curious.
A man guarded the door. He, like her erstwhile waiter, looked completely boring and nondescript. He was wearing a leather jacket. He waited until they were almost at the door before unlocking it, then pushed it open to reveal the night beyond. A rush of cold air came in, stunning her. She saw people walking by, holding hands and laughing as if the world wasn’t ending. Because life, for them, was going on as usual. This was a profound revelation. Life…real life was outside that door.
They stepped outside. She and her captor were alone. She didn’t know why, but she’d expected a phalanx of bodyguards. Something, to indicate that he was holding her hostage. But no, they might as well have stepped out of a restaurant together into the cold fall night. Like any normal couple, going home together, their stomachs full of wine and soufflé and their minds full of conversation.
“My driver is coming around,” he said, adding to the illusion.
Belle said nothing. Her feet were cold. She’d forgotten all about her shoes—how had she done that? A boy and a girl, little more than teenagers, brushed past them. They were both laughing. Belle hoped she wasn’t going to get a disease from the concrete; cigarette butts and other bits of trash were everywhere. A condom wrapper was stuck in the drain grate.
