“How long have you been in training, Mr. LaGuardia?” Emil asked, settling into the chair comfortably.
“Well—I’ve only been here for a few weeks,” Michael said. “But I trained for two years before this.”
“My! What dedication to the craft!”
Michael stopped himself from frowning in confusion. That was the last thing he expected to hear! But he had been dedicated, hadn’t he? Before he got here, lots of people were impressed with the fact that he spent years being taught how to do this. He smiled, and leaned back himself. “I guess,” he said modestly. “But some people train even longer than that.”
“Indeed they do,” Emil agreed. “But most do not complete even two years. You are to be commended.”
“Really? Most?”
“Training to become a trainer is very rigorous, no matter where it is done. And the rewards are few. Many trainers will not be able to become independent even if they complete their training. And so, they become handlers for owners, or assistants for senior trainers, or they simply move into other fields. Some, of course, enter service themselves.”
“Really?” Michael cursed himself for beginning to sound like a parrot. “I didn’t know that.”
“Oh, yes. The finding and making of slaves is not an easy or rewarding profession, unless one has a personal calling to the task. And for some, that calling can be... hmm... mistaken.”
“Oh, I knew this was for me the minute I heard about it,” Michael said.
“Did you? How wonderful! And after only two years, you find yourself with our Trainer of Trainers! It must be very exciting for you.”
Michael remembered the list of detailed housekeeping questions he asked of Joan and his many frustrations and the hours of trying to drag himself through one dry report after another, but he nodded anyway. “Sure,” he said. “Very exciting.”
Emil laughed warmly and leaned forward to tap Michael gently on one knee. “I think I would have to be deaf to not hear the resignation in your voice, young man. Don’t think I don’t know how tedious the early days of training can be, especially here. I know more about training than you might think.”
“Are you a trainer?” Michael asked.
“Oh, no,” Emil said, settling back again. “But I have many friends and associates who are. Tell me; with whom did you train for two years before being chosen to come here?”
Well, here it comes, Michael thought with genuine resignation. The careful nod and the look of amusement or pity. “Geoff Negel,” he said, and then added defensively, “He’s the biggest trainer on the West Coast.”
“Oh, yes, I have read some of his papers,” was what Dr. Emil Kaufmann said in response. Michael blinked, and Joan appeared at the doorway with her tray. Michael could barely keep his voice steady as he gazed at Emil and asked, “You have?”
“Certainly,” Emil said, with a glance in Michael’s direction. He accepted a cup and added honey to it, stirring thoughtfully. “I have long thought his opinion on discussion groups for clients is quite meritorious. And one cannot ignore the influence he has had on our world. Two years with him! That must have been interesting.”
“It was,” Michael said, still amazed at this turn of events. But how wonderful it was to talk to someone who recognized the work he had done, who even respected his former teacher! “It was totally different than it is here.”
“I should imagine so,” Emil said with a nod. “Did you enjoy the training in California?”
“God, yes,” Michael said with a laugh. “I had the time of my life! Not that it was all fun,” he added quickly. “I—we all—studied a lot. And we worked with slaves every day of the week; you never had time off unless you left the premises, you know?” He took his own tea from Joan and felt more than thought there was something else to be done. He looked at Emil, who seemed to glance for a moment across the hall, and Michael drew in a sharp breath and looked up into Joan’s expectant eyes. “Er—you should bring some to the Trainer as well,” he said quickly. “And some of those pecan cookies she liked from last night.”
“Yes, sir,” Joan said, with a slight dip of a curtsey.
Of course, he said to himself as she left. By turning her over to me, Anderson made me responsible for using her. If Joan took it upon her own initiative to also serve refreshments to the Trainer and her guest, she would be right in action—but wrong in that she was under different authority now. It had been Michael’s responsibility to direct her, to make sure that she knew what the new—however temporary—chain of command was.
How convoluted could you get? What on earth was wrong with just letting them do what they were supposed to do, and punishing them when they failed? Why set it up so I look bad?
Dr. Kaufmann drank some of his tea in the silence, and then Michael felt himself snap back to the present, with a faint blush. “I’m sorry,” he said at once. “Not enough sleep, I guess.”
“Do you suffer from insomnia, or does the Trainer keep you up to all hours?” the doctor asked with a gentle smile.
“Actually, I sleep fine—usually,” Michael admitted. “But I guess everyone has a little trouble sleeping every once in a while.”
“Oh, indeed, yes. If you find it a continued inconvenience, I or Greta will be honored to provide you with any guidance you wish. So—you trained with Mr. Negel and then came here to cold New York City! From the land of young, tanned beauties to this shaded little enclave in Brooklyn, with only—what was it, two slaves in attendance? And I know Anderson does not entertain much, or take her juniors out to parties and events. It must be quite challenging for you, to accept such changes.”
Michael blinked again, uncertain of what to say. But what the older man said was true, and there was no harm in admitting it. “Yes,” he said cautiously. “It is challenging. But worth it.”
“Is it? Why do you say so?”
“Well—she is the Trainer of Trainers. And everyone respects her. Everyone—all over the world! And, they study her—her reports and stuff. So, who would give up the chance to study with her in person, you know?”
“Many do,” laughed Emil, his eyes twinkling over his tea cup. “I would say that for everyone who writes to her and begs to enter training here, there are ten who are thankful they never have to submit to such an old-fashioned training style as hers. But aside from what you have heard why others come here, why did you?”
“To learn from the best,” Michael answered smoothly. “I want to be a master trainer.”
“Do you? Another rarity! And why undertake that particular goal?”
Michael hesitated. Why not? was his first instinctive response. Why not be the best of the best?
“Training other trainers is a very time consuming and often frustrating profession,” Emil said thoughtfully. “It is rare to see it as a goal set above the training of slaves.”
Suddenly, Michael understood what the doctor meant, and he started to blush. Emil nodded slightly and smiled. “Ah—perhaps the term master trainer means something else in the house you first trained in?”
“I didn’t know,” Michael admitted honestly. “I mean, we never used the term. I just thought it meant—I don’t know. A better trainer. The best kind of trainer or something.”
“So it does, in terms of the demands of the training regimen. But you hadn’t told Anderson of this ambition, because she would have corrected you. Why hide it?”
Because I seem like a major fuck-up around here, Michael thought ruefully. “I guess I thought it would be better to tackle things one step at a time.”
“Yes, that’s always a good idea,” Emil agreed. “And now, you are spared a minor correction, aren’t you? So, it worked out for the best.”
Michael brightened. “Yeah, I guess it did. You know, sometimes, it seems that learning by mistakes is a big way to teach around here. It wasn’t like that at Geoff’s.”
“And yet Mr. Negel’s avant garde style was not the best for you?”
“Oh, it was fine. But..
. I don’t know. Sometimes, I would just wonder if there was more than what we were doing.”
“There is always more, Michael,” Emil said. “May I call you Michael? Thank you; please call me Emil. But as I was saying... more is not necessarily better. Also, what is best for one man might not suit another, in any endeavor.” He put his cup down and crossed his legs comfortably. “I find slave trainers to be fascinating people, especially those who, like you, knew that this was the best profession for them. I do hope you forgive my curiosity, but to find an intelligent young man poised at the start of the most rigorous instruction offered here in North America, someone with experience in a vastly different style—this is a wonderful opportunity for me.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” Michael assured the older man. He liked this doctor. He had a warm, engaging voice and... and... he was just the nicest person Michael had run into since he had left California. The first one who seemed genuinely interested in him, the first one who acknowledged how much damn work it took to get here, and how hard it was to try to follow along this bizarre teaching style.
But could he trust him? Maybe if he actually said anything bad about training, this guy would turn right around and tell Anderson. As Michael was pondering this, Emil cocked his head to one side, and asked, “Tell me, Michael, if you don’t mind—how did you find the Marketplace?”
That was certainly a safe story. Michael told him about his Uncle and the beach house and the two slaves there, and how he met Geoff, and gradually, their conversation warmed and deepened along with the afternoon shadows. Michael barely noticed how easily Joan kept them supplied with tea and then cleared it all away; he was too engaged in this fascinating and kind man who seemed to be so flatteringly interested in his life and opinions. He even got to explain some of his own theories after a while, and the doctor nodded and encouraged him to elaborate and didn’t look scornful or doubting, just thoughtful.
“See, I think when you show them too much attention in a positive way, they get to expect it all the time,” he said at one point. “Punishment should be the main attention they get, to remind them that their place is to serve you, and that the minute they screw up, they can get flipped and whacked. And that way, they’ll be grateful when you praise them or do something they like, instead of expect it.”
“But if punishment—which is merely negative attention, after all—becomes more frequent than rewards, don’t you think this will only serve to encourage bad behavior, since it will guarantee attention of some degree?” Emil leaned forward slightly when he asked questions, his whole body seemingly involved in hearing the answers.
“But that’s what they’re there for,” Michael insisted. “If they wanted to clean house and get fu—I mean, have sex, then they can do that in any normal marriage. The women, I mean. I think they’re slaves because they want to be punished.”
“How interesting,” Emil mused. “And do you find punishing slaves to be enjoyable, or merely a training task? Do you ever feel regretful for it?”
“What’s there to regret?” Michael asked. “Punishing someone is hot! That’s why I love being a trainer. Back in Santa Cruz, we spent all our time either teaching the slaves how to do stuff, punishing them when they did it wrong, and—well—using them for our pleasure. It couldn’t get better than that!”
“No, I suppose not,” Emil genially agreed.
“I don’t know whether it would be as exciting to do it over and over again with the same person, though. So, for me, it’s best that I see a slave for a short period of time. I get my fun while I’m teaching them what to do, and I never get bored or frustrated with a slave that won’t shape up.” Michael leaned back, crossing one leg over his knee. “I’m the kind of guy who likes a little variety in his life.”
“I understand that, certainly. I have to admit that in my old age, I am more appreciative of stability and predictability than I was when I was a younger man.”
“Oh, I understand that too,” said Michael, who didn’t. “So... how long have you and Dr. Mueller been together?”
“Not terribly long,” the man admitted. “Perhaps four years. But she suits me perfectly.”
“Oh, yeah? That’s great! Are you in the market for a new slave or something?”
For a second, the older man looked surprised, almost affronted, and Michael wondered what he had said wrong. But then, he just smiled slightly and shook his head. “I’m quite content with the one I have,” he said gently. “Although, I will admit that if I were, this would be the house I would come to.”
“So... is the slave you own an Anderson slave?”
Emil nodded. Michael wondered why they were there, if they didn’t need a new one, but didn’t probe further. Instead, he allowed Emil to return to questioning him for a while.
The door across the hallway opened and Anderson stepped out, and Michael found that Emil apparently thought it was correct to rise when she entered as well. She smiled at both of them and said, “Well, we’re done in here, Emil. Will you stay for dinner?”
“It would be an honor and a pleasure,” the gentleman said smoothly. “But unless you have further business with me, I think I should like to go home this evening.”
“Five minutes, then.” She moved aside to allow Greta to pass her, and Emil turned to Michael and nodded his head.
“Please excuse me, Michael. It has been a pleasure having this discussion with you.” And with that, he vanished into the Trainer’s study, leaving Dr. Greta Mueller with Michael, who instantly felt a strange surge of excitement as he looked at her. But just as he was about to open his mouth to invite her in to sit, he heard the key in the front door, and the heavy latches turning.
Joan passed him like a ghost—only able to do it because he was standing there like a deer caught in headlights—and made it into the front hallway in time to remove Chris’s leather jacket. Michael cursed his luck as he belatedly motioned for Greta to enter the front sitting room, which she did with a slight smile and a nod much reminiscent of her... husband’s?
“Greta! What a surprise,” said Chris as he came in. Tara was following him, with a new hairstyle, and a slightly flushed look on her face. Michael frowned when he saw her, comparing her to the more composed and elegant Greta and wondering how he could have ever confused them.
“Hello, Chris,” Greta said. And to Michael’s shock, she curtsied, like a slave.
He felt a little off balance, as his ears continued to hear the two of them speak, but for some reason, their words made no sense. Tara and Joan vanished into the back of the house toward the kitchen as Chris came into the front room and continued speaking with Greta.
Greta the slave?
“—Master is in the study with the Trainer right now,” she was saying. “He will be glad to see you before we leave.”
“It’s always a pleasure to see the both of you,” Chris answered. He looked over at Michael, who was still standing awkwardly between the chairs. “I see you’ve met the new student here, Mr. Michael LaGuardia.”
“Yes, we were introduced before,” Greta said with a smile.
But you didn’t curtsey to me, Michael thought in a sudden flash of annoyance. And why was he still standing, anyway? He nodded curtly and said, “I have some stuff to do upstairs. Excuse me.” He felt Chris’s eyes on him as he passed them, and heard Chris inviting Greta to come in and sit down for a minute, and he almost stumbled on the steps in his haste to get out of there.
He felt furious, but didn’t quite know why. So, he didn’t realize that she was a slave. That was possible! Hell, Geoff trained slaves to be able to act like girlfriends and lovers or spouses, or house guests, or whatever their owner might want them to behave like in public! And it wasn’t required for owners to identify their slaves to anyone else—even to Marketplace people. And it wasn’t as though they gave him any clues—she had her coat taken just like her master’s, and he never called her anything but Greta, and the Trainer even put an arm around her shoulders like an old friend.
And she didn’t act like a slave! She didn’t hang in the background, keeping quiet...
Or, did she?
Michael sat down on the edge of his bed and tried to think about it. She did hang back, only moving when she was acknowledged. But—he’d barely had a minute to see that and then she was gone. Yet he still felt that somehow, he had been fooled—or made a fool of. His journal was laying on the nightstand, but he felt no desire to write about this afternoon, and was suddenly glad that these guests weren’t staying for dinner, even though that might have been a remarkable oddity and a potential diversion from the same-old, same-old.
They left while he sulked in his room. He would have gone downstairs to get Tara for some abuse and maybe some interview time, but he didn’t want to run into them, so he stayed until he heard the front door closing again, and then went down for dinner. No one commented upon his absence.
But when the meal was over, Anderson looked across the table at him and asked, “What did you think of Dr. Kaufmann?”
“Great guy,” he said. “I liked him a lot. He seems very interesting.”
“What about him do you find interesting?”
Michael stared for a moment and gathered his thoughts. What an odd question! “Well—he’s very nice,” he said quickly. “Old-fashioned and polite. Smart. He’s a good guy to talk with, easygoing, friendly.” Unlike my current company, he thought, as he caught Chris looking at him. But he continued, “I just found him really easy to talk to.”
“You should. He’s been getting people to talk to him for many years now,” Anderson said with a slight smile.
Michael cocked his head in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Tell me,” she said, instead of answering him, “what you learned about Emil today.”
“He’s rich,” Michael stated firmly. There was no doubt about that. She shrugged in response.
“That depends on how you define rich, I suppose,” she said. “Emil won’t ever go hungry, that’s for sure. What else?”
“Well... he’s an owner. Of one slave. And he’s not in the market for another one. That he and Greta—Dr. Mueller—have been together for four years.” Think, Mike, think, he coached himself. What else did he tell me?
The Trainer Page 14
