And I knew that was true. I was no longer alone. Not with Alex looking at me. It was as if I came alive under his gaze. He made me real. So I surrendered, allowing him to lead the way. And I complied.
I step down into the boat, feeling it rock under my weight. I manage to keep my balance, compensating for the swaying motion. I close my eyes in an attempt to quell the nausea.
It was the incident at the window that marked, in a painful way, the transition from blind passion to something else. We were in the living room of my apartment, and I was naked. Alex had just undressed me. He was still fully clothed when he turned me around, took a firm grip on my upper arms, and dragged me through the room. At first I thought we were heading for the sofa, but then I realized he was moving me toward the window. The tall, narrow window with no sill or curtains. It was twilight and dark both inside and out, but Alex switched on the ceiling light.
I froze, gave an embarrassed laugh, and whispered that someone might see us. He didn’t reply, and when I looked over my shoulder and saw the expression on his face, the laughter died in my throat. I tried to resist, but it was too late. He was considerably stronger than me, and soon he was pressing my naked body against the cold windowpane, fully exposed to the neighbors across the street and to passersby below. Alex grabbed the back of my neck with one hand and my wrists with the other, and I remember standing there with my breasts raised and flattened and my nose twisted painfully to the side, trying to understand why this was happening. Why was he doing this? What was the point? If this was just another one of the games he found so amusing, why was he digging his fingers into my neck so hard?
As I recall, it wasn’t a conscious decision on my part to give up, to stop fighting him. I remember only that my body went limp and ceased all attempts to get away. As soon as Alex noticed this, he pulled me backward, shoved me down on the sofa, and pulled down his pants. He didn’t look me in the eye. Maybe that’s why he didn’t notice that I was crying until it was over. I remember he seemed almost surprised by my tears, didn’t understand why I was so upset. He said he found it arousing knowing someone might see me. He said someone with a beautiful body like mine shouldn’t feel ashamed. He said nothing about wanting to humiliate me or hurt me. But maybe he noticed something in my eyes, a trace of revulsion or doubt. The next day, a delivery boy came to the store bearing the biggest bouquet of long-stemmed red roses I’ve ever seen. The accompanying card said: From someone who loves mysteries. Yes, loves. Don’t ever leave me.
The water is calm, the surface smooth. It seems wrong to shatter the silence with the sound of the outboard motor, so I decide to row instead. I make sluggish progress. It feels like the water is resisting me, as if it only reluctantly yields to the oars. Dark waves lap against the side of the boat, hissing and whispering. I lean forward, working so hard that sweat trickles down my back. The cut on my hand stings, but I ignore the pain. That’s something I’m good at, after my time with Alex.
Finally, I near the island, planning to pull into the same place as usual. The spot where Alex moored the boat before he and Smilla went off on their adventure. The place where I pulled in when I came back to search for them. How many times is that now? My thoughts whirl; everything blurs together. It feels like so long ago that I was last here, and yet… and yet it seems like just recently.
The first things I see are the boats. Two rowboats are bobbing in the water close to the island, but on the opposite side from where I was planning to go ashore. The next instant, I notice the group that has gathered, their bodies sticking up like dark shadows from the tall grass between the trees. I know at once who they are, and I freeze midstroke. My boat glides forward in one last, slow movement, and then comes to a halt in the bewitched waters. I can make out their hoarse voices as they talk, interspersed with a laugh or a cough. And then, suddenly, a shrill scream.
My heart lurches. I should turn the boat around and go home. Get out of here before they see me. But I don’t. My arms and hands seem to move of their own volition. Cautiously, I begin rowing toward the island again, hunching over the oars. My pulse quickens with every stroke. The words he said, that man in the big brown house, echo in my mind. Some nights, they make a huge racket. Down by the water, sometimes out on the island. I try to keep my distance as best I can. A bright glow tells me that the kids have made a bonfire. I think of the primitive fire pit I discovered when I was searching the island and about the green tarp and the stained mattress. The empty beer cans, the cigarette butts, the used condom. And the eviscerated squirrel.
I’m close now. If any of those kids glance over, they’ll see me. I hear another scream. This time, it’s louder, more piercing. It’s a scream of pain. And panic. It cuts right through me, releasing a flood of images, all of them violent. They pour out, jumbled together, flashing past at furious speed, and I can do nothing to stop them. Images of myself and of Smilla, and of that long-haired girl. Images of hands, alternating between tender and rough. And pictures of objects, relentlessly sharp and treacherously soft. Hands and objects that are used to subdue and to harm.
“Stop!” I cry as loudly as I can. “Please, stop!”
I’m on my feet, standing up in the boat, without knowing how that happened. Someone gives a shout. Several kids pop up from the grass or appear from behind the bushes. Only now do I see how many there are. In the middle looms a figure with his hands on his hips. He doesn’t move, and his face is hidden in shadow, but I know he’s staring at me. I have his full attention.
“Where is she?”
My voice is so hoarse it doesn’t carry properly. The young man with the braided goatee doesn’t reply. Maybe he doesn’t hear my question. Or else he just doesn’t care. Suddenly and unexpectedly, I find myself on the verge of tears.
“Please,” I shout again, fighting to keep my voice from breaking. “Don’t hurt her.”
Goatee Guy turns to one of the kids standing next to him. I hear him speak in a low voice, but I can’t make out the words. Whatever he says prompts hoarse and derisive laughter. An arm waves in the air. The next moment, something whizzes past me and lands with a splash in the water behind the boat. A rock. And then another. This time, it strikes the bow.
My eyes shift from one kid to another, taking them all in. Searching for the face of a girl. I know she’s there somewhere. I have to save her! Soon, more rocks are flying over the boat and raining into the water, and I’m forced to raise my arms to protect myself. I think I see one or more of the dark figures heading toward the two rowboats, and I realize I no longer have any choice. My hands move swiftly, and the motor starts up with a roar. I steer away from the island, heading back across Lake Malice.
“Stay away from here. Otherwise, the same thing will happen to you that happened to…”
I don’t hear the rest of the threat hurled after me, because just at that moment, something hard and sharp strikes my shoulder blade. A burning pain makes me double over. I speed up, feeling my pulse hammering against my eardrums.
It seems to take an eternity, but finally I make it back to the dock. I tie up the boat and rise up on wobbly legs, only to sink down again. I stare at the rock lying in the bottom of the boat. It’s big and sharp edged. If it had hit me in the head… If that was their intent… A shiver ripples across my skin.
What I should do is hurry back to the cabin, lock the door, and hide.
No one seems to have followed me, but if those kids do come and find me here… My misgivings fade into nothingness. I refuse to let fear take hold. So, is it over? That’s what races through my mind instead. Is it finally over?