Through the monitors I saw Damon go into the living room and disappear behind a door. When he finally came back, half an hour later, his eyes and nose were red: he had obviously been crying.
He handed me sweatpants and a T-shirt, and told me to go change. His voice was stuffed up and nasal from the crying.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Are you upset about something?”
“That’s a reasonable assumption.”
“What is it?”
“Why do you think there’s no camera where I went? Why do you think you couldn’t see me on any of the screens? It’s because it’s not something you need to know, or that I want you to know, or that concerns you. Now please go and change.”
“I’m too hungry. I feel faint,” I said.
“It’ll pass as soon as you start jogging.”
“No, I’ll pass — out.”
“We’ll see which one of us is right,” he said, pointing the gun at me and wiping his nose on his tissue-like sleeve.
I went into the bathroom and changed into the outfit.
When I came out, he said, “Start running.”
“In here?” I looked around the small cell.
“Yes. Why not.”
I didn’t deign to answer. I started running from one end to the other, following the L-shape of the cell. After four laps, which took only a few seconds, he said, “You can just run in place if you want.”
“Oh goody, that’ll be even more fun.”
I ran in place, staring at him, hoping to make him uncomfortable.
“I don’t like running,” I finally said, and dared to stop moving. “It’s uncomfortable for me.”
He looked concerned. “Is it? Do your knees hurt? Or your back?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t feel comfortable talking about it.”
“Ah, you jiggle,” he stated, nasally. “Is it your breasts? Do your breasts hurt?”
I so wished I had a heavy object to whack him with. Or better yet, my sword.
“You’re blushing,” he said.
He got three more imaginary blows. “As a matter of fact,” I said, “maybe I don’t jiggle. Maybe I just feel as if my feminine organs are being pounded loose and are about to come pouring out of my vagina, if you want to know the truth.”
He was speechless for a moment. Then he slowly smiled and said, “No, I think you jiggle.”
“Not necessarily. And if I did, it would be called ‘bounce.’ ”
“You’re right if we’re referring to the breasts. But if we’re talking about another part, like the buttocks, it would be called jiggle, I think.”
“It’s the breasts!” I said indignantly.
“Okay, I’ll try to think of something,” he said, and left my cell.
He came back, holding an Ace bandage. “This should work.”
“What is it for?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t for what I thought it was.
It was. “To wrap around your chest,” he said. “There’s no reason it won’t do the trick.”
“Yes, there’s a very good reason: I’m not getting near that thing.”
He sighed. “So what sport would you rather do?” He fell silent, and then said, “Okay. I’ve got it. I’ll just get an exercise machine that you can use in your room.”
“My room,” I repeated, rolling my eyes.
“I’ll get you a Stairmaster or a stationary bicycle. Which one?”
“Oh, don’t spend so much money on me.”
“Answer.”
“Well, if I must, I’ll take the bicycle. But a reclining one.”
“All right. One recumbent bicycle coming up! Now we’re in business,” he said, and blew a loud bubble.
“These stock phrases,” I muttered, disgusted.
“I’m trying to be cheerful.”
“Oh yes, I forgot that stock phrases are renownedly cheery.”
He gave me a small sandwich, which I gobbled down. He ate one too.
He then made me do some squatting exercises, while he looked at himself in a hand mirror and tried to unstick the gum from his face. By the time he was done with me, I had cramps and a hard time limping over to my bed.
“Cheer up,” he said. “After dinner we’ll have the wishing session. It’s an important part of the program. It’s the more spiritual part, shall we say. You’ll get to make some wishes, which I will attempt to fulfill.”
Damon left for town, to buy the recumbent bicycle.
I stayed on my bed, staring at the ceiling in a depressed trance. I started crying, and the tears ran into my hairline and itched, and when I tried to raise my arm to wipe them, the pain of a cramp was too great, so I had no choice but to allow the tears to collect in my ears.
It was in this pathetic state that I thought of a plan of escape. It wasn’t the type of plan that cool prisoners would have thought of. It wasn’t a graceful plan. But maybe it was its very lack of grace that would make it unpredictable and effective. I would try it early in the morning the next day, if I hadn’t already escaped by then.
I turned on the TV and found the news. It didn’t take long for the story about the mysterious pursued woman to come on again. The nation was obsessed, it seemed. And then, to my surprise, I heard something that made me sit up in bed. Apparently, five women had stepped forward, each claiming to be the real pursued woman. One of them was even interviewed in the newsroom. She seemed vulgar, tacky. How could they think, when they saw me running from the back, that my front would look so tacky? I stayed on my bed, lethargic, until Damon came back.
He entered my cage and paced the floor at the foot of my bed, gesticulating broadly. “I got you an amazing reclining bicycle! The most expensive one. The most electronic one.”
“How exciting,” I moaned.
“It’ll be delivered tomorrow.”
“That’s too bad: I’ll be gone by then.”
“Oh? Where will you be?”
“I will have escaped.”
“Good for you. Or rather, too bad for you, because you’ll be missing out on quite an enviable future, but hey, it’s your life.”
“That’s right, so would you mind giving it back to me? People are stepping forward, assuming my identity. You can’t let this happen. You must let me set them straight. Otherwise, by the time you release me, I will no longer exist out there. They will have stolen me away from myself. I will no longer be me. They will be me.”
“Really? Women are claiming to be the pursued woman? It doesn’t surprise me, come to think of it. But don’t worry about it. You should be above all that. Leave them to their petty schemes.”
He tossed a videocassette on my bed. “I rented La Femme Nikita for us to watch after dinner, after the wishing session. I hope you haven’t seen it.”
“I don’t even get to pick the movie?”
“No, this film might inspire you to view your stay here more positively. It’s about a woman who, like you, gets trained and is improved. The similarity ends there, for she gets trained to kill people.”
“Why didn’t you just rent My Fair Lady? That should satisfy your Pygmalion leanings.”
“Not a bad idea, but La Femme Nikita is more modern, more likely to be an inspiring role model.”
“You are like a Nazi. You want to make me into some sort of superhuman. Do you have any German blood?”
“No, I’m out of it at the moment. I usually keep some in my freezer, but I might be getting some more in tomorrow. What did you want it for?”
“That’s a really insensitive thing to say to someone who’s kidnapped and who might be the one ending up in your freezer, as far as I know. Or in your stomach. Or both. I would then become your excrement.”
“Lovely. Okay, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you still had any fear that I might kill you. And I don’t think I have German blood in my veins.”