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Finally, as we continued, I broached the topic: “Have you heard of the pursued woman?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, I am the real pursued woman. The other one’s a fake.”

“You feel pursued? Are you pursued?”

I sighed. My mother’s mind was best described by saying that it was beside the point. She thought beside the point, and she talked beside the point, as I was sure was often the case with geniuses. It was actually an asset for fencing. To win at fencing you had to move and attack and even think in a way that was beside the point.

“Not now,” I answered. “I’m not being pursued now, but I was then. Don’t you follow the news? The pursued woman isn’t being pursued now, she was pursued then, just one afternoon. And I am the pursued woman! It’s me!”

“How do you know?”

“What do you mean how do I know? I was there, being pursued by Chriskate Turschicraw, the Shell. And we were being filmed by the paparazzi. I was wearing that sweater you gave me for Christmas. Remember, the yellow one? Don’t you recognize it from the video?”

“Okay, and?”

“She’s getting some pretty interesting movie roles. It just seems unfair, since I’m the real one.”

“But is it a worthwhile achievement to be chased down the street by someone famous? Couldn’t you just ask Chriskate Turschicraw, since you seem to know her, to hook you up with some connections?”

“That would be asking for a favor, whereas the chase is something that just happened. I wasn’t trying to get anything. On the contrary.”

“Still, I don’t think it would be very dignified to go in that direction. It would be degrading, don’t you see that?”

“What would be degrading?” asked my father, marching toward us from the elevator. His foil was at his waist, as always, and he joined in on our bouting. My mother briefly described my dilemma.

“Degrading indeed!” he said, stabbing me. “Don’t you have any sense of pride?”

“Not really,” I replied. “But you both know that.”

Despite my lack of pride, my parents’ advice had appeased my tormenting temptation to reveal my true identity to the media. I felt more at peace and was only left with occasional fantasies of confronting the fake pursued woman and saying to her, “I am the real you.”

I resumed my job at the Xerox shop and my job piercing ears at my uncle’s jewelry shop. I made every effort to live my life as before. Which also meant: I started going to auditions again. Everything was now just like before, but not for long, because something extraordinary happened at the auditions: I got the parts. Although it may be hard to believe, I had not predicted it. Not that I expected not to get parts, or that I thought my acting hadn’t improved; I simply hadn’t allowed myself to think about it, afraid I would get wrapped up in the dynamics of caring, consequently getting stressed and anxious.

I wasn’t comfortable, or even pleased, with this turn of events. It complicated my plans about my life staying the same. In addition, and on a separate level, it was offensive. Those auditioners may as well have been saying: “Yes, it was worth it. We would not be hiring you if you had not gone through such pain. Damon was absolutely right all along, down to the last shard. He did a good job. And now you will be rewarded.”

At first my only consolation was that I was unhappy, which meant Damon had lost, which made me happy. But then I lost even my unhappiness. It was hard to be unhappy with so much respect and admiration coming my way. I tried to maintain at least my original bitterness, but it wore off too and became harder and harder to recapture. Since I couldn’t feel bitter, I settled for acting bitter. And of course I did it wonderfully. But acting it did not make me feel it. So I was unhappy again, which made me happy. I wished I could send Damon a postcard saying, “Witness my splendid unhappiness, you bastard.”

Now that I was getting parts, I had to either give up acting or go with the flow. There was, actually, a third option, but it was too absurd to consider: I could systematically refuse the parts I was offered and keep going to auditions. My life could then be just like before, except the part about getting the parts.

I decided instead to go with the flow. I didn’t like it, but what choice did I have? Giving up acting meant Damon had ruined my life, and refusing parts meant I was nuts.

But I would not just go with the flow, or be dragged by it, or controlled by it: I would lead the flow.

I turned down the four parts I was offered, because that would have been “being dragged by the flow” (for they were student movies). I got a new head-shot of myself, which I sent to three agents. All three called, I met them, was interviewed by them, and got accepted by them. The one I chose seemed intelligent and down to earth, yet nurturing.

I auditioned for a low-budget science-fiction movie. I got it. I also auditioned for a low-budget, imitation Jane Austen movie. I got it. I was able to accept both offers because one started filming after the other ended.

This advancement in my career didn’t make me happy the way it should have, nor unhappy the way it might have. I felt vaguely bewildered and blank. Although my decision to lead the flow was yielding results, it didn’t take away the unpleasant sensation that Damon was still controlling my life. I didn’t feel free.

This changed as soon as the filming of the science-fiction movie began. I played a good scientist who fought the bad scientists, and the whole movie alternated between me being tough while destroying the bad scientists, and me screaming my head off while being tortured or on the verge of being destroyed. I felt exhilarated and happy. Everything else in my life, like who was controlling whom, or petty issues of freedom, seemed trivial. I was absorbed in the moment.

I then immediately went off and did the imitation Jane Austen movie. Since all the Jane Austen novels had been made into films, the screenwriters came up with a plot that was vaguely similar to one without being one. It was also vaguely similar to my life, although they didn’t know it. The story contained a theme of transformation that had a whiff of familiarity and that occasionally brought me bad memories. The story was about a plain and homely girl, played by me, who is suddenly possessed by ambition and decides to transform herself into a more desirable person. But not wanting people to consciously notice the change, she decides to do it very gradually. There were also the essential Jane Austen ingredients, such as me and the other female characters whispering, giggling, gossiping, being obsessed with men. And some romantic intrigue. On the whole, this movie as well was a lot of fun to work on.

Nevertheless, I often thought about Damon. Sometimes, I thought I missed him. I wondered if this might be an emotional hallucination. In any case, I did wonder what happened to him and his amputated finger.

I started seeing the cellist/stripper/etiquette-expert/Weight Watchers counselor, Nathaniel, again. He had gotten back in touch with me after my return from my kidnapping. At first he was struck by my physical transformation, and then he wanted to know every detail of what had happened to me, and once he knew, he became concerned, and then obsessed, every time he saw me, with whether I had seen Damon again; whether Damon had attempted any form of contact.

“No, why would he?” I asked.

“I’m sure he will. It’s inevitable.”

I interpreted this statement as sick jealousy.

I asked him how Chriskate was doing.

“She has a boyfriend,” he said. “You really helped her get over me. I thank you. Chriskate has become much more sane, easier to deal with. She and I even have lunch occasionally, as friends.”

“I’m glad she’s happy. But I’m surprised. I didn’t think she’d ever get over you. I didn’t get the impression I was being of the slightest help to her.”