As She's Told (15 page)

92

As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob

>Tante Margit heard from Svend finally; he is in Brighton, crewing
on some friend's sailboat.

>That figures. I haven't heard from him since that postcard from
Dublin. He told my mother he'd email from internet cafes; he didn't tell her
he'd do it once in six months. Drives her crazy.

>It's an elder brother thing, I think.

>Bullshit my friend. You joke about Mormor, but of all her
grandchildren you are the one who is cast most in that mold. The high, shall
we say rigid standards, the wilful self-reliance that gives only and will not
take, these are the warp and weft of her personality. Of yours, at least the
weft; the warp is kink, I suppose.

>Uh huh.

>Has Ria made up her mind about Chicago?

>She will come, she says, but not until six months to finish the
fisherwoman documentary. Including editing, promotion and all. I could not
persuade her that Lake Michigan would stand in for the North Sea. And all
her support is here and not enough money to go back and forth. When it is
done she will come.

>Too bad, Karl. But better than nothing.

>Unless some slave wins her heart. We are never jealous but I can
feel the danger.

>I know what you mean. Hell, I'm uneasy when my girl is five
kilometres away. Though that's a little different.

>Get a good phone plan, and definitely a webcam. You'll share your
exploits like always. I know; write your thesis on the influence of network
technology on long-distance kinky relationships, using lots of personal
examples. That should get you tenure.

***

The next evening Anders showed up at Maia's door with fiddle in hand and a tape measure in his pocket. He'd promised (or threatened) a little theory lesson way back at the folk club. But first he stripped her and measured her all over, keeping notes, explaining nothing. She stood still and followed his every move, eyes wide, jumping at the flick of the tape measure between her legs, on her ass.

He was much more communicative about the characteristics of various fiddle styles. With Maia naked at his feet, he demonstrated some different 93

As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob

kinds of bowing, and showed her ornamentation and where to place the accents for, say, Cape Breton as opposed to Québécois. She picked up rapidly on the relationships, one style emerging from another, surprising him with her quick comprehension.

"I know some theory," she admitted shyly.

"You took music?"

"Piano lessons. Just for a year. I was hopeless at it. Theory was the only part I could do.”

“Well, you've got a good ear," he said. "Listen, now."

He illustrated some more, using Acadian and Cajun, Irish and Newfoundland. Then he confused her with some rather odd Scandinavian pieces.

When he moved from phrases to full-length songs there was a tap at the door. Maia scooped up her clothes and ran for the bathroom.

The Silvas stood in the doorway with smiles on their faces, asking to come in and listen. Maia emerged, shyly arranged chairs, offered tea, and whisked the measuring tape into a drawer. Anders played a few bars of this and that, traded friendly remarks and fished around for what they might like to hear. Mr. Silva broke into an old folk song from his youth, his wife nodding vigorously and joining in on the chorus; Anders improvised an accompaniment. Then another song, and another. Mrs. Silva went downstairs and returned with wine and sweet rice pudding. In between songs they discussed the construction business and Azores cuisine.

Mrs. Silva turned to Maia and took her small wrist in a heavy, friendly grip. "You come downstairs tomorrow," she insisted; "I teach you sopa de couves. A very good soup, and is easy; you will see. You have to feed up this man here, yes?" She turned to Anders for support; she'd been trying to get Maia into her kitchen for a year.

He glanced at Maia's embarrassed face, already shaking a negative. The girl seemed to be attracting instructors today. He wouldn't have minded a cooking lesson himself, but he was busy. If Maia hadn't been so busy herself he would have made her do it just to tease her.

"She has so much schoolwork, poor girl," he said. "Her professors won't take soup instead of assignments. Maybe they should, eh? But tell me, what goes into that soup, kale? And sausage? Is it like caldo verde?"

Maia's wrist was released as gestures became necessary. Anders 94

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continued deftly diverting the landlady's attention to himself, and at last she seemed to accept with some puzzlement that it was he, not Maia, who was the cook. By the time he went home, Anders had been provided with half a coconut cake, the recipe for sopa de couves, and an excellent deal on floor tiles.

***

I slipped into a phone booth, dialled.

"Yes?"

"It's me, sir," I murmured.

"What's up?"

"Please, could I skip my next class? Just this once? It's a guest speaker, I've heard the lecture before. I need the time to get hold of something on censorship ethics."

Anders interrogated me on how I would use the time, and on the existence of past notes on the guest speaker's lecture, before he would give permission.

I ran for the library. In the past I would have skipped the class and wasted the time, but now I knew I'd better have something major to show. I foraged for material with a sharpness born of necessity, cursing at the lineup for the photocopiers. Then I ran for home. I had to get the morning's notes typed up, organize the censorship information, fix those database errors….

At six thirty I came around the corner with a basket full of clean laundry in my arms, saw the truck and froze. Froze solid, like a wicked troll caught in the sunlight. Anders was early. He got out of the truck and stood there looking at me. The sun was directly behind him; I couldn't see his expression, but I could imagine it. I could picture myself through his eyes, as if this were a movie and they'd switched to Camera B. Me, wearing jeans and an old sweatshirt. Guilt incarnate. A gust of wind blew last year's leaves along the ground toward me. I felt a momentary impulse to fling down the laundry and run like hell.

He waited. My feet took me over to him without my active cooperation, step by slow, inexorable step. He relieved me of my basket and nodded toward the house. Numbly I climbed the stairs, opened the door, closed it behind him.

"On your knees. Strip." His voice was deep, even, and dark as a dungeon. I bared my upper body first, but had some trouble getting the jeans 95

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over my knees. The panties came off with them. He picked the jeans up by one belt loop and dangled them in front of me. "Well?" My throat like dry leaves. "I'm sorry sir. I had no more clean clothes, and…." I trailed off. We both knew I was supposed to have done my laundry on Sunday. It was now Tuesday. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

"What were you thinking when you put these on?" There was the accent. Oh, god…. "I was in a hurry and – and I wasn't thinking at all, really."

"Yes, you were. You were thinking that I wouldn't find out." I winced, and looked down at the floor. "Which you thought would make it all right.

To do what I'd told you not to do. Isn't that right?"

I started to shake my head, but stopped when I thought of being punished for lying, on top of my other sins. I nodded.

"How many times have you done this?" The quiet voice was ominous.

"I haven't before, I haven't, honestly, it was just because I had no clean dresses, I had to wash them, two are at the cleaners…." I was babbling now, and starting to cry.

"That's enough," he said, sounding disgusted. "Crawl over there." I obeyed his gesture, crawling into the corner by the bathroom door, then knelt up when I was told and shuffled forward.

"I want your knees, tits and face right up against the wall. Hands behind your back. Now think about what you've done." I pressed myself into the cold surfaces, shivering.

He walked away, rummaged under the kitchen sink, went into my bedroom. I heard drawers opening and closing. The closet door slid on its track. Hangers clanged. In a few minutes he was back, carrying something in a garbage bag; I heard it drop next to the door. He went past me into the bathroom and there was the sound of cupboard doors. Then he was moving around the living room.

I tried to think about what I had done, but his anger made me so wretched that my brain's rational operations were simply suspended. I knelt there for ages, head down, listening. When would he let me up? I could hear my laptop starting up, the mouse clicking.

My bare ass was on display as he'd intended; flesh cringing. He was really going to hurt me this time. My only option now was obey, and try not to provoke more punishment than I already deserved. Shame and 96

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apprehension were sawing around inside me, leaving glittering particles of lust in their wake, and a small, abrasive grain of defensive resentment.

Humiliation…. My visual field was confined to a dim tunnel ending at my knees. I wanted to shift my weight, straighten my back. And it seemed to me suddenly that any normal person would straighten their back if they wanted to. Surely I could do a little thing like that? For that matter, I could get up, put my clothes on, wear what I liked. Do my chores when I felt like it. To do those things I would have to defy the man behind me. I would have to have the gall to look him in the eye, and tell him – tell him –

Tell him what? That he was mistaken; I didn't belong to him after all? I wasn't supposed to lie to him. Tears welled. My eyelids moved to dislodge them. The rest of me stayed where it was put.

What had I been thinking? It hadn't seemed like any great harm, a thoughtless bit of risk. An impulse. But to my shame I knew that at some level I had felt exactly as he had said, that I could get away with being naughty as long as he never found out. What kind of stupid game was I playing?

His anger and disgust were churning around in my guts. I'd planned to lie to him, by omission at least. Something he'd told me never, ever to do.

Worse than disobedience. What the hell was the matter with me? I'd opened up yet another careless pit of doom for myself. The silence began to upset me even more than the upcoming punishment. Why didn't he say anything?

Scold me, berate me, anything? He hadn't laid a finger on me, handled me at all, smacked my ass as I deserved. I began to wish hard for pain, some step toward redemption. But contact of whatever kind would be a relief. Tears were slipping down my cheeks, into the tiny, cold, isolated world of my corner.

I heard the laptop shut down, then footsteps. "All right, bad girl. Crawl over here." His voice was loud against the silence. I turned my wet face and blinked into the light, crawled after his feet, looked up when he stopped. He glanced at me, gave me a tissue and motioned for me to use it. Then he handed me a dress, a clean one that had been in my laundry basket; it was the soft one that didn't need ironing. I knelt up and put it on, all my antennae out and quivering for signs from him. His face was neutral, no clue there.

My bedside clock said seven-thirty; I'd been in the corner for almost an hour.

I got into stockings awkwardly, bringing one foot forward and then the 97

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other, and then slipped into the shoes he brought me. Still no contact. "Let's go," he said, motioning me to get up. He turned out the lights, and picked up the bag by the door.

I prayed that the Silvas would not be in the front hall, and tried to walk so as not to let my breasts bounce, uncomfortably aware that I was not having much luck. Then we were outside in the dusk. It was warm for the time of year; still, the cooling air caressed my naked thighs as we crossed the sidewalk. He opened the door of the truck for me, but let me get in without help. As he turned onto College he said, "You know what's in the bag, I take it.”

“Yes, sir. All my jeans and pants?"

"And your panties. I was going to let you wear them to school until you finished, but not after this." I felt a bitter blush mount up into my face. "I know where everything is now in your apartment. If you add anything or move anything I'll know. You're not to buy another article of clothing; if I think you need something I'll buy it."

"Yes, sir."

I preceded him into the grey brick house as into the Bastille.

The place seemed even more deconstructed that it had been the time before. There was a wall half down. Bathroom fixtures leaned at odd angles, wrapped in cardboard and tape. Before I'd taken two steps in the door I had to strip again and wait for him. He took his time. Each second stretched my nerves another click of the rack.

At last he took me to the back of the house and down some stairs to the basement, where the thick door of the front room closed with a soft swish and a thud. Silence. Soundproof, I thought. Oh, god! A sharp, prickly smell of sawdust. The room was small, clean, and almost empty; just a kitchen chair and a heavy table by the far wall. Something across the table. He picked the something up, and sat down. I stared at the short whip in his hand, and the shaking that was in all my limbs moved to my belly. He pointed at the floor. "Hands and knees now. To me."

I dropped to the wooden floor and crawled on shaky limbs. Cowered at his feet.

"Sit up. Look at me." I looked up: a contracted brows, eyes like slate.

He'd grown taller than ever, huge, towering. His voice was like the rumble of a train in the distance. "What else have you done that you haven't told 98

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me?"

Involuntarily my eyes dropped, but the whip was under my chin now. "I said look at me. What else?" The train getting closer.

"I – I'm sorry, sir, I was supposed to study all of Sunday but – but I – I was on the net, just – just wasting time."