Vapor

Chapter Twelve

The days passed, but I had trouble adjusting to the real world. It weighed on me. I was not used to facing life without Damon’s interruptions, without having to change into character many times a day. I felt caged within myself. When I fought with people now, it bothered me that I was not ordered, suddenly, to “act singular” or “bald” and was instead actually expected to continue the argument until its bitter end. It was suffocating.

I had the urge to ask my family and friends to make me act in any way they wanted, at any time. But I never dared ask, afraid they would either take advantage or think I was insane. Instead, I settled for ordering myself, out of the blue and at awkward times, to do “angry” or “suspicious” or whatever. And I would do it, subtly, I thought, but probably not subtly enough, judging from people’s gazes.

I had other problems as well, other confusions.

One of them was my escape, or that strange thing I had participated in. What had it been? An escape, or a release?

Also, I felt disturbed about having cut off Damon’s finger. Especially after hearing about the keys.

And that was another problem. The keys. Fifteen, no less. They touched me. They moved and affected me. I didn’t need these new emotions in my emotion salad, a huge salad composed of already too many miscombined, hard-to-digest states: slices of sadness, slivers of stress, crushed exhaustion, ripe indignation, bits of bitterness, anger rind, grated outrage, hard-boiled horror, soft-boiled perspective, steamed embarrassment, a teaspoon of denial, cubes of contempt, superiority peel, canned tolerance, crunchy curiosity, dried humor, leaves of relief, a pinch of guilt, melted melancholy, and a dab of fresh fear.

And now I was adding chunks of being “moved” and “affected”? Movement and affection were not good ingredients to add to my salad. My brain would throw up, or my heart, or my soul; wherever emotional fruits get digested. A brain throwing up; how does that manifest itself? Is it insanity? Yes, it must be; insanity is the vomit of the brain.

But since one has little control over one’s emotional salad, the fifteen keys did, in fact, move me, and there wasn’t much I could do about it. In addition, I was furious at myself for not having searched the cell more thoroughly. What kind of a kidnapee was I?

But the biggest problem I had after my return to the real world was that I no longer knew what I wanted to do with my life. I was tempted to abandon acting, just to spite Damon.

After thinking about it, I decided that the great victory, of course, would be to not let Damon make any difference to how I ran my life.

Nevertheless, something was frequently on my mind: the pursued woman. Armory Jude, the female impostor who had pretended she was the legitimate pursued woman, had, during my kidnapping, starred in three low-budget movies, due to all the attention she got. She was considered a mediocre actress with no future, but still, it was better than nothing. Nothing — that was what I had. It made me jealous; it disturbed me. It made me wonder whether I might not like to be in her shoes. I was nagged by temptations to reveal to the media that I was the real pursued woman. I fantasized about it. I tried not to, but couldn’t help myself. I decided to go and ask my mother for advice.

I agreed to bout with her, as this was the best way for us to have a serious conversation.

The clink of our foils echoed in the entrance hall of the building to which my father was the super. We bouted in silence for a few minutes, absorbed, ignoring the doorman or the residents who went in and out.

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.”

“Maybe she just needed time to digest your wise words, whatever they were.”

Nathaniel and I, by the way, became lovers. It happened after the filming of the imitation Jane Austen movie, and it was his doing. Under normal circumstances, I would resist the sexual overtures of a man in whom I had no strong romantic interest. But I didn’t care anymore. It all seemed of little importance. So I allowed Nathaniel to play with me. And he made good and constant use of me. The more he noticed my indifference, the more his usage became urgent. When I say I was indifferent, I don’t mean unaroused. I was indifferent to the fact that I was aroused. And I was indifferent on a more general level as well. He claimed he loved me. He said this made him happy because he never thought he’d be capable of loving someone like me.

“Like me? What do you mean like me?”

He didn’t want to say. I pressured him to no end. I withheld sex. He finally insinuated that what he meant by “like me” was someone whose degree of beauty was not significantly above average. I laughed. Insults to my degree of beauty had never bothered me much, but even if they had, I could not have been offended in this case: he hadn’t been able to love Chriskate, the most beautiful woman in the world.

During the usage, I was passive. He used me like an object, and he used me with fascination. Sometimes he had sex with me as if wishing it to be an insult to me. I didn’t know why, and I didn’t care, and maybe I was wrong anyway. It was never anything specific he said, or anything violent he did. The attempted insult was all in his thrusting. That’s where I got the vibe of it.

And then, he turned out to be right: I saw Damon again. It was on a crowded subway platform. I saw him far away, tall, looking at me above people’s heads. He moved toward the exit. I was rooted to my spot, and then made a dash to intercept him.

He was gone. I called the police who had worked on my case, and told them about it. They said I should be careful; that I should not go alone to deserted places. I repeated that this had been a crowded subway platform. They said they knew, but that regardless, I should not go alone to deserted places. I said okay, but what should I do to catch him. They said I should keep doing what I was doing.

“Which is?” I asked.

“Ask the help of a nearby police officer, if there happens to be one.”

I reminded them that that wasn’t what I had done: I had tried to catch Damon myself. They said they knew, but that they were sure that if there had been a police officer nearby, I would have asked for his or her help.

I was relieved when the absurd conversation ended.

I wanted Damon to be caught. He had altered my life against my will, and so what if it turned out well? That was beside the point. It was the principle of it that mattered.

If he were to be caught, it would make an interesting trial.

When I told Nathaniel I had seen Damon, he became agitated, said he wasn’t surprised, asked what my plan was for next time. I told him I had no plan. He said that was okay, that I shouldn’t scare Damon off or he would be harder to catch.

A few days later, I was walking down the street and saw Damon driving by me slowly in a car. He was looking at me with a very focused expression. He seemed to be scrutinizing my face. I stood still on the sidewalk and watched him drive away. At the last moment, I looked at his license plate, but its number was covered with masking tape.

A couple of days later, I went off to star in a medieval movie, thinking it would be fun to fight with swords while acting. I was offered the part before they even knew I fenced, and they were very pleased when I gave them a demonstration. I had finished the Jane Austen movie a month before and had been able to rest, but my encounter in the street with Damon caused me to be plagued by thoughts of him during the filming, which spoiled my enjoyment of the experience and of my fighting with the swords. I did my job anyway, and well, but I was in a constant state of anxiety. That’s when, and why, I first came up with the germ of the idea for my plan.

Two months later, the medieval movie was done. And a few weeks after that, my first two movies came out in theaters simultaneously, due to the fact that one had been delayed and the other had been completed unusually quickly. It was the most exciting moment of my life, and I wanted to savor the experience to the fullest. I bought myself a pair of Rollerblades, donned a black coat, a hat, and a beard and mustache that Chriskate had left behind at Nathaniel’s apartment and which he lent me for my purpose. With my beard flowing in the breeze of my skating, I spent my days zooming from one theater to the next, watching my movies, watching people’s faces watching my movies, devouring their facial expressions, and listening to their comments. I always brought a notebook with me to write down what I heard, what I saw, and my impressions of both. I also brought a small tape recorder to capture the sounds of the audience in relation to the sounds of the film. Nathaniel came with me sometimes, when his multiple jobs schedule allowed it. We would sit at opposite ends of the audience, and he would report back to me his findings, so that I’d have a double dose of information.

Then we’d go back to his place and have sex, often, because the beard turned him on when he was in a good mood. When he was feeling low he’d ask me to take it off.

After spending about a week watching my movies every day, all day, I was still at it. And one day, as my beard fluttered in the wind and my black coat flapped behind me like a cape while I was skating down a one-way street to get to a distant theater, a car slowed down next to me. It was Damon.

Through his open window, he said, “Are you happy?”

I saw his amputated finger resting on the steering wheel.

“Did I escape?” I asked.

“Are you happy?” he repeated sincerely. He wasn’t referring to the job I had done on his finger, as I thought for a second, but to the job he had done on my life.

We both slowed our rolling and came to a standstill.

I glanced around to see if there was a policeman nearby. There wasn’t. But there were some male pedestrians. I didn’t know what to do.

I turned to two of the men, pointed at Damon, and said, “Help! Stop this man! He stole my wallet!” This, I thought, sounded better than saying, “Stop this man! He kidnapped me!”

The two male pedestrians only stopped their walking; not the man. They remained standing there, staring at the woman in the beard on skates who had forgotten to adopt a man’s voice when calling for their help. And Damon drove away.

I reproached myself later for my lack of resourcefulness. Yet I still had no idea what I could have done.

Nathaniel reproached me too. He said I was stupid, that I had scared Damon off.

“So?” I said.

“You’ll have a harder time catching him now. He’ll be more careful.”

“How am I supposed to catch him? I can’t have an undercover cop following me every day.”

Something good started happening at around that time, but, still unnerved over my encounter with Damon, I wasn’t able to appreciate it fully. This good thing was that my two movies, both of them, became sleepers. First I noticed it myself: each day the theaters got a little more crowded. And the things I heard people say when I followed them afterward were good. From my past experience going to movies and overhearing people’s comments, I couldn’t remember if this was usual. So, to check, I went to a few other movies and compared. I got the distinct impression that people said more good things about my movies.

Another indication I got about my movies being sleepers was a call from the director of the science-fiction movie, telling me so. Then it was a call from my agent, telling me so. Then I heard it on TV. And the TV said it was because of me; because I was in both. I thought it very nice of it to say that, but I wasn’t sure it was true. Then the critics said it too. And the TV wanted me to go on it and talk. Many times. I did. One time I went on Joe Letterman. I had trouble being completely present for the experience, because thoughts of Damon still harassed me; I was a little more subdued and tired than I normally would have been. And magazines interviewed me. I had to pose for their photo shoots. Out of all my experiences involving acting in movies and then promoting them, posing for shoots is what made me by far the most uncomfortable. I had never been photogenic. Nothing required my personality as little as being photographed, and I was not good at things that didn’t require my personality. The result is that I looked either utterly expressionless or overly expressionful. I could never find a middle ground and just look natural. The frustrated magazine photographers always had to resort to catching me by surprise, which wasn’t very convenient for them, since it drastically fouled up the carefully planned poses and backgrounds they had dreamed up for me. They’d grab shots of me while I was getting my makeup touched up, for example, or they’d discreetly instruct the lighting person or the stylist to distract me for a moment. Click.

And then I got an offer to star in a medium-budget romantic comedy. I turned it down for two reasons: I wanted to finish relishing in peace the release of my first movies, but mostly, I was having nightmares about Damon and I wanted to take it easy for a while. I needed to recuperate from my last encounter with him.

The seeds of the idea for my plan wafted through my mind, but I still didn’t pay much attention to them.

Until it happened again. A week or two had passed, and I was just starting to recuperate, to feel stronger, when the car slowed down next to me and he asked me once more if I was happy. But then another car honked behind him, and another, and he drove away without getting an answer. There still was masking tape over his license plate. I had a relapse. I could feel it right then and there, before his car had even disappeared from view. It was dark and heavy and sickening, this relapse, and I turned around and walked home staring at the pavement, my eyes unfocused, and my beard still in my bag, not to be used that day to watch my imitation Jane Austen movie for the fifteenth time.

When I got home I had an excited message on my machine from my agent, informing me of an offer from a major director, to star in a huge-budget movie and get paid a huge amount of money that no actor with as little experience as I had ever been paid. As I sat on my bathroom floor listening to the message again, all things came together at once in my mind; all things that mattered — and two things did — became clear: I would accept the offer, and I would go ahead with my plan. The latter had developed in my brain on my way home, so I already knew more or less what had to be done.

I hired workmen to make some changes in my apartment.

I began taking many leisurely walks in the streets.

Finally, it happened again. The car came, slowed next to me.

“Are you happy?” said Damon.

I didn’t look for a policeman. And I didn’t answer. I just looked sad. Fortunately, I was not wearing my beard, or it might have gotten in the way of looking sad. And then, with the skills Damon had taught me, I made my eyes moist.

“Are you happy?” he asked again, with more concern.

I continued looking at him sadly and started walking away.

“Wait!” he said.

I stopped.

“Please come back.”

Trying to look reluctant, I slowly went back to him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

I shrugged, shook my head, looked choked, and softly said, “Nothing.”

“Tell me. Is it that you want me to be arrested?”

I looked at him and didn’t answer.

“If that’s what’s making you unhappy, I’ll turn myself in to that traffic cop right there, right now.”

I couldn’t suppress a small smile. His offer was tempting. But my plan was better.

I sighed and closed my eyes and gave him a long, devastated look before walking away.

“Anna! Wait!” he said, and partially came out of his car. “Come back Anna!”

But I didn’t go back. I walked away, my head hanging.

I left my window open at night. And I lingered on the balcony before going to bed. My apartment was on the second floor, and there was a fire escape.

It didn’t take long.

The following night he came.

I was lying in bed as he entered through the window. I was still afraid of him. It may sound silly, but what I was afraid of, was of being kidnapped again.

As he wiped off his translucent white pants, which had gotten dirty from the windowsill, he said, “I know that this is probably a trap and that you’ll either kill me or have me arrested.” He struck me as funny just then, and I had trouble not laughing. He added, “But I want to know why you seemed so unhappy.”

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” I said, leaning on one elbow in bed. “It’s no use.”

“You must tell me. Please.”

I acted hesitant, and then put on my bathrobe. “Okay, we can talk.” I shuffled into the next room, motioning for him to follow. He did. I turned on a small light.

He did not pay particular attention to the eight- by eight-foot, cloth-covered cube in the middle of the room.

“Sit down if you want,” I said, pointing to a couch against the wall. “I’ll get something to drink.”

But before I left the room, he said, “So this is the moment when you signal the police that I’m here?”

“Hardly,” I said, but I said it with a smile because I was an inch from the doorway, which I went through the next instant and slammed the door, which locked automatically, and that was that.

That was that. But that was not all.

I opened a fake closet in the wall that divided our two rooms, propped myself up on my captain’s stool, and looked at him through the one-way mirror.

He was at the door, trying to open it. Then he went to the window, which faced the building across the street and which was soundproof, bulletproof, one-way, and locked. He tried to open it.

The whole room he was in was soundproof. Therefore, on my navigation board, or my panel of commands, I switched on the two-way microphone and spoke into it: “Take the cover off that big square thing there.”

He pulled off the cover, looking a lot like those men in commercials who pull sheets off new cars.

Underneath the cloth was a brand new cage with all the necessary accommodations: bed, bath, and toilet.

It took a bit of work to convince him to go into the cage, requiring me to say things like: “You are in a cage already. The room you’re in is a cage. I just want you to go into a smaller cage. No big deal. And life is a cage anyway. Right? So what’s the difference.”

That didn’t do it. So I added, “I won’t release you until you go in the cage. And we can’t have our little conversation until you go in the cage. Due to our past, I can’t feel safe while talking to you unless you’re contained.”

It was the threat of no conversation that did it.

“But it’s just for the length of this conversation?” he stupidly asked, as he stepped in.

“Yes,” I answered, and slammed the door behind him with a simple press of a button on the control panel.

I hadn’t lied. A conversation can last a lifetime.

I switched off the two-way microphone and laughed like a villain, a wicked witch, a mad scientist, frightening myself a little in the process.

I was so happy it was indescribable.

I unlocked the door and went back in the room within which Damon was caged. I sat on a lounge chair, facing him.

Damon said, “Can you tell me, now, why you’re not happy?”

What an admirably focused, one-track mind he had. Like me.

“Did I escape?” I asked.

“I don’t understand that question. And before you explain it to me, tell me everything I want to know. Why aren’t you happy?”

He was right, I would let him ask the questions, for now. I didn’t want to clutter this beautiful, precious, sacred moment with my own needs. Let the experience be stark and bare, composed mostly of his reactions and yearnings. I would sit back, observe, and relish.

“Oh, I’m very happy,” I answered.

“I don’t mean right now. I mean in general.”

“I’m actually very happy in general. The only slight blemish on my happiness was the knowledge of your existence.”

“That means I succeeded. It worked.”

“If I could go back in time,” I said, “I would not choose to go through what I went through with you.”

“Even if the result is success in your career and great happiness?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you’re happy now.”

“Idiot! You could have made me happy without kidnapping me. You could have helped me, encouraged me, offered to make me do all your acting exercises. I would have gone along with it.”

“It wouldn’t have worked,” he said, turning the bathtub faucet on and then off, to check if it worked, I supposed. “I’m surprised you can’t see that. I was able to push you way beyond the levels you would have attained if we were friends.” He flushed the toilet, which worked too. “It worked because it was against your will.”

“It doesn’t matter. You had no right.”

As I got up to leave the room, he asked to be let out.

“No,” I said, “we haven’t finished conversing. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

I left, and my irritation was gone soon after. I tried to sleep, but couldn’t, because I was so happy. A few times I got up and looked at him through the one-way mirror. He was taking a bath. I was pleased in the same sort of way a cat owner whose cat is using the new scratching post the first day it was bought is pleased.

Early in the morning, I opened the door quietly. Damon was sleeping. In a soft singsongy voice I said, “Hello Damon.”

He rose, and stared at me through the bars of his cell. His hair was sticking up.

I sat on the lounge chair and beamed.

“You do look happy,” he said.

“Yes, I’m so happy. You have succeeded, like you said.”

We chatted. He asked about my life since my return to it. I told him everything; about the parts I got, the people I worked with, how easy it had been to find an agent, how shocked I was when I was offered practically every role I auditioned for. We laughed over this, and he looked moved, with tears in his eyes.

“I’m so happy Anna. I’m happy that it’s worked out so well. And thank you for being so generous in sharing it with me.”

“I hope you’ll be as generous in answering my own questions.”

“Absolutely. Shoot.”

“No. I’m still digesting the present. I’ll save them up for later.”

At about noon, he started getting antsy, I could tell. I assumed he was anxious to get out. But it was something else.

At 12:30 P.M. he said, “I need a TV.”

I found this interesting. “Is that so?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I can’t say why.”

“But you must say why. Or no TV.”

“It’s very important. I need a TV,” he said, clutching onto two bars.

“So that you can build an escape device out of it?”

“No. There is something on TV that I must watch. It’s extremely important.”

“What is it?”

“It doesn’t matter what it is.”

“Yes it does. Some programs are not suitable for criminals.”

He looked at me earnestly.

“At what time is your program?” I asked.

“One-thirty.”

The words rang a bell. One-thirty was the time when he used to disappear every day for half an hour and come back having cried. Could TV-watching be what had been going on in the unfilmed room?

I fetched the TV Guide from my night table and came back flipping through its pages. Among all the shows playing at 1:30, I was stumped as to which one Damon could be interested in. Laughing, I read the selections out loud to him, glancing up at him reproachfully after each title: “Harry and the Hendersons, Stories of the Highway Patrol, Papa Beaver Stories, The Bold and the Beautiful, Gourmet Cooking, Charlie Brown and Snoopy, The Look, etc.”

Perhaps it was one of the children’s shows, which, come to think of it, would fit well with the eccentric, childlike side of his personality.

“Which one is it?” I asked.

“Will you get me a TV?”

“We can’t let you miss one of these shows.”

“Will you get me one,” he whispered sadly, which piqued my curiosity even more.

“Why not.” I went into the other room and unplugged my TV. I carried it into his room and placed it on a little table, facing his cage.

“Could I have some privacy now?” he said.

“I want to watch TV too. It’s my only TV.”

“Please, could I have some privacy?”

“Did you give me sugar when I wanted it?”

He didn’t answer.

“Therefore,” I said, “I think I’ll be watching TV at one-thirty.”

At 1:25 P.M. I told him, “Okay, it’s almost one-thirty. What channel do you want?”

After a long sullen pause, he murmured, “Two.”

I switched on channel two and looked in the TV Guide.

I screeched. “The Bold and the Beautiful?”

He sat, stone-faced, staring at the set.

We watched the soap opera, and he cried. I could tell he was trying to restrain himself, but tears rolled down his cheeks anyway. I handed him a box of tissues, which he did not touch.

Why he was crying was beyond me. The show was not sad. Even though I hadn’t seen previous episodes, I was pretty sure I wasn’t missing some deep level of sadness. The actors were appropriately beautiful (their boldness was less apparent), and they had names like Ridge, Brooke, Thorn, Sally Spectra. There was also a beautiful legless character in a wheelchair, called Stem.

“Why did you cry?” I asked afterward.

He didn’t answer.

“I didn’t cry,” I said. “And I’m sure I’m not less sensitive than you.”

He was silent.

“If I wanted to treat you the way you treated me, I would now torture you until you told me why you cried. But dammit, I don’t have an ice gun. I guess I could get ice cubes out of the freezer and throw them at you until you cave in.”

He still didn’t tell me why he cried.

I went for a walk that afternoon. I was eager to experience the sensation of being out walking, while having someone locked in a cage in my apartment.

And I wasn’t disappointed. It was a great, rewarding feeling.

I stopped by a gourmet store and bought caviar and smoked salmon and unpasteurized Camembert and two baguettes. Then I bought champagne and went home.

I looked at Damon through the one-way mirror. He was sitting in bed with his chin in his palm. I felt bad. I went in there cheerfully and said, “I bought a good dinner to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?”

“Your captivity.”

While we were eating, he said, “I hope you don’t eat things like this all the time, or it won’t be long before …” and he raised his eyebrows meaningfully, not bothering to finish his sentence.

“Why did you leave your finger behind, after I chopped it off? Why didn’t you take it with you and try to get it sewn back on?”

“Oh, there are lots of reasons for that,” he said, eating caviar, and sucking on some of his remaining fingers. “First, I wanted to accept the punishment you had given me. I deserved it.” He picked up his glass of champagne and said, “Shall we drink to that?”

We clinked glasses through the bars of the cage, and drank.

He continued: “Second, I thought it would be a nice souvenir of you and from you, this absence of finger. An irreversible souvenir.”

We clinked our glasses to that one too.

“And third, and most importantly, it would remind me of the sacrifice I had made for you, the thought of which would cheer me up in moments of melancholy, making me feel better about myself.”

He extended his glass to get it clinked again. Instead, I threw my champagne in his face and stared at him impassively.

He blinked from the sting in his eyes. He clinked his glass against one of the bars of the cage, drank, and resignedly said, “Everyone is entitled to their own reasons for leaving a finger behind.”

“Did I escape?” I asked.

“No, of course not; you were released,” he answered, wiping his champagne eyes with his napkin. “I gave you a sword.”

“Why did you fight me, then, and resist my departure, and push me to the point cutting off your finger?”

“To give you the illusion of escape. I was afraid that if I released you in a straightforward manner and told you the truth, which was that we had achieved our goal and that you were now ready to conquer the acting world — I was afraid you would be more resistant to this destiny that I had so painstakingly planned for you and prepared you for. Whereas,” he stressed the word by holding up his plastic knife, “if you thought you had escaped, or even if you weren’t sure, you would then have a sense of control over your life and over your future, you would feel powerful, self-reliant, and self-satisfied at having gotten yourself ‘out of this jam.’ ” He made the quote marks in the air with his remaining fingers.