she wanted to express herself to you. But I suggested that she stop when I saw what she had in mind. Lovely girl, but impulsive.”
Karen . Damn. She had made him promise to call her tonight. He would find time later. Right now he wanted to back up the conversation to the point where Nadia had started to hide again. Her eyes were on him, and she seemed to have sat up straighter.
“What is it good for, then?” he asked. “How do you use it, and why?”
“For self-discovery. I hope. Not just mine, but also the people who trust me enough to go into trance.”
“You hope.”
“It depends on the individual. Whether he wants to learn about himself or not. Isn’t that true in film?”
The prudent thing would be to keep his guard up, draw her out, but he said, “Most people working on a film in this town want the job of the person above them. It has shit to do with art and self-discovery.”
“Is it that stressful?” She replaced the cap on the liqueur bottle. The light stained her face and hands and the kitchen table amber, and shadows lined the folds of her dress.
“No. Just complicated.” He closed the cover of his notebook.
Where had his sudden confessional streak come from? Maybe because she was the first person he had spoken to in days who did not want something related to Babylon .
“You mean I wouldn’t understand, ” said Nadia.
“Not that either. I’d just rather hear more about hypnosis.”
She gave him a look as if to question his sincerity, invite further confessions, but he did not take the bait.
“All right,” she said. “The trick is not violating boundaries. If I don’t trigger resistance, the subject stays in trance. He brings all the desires to the table and must agree internally to be hypno-tized. I can’t make anyone do anything he doesn’t want to do.”
His own research confirmed what she said: hypnosis did not equal brainwashing or mind control. So what was it about her that he was not sure of? Under the weak glare of the light, her lashes gleamed like splinters of cedar, and her lips and lacquered nails shone wetly. She used a knife to puncture the top of the box of sugar cubes and open the flap. Her hands tipped and measured, clouding the drinks.
Letting his imagination run away with him. Zombies and mind control. Sending her photograph to a detective—had he been justified or paranoid?
“I remember the first time I saw Poppies Are Red in an art gallery back in Seattle,” said Nadia.
“I did that one a long time ago. Just out of film school.”
That documentary won a larger audience than he had hoped. Most were body modification enthusiasts, hipsters, or unhappy people who were cutters themselves. The rest were aesthete types, a breed of liberal culturista. She could be one of those. No visible tattoos or piercings, and no jewelry except for a carved jade ring. Fingernails filed short on the left hand, almost to the quick, but long on the right hand.
Should he ask about Paul? No. Personal questions would give the wrong impression.
Nadia handed him his glass, and he took a taste. Bitter herbs, with a sweet, gritty wash of sugar swirled in. He blinked away a flash of the paisley silk scarf one of his girlfriends had pinned over the light fixture in her apartment. Vivid things fired his nerves like that sometimes. To this day he associated hot peppers with loud music, an ear-numbing assault stronger than the fire on his tongue.
As he drank , the glass brushed his cheek and the itchy soreness of his new beard.
“That documentary impressed me. It took something painful and hidden and gave it a voice. Some directors would’ve used that to drive their point home, but you didn’t.”
Nadia’s eyes were on him, as if that were the whole reason she was here: to look into his eyes. Was she here to seduce him? Just because he got so much attention at film festivals did not mean every female in sight was after him. She probably just thought of him as a co-worker.
They
Karen . Damn. She had made him promise to call her tonight. He would find time later. Right now he wanted to back up the conversation to the point where Nadia had started to hide again. Her eyes were on him, and she seemed to have sat up straighter.
“What is it good for, then?” he asked. “How do you use it, and why?”
“For self-discovery. I hope. Not just mine, but also the people who trust me enough to go into trance.”
“You hope.”
“It depends on the individual. Whether he wants to learn about himself or not. Isn’t that true in film?”
The prudent thing would be to keep his guard up, draw her out, but he said, “Most people working on a film in this town want the job of the person above them. It has shit to do with art and self-discovery.”
“Is it that stressful?” She replaced the cap on the liqueur bottle. The light stained her face and hands and the kitchen table amber, and shadows lined the folds of her dress.
“No. Just complicated.” He closed the cover of his notebook.
Where had his sudden confessional streak come from? Maybe because she was the first person he had spoken to in days who did not want something related to Babylon .
“You mean I wouldn’t understand, ” said Nadia.
“Not that either. I’d just rather hear more about hypnosis.”
She gave him a look as if to question his sincerity, invite further confessions, but he did not take the bait.
“All right,” she said. “The trick is not violating boundaries. If I don’t trigger resistance, the subject stays in trance. He brings all the desires to the table and must agree internally to be hypno-tized. I can’t make anyone do anything he doesn’t want to do.”
His own research confirmed what she said: hypnosis did not equal brainwashing or mind control. So what was it about her that he was not sure of? Under the weak glare of the light, her lashes gleamed like splinters of cedar, and her lips and lacquered nails shone wetly. She used a knife to puncture the top of the box of sugar cubes and open the flap. Her hands tipped and measured, clouding the drinks.
Letting his imagination run away with him. Zombies and mind control. Sending her photograph to a detective—had he been justified or paranoid?
“I remember the first time I saw Poppies Are Red in an art gallery back in Seattle,” said Nadia.
“I did that one a long time ago. Just out of film school.”
That documentary won a larger audience than he had hoped. Most were body modification enthusiasts, hipsters, or unhappy people who were cutters themselves. The rest were aesthete types, a breed of liberal culturista. She could be one of those. No visible tattoos or piercings, and no jewelry except for a carved jade ring. Fingernails filed short on the left hand, almost to the quick, but long on the right hand.
Should he ask about Paul? No. Personal questions would give the wrong impression.
Nadia handed him his glass, and he took a taste. Bitter herbs, with a sweet, gritty wash of sugar swirled in. He blinked away a flash of the paisley silk scarf one of his girlfriends had pinned over the light fixture in her apartment. Vivid things fired his nerves like that sometimes. To this day he associated hot peppers with loud music, an ear-numbing assault stronger than the fire on his tongue.
As he drank , the glass brushed his cheek and the itchy soreness of his new beard.
“That documentary impressed me. It took something painful and hidden and gave it a voice. Some directors would’ve used that to drive their point home, but you didn’t.”
Nadia’s eyes were on him, as if that were the whole reason she was here: to look into his eyes. Was she here to seduce him? Just because he got so much attention at film festivals did not mean every female in sight was after him. She probably just thought of him as a co-worker.
They
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