door. “Hello! I’ve brought someone.”
The door swung heavily open; Tietjen smelled dust and the faint trace of decay he was beginning to recognize. He blinked in the dim light of one yellow emergency light at the back of the room. It was a large storage space: frames and exhibition easels stacked against each other, a few canvases, their faces turned to the wall, shelves that divided the room into small aisles. There was movement from different sides of the room; farthest left Tietjen saw first a glitter of eyes in the amber light, then a restless, shrugging motion. Tietjen stood, disbelieving. The voice cried in his head: too late, too late. Behind Tietjen the curator clicked a switch and an overhead light flickered on.
“Hello,” the curator repeated amiably. “How are you today?”
The man he addressed, swarthy, young, dressed in the institutional whites of a food services worker, stared at the curator with dumb hopeless eyes. A rope was tied to one of his wrists and to a heavily laden metal shelving unit. The knot could easily have been untied, but the prisoner looked in shock and quite helpless; Tietjen doubted he was capable of it. He stole a look at the curator, who was professional, enjoying the role of docent. Be easy , Tietjen told himself. Wait for the right moment to run like hell.
“Italian, but not the best. Primitive.” The curator pushed aside a box that stood partially in front of one of the small areas to reveal a black girl, maybe seventeen years old, dressed in street leathers. The gaunt beauty of her face warred with feral rage in her eyes. There was a dark slash of dried blood across her forehead and both her hands were tied. Tietjen would not have vouched for his own life or the curator’s had she been able to free herself.
“Primitive,” the man behind him repeated appreciatively. “A little damaged, but still quite valuable. Actually, there are three, but the other two are damaged.”
Tietjen looked beyond the girl to see a grotesque grouping against the back wall. Two black men, one in the same leathers the girl wore, the other somewhat older and dressed in a business suit; they were obviously dead.
The girl followed the curator’s movements, her eyes flickering like a cat’s at every gesture. “Bastard,” she muttered. “You wait, bastard. Gon’ rip you bare-hand; gon’ drink you blood, motherfucker bastard. Bastard—”
It was as if the curator had not heard. From another aisle a woman’s voice, quiet and ironical, said: “Don’t waste your breath. He won’t answer us.”
This time it was Tietjen who pushed aside the boxes to reveal an older woman, her hands tied behind her, sitting on a carton. She was still blinking in the light. Her glance at Tietjen held sympathy and—weirdly—faint amusement, as if she were embarrassed to have been found in such a condition. She and Tietjen looked at each other for a long moment; he liked her. For a moment the nightmare unreality of this cellar room, the mad curator close enough behind him so that Tietjen could feel his breath on his neck, the harsh mutterings of the black woman, faded in the face of this older woman’s rueful smile. Then her expression changed. Before he had time to understand the message her eyes conveyed, or to hear the warning she yelled, something heavy came down on the back of his head. He heard the curator behind him drop whatever he had used as a club; the older woman’s shout rang in his ears, mixing with the black girl’s stream of threats and abuse. The sounds together flowed into the high keening in his head: too late, too late. Tietjen lost consciousness altogether.
3
JIT woke to the buzz of voices: faint, very far away or very weak or very few. He was so glad for the noise in his mind that for a moment he missed everything about the voices, the bad things even, the feelings so complex and hateful and angry and frightened that Jit had wondered how he could live, hearing them. He was lonely
The door swung heavily open; Tietjen smelled dust and the faint trace of decay he was beginning to recognize. He blinked in the dim light of one yellow emergency light at the back of the room. It was a large storage space: frames and exhibition easels stacked against each other, a few canvases, their faces turned to the wall, shelves that divided the room into small aisles. There was movement from different sides of the room; farthest left Tietjen saw first a glitter of eyes in the amber light, then a restless, shrugging motion. Tietjen stood, disbelieving. The voice cried in his head: too late, too late. Behind Tietjen the curator clicked a switch and an overhead light flickered on.
“Hello,” the curator repeated amiably. “How are you today?”
The man he addressed, swarthy, young, dressed in the institutional whites of a food services worker, stared at the curator with dumb hopeless eyes. A rope was tied to one of his wrists and to a heavily laden metal shelving unit. The knot could easily have been untied, but the prisoner looked in shock and quite helpless; Tietjen doubted he was capable of it. He stole a look at the curator, who was professional, enjoying the role of docent. Be easy , Tietjen told himself. Wait for the right moment to run like hell.
“Italian, but not the best. Primitive.” The curator pushed aside a box that stood partially in front of one of the small areas to reveal a black girl, maybe seventeen years old, dressed in street leathers. The gaunt beauty of her face warred with feral rage in her eyes. There was a dark slash of dried blood across her forehead and both her hands were tied. Tietjen would not have vouched for his own life or the curator’s had she been able to free herself.
“Primitive,” the man behind him repeated appreciatively. “A little damaged, but still quite valuable. Actually, there are three, but the other two are damaged.”
Tietjen looked beyond the girl to see a grotesque grouping against the back wall. Two black men, one in the same leathers the girl wore, the other somewhat older and dressed in a business suit; they were obviously dead.
The girl followed the curator’s movements, her eyes flickering like a cat’s at every gesture. “Bastard,” she muttered. “You wait, bastard. Gon’ rip you bare-hand; gon’ drink you blood, motherfucker bastard. Bastard—”
It was as if the curator had not heard. From another aisle a woman’s voice, quiet and ironical, said: “Don’t waste your breath. He won’t answer us.”
This time it was Tietjen who pushed aside the boxes to reveal an older woman, her hands tied behind her, sitting on a carton. She was still blinking in the light. Her glance at Tietjen held sympathy and—weirdly—faint amusement, as if she were embarrassed to have been found in such a condition. She and Tietjen looked at each other for a long moment; he liked her. For a moment the nightmare unreality of this cellar room, the mad curator close enough behind him so that Tietjen could feel his breath on his neck, the harsh mutterings of the black woman, faded in the face of this older woman’s rueful smile. Then her expression changed. Before he had time to understand the message her eyes conveyed, or to hear the warning she yelled, something heavy came down on the back of his head. He heard the curator behind him drop whatever he had used as a club; the older woman’s shout rang in his ears, mixing with the black girl’s stream of threats and abuse. The sounds together flowed into the high keening in his head: too late, too late. Tietjen lost consciousness altogether.
3
JIT woke to the buzz of voices: faint, very far away or very weak or very few. He was so glad for the noise in his mind that for a moment he missed everything about the voices, the bad things even, the feelings so complex and hateful and angry and frightened that Jit had wondered how he could live, hearing them. He was lonely
Similar Books
