Damascus

Damascus is my orphan work in progress. I come to it between other projects. If you love it, let me know and I may give it more of my attention. In the meantime, if you like my writing you might want to check out Mindgames, my dark novel of slavery and romance. It's playing out in the "novel and novella" section.

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My father and I didn't say much as he drove me in his rusting Chevy to Chinatown. Clichés, maybe, commenting on the weather. He was sober, though, stone, cold sober, and I gave him a lot of credit for that. It would have been so much easier for him to do this drunk and senseless.

Traffic wasn't too bad, and we were lucky enough to find a metered space. The day was incongruously sunny and warm for March, and the pedestrians turned their faces up a little towards the sky. I felt as though I was at the Aquarium, looking in on fish who lived in what might as well be an entirely different universe. I marveled that people were going about their business as if it were an ordinary day. My English class at my community college would be taking the King Lear exam. No one would miss me much; the fish would swim on without me.

Damascus has a drab, gray exterior. The main door leads into a long corridor where the men can wait for admission without disturbing the neighbors. Damascus has many rules, and politeness to outsiders is primary among them. The bosses know that the only thing that can take their power away is a people's uprising. It's not likely, no matter how they behave, but they figure why take chances. Chinatown has been complaining about vice for as long as vice has been zoned on Chinatown's doorstep, and that's been a very, very long time.

It was not even mid-afternoon and Damascus was mostly asleep. Not that I knew that then, or had thought about the hours a whorehouse would keep. Not that thinking would have enlightened me. I was twenty, a virgin, and an innocent. Of course I considered myself sophisticated because I knew my father was a drunk and I was at home with the fact that my brothers slapped me around once in a while.

My father buzzed the intercom and the receptionist -- it must have been Ivan -- asked the necessary questions. Then we stood and waited for what seemed like a long time. I tried to ignore the passersby, but a few, and not only men, glanced at us curiously as we stood in the doorway.

Ivan could have buzzed us in, of course -- but I'm sure Vincenzo told him not to. Vincenzo was playing the humiliation game. Not for me, or rather for me only as an aside -- it was really my father he was trying to torment that morning. In his mind my own torment would begin in earnest that night, and a prelude had little power to greater or lessen it.

"I am like Beauty and the Beast," I told myself. This was my favorite fairy tale, because, as I had earnestly told my friends, it's the only one in which the prince and the princess actually know each other before they fall in love. In the tale, Beauty's father picked a rose from the beast's garden. The Beast agreed to spare his life for this crime only if he would bring his daughter Beauty to serve him. That was my story exactly. My father, in addition to being a drunk, was a gambler. How he got the mob to allow him to run up such a grand debt I don't know -- except that his friend from school days ran the numbers racket in the suburb where we lived, and maybe thought he was doing him a favor. Joey disappeared though -- moved on or knocked out my father never learned. I never liked him. Joey left his books behind, and it came time for my father to pay his debt or set an example. Clearly he couldn't pay. All his possessions, the house, the big t.v. he bought when he won on a scratch ticket one time -- they equaled a small fraction of the debt. I later learned that he had gambled away our house three times. But he did have one possession -- a thing that would earn back, with interest, everything he owed. That thing was me.

The door opened slowly, ponderously. It was bright where my father and I stood on the doorstep to Damascus, and dark inside, so my first impression was of a shadow in the shape of a tall, thin man. "You're Lambert?" the man said to my father, and in those two words conveyed a sneering disdain.

My father nodded and overeagerly took a step forward. "That's right," he said, "and you must be Vincenzo." He pronounced it like it was spelled, Vinsenzo, and the man frowned.

"No," the man said, and he spoke his name, drawing out the syllables as if he were speaking to a child. Vintshenzo. "But you, sir, will call me Mr. Dragna." I wondered what I would call him.

My father didn't seem to notice his supercilious manner. He pulled me by the arm into the doorway, roughly, nervously. "This is Belinda, my daughter."

As my eyes adjusted to the dim hallway, I saw that Vincenzo was spare and handsome, like an actor who could play a rancher. I had just registered the color of his eyes (green) and hair (dark brown and wavy, cut short), and the birdlike crook of his nose before he said to me, "Eyes down," with a voice of such authority that contradiction was unthinkable. Immediately I looked down at his perfectly polished black dress shoes, below his perfectly cut gray suit.

My father stepped into the corridor. When I followed him Vincenzo closed the door with a thud and then a click. For a moment I was terrified, glued to the spot, and if the door had been less heavy I might have turned and run. The thud, though, echoed in my ears and I knew that escape was impossible.

Vincenzo's feet walked down the corridor and my father pulled me after him, his hands biting into my arm. He was pulling me along but I was holding him up.

Halfway down the long corridor there was door on the left. It opened into a smallish room. Vincenzo led us in. I glanced up. There was an old metal desk with one chair behind it and two in front. A single document was on the desk. Vincenzo gestured for us to sit. My father pushed me into the nearest chair and he himself stumbled into the far one. Vincenzo said, as if he mocked me, "Look at me now." Slowly I obeyed. His eyes were not just green, they were glittering. His cheekbones were chiseled and his mouth perfectly proportioned, its softness a contrast to the angles of his nose. Looking at him, I felt young and as if he were the first adult I had ever seen.

Vincenzo held my eyes for a moment, and another, and another, and another. What he was thinking I could not guess. He was trying to read me, too, I think. I felt both comforted and more afraid.

My father shifted nervously in his chair and cleared his throat. Vincenzo turned towards him unhurriedly, scornfully. He tapped the paper on the desk. "Well, Mr. Lambert," he said, the formality a subtle insult that was no doubt lost on my father. "I know you've seen this contract before."

My father said heavily, "I've seen it."

"Has he shown it to you?" he asked me, and I thought he almost said my name, Belinda, but did not.

I shook my head and tried to sound calm. "No," I said, and added, "Mr. Dragna. But I know what's in it. He explained it to me."

"You will call me sir, for now," Vincenzo said, smiling slightly. He tapped the contract with his finger. "There can be no misunderstanding about this. In the eyes of the law this contract is not binding, but morally if you sign it there is no way out. Do you understand that?"

I nodded and met his eyes. "Yes, sir," I said.

Vincenzo smiled as if to himself. "I asked the wrong question. What I really want to know is," and here he leaned back in his chair and squinted a little, "Do you believe that?"

"Sir?" I asked.

"Do you believe," Vincenzo said, "That you should be held accountable for your own choices?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Do you believe that if you sign a contract, that contract will rightfully bind you years from now, when you're twice the age you are today, no matter how you come to regret it?"

"Yes, sir," I said, but slower this time.

Vincenzo gave me his look again, as if trying to pierce my soul. He said to me, softly, "Do you know how to read, Belinda?"

"Yes, sir," I said softly, wondering what kind of twenty-year-old girl he knew who didn't.

My father broke in, babbling. "She's a right smart girl, she is. Straight A's, top of her class in high school. One teacher told her she should go to Harvard, if you can believe that. Read? Why she's been reading since she could walk." He stopped, abashed. He wasn't looking at me so he did not see that tears pricked my eyes, from embarrassment, from humiliation over lost chances.

I think Vincenzo saw, though. He let my father finish but did not deign to reply. Instead, he slipped the contract over to me and waited while I took a deep breath to calm myself before I looked at it.

SERVICE CONTRACT

WHEREAS Milton Lambert owes the Consortium One Million Two Hundred Forty Eight Thousand Seven Hundred Twenty One Dollars and 18 cents, counting interest accrued until March 18, 1994;

IN PAYMENT OF THIS DEBT Belinda Lambert hereby agrees to work for the Consortium until such debt, plus interest of one percent per month, calculated on the first of each month, and reasonable expenses, is paid by her labor. Belinda Lambert agrees that such labor will include sexual performance and other work of any nature required by the Consortium. Belinda Lambert understands that she will be in the employ of the Consortium 24 hours a day, 7 days a week until such debt is paid. Belinda Lambert understands that disobedience to any orders or requests of the Consortium, poor attitude, suicide, failure to keep herself healthy, or running away will end in termination of this contract and that any moneys still owed will be the responsibility of Milton Lambert.

IT IS EXPRESSLY AGREED that Belinda Lambert may end her employment with the Consortium at any time as long as she has paid all reasonable expenses incurred on her behalf by the Consortium. Milton Lambert will be responsible for any money still owing on his debt.

IF BELINDA LAMBERT SHOULD DIE OF ANY CAUSE OTHER THAN SUICIDE while in the employ of the Consortium, Milton Lambert's debt will be considered paid in full.

BELINDA LAMBERT OR MILTON LAMBERT may request an accounting of amounts owing and expenses incurred by her at any time when not in violation of Belinda Lambert's other duties, and the Consortium shall provide such accounting within seven days.

THE CONSORTIUM may assign its rights under this contract without the consent of Belinda Lambert or Milton Lambert. Belinda Lambert or Milton Lambert may assign Belinda Lambert's obligations under this contract only with the consent of the Consortium.

There were three signature lines, one for me, one for my father, and one for Vincenzo Dragna, Consortium.

When I finished reading the contract I felt my nose stinging as I tried not to cry. Vincenzo was watching me, expressionless.

"Do you understand the contract?" he asked me.

"Yes, sir," I said, and my voice shook but not badly.

His tone became harsh. "You understand that you will be a sex slave, here in Damascus?"

"Yes, sir," I said again.

"You understand that men come to Damascus because they take pleasure in humiliating girls, sometimes in hurting them?"

I nodded. My brothers had talked about it in front of me, although there was no way for me to really comprehend it. Vincenzo didn't say anything, and I realized he was waiting for me to answer out loud. "Yes, sir," I said.

Vincenzo nodded slowly. Suddenly he looked younger than he had before. I had assumed that he was in his mid-30's, but now I thought more like late 20's. "Before you sign this contract," he said, "I need to ask you some questions. I warn you to tell the truth. If you lie we'll know it soon enough, and the contract will be void and you, as well as your father, will be punished for lying to the consortium. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, sir," I said, as steadily as I could.

"Are you a virgin, Belinda?"

I felt my face turn a hot, bright red. "Yes, sir," I said, and my voice was high and squeaky.

"Some people think that if they've been raped it doesn't count." Vincenzo paused for a moment. "Has anyone ever molested you, Belinda?"

I couldn't answer. I pictured my two bothers on top of me, their hands over my chest, pretending to be lifeguards. "In with the good air, out with the bad air, in with the good air, out with the bad air..." I shook my head to be rid of the vision.

"I have never had sex," I said, shakily, hoping that would appease Vincenzo.

He watched me with a cocked head and then asked in a voice soft and neutral, "Was it your father?"

My father, sitting beside me, grasped the arms of his chair tightly, breathing hard. "No, sir," I said quickly. "Not my father."

Vincenzo leaned towards me over the desk. "If your father is forcing you here," he said, "we will protect you from him, we'll protect you and we won't charge you for it. There would be no consequences to you at all. You could go back to your classes, your job, and rebuild your life. Do you understand?" His voice was kind and gentle, and it was this that finally made me cry, great sobs, tears streaming down my face, snot welling in my nose. I couldn't speak. Vincenzo handed me a handkerchief, like from a novel. I blew my nose and wiped my eyes.

At last I spoke. "Please don't kill my father," I said, and my voice sounded weak and strange to me. Vincenzo gave a half shake of his head, as if to himself.

"You say you're a virgin, Belinda," he said, "and we'll soon verify it. Tell me, are you a virgin in both holes?"

"Sir?" I said, uncomprehending.

Vincenzo gave a half smile, sardonic, twisted. He enunciated slowly as he spoke. "Has anyone ever fucked you up the ass?"

Beside me my father moaned, but said no words. I shook my head, horror-struck, almost frozen. "No, sir," I said at last.

"Good," Vincenzo said. "Now, tell me this. When is the last time you had an orgasm?" He watched me intently as my father moaned beside me.

My face burned a bright red. "I've never had one, sir," I whispered.

"Why not?" At the time I thought he was mocking me, but maybe he was just surprised. "Surely you touch yourself?"

"Yes, sir," I said miserably.

"But not come?"

"No, sir. I..." I faltered for words. "I guess I just don't know...how." I sounded silly even to myself.

Vincenzo regarded me dispassionately, but with what I would come to recognize as a subtle glint of amusement. He turned then to my father, pushing the contract over to him. "All right, old man, sign away," he said. My father pretended to search his pockets for a pen, as if he would ever find one there. Vincenzo watched him several moments too long before, at length, reaching into his own breast pocket and removing a gold Cross pen. He handed it to my father slowly, as if reluctant to have his grubby hands touch it.

My father took the pen and stared at the contract for a moment. He murmured, "God help me," and signed. He lay the gold pen on the contract and slid them across the desk to Vincenzo.

Vincenzo turned the contract around and looked at my father's signature gravely, as if questioning its authenticity. Then he picked up the contract -- later, it would come back to me how long and delicate and finely shaped his fingers were, like a piano player's -- and handed it to me. But then he held onto it for a moment as I grasped it. "Last chance to save your life," he said. I shook my head and he let go. Quickly, before I could change my mind, I signed the contract and handed it back to Vincenzo. Vincenzo did not look at my signature.

"All right, then," he said. "Take off your clothes."

"Hold on now," my father protested, trying to sound fierce. "You haven't signed that piece of paper. She's not yours until you sign."

Vincenzo eyed my father as if he were a fly buzzing on a windowsill. Slowly, lazily, he drawled, "I'll sign when I see that she's not damaged goods." He turned to me. "Take off your clothes."

I stood up awkwardly, not sure where to begin. It had never occurred to me that I would be made to strip in front of my father, whose eyes were glued on the floor. I though perhaps Vincenzo would assist me, or, if I stood long enough, force me, but he waited patiently, expressionless.

I was not a stylish dresser. I had neither money nor sense of fashion, and I almost always felt dowdy and awkward. I hadn't known what to wear today, except that I could not bring a change of clothes, so I had opted for comfortable and practical: fairly new black jeans, hand-me-down wool sweater that had once been warm but was worn thin enough to be okay for spring, newish non-name brand sneakers.

The sweater was a pullover, and as I took it off for a blessed moment my face was hidden. My shirt underneath, a button-down, was wrinkled, and damp with my sweat. Slowly I unbuttoned it, the cuffs first, then from the neck down. I pulled it off, and not wanting to admit my embarrassment or shame did not turn away from Vincenzo. His eyes were on my breasts, smallish under my beige, almost formless bra. To buy time I folded my shirt and carefully put it on top of my sweater. I sat back down on the chair and untied and removed my sneakers, and then my socks, placing them both on the table next to my sweater and shirt.

As my hands went to the fly of my jeans, trembling, for a moment I thought of pretending this was a strip tease, like I used to do at sleepovers not so many years earlier. Not in front of my father; I couldn't do it. Slowly I unzipped my fly and pulled my jeans down, awkwardly lifting one leg and then the next. I folded the jeans and put them on the desk with my other clothes.

I stood facing Vincenzo in my bra and underwear, both dingy, cotton things. My bra had once been beige; my underwear had once been white. Now both were somewhere in between, with elastic fraying at the edges.

Vincenzo's face was expressionless, but my father was crying. As I reached behind my back to unsnap my bra, my father said hoarsely, "Stop." For a moment my heart filled with hope, thinking my father had changed his mind or come up with another solution -- a friend he had not tapped out, anything. Instead he said, "I don't need to be here for this. You got my signature. You got my daughter." He stood up heavily.

Vincenzo said impassively, "You'll stay until I tell you to leave. And from now on you'll look at her. Sit down." There was something about him that made you think he was holding a gun to your head, and would pull the trigger as easily as scratch his arm.

My father's mouth opened, then closed, once, twice, three times. The third time he snapped it shut and sat down heavily. "God help me," he said, and shielded his eyes with his hands.

"I said you will look at her," Vincenzo said. My father dropped his hand and looked at me, in my dingy underwear.

"Proceed," Vincenzo said to me. I reached behind and unhooked my bra, its straps scratching me a little as I pulled them off my arms. I tried to pretend I was in the girl's locker room at the college gym, but could not. No man had ever seen my breasts before, not even my brothers.

I reached down for my underwear. For a moment I felt panic, pure terror, sweeping through me. All at once I peeled off my underwear and flung it onto the desk on top of my clothes.

"Thank you," Vincenzo said. He watched me impassively as I caught my breath. "Stand right here," he said, and he beckoned me over to the side of the desk that faced the door. "Face the desk and bend over." I gasped with the shame of it. Slowly I bent from the waist. The tips of my breasts touched the cold metal desk first. I gave a start, then laid the rest of my torso down, my face turned towards Vincenzo as I could not bear to face my father. I didn't know what to do with my arms, so I lay them alongside my body, my hands awkwardly facing up.