Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [112]
“Yes. We were going to—”
“I know. I know. I know only too well. He doesn’t have a job, does he?”
“He’s a writer,” Flood said with an appropriate trace of defiance in her voice, but still very shaky.
“He’s no writer, my dear. He’s a bad man.”
“You hurt him,” Flood moaned in a sad little girl’s voice.
“I didn’t really hurt him, my child. All I did was show him who is the master of the situation, that’s all. He has to understand. Let me ask you—is the truth evil?”
“Well, no. No, I guess it’s not.”
“Of course not. And, Debbie, understand this . . . pain is truth. Pain can not lie—pain is, you understand? Pain is what it is and nothing more. It can start and it can stop, but it is always real. Pain is truth, and truth is good.”
“But—”
“Listen to me,” said Goldor, his voice getting quieter and stronger at the same time. A doctor’s voice, a father’s voice, a voice of truth and wisdom not to be denied. “I can show you the truth, and I can make you what you want to be with that truth. Your miserable little boyfriend sits there and he has no pain now. I took his pain away, even as I speak the truth to you right now. He has no pain now, only truth. And the truth is that he didn’t want you to be in the movies, only to make money for himself. He came here with you to display you, to exhibit you to me as though you were a dog or a horse. That is the truth. That is the truth, isn’t it?” he said, leaning forward on the stool.
“I don’t know”—Flood’s voice was a whine now—“I don’t know why he—”
“Yes, you know. Get past what you don’t know—get to the truth. Listen to me, Debbie. You want to be in the movies, don’t you? You want to have nice things, you want to be somebody, don’t you? Wouldn’t you like to live in a house like this someday?”
“Oh, yes. I mean . . .”
“And I can do all that for you. That is the truth too. But you have to see the truth, experience the truth for yourself. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“What are you going to do?” Flood asked, fear and suspicion in her voice.
“I am going to ask you some questions. And if you tell me the truth, I will show you the truth. And you will get what you want. Yes?”
“Yes,” said Flood, in a doubtful little voice.
“How old are you?”
“I’m twenty.”
“Where were you born?”
“In Minot, North Dakota.”
“How long have you been in the city?”
“It was a year last month.”
“Have you ever been a prostitute?”
“No! I never—”
“That’s all right,” said Goldor in the same therapist’s voice, “just keep telling me the truth, Debbie. What kind of work do you do?”
“I’m a dancer.”
“And where do you dance, Debbie?”
“In . . . in bars and—”
“Take off your sweater,” Goldor ordered, still with his soft voice. And Flood mechanically reached to her waist and pulled the jersey over her head, stood there in front of him. Her breasts trembled in Goldor’s orange lights of pain and I could see a droplet of sweat fall over one of the high ridges and slide down toward a nipple and I knew that just surviving this wouldn’t be enough for me now.
“Yes, I can see what kind of dancing you do, my child. Have you had any work done to them?”
“What?”
“Silicone, uplifts, surgery . . . you know.”
“Oh. No, never. I wouldn’t ever . . .”
“I see. And do you like pain, Debbie?”
“No!” said Flood, her voice going frightened and breathy.
“You answer too quickly, little Debbie. All girls like pain sometimes. I don’t mean pain like your miserable little boyfriend over there. I mean pain where you get something for it, where you learn something. Pain liberates, you see? It sets things free, makes things happen. Good things, rich things . . .” Goldor’s silk-and-cream voice was quite an instrument.
“You have good things inside of you, we all do. Some are bad things, some are good. But when they stay inside of you they all hurt you. They stop you from being yourself, you see? They hold you back, they keep you from the wonders that should be your own. I know you, I know women like you. I have made much of them, made them into a greatness, into perfection. I have made them into beauty.