'Thank you,' I said.
'I am sorry that I could not be more helpful,' be said.
'Wait!' be called after me. I had turned to the door. 'Do not forget this,' he said, picking up the small, round, heavy object on the felt.
I turned back to face him. I was angry. I had thought that the object might have had some value.
'It is only sonic sort of hoax,' I said, bitterly.
'Perhaps,' he said, smiling, 'but, if I were you, I would take it along with me.'
'Why?' I asked.
'It has metal value, or bullion value,' he said.
'Oh?' I asked.
'Yes, he said. 'Do you not understand what it is composed of?'
'No,' I said.
'It is gold,' he said.
I had hurried back and snatched the object, and put it in my purse. I had then, hurriedly, left his office.
'Turn up the fan,' said the man, he who seemed in charge of those in the photographer's studio. The fan was turned up.
'Keep facing as you are,' he said, 'your left side to us, your chin lifted, That's good.' My hair was lifted and blown back, I felt the breeze from the fan, too, pressing my blouse back against me, even more closely. It rippled the silk at the sides.
It tugged at the collar. The ends of the blouse, where I bad tied them together, high on my midriff, as the man had requested, fluttered backward. 'Now arch your back and lift your hands to your hair,' he said. 'Good, excellent,' he said. I was not a professional model. I had often thought that I was beautiful enough to be one, but I was not one.
I heard the camera clicking. 'Excellent,' said the man.
'Now look at us, over your left shoulder.'
I had had the yellowish, metallic object assayed. It had indeed been gold. I had sold it to a bullion dealer. It would be melted down. I had received eighteen hundred dollars for 'Now, face us, crouching slightly, your hands at your hair,' said the man. 'Good.'
These men, perhaps, wanted to train me as a model. Yet I suspected this was not their true purpose. I was not particular as to what might be their true purpose, incidentally. They obviously possessed the means to pay me well.
'Now smile, Tiffany,' said the man. 'Good. Now crouch down in the sand, your hands on your knees. Good. Now put your left knee in the sand. Have your hands on your hips.
Put your shoulders back. Good. Smile. Good.'
'Good,' said one of the other men too. I could see they were pleased with me. This pleased Vie, too. I now felt more confident that they might hire me. For whatever object they wanted me I could sense that my beauty was not irrelevant to it. This pleased me, as I am vain of my beauty. Why should a girl not use her beauty to serve her ends, and to get ahead?
'Now face the camera directly, with your, left hand on your thigh and your right hand on your knee,' said the man, 'and assume an expression of wounded feelings. Good.'
'She is good,' said one of the other men.
'Yes,' agreed another.
'Now assume an expression of apprehension,' said the first man.
'Good,' said the second man.
I normally worked at the perfume and notions counter in a large department store on Long Island. It was there that I had been discovered, so to speak. I had become aware, suddenly, that I was the object of the attention of the man who was now directing this photography session. 'It is incredible,' he had said, as though to himself. He seemed unable to take his eyes from me. I was used to men looking at me, of course, usually pretending not to, usually furtively. I had been chosen to work at that counter because I was pretty, much like pretty girls often being selected to sell lingerie.
Such employee placements are often a portion of a store's merchandising strategies. But this man was not looking at me in the same way that I was accustomed to being looked at He was not looking at me furtively, pretending to be interested in something else, or even frankly, like some men of Earth, rare men, who look honestly upon a female, seeing her as what she is, a female. Rather he was looking at me as though he could scarcely believe what he was seeing, as though I might be someone else, someone he perhaps knew from somewhere, someone be would not have expected to have found in such a place. He approached the counter. He regarded me, intently.
I think I had never been so closely regarded. I was uneasy.
'May I help you?' I asked.
He said something to me in a language I did not understand. I regarded him, puzzled.
'May I help you?' I asked.
'This is incredibly fortunate,' he said, softly.
'Sir?' I asked.
'You bear a striking resemblance to someone else,' he said. 'It is remarkable.' I did not speak. I had thought he might have begun by asking if he did not know me from somewhere. That stratagem, the pretext of a possible earlier acquaintance, hackneyed and familiar though it might be, still affords a societal acceptable approach to a female. If she is unreceptive, he may, of course, courteously withdraw. It was merely a case of mistaken identity. 'It was almost as though it was she,' he said.
I did not encourage him. I did not, for example, ask who this other person might be.
'I do not think I know you,' I said.
'No,' he smiled. 'I would not think that you would.'
'I am also sure that I am not this other person,' I said.
'No,' he said. 'I can see now, clearly, that you are not. Too, I can sense that you lack her incisive intellect, her ferocity, her hardness, her cruelty.' 'I am busy,' I said.
'No,' he said, his eyes suddenly bard. 'You are not.'
I shrugged, as though irritated. But I was frightened, and I think be knew it. I was then terribly conscious of his maleness and power. He was not the sort of man to whom a woman might speak in such a manner. He was rather the sort of man whom a woman must obey.
'May I help you?' I asked.
'Show me your most expensive perfume,' he said.
I showed it to him.
'Sell it to me,' he said. 'Interest me in it.'
'Please,' I said.
'Display it,' be said. 'Am I not a customer?'
I looked at him.
'Spray some of it upon your wrist,' he said. 'I shall see if it interests me.' I did so.
'Extend your wrist,' be said. I did so, with the palm upward. This is an extremely erotically charged gesture, of course, extending the delicate wrist, perfumed, to the male, with the tender, vulnerable palm upward.
He took my wrist in both his hands. I shivered. I knew I could never break that grip.
He put down his face, over my wrist, and inhaled, deeply, intimately, sensuously.
I shuddered.
'It is acceptable,' he said, lifting his bead.
'It is our most expensive perfume,' I said. He had not yet released my wrist. 'Do you like it?' he asked.
'I cannot afford it,' I said.
'Do you like it?' he asked.
'Of course,' I said.
He released my wrist. 'I shall take it,' he said. 'Wrap it,' he said, 'as a gift.'
'It is seven hundred dollars an ounce,' I said.
'It is overpriced for its quality,' he said.
