The women have released their grip on you. They stare intently at your cringing face, your head resting in the bald woman’s lap, your mouth releasing a scream, your rising wail. You bathe in cold-hot sweat, your back arching. Your eyes are still closed, and that is good, because when you open them, nothing will be as it was. Believe me.
Agitated words fly all around, the ends of each sentence rising. Questions, in four languages. If only you could catch hold of even one of them, if only you could understand. Kto vy? Otkuda vy? Oh, how they wish the joy of understanding would spread across your face, the blissful experience of familiarity as you hear your mother tongue after this shock, this earth-shattering pleasure. De onde você vem? Quem é você? They so hope for you to find a citizen of your land, a sister, a friend, a kindred spirit in their group. Qui êtes-vous? D’où venez-vous? If only you would open your mouth and tell them what you know. Who you are, where you come from. That’s what they want to hear: where you come from and, above all, how you came. And why you’re here now too.
You open your eyes. The thin woman crouches between your legs, bony fingers removing hairs from her mouth. She wipes the small black curls on your knee like the tablecloth of a fine restaurant. Black curls? You look at your hands. They are the hands of a young girl. The nails are round, cut short, every other one painted black or white. You look at your bent legs. They’re smoother, and much, much more petite, and lighter. Blue veins shine through the skin, you’ve become so white. You lift your left leg. It rises easily. It’s so light and lithe you could easily swing it over your own head. Yes, you have the supple legs of a young girl. You lower your leg again, next to the other, and open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
Good morning, Sleeping Beauty, the thin woman says a little hoarsely, where do you come from? Her voice is powerful, and strangely low for such a frail body. She places both hands on your knees, spreading your legs a little and extending her neck toward you. Her voice rises, softening, becoming slightly more friendly, almost inquisitive. Who are you?
You say one single word. A name. You say it in the voice of a young girl shrill from crying. The voice that a lost child might use when a nice adult kneels and tries to help, offering to go together to find a lost mother in the crowd.
You say: Ul-ri-ke.
You pronounce each syllable in turn, with a tearful insistence that both demands and pleads. You practically beg. Sobbing, you tell them who you are.
You are Ulrike, and you are seventeen.
You don’t know where you’re coming from, but your home is in Austria. In Salzburg.
SHLOMITH PREPARES TO SHARE HER KNOWLEDGE
(FOR THE SIXTH TIME)
Ulrike was the last to arrive. As one might imagine, she was shocked by what had just been done to her, even though it was enormously pleasurable, or perhaps because of that. It was more pleasurable than anything anyone had ever done to her. Hanno couldn’t do anything like that. Hanno was Hanno. And now this grotesque woman had done it to her. Completely by surprise, by force, with the help of a large group, and still the experience hadn’t been the slightest bit unpleasant. This sort of thing can happen in a dream. In dreams you can end up in orgies, in wanton copulation with complete strangers. But now isn’t night, and Ulrike isn’t sleeping. She understands that, if only just. She looks at each of the women sitting around her, in a state of shock. She waits. She opens her mouth. She closes it again. And when no one sees fit to do anything, when no one makes the slightest move, when no one sees the need to spit out a single word, the feelings come. Rage first of all.
Ulrike sits up and wipes away the hair matted on her forehead. Her face hardens in Cleopatra-like hauteur: chin up, mouth tightly pursed, nostrils slightly flared, a demonic squint to her eyes.
And because Ulrike’s temperament is of the relatively volatile type, she hisses Scheiße! And it is meant for everyone. Scheiße! And it is meant especially for that skinny monstrosity sitting with legs crossed in front of her. The woman gazes sweetly at her, and Ulrike stares back. She has been violated. This she understands. She feels stupid. She feels like a complete idiot. The orgy doesn’t matter—anything can happen if you’re wild enough, and she is. With the right company and enough alcohol, she’s up for almost anything. The place and these women don’t matter—this is obviously some kind of Eyes Wide Shut thing, and maybe they used date-rape drugs. Maybe this is Candid Camera NC–17. But they made her cry, and that she does not intend to forgive. They made her tell her name, her age, and nearly her home address, although she never intends to
