The things I learn with Monsieur:
He prefers to watch.
He likes prostitutes, lots of them; the gender is of no consequence. He brags to me about being an equal-opportunity employer. And by employer, I mean monster and murderer.
He tells me I am lucky he does not like “Blacks” in that way, for which I am grateful to him. I have never been happier to encounter bigotry than when it is the factor that keeps Monsieur from raping me.
Whenever he complains about “my kind,” I want to ask, Why, then, did he buy me? But I bite my tongue, choosing my battles. Does it matter why he has me—to be his pet on which he can unleash his most unconstrained anger? He has his sexual proclivities, and it is a gift I am not one of them.
He likes to inflict pain on everyone he brings to visit. His house is a cockroach trap; some check in and never check out. I have yet to witness this visually, but I have heard plenty.
He likes to hunt—no surprise—big game, exotic animals, rabbits in the forests, people.
But most of all, his enjoyment comes from tormenting me, from promising me a slow and painful death when he tires of me.
“I jest, Souris,” he says in the next breath. “I shall keep you as my souris for eternity. You would like that, oui?”
A true answer would incur his wrath, so I refrain.
Monsieur has several CCTV screens lining an entire wall, monitoring various areas of the house, the grounds, and the street. He watches them always. He does not record the screens, except sometimes when there is a visitor he wants to visit a couple more times after the visitor is gone from the world.
My job, when Monsieur is at work on his workbench, where rows of instruments, tools, and knives gleam in the lighting, is to clean. I scrub the floors from his hunts. I throw hot water on the concrete, brushing the gore-filled mess into the drain in the middle of the floor. I clean his many tools under his watchful eyes. While I do, he smirks, daring me to use the tools on him.
Sometimes he speaks on the phone, always in French, because he still thinks the language is unknown to me.
Whatever he does for business is bad, evil. He discusses his distance from the airport, from the train station, from Paris. I commit all this information to memory because maybe one day I can use what I secretly learn from him.
He’s sometimes gone for days at a time. And when this happens, he locks me in. It means endless time in my dungeon, but it also means I have peace from him, though not from my mind. I had never been alone for so long until Monsieur brought me here. At least in the Compound, there were other girls. Before then, I had a village. The time alone forces me to contemplate all that has happened. I am ashamed of my failings. And I agonize over the deaths of my family due to my cowardice. I should have fought harder. I should have died with them. But maybe this place is my penance, my hell I am eternally doomed to.
It becomes so long since I have heard my given name that I start believing my name is Souris because I lost the right to be called by any other.
He leaves rations when he is on one of his excursions so I do not starve, and because my room is hidden when closed, no one can hear or see me—the way he wants it. No one knows I am here. But no one comes down here, except Monsieur.
That is, until the woman appears.
31
AFTER
Later that night, Nena was seated at the Baxter table, the turtle and key lime pies she’d brought waiting patiently on the kitchen counter for their turn on the plate. Nena had been pleased to learn that both were favorites of father and child.
“I hope you like it,” Cortland said shyly, placing a warmed plate piled high with lasagna in front of his guest. He watched anxiously as she scrutinized the pasta bake before picking up her fork to take a small bite. Nena could sense his nervousness. Georgia looked back and forth, finding immense pleasure in his awkwardness. It was like a National Geographic episode, the mating rituals of a single father.
“If you don’t like it,” he added, “we could order Chinese.”
“You always tell me if I don’t like it, I can starve,” Georgia pointed out.
He shot her a silencing look, the dad look. Nena and Elin had received the very same kind of look from their own father.
“No,” Nena said, raising a hand. “This is good. Delicious. And I kind of hate Chinese.”
Cortland and Georgia shared a look. He said, “That’s a . . . rather strong word.”
Georgia’s nose wrinkled. “Never heard of anyone hating Chinese.” She dug into her food. “It’s good, Dad, cheesy, the way I like it. Pass the parmesan, please?”