evening when the third movie ends, and my mind feels restless. I’m learning the best cure for that is the library. I eject the film and replace it where I found it. Upon studying the shelf, I notice it doesn’t matter where I put it; the movies are in no particular order. I decide that one day I’ll devote time to organizing them. I leave the cinema pondering if I should arrange them according to title or genre when Norman stops me.
“We have an assignment from the Master of the House.”
I bite my thumbnail absentmindedly. “Okay.”
“He requires that you call your family and Frida to assure them you’re okay.”
At the mention of her name, my hand touches my heart. “No. Frida has nothing to do with this.”
“I’m sorry. There’s no getting out of it.”
“It’s been too long. She’ll have called the cops by now.”
“Indeed she has. Please, follow me.” He turns his back and walks to a closed door on the ground floor. My heartbeat skips as he unlocks it, my mind conjuring up the possibilities of what’s hidden in this mansion. When I step inside, I’m disappointed by the blandness of a simple study that’s almost identical to the one I broke into. He walks to a desk that holds a large, clunky, black phone and gestures for me to follow. I nearly salivate when he hands me the receiver.
“Go on, dear,” he says when I hesitate.
“I’m not calling my family.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll call Frida. She can call them for me.”
“We’ll see.”
“What do I say?”
“You’re instructed only to tell them that you are alive and well. Also—and this is important—that you’re happy. Nothing more.”
“She won’t believe that.”
“Make her believe it, and hang up. It’s part of doing what you’re told.”
There are times when Norman is short with me, but somehow I know it’s his way of helping. I stare down and dial the numbers. In the early evening Frida is most likely at the apartment, stretched out on our couch. Part of me hopes she’s out with friends, but the part of me that wants to escape—a very large part—hopes otherwise.
Her voice is immediately familiar. “Hello?”
“Frida?”
“Cat—oh, shit. Where are you?”
“I’m safe,” I say, nearly choking on the word. “I’m only calling to let you know that.”
“Where?”
I glance up at Norman. He shakes his head but smiles and points to his mouth, indicating that I should do the same. No matter how hard I try, my smile is not convincing. “I can’t say, but—”
“What do you mean you can’t say? I’m calling the cops, just tell me where you are.”
My swallow echoes in my ears. “Frida, I–I don’t know where I am, please call them, I’m in a m—”
The phone is snatched from me like lightning.
“No, please,” I say, attempting to wrestle it back and finding that Norman is surprisingly strong.
“I trusted you, Cataline. I’ll have to tell the Master of the House about this, and he won’t be pleased.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” I say and storm away.
I know my mind; it can’t be distracted with reading now. I return to the cinema, dropping movies from the shelves onto the floor until I can’t take the silence another second. I sit cross-legged on the floor directly underneath the enormous screen as the credits for Hitchcock’s The Birds begin. Squawking fills the dark room as the screen flashes black and white. That might as well be all this is: broken flickers and flashes of a disintegrating existence. I can’t follow the story anyway as I bawl myself deaf and blind.
The look of betrayal on Norman’s face was the same one he had when I threw the log at him. He’s been kind to me, as has Rosa, my motherly maid, and Chef Michael. Norman’s disappointment feels real and palpable. I vehemently tell myself I don’t care what he thinks. But what exactly do they want with me? And how can they be so equally accommodating and cruel?
It takes time, but I eventually
“We have an assignment from the Master of the House.”
I bite my thumbnail absentmindedly. “Okay.”
“He requires that you call your family and Frida to assure them you’re okay.”
At the mention of her name, my hand touches my heart. “No. Frida has nothing to do with this.”
“I’m sorry. There’s no getting out of it.”
“It’s been too long. She’ll have called the cops by now.”
“Indeed she has. Please, follow me.” He turns his back and walks to a closed door on the ground floor. My heartbeat skips as he unlocks it, my mind conjuring up the possibilities of what’s hidden in this mansion. When I step inside, I’m disappointed by the blandness of a simple study that’s almost identical to the one I broke into. He walks to a desk that holds a large, clunky, black phone and gestures for me to follow. I nearly salivate when he hands me the receiver.
“Go on, dear,” he says when I hesitate.
“I’m not calling my family.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll call Frida. She can call them for me.”
“We’ll see.”
“What do I say?”
“You’re instructed only to tell them that you are alive and well. Also—and this is important—that you’re happy. Nothing more.”
“She won’t believe that.”
“Make her believe it, and hang up. It’s part of doing what you’re told.”
There are times when Norman is short with me, but somehow I know it’s his way of helping. I stare down and dial the numbers. In the early evening Frida is most likely at the apartment, stretched out on our couch. Part of me hopes she’s out with friends, but the part of me that wants to escape—a very large part—hopes otherwise.
Her voice is immediately familiar. “Hello?”
“Frida?”
“Cat—oh, shit. Where are you?”
“I’m safe,” I say, nearly choking on the word. “I’m only calling to let you know that.”
“Where?”
I glance up at Norman. He shakes his head but smiles and points to his mouth, indicating that I should do the same. No matter how hard I try, my smile is not convincing. “I can’t say, but—”
“What do you mean you can’t say? I’m calling the cops, just tell me where you are.”
My swallow echoes in my ears. “Frida, I–I don’t know where I am, please call them, I’m in a m—”
The phone is snatched from me like lightning.
“No, please,” I say, attempting to wrestle it back and finding that Norman is surprisingly strong.
“I trusted you, Cataline. I’ll have to tell the Master of the House about this, and he won’t be pleased.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” I say and storm away.
I know my mind; it can’t be distracted with reading now. I return to the cinema, dropping movies from the shelves onto the floor until I can’t take the silence another second. I sit cross-legged on the floor directly underneath the enormous screen as the credits for Hitchcock’s The Birds begin. Squawking fills the dark room as the screen flashes black and white. That might as well be all this is: broken flickers and flashes of a disintegrating existence. I can’t follow the story anyway as I bawl myself deaf and blind.
The look of betrayal on Norman’s face was the same one he had when I threw the log at him. He’s been kind to me, as has Rosa, my motherly maid, and Chef Michael. Norman’s disappointment feels real and palpable. I vehemently tell myself I don’t care what he thinks. But what exactly do they want with me? And how can they be so equally accommodating and cruel?
It takes time, but I eventually
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