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CHAPTER 18 : A NIGHTCAP.
There has been some sort of party.
I only know because I have been working to prepare it, and to see that it is a success. I have not seen the guests; I have been kept hard at work downstairs in the kitchen. I can’t help feeling like Cinderella. Yes, I bloody well should be going to the ball!
In real life, but I actually mean in my former life, I was a university lecturer, married to an engineer, working for a PhD, with a wide circle of friends. To get me here, I have been drugged and abducted and subjected to all sorts of unpleasantness, humiliation, exploitation and brutality. If anyone deserves to go to the party, I do!
Instead, I have been made to wash floors (this morning), clean the kitchen (this afternoon) and be a kitchen porter (this evening). I have washed and scrubbed, chopped vegetables, scoured pans, cleaned work surfaces, got things out from cupboards and stores and put things away again and wiped down and tidied up - and there has been that wretched Pavea creature to put up with. She and I had to scrub the floors together. Whenever, Neena’s back was turned. Pavea took her opportunity to threaten me with all the things she would do to me when she gets home. The only consolation is that her threats are completely empty. Neither of us is getting home. Ever. How I wish we were – even if that meant going to prison. Prison and a time-limited sentence would be so much better than what I have now: a never ending life of abject servitude.
To add insult to injury, as the day has worn on, they fed me bland, meagre, food and nothing else. My tummy is rumbling and I have been tortured by the wonderful smells of cooking.
The main event is over now. I am surrounded by more tedious things to do. Rinse plates, stack the dishwasher, hand wash the glass and china – there have been twenty people here for goodness sake; I will be here till midnight. Then I have to wrap and put what has not been eaten back in the fridges and the cold pantry.
I am eyeing the leftovers. They have had poached salmon. Some lies, quite untouched, on the serving dish. There is also some wine left. Actually one bottle is almost three quarters full.
I wrestle with temptation. I should probably just leave all this. That’s the “safe” thing to do and it’s probably the “required” thing to do, but I am alone in the kitchen. With this lovely food. I have done as much as anyone to get the meal ready. Bugger them! What’s needed here, is some restorative justice! And my commission for being involved with Pavea. I’m getting into her American way of thinking!
I make another furtive glance round. I am completely alone. The salmon looks so good, smells so good. It’s been baked on crushed rock salt. Perfection! I take a fork and gently press down on the flesh. It flakes away. Another furtive glance. Am I expecting an alarm to go off?
Quickly I pop the morsel in my mouth. It is good. Very good! Still no one comes. I help myself to some more – and then some more again. Now that’s better! Shouldn’t be greedy – but they will never miss a little more. I have a little more, well quite a lot more. Very satisfying! And with it? Wine, of course! Aha - a German white, Trocken. Brilliant. I take a swig from the bottle and swirl the cold, pale yellow, fluid around my mouth. Now that’s good, I think. Crisp, bone dry, definitely better that the last bottle I got from Waitrose! (1) It probably cost quite a bit more too, I expect.
I am still alone. I’m getting quite bold. A glass: yes I will finish this episode with a glass. After all drinking it out of the bottle hardly does justice to something this good. The wine feels better with each mouthful. Even so, there is a worm of doubt wiggling in my mind. For a moment I have returned to the world I once used to inhabit but now I must come back to the new world in all its grimness. Back to plain boring food; back to working below stairs; back to being Cinderella in her tattered clothes. Actually, no clothes at all in my case. Perhaps it would have been wiser to leave well alone?
Shortly after, two of the Domestics bustle in - Damdinsuryn and Batachikan - and my routine begins again. Tidying. Rinsing, washing, drying. By 2am the job is done and I am escorted back to my cell.
As I arrive, so does Neena. She is still dressed as she must have been for the party. She has a wonderful royal blue cocktail dress and black strappy sandals on her bare feet. She looks so beautiful. I am surprised to find her here with me at this time of night.
“Rapina!” she says brightly. “Did you enjoy your evening?” She’s smiling; she has obviously had a good time. And perhaps too much to drink?
For a moment I do not know what to say; whether it should be “Yes, thank you. I was glad to serve you. Was I satisfactory?” or perhaps the more honest “No actually! I have worked all day and I have been on my feet since 6 am and it’s now 2 am and I am bloody exhausted.” In the end I say nothing.
Neena continues, “I like baked salmon. It’s one of my favourites.”
Like an idiot I reply, “Yes, it’s very good isn’t it?”
“How do you know?” She is still smiling but the tone of her voice is suddenly cooler.
I’m worried now. Does she know about my illicit meal. “Well, err, I have had it before.”
“Before when?” Now her voice sounds almost forensic.
“Before I came here.”
Neena looks coolly at me. “Actually Vyerka,” she says slowly, “you had it (she glances at her watch) two hours ago.”
How does she know? I was alone? I looked! By now, though, it is clear to anyone that Neena is right because my face has blushes a deep red. I look down to hide it. Looking down. Another admission of guilt. Or maybe she just thinks I am being respectful.
“Here,” continues Neena. “A night cap!”
She hands me a small shot glass filled with a fawn liquid. It could almost be Bailey’s Irish Cream. I don’t really feel I have any choice but to drink it. It has a musty, “hairy”, taste. For a second or two after I drain the glass there is just the after-taste; odd, not alcoholic, not pleasant but not unpleasant either.
Then, suddenly, my stomach heaves. I dash to the toilet and the remains of my contraband meal spew down into the pan. I heave again. More. And again. More. Now vomit is filling my nose and mouth and streams down into the toilet. I turn to look up at Neena. I can hardly make her out through the tears which are being squeezed from my eyes. She is wrinkling her nose at the smell I am making and the sight of me, retching.
“Ohhh,” I groan, clutching my stomach and crouching forward as another stream of liquid powers from me. “Aaaah.” I lean to one side and heave again, dryly retching into the toilet. “What was that drink? … Oh! This is not fair!”
“But it is fair! Taking things that don’t belong to you is not fair. Don’t deny it. Here is a video of you in the kitchen.” Neena holds up her I-phone and plays a video. It has obviously been taken from a security camera. But where was it? I thought I had looked!
“Then why ... hurrlp...” I double up once again.
“Because if you take things you will be made to give them back and you will be made to give them back at our convenience, not at yours. Now, after you have given back what you have taken, there will have to be punishment. I have not whipped you yet? Something to look forward to. To help you understand your place. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Vyerka! Oh, tell me, was it worth it?”
I gasp and retch and spew and retch and I can’t speak. There’s the raw feeling of stomach acid in the back of my throat and the taste of my own vomit to distract me.
“No,” continues Neena, her disappointment and disapproval clear in her voice. “I suppose it wasn’t. Remember your place next time, rapina Vyerka. You are a slave. Slaves DO NOT enjoy the privileges of their Owners.” Her admonishing words are interrupted as another wave or retching racks me. “And here is the irony: I had authorised the Domestics to give you some of the fish tomorrow, for your breakfast. A reward for hard work. Still, now you are getting a different reward for different work! Good night, rapina.” She turns on her heel and leaves.
Fish! The very idea fills me with revulsion. Another wave of nausea sweeps over me and I can feel there are more of them gathering strength, waiting to break over me, waiting to break me.
Neena’s words are still running around my head. My place? I cannot forget my place after this! I wish I had been more thoughtful. I knew I should have left the food severely alone. Strangely, I don’t feel resentful, that I was caught or that I am going to be punished – whipped, even. I actually feel I deserved to be caught, deserve what is happening to me now and deserve to be whipped. In fact, I feel that I should be more grateful for all I do enjoy, all the privileges that they do give me, and that I should not take things for granted here. I now have to rely on my Owners, for all that I once took for granted when I was someone else, in some other place, in some other life, which I can hardly remember anymore.
“Why are you here?”
“To be punished, Gaspazha.”
“What are you to be punished for?”
“For stealing food, Gaspazha.”
“Do deserve your punishment?”
“Yes, Gaspazha, I do.”
“I am going to whip you and you are going to thank me for each stroke, do you understand?”
“Yes, Gaspazha. I am sorry for the way I behaved.”
“Why will you thank me?”
“It will teach me my place. Help me to remember. If ever I am tempted again.”
There is another witness to my punishment. She has been tethered to one of the columns supporting the roof. It has small metal rings brazed on it for just such a purpose. She chooses this moment to say - “Oh please! I have never heard such bad play-acting in my life. Even in Grade School. You two are just the limit.”
Neena ignores the interjection. “How does your tummy feel this morning?”
“It is sore, Gaspazha.”
“Have you had anything?”
“Only water, from the jug in my cell.”
“Very well. Here is the first stroke. You will count. Strokes you fail to count will merely be added as extra. I will not tell you how many you are to receive.”
I feel such an idiot to be standing here, so exposed with Neena elegant and formal, with Andrei looking smart in a suit and tie and with Pavea watching me, gloating at my humiliation. It’s so embarrassing, to have been caught so easily. I should have known it was a test, last night. I was given the opportunity to show what I have learned, to show that I could behave myself – behave as I have been told to do, without someone constantly watching over my shoulder.
But like the silly little fool that I am, I did not do what I should have done. I just gave in to temptation. I wanted to pay them back when the opportunity presented itself. Now I have to pay for my foolishness. I am going to pay dearly. I deserve to pay. Oh, what a fool I am …
I have been strapped to a St Andrew’s Cross in the gymnasium. A wide leather belt has been placed around me, to protect my kidneys but otherwise, the back of me is fully exposed. Heels, calves, thighs, bum, back and shoulders.
Neena is standing behind me. She was there when Andrei brought me here. She was dressed rather formally, in a crisp white shirt and the black leather skirt she often wears. A simple but substantial black leather belt passes around her waist, closed by a yellow brass buckle. It is almost masculine. She wears black tights and black military boots which end just below her knees.
In her hands she holds the whip which will help me understand exactly who I have become now. She made sure I got a good view of if before I was strapped in place. It was a light tan and thick. Dangerous. Serious. Something which can cause real pain, can cut and split my skin. Now I wait. I can hear the quiet thud as Neena uncoils the whip and its tail spills onto the floor. There is a feint rustle. That must be her taking up the handle, holding the tip delicately in her free hand. I am facing out towards the gymnasium windows. Outside the rain falls softly. There is a feint reflection of her in the glass.
I catch a glimpse of movement, am conscious of a hissss and then a sharp crack! against my right shoulder. The whip stroke burns bright and hot. How is this going to feel as she moves down my back? Across my ribs? There are waves of panic rising inside me. This is serious. There will be real pain. I cannot avoid anything she wishes to do to me. I am going to suffer for my own stupidity.
“Adeen!” I gasp and mew.
“That’s one, in case you had forgotten,” offers Pavea.
“Good!” She replies. In Russian, ‘Haroshow!”
She strikes again.
“Dva …ah .. ah!” The whip strikes my left shoulder.
“Haroshow” comes her reply.
“Treeeee …..” She is moving down my back. The whip has licked round the side. Into the area below my sholder, across my upper ribs. She will whip me on the other side next. I just know the tail is coming snaking towards me …
“Chet …eeeeer …reee.” The whip does not fail my expectations … is hot, caustic and unremitting.
“Pe ..eee …ya …ya …yat.” It it burns a vertical stripe down my spine. There are voices in my head. Reproaching me for being a little thief, for taking what did not belong to me, my body has to suffer for the sins of my mind or perhaps my soul?
“Your skin is marking beautifully …” Neena’s lips are at my ear. I can smell her now. Fresh and sweet. “When you have served your sentence, I will have you photographed and the imaged placed in your cell, to remind you of the price of disobedience and presumption and theft. What do you say?”
“Spaseeba Gaspazha. I would like that very much. It will be very helpful to me.” I know that it’s what she wants to hear and I almost believe it.
Her voice is warm, almost encouraging as she says, “Haroshow, rapina!”
“Now you listen here: you two just love this, don’t you? You are both just getting off on the whole performance. Play-acting! It’s supposed to be punishment but you’re just a couple of lesbos into BDSM!”
Pavea’s scolding, gloating opinions heighten my sense of shame and dejection. They drag a sharp nail over the wounds Neena is raising on my body. Her presence is making the punishment all the more severe and humiliating.
“Shhyee … eeest!”
Another whip stroke has found my skin. It has travelled up across my right buttock from the crease above my right thigh to the apex of my crack. Oh how it burns and scalds me!
“Sem, … sem, … sem, … sem ….” I am sobbing now as another stripes me across my left buttock cheek
“Vo …aaaaaa … ssssem.” The whip has landed across both cheeks of my bum, left to right
It re-ignites all the pain from the other previous two strokes
“AAAAAAgh, AAAAAgh, AAAAAgh, Dye …eeee …eeevit.” And now it repeats, right to left
Oh, oh, oh. What a stupid cow I am! All this for fish and wine!
“AAAAAAAAGH, AAAAGH, AAAAAAGH, AAAAAGH.” I am beginning to howl uncontrollably but I must say the number, I must say the number. “Dyes … dyes … dyesiiiit!” There is another bright burning track down my spine ….
“Oychen Haroshow, rapina. You have taken your whipping very well. Well deserved and well taken. I am proud of you!”
“Huh!” Says Pavea, “A couple of dykes enjoying themselves.” But the bile seems to have gone out of her voice. She sounds tentative, as if the scene played out before her is beginning to undermine her defiance, showing her what might be her fate after all.
“Spaseeba, spaseeba, spaseeba,” I reply, the words tumbling out uncontrollably.
“Just two more – because I expect you still like to count in sixes?”
Two? Two more? I can’t take any more. No more, please … please?
“AAAAAAAA, AAAAAAA, AAAAA,“ The whip has curled over the back of my right thigh. It lands with a loud crack and then tears itself from my skin. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA ….”
There has been a loud Crack! and a bright gripping flash of pain across my left thigh. I just howl and howl. I cannot say the numbers! She will continue until I say the numbers and I cannot remember what they are!
“Rapina?”
“AAAA … aaaaa …” my cries subside into sobs …
“Rapina?”
“I can’t remember the numbers, Gaspazha, I can’t remember the numbers …” I am babbling in panic. I can’t remember the last two numbers. What if she starts all over again?
She squeezes my shoulder: “Your sentence is over and … (she is looking down at my legs) …you have pissed your self, rapina. You will have to lick it up.
She has finished? Oh! She has finished with me. All I have to do is to lick up some piss from the floor. Oh! So grateful! I am so grateful.
Andrei releases me and I collapse down onto my knees. My skin smarts and burns where the welts are stretched by my posture. I begin enthusiastically to lick the floor, lapping up my own urine with my tongue – and the base of the cross – nothing must be left.
Without warning there comes a visceral animal sound. For a moment, I cannot understand what it could possibly be it until I catch sight of Pavea from the corner of my eye. She has started to wretch! At the sight of my whipping or at the sight of me licking my urine from the floor? For once, all her confidence has fled from her. I catch sight of her writhing in panic, but held fast by her bonds. She has been appalled by what she has just witnessed and she continues to vomit her breakfast, such as it was. She has no choice but to observe my tortured body and my abject surrender to the instruction of Gaspazha Neena. She must realize at last that I, too really am a slave, and that if I can be subjected to punishment, so can she – and so will she. And she has the memory of her birching still fresh in her mind and the shaving of her head and the piercing of her nose. All these memories must have come flodding back to her. A tsunami engulfing her as she witnessed my own torture and its aftermath.
Presently, the floor is clean and I kneel in front of Neena as the emotional storm which has broken over Pavea gradually clams.
“Well, rapina?”
“Thank you for my punishment, Gaspazha.”
“And?”
I bend forward – Oh how my skin burns and smarts – and kiss her boots: left and right. Toes and heels and insteps and toes. I do not venture up the calves until invited. Neena does not invite me.
“For the rest of today, you will not speak until spoken to. Nod if you understand?” I nod. “Go back to your cell. Wash yourself and then present yourself to the Domestics. You have work to do today. There is a large amount of laundry to be washed, dried and ironed.”
As I leave the gymnasium, I hear Neena say, “And now for you Pavea! I am very disappointed to see you often have so little sympathy for a fellow slave. Andrei: help me put her on the frame. Its time she felt a whip on her back. You will find, Pavea, that the whip burns just a hot if it’s wielded by a dyke as it does if wielded by someone who is straight!”
As I make my way to my cell, the air fills again with the sound of Pavea, wailing in despair at what is being done to her.
Sveta has left early to prepare her TV news programme and Anatoly has time to himself in his office in the Dacha. He has a difficult call to make. Everything to do with Sveta’s history seems to be difficult. He has noticed she is drinking more as Alana’s pregnancy wears on and she is becoming much more brittle. Like dark clouds massing on the horizon, Anatoly’s anxiety is building. He needs advice. He sets up a Skype connection …
“Igor Ivanovitch?”
“Anatoly Sergeyevitch!”
“Have you some time?”
“For you, Anatoly Sergeyevitch I have always time.”
“Er,” uncharacteristically, Anatoly is finding it hard to say what’s on his mind, “its about … you see … I am getting really worried about Sveta and I mean, well it’s probably everything coming together – work, Alana, the baby – but … well I don’t think she is managing things well, at the moment. Actually; I am getting quite worried about her. She is drinking …”
“I see … I see.”
There is a long silence. Anatoly is about to pick up the thread again when Dr Mendeleyev clears his throat and resumes the conversation.
“Has she ever talked to you about Popova?”
Anatoly nods, it’s a difficult area. “About Popova? About the abortion?”
“Quite so. About Popova and what happened.”
“Sveta? No, never. I was told in confidence when I got back from London but I thought I, well I thought it would be best if Sveta told me herself. When she was ready.”
“Hmmm. That was very wise, Anatoly Sergeyevitch. Very wise. And Svetlana Nikitechna has never mentioned anything to you in all these years?”
“No.” Anatoly’s monosyllabic response shows how he feels about this.
“Ah.” Igor nods sympathetically. He knows that it is little recompense but he feels at least he has shown he understands. “What … what Svetlana Nikitechna really needs is a trusted friend or a trained counselor to help her unburden herself. You are her husband and you are too close emotionally. Besides, it’s your relationship and her history which is keeping Svetlana Nikitechna in bondage. This sounds cruel but it’s not your fault – nor hers. However, if there was someone neutral but caring she could speak with, that would be such an advantage …”
“Can you perhaps explain something to me? I’m her husband. We are very happy together. I would have thought that she would find it easy to confide in me. That all these years of marriage would give her confidence in me? Yet she cannot. I feel – well, almost betrayed – have I failed her too? Where have I let her down?”
Igor shakes his head. “It is not because of what you have done but who you are or perhaps what you are. The problem, Anatoly Sergeyevitch, is that you matter. In fact you matter so much that Sveta Nikitechna is deeply afraid that what she has to tell you would hurt you badly and the more years pass, the deeper she feels the wound will be. This is the heart of the issue; you have a family behind you. Svetlana Nikitechna is an orphan and feels her situation acutely. You were a wanted child. She was an unwanted child; an abandoned child. She allowed Popova to brow-beat her into aborting your first child, so there is guilt. Popova played on her fears of abandonment, of being unworthy of you, so there is shame. She was unable to conceive and then carry her other babies – until Alana - so she fears judgment and punishment. These are the memories she always carries with her and they may be brought to the surface by all manner of innocent circumstances. Now there has been the problem of Alana; Alana also failed to conceive easily and I expect that each day, Sveta fears the telephone call which will tell her that Alana has lost her baby and each day Sveta will wonder if the judgment which has fallen on her will also fall onto her only child, because of what she did to that other child.”
There is silence. Dr Mendeleyev’s words are as painful to Anatoly as any he has heard; all the more painful because there seems to be so little he can do to resolve the situation. For someone who has seen and done what he has done it seems almost inconceivable but he feels his eyes begin to water …
“So … is there nothing I can do for her?”
Mendeleyev leans forward, his image enlarging on the screen, first of all with a reassuring smile. “Well … you have done so much already. You are loyal and honest with Sveta, caring, considerate and fun. From her point of view, you have stood by her. However, the present situation … is more a … well even though I am sitting in what some used to call “A Temple to Rational Materialism” … in my opinion, you are dealing with matters of the soul, and not merely matters of the brain. My advice is: continue to be loving and patient but I should warn you that a crisis may be on the horizon. When Alana’s baby is born. This may provoke emotional reactions for Sveta. You may have pieces to pick up. She will need your help. That may be your best opportunity for a proper resolution, when you may both have an opportunity to be completely honest with each other.”
“And the girl?”
“Vyera?”
“Vyera. When I sourced her, I thought she might be useful to Alana after the baby and be good company for Sveta when Alana was busy or wanted time to herself.”
“Yes. Vyera.” Igor’s expression takes on a slightly abstracted look, as though he is staring over Anatoly’s shoulder. “Anatoly Sergeyevitch I have discovered that there is a issue with Vyera.”
“Issue?”
“Does Sveta Nikitechna know the Vyera”s date of birth?”
“Of course: she has read Vyera’s data file. How could that be of significance?”
“I had some research done in the archives at The Centre. Our state has many flaws but it keeps exceptionally good records. The due date for Sveta’s aborted child was the same as Vyera’s actual birthday. Vyera is, I am sure, a constant reminder for Sveta of the child Popova forced her to abort.”
“That can be easily remedied.” Anatoly’s blunt response earns him a chiding look from Igor.
“No. Absolutely not. The damage is done. The extra complication that is Vyera has been added to the mixture and cannot now be withdrawn. If Vyera disappears, history will merely repeat itself for Sveta. I believe that now Vyera is a member of your household, she must stay. But you should watch, my friend. Watch and take care of your wife. Her feelings may prove stronger than she is used to. She may need you to catch her if she misses her footing.”
Anatoly nods. It’s as though he has suddenly discovered a steel ball is, in fact, just made of china. That something seemingly strong and resilient is actually delicate and fragile. He’s not sure that he knows how to deal with this. Igor Mendeleyev knows just what he is feeling but he knows too, that this is not the moment to offer more advice.
Footnotes:
(1) Waitrose. An up-market British supermarket. Part of the John Lewis Partnership.
www.waitrose.co.uk
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