Naomi
I committed adultery. In the most despicable way possible. I had sex for money.
*
It began with a misunderstanding during my student days. At the time I was still called Naomi McMillan. I was working as an assistant at a trade fair stand in San Francisco marketing automobile accessories to earn a bit of money in the holidays. Us girls were accommodated in a hotel on site, and on the last day of the fair we were in high spirits as we partied at the bar. I got to know a young, good-looking rep from Chicago. We laughed, drank, one thing led to another and the following morning I woke up in his room. He’d already gone on his way, but not without leaving something for me: two hundred dollars in cash.
The man had assumed I was a prostitute.
I remember staring at that money on the bedside table for a solid hour. I was shaking, but not with anger at the guy whose surname I never knew and whose first name is irrelevant. No, I was shaking in disbelief at myself. For instead of feeling thoroughly ashamed or thinking I was cheap, deep down I found myself getting excited at the idea of having surrendered myself to a stranger for money. And what was even worse, I was minded to repeat it.
When the next university vacation came around I returned to the trade fair hotel. In skimpy clothes and sexy make-up. I sat at the bar. My husband never found out how I financed my studies.
My expensive handbags.
The trips to Europe.
I know that what I did isn’t just bad, it’s sick too. Because although I reached the point where I had more money than I could spend, I didn’t stop even after we got married.
The spider had taken its time to comment on her confession. More than ten hours, according to the clock on the notebook.
In the meantime, while she had waited for the bucket, squatting on the cold floor of the well, Naomi had almost gone mad.
Her arms, which until a few days ago she’d feared were infected with tapeworm, were no longer itching, nor her throat, beneath the skin of which the parasite had wriggled so vigorously, especially at night, when she kept being woken up.
Although the burning and throbbing had gone, she did feel a strong pressure behind her left eye and it was perfectly plain what that meant.
How do you scratch behind your eyeball?
Naomi wished she had stronger fingernails that didn’t keep breaking. Ideally as long and pointed as a knife, then she’d be able to put an end to all this at once.
Without the horrific question-and-answer game.
While she’d been waiting for the answer the engines had stopped. Abruptly. Just like that. Were they in a port? But if so, why was she being rocked from side to side?
After a very, very long time the gap above her head finally opened and from the darkness the bucket with the notebook was lowered down to her. Together with the punishment, for the spider clearly wasn’t satisfied with her answer.
‘Sex for money? A really dirty secret, Professor.’ These were the words typed directly below her last entry. ‘But not what I wanted to hear.’ And then: ‘Think about it again. I know you can. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?’
While Naomi read the comment about her confession a small dot moved on the screen. Then another. And another.
With a scream she recoiled from the computer, but the dots had already started to spread out over her arm and wouldn’t readily be removed from her skin, filthy clothes or hair.
Cimex lectularius.
‘Who are you?’ she howled in disgust, while trying in desperation to hit and shake the bedbugs away, even though as a biologist she knew how ridiculous that was. The bloodsuckers could survive forty days without food and in the most intense cold. The well would have to be heated to fifty-five degrees for three days. Even after that you couldn’t be certain that one of the critters wouldn’t survive on her body.
Screaming, she started scratching herself again.
‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she typed into the notebook and sent the bucket up again. ‘WHO ARE YOU???’
This time the answer came back with surprising rapidity. Just a few minutes later Naomi was able to open the notebook again. In the bluish, fluorescent light of the screen she read:
The truth is, you’ve no right to ask me questions. But as my answer will put you on the right track and bring all of this to a swifter conclusion, I won’t be so petty. You won’t find out my name. But if I were a character from a fairy tale, my story would begin like this: ‘Once upon a time there was a beautiful little bundle of joy. Although he had no brothers or sisters, he did have a mother who loved him more than anything else in the world. And a strict father who always gave him funny looks when they were alone together.’ Well, are you bored yet? Don’t worry, there is a point to my story, which I bet you haven’t been expecting…