Paul Theroux - O-Zone

She said, "I'm almost sure it's him."

But Sanford kept facing the screen. What did he see with those empty eyes? Moura realized that she had deliberately not looked at his hands, so as to keep her composure.

The masked man walked forward, his penis like a tassel making an odd short arc as it wagged. She had always thought of sex in a disconnected way because penises seemed like something added on, with a separate existence — rather comic and bulgy tassels one minute, and the next minute terrible truncheons.

He was very young — tightly muscled and tall, with a flat stomach and slender legs. It was Fizzy's body — Fizzy's hands and feet; the same penguin's walk that made her feel safe.

"That's enough," she said. "His name and whatever other details you can give me — that's all I want."

Sanford smiled with only his mouth — his cold eyes were no help — and his effort made him seem particularly sinister to Moura,

"I'll pay you whatever you want," she said. "And no one will ever know. I realize you value your confidentiality, so I give you my word that it will remain my secret. I'll sign anything you ask, I'll swear—"

"Not necessary," Sanford said. He was confident, and yet not relaxed as an assured man might be. He held himself stiffly in his chair, and began to turn. "I know you will never sue us."

He was facing her, twisting his hands — one hand throttling the other.

"This is why."

As he turned back to the screen the angle of the camera changed — a new camera, a different corner of the room.

And now Moura saw the young woman on the bed; she was propped on a stack of pillows, one hand lying just between her legs in what was not modesty but a kind of teasing. As the man approached, she opened the fingers of that hand, making a wicket of them, and the mock-modest covering gesture became gross and explicit. Spreading her fingers, she spread her legs, and showed the lips of her vulva reddening, and its moistened throat.

She too wore a mask that perfectly fitted her: it was the face of a lovely woman.

"Shall I turn the sound up?"

"No" — and she surprised herself by sobbing. "I don't think I could bear—"

She did not finish, for now the man had embraced the young woman, and she received him, taking his face in her hands and kissing it. It was a clumsy coming together of puppet heads — staring and expressionless, the most meaningless caress: mask kissing mask. But it did not matter that their faces had the fixed expressions on the masks; it was their bodies that thrilled her. She saw pleasure, drama, and a subtle change — even an expressive sadness — in the bodies of the young man and young woman. And there was something that moved her in the way their feet responded — their lovely feet.

Tears were streaming down Moura's face. She watched willingly, punishing herself with the sadness of it. She wept for herself and the young man. She wept for Fizzy. She wept at the sight of the solitary act. The young woman did not know that she was lost.

Finally she could not bear to look anymore, and could not see through her tears. Alone, she saw the woman alone. There was no loneliness in love. But sex was narrow, sex was private. It was like throttling a small animal — choking it until it was dead. It was sometimes like twisting your own arm off. It was not shared — not really — and when the desire was gone there was nothing. Love involved someone else; but all sex was always sex with yourself.

"Now you know almost everything."

"He's gone," Hooper said when they got back to the sinkhole where the rotor was parked.

The sun was just breaking over the brow of the hill, and the whole sky was visible — liquid with light.

"The food's gone. The weapons too."

As soon as he saw the hatch lying open he had let go of Bligh's hand. She watched without surprise as Hooper blustered. He was saying: How? Why?

"They've snatched him — we'll never find him," Hooper said. He hated saying these things, because his words made it all real. But he couldn't help it; he was babbling, and now he spoke directly to the woman, who had not said anything so far. "Where are they taking him?"

She had pale eyes, a child's face, and her skin was damp and dusty from the tumult of the night. Her clothes were torn and so threadbare, and she was facing a man in a gleaming rotor-suit, standing tall in expedition boots, and wired for survival.

In a small surrendering voice she said, "Where are you taking me?"

Just then dawn dissolved the simple darkness of night and the clear air showed the beautifully lit disorder of the day in this wilderness — the green-caked rocks and gaunt trees, the blue dust, the pathless woods, the emptier distances.

Two men who in the darkness were no more than hard hands and grunts smelling of glue had plucked Fisher out of the rotor and swung him to the ground in a net. The boy screamed once sharply and punched and pulled at the ropes. He had howled all the way to the camp, and was still howling. But no one heard him. He was still wearing his helmet and mask.

It was dawn at the mouth of the cave, in the dampness and dust and the sting of smoke.

The man called Mr. Blue watched him twisting in the net of ropes and said, "Let him out the bag, Rooky."

Once he was out of the net and disentangled, Fisher stopped howling — stopped everything. He had just lost his helmet and mask struggling in the bag. He cowered and tried to make himself small. He went absolutely rigid.

"Spiderman," someone said.

"He turned into a stick."

He heard them talking about him, but it was like a dream in which you know all the dangers, and know you are probably going to die, but are helpless to save yourself.

"You got a name?"

He stammered saying "Fisher."

"Fish," Mr. Blue said, and looked satisfied.

"Mighty goddamn far from the water, I'd say."

"Throw him back."

He was flat on the ground. Each time he opened his eyes he saw feet. Their sandals, the ragged straps, their toes, frightened him; and so did the stains on their faded pants. He saw ax heads and black dented pots and some of his own provisions from the rotor. Seeing these stolen things in their protective wrappings stacked in the dust reminded him that he had been stolen himself, and was captive and couldn't move. Now and then they touched him — pinched his suit to examine the metal-fiber material. He screamed, or tried to scream: it was a miserable whimper, so insignificant no one noticed it.

"It's strong lightweight stuff, but it's for cities and space. It can't take much abrasion. Even those boots won't last here. The gloves might be useful."

"The helmet's a beauty, but I can't get a buzz out of it."

"He's real pale. If he's sick with something I say dump him. He might make us all sick."

They were still talking.

But he was more terrified by their smell. To Fisher they were more like plants and animals than human beings. They had the ragged stinking look of wild things, they had wounds and bruises and chafed faces. They did not talk to him. They wore very little equipment, only old tools — a knife, a coil of rope, a sharpened screwdriver, a hatchet or ax. He could tell they seldom washed. He imagined them to be sick with dirt, probably wormy, or with fleas clinging to them, with nits in their hair. He thought of them as a type of poisonous weed, and he did not want them near him. He was afraid of their touch — their filthy hands and hairy arms, their damp rotten breath. Some were women, some were black.

"Wrap up this fish, somebody."

"No, don't bother. He's not going anywhere," Mr. Blue said. "And I hate his yelling. He'll just yell in the bag."