Archives, Room D4
Chapter Two
By Ian Febland
Over the next week, all I could think about was Ona’s voice in my head; me, doing things that apparently I didn’t control; feeling things that I could not explain at the behest of her say-so. I was sure that I wanted more, to experience more, but I had to play it cool for a while. How would I go about that when all I had to do was call her for an appointment?
Not to seem too eager, I waited until the following Monday to take up her phone number. It was on an embossed business card, a retro font that reminded me of turn-of-the-century ornamental stencilling. The other turn of the century. I spent minutes staring at the font, lapsing into my recollection of the handwriting in the book Ona donated. I wonder who the fellow was, and why she never sought to find out his actual name. The photos in the case were family photos, but there were a few that had no writing on the back. I made a mental note to ask her next time.
There was something about the way she touched my arm, but I couldn’t quite place it. The timing of her voice and something miraculous happening after etched into my mind. The result was obvious—pleasant bodily sensation—and all of it was new and exciting. The question I had was how did she do it? And why, when I had my eyes closed, did most of her words fade into memory? The best comparison I could come up with was falling asleep during a podcast or a movie. I was aware of parts of her talking softly, some more distinct, other moments just a hum of being present and focus on my inward thoughts. It started there. Thoughts. Maybe I was directed to think about how I was feeling, and in that way I wasn’t exactly paying attention to her word-by-word description. A good deal of her speaking to me was a muddled haze. I was determined to find out the mechanics of this hypnosis. Or whatever she called it. What did she call it, anyway?
The card was in my hand. I made myself punch in the numbers, stopping to sip my morning coffee. Her perfume interrupted my train of thought and mingled with the roasted, creamy scent of the warm beverage. Something floral and vanilla, I think.
“Hello?”
“Ona? It’s Albert. How are you today?” I sounded too formal again.
“Yes, Albert! I’m doing fantastic. You’d like me to visit you, isn’t that right?”
Her voice was smooth and welcoming, a liquid huskiness that I didn’t notice when I saw her in person. Plus, she had a regular, local city accent. Why I thought she had a mild foreign accent was a silly notion, now that I could listen without visual distraction.
“I would, very much. And I do have questions about what you and I did last week.”
“It’s very good you have questions for me, Albert. Curiosity is the beginning of discovery!” she said, laughing into my ear. I pressed the phone closer and my eyes unfocused, just a little.
“Most of all, I’d like you to bring the pen you were using. If I could...inspect it?”
“You can, Albert! I’ll let you in on a secret,” she said, lowering her voice to even huskier depths. “It’s an ordinary pen. But you knew that, didn’t you?”
“Well...I’d still like to see it,” I said, stopping short of an apology. I imagined she was standing in front of my desk. What kind of blouse would she wear?
“—No appointments tomorrow, so I can drop in. That okay?” her voice faded momentarily. I could hear rustling and distant traffic.
“Yes...yes. Tuesday. I’ll be down in the lobby. Same time.”
The rest of the day was frustratingly slow and quiet. I put a hold on the appraiser’s arrival, giving him another month. I wanted to be sure that Ona would have time to decide how many visits would be appropriate. By the time I figured out her mysterious techniques, I’d be ready to proceed with the appraiser.
Tuesday morning came, and not soon enough. I brushed at my shirt, shifting to an objective view, what she might see: an older man of 58, silver beard, balding, grey-blue eyes. Both my eyebrows and eyelashes were already silvery grey mixed with the dark blonde of my younger years. A slight paunch but I enjoyed a brisk walk several times a week. I’m no muscle man, but I realize the importance of keeping active.
Waiting at the front entrance, just inside the revolving doors, I fiddled with my hands until I decided to jingle the keys in my pocket. She wasn’t late. I was early. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of her approaching the library, maybe to see what her unguarded expression was.
Ona pushed the revolving door with one hand and then she was indoors.
“Windier than I thought,” she said, sweeping her curly hair to one side. “Hello, Albert.” She came forward and leaned in for a hug. The same floral-vanilla perfume, close to the skin, soft and subtle. Her curls tickled my ear; I felt a whisper of her cheek against my beard.
“Ona, nice to see you again. We’re going to be in my office this time, if that’s all right.” I thought it would be more comfortable. There was a three-seat sofa by the door, a small table where I kept refreshments for visitors, and, of course, my desk. Unlike Room D4, there was a large window, which offered a wide southwest view of the cityscape.
“I brought the pen so you could see it,” she said, winking at me.
It was a regular ballpoint with blue ink. I tested it by pressing the top and writing with a light grip. No response on my part when I heard the click. There just wasn’t any feeling attached to the sound.
“Does that satisfy your curiosity?” Ona asked. She held out her hand and I held the pen out to her.
The moment she clicked the top of the pen, I felt the same rush of delight and warmth shoot down my arms and torso. “That’s very good, you remember,” she said. I could hear her move closer, so I opened my eyes slightly to see her leaning a hip against my desk. “What questions did you have for me today?”
I had to wait until my breathing went back to normal, the tingling in my feet to subside, and the general feeling of wellbeing slip away. It was such a pleasant state I was reluctant to speak. “How are you doing this,” I asked, half as a query and half as wonder.
“It’s a series of techniques,” she said, waving her hand vaguely. “Nothing magical, unless that’s what you choose to believe. I think it’s important to explain by demonstration, because it’s easier that way.”
“You demonstrate...quite well,” I said, eyeing her pen and wishing I could handle it with similar results.
“There’s also observation that comes into play,” she continued. “For example, you respond really well to touch and sound. Do you know how I know that?”
I looked at her, wordless and mentally running through my possible tells.
“Every time I touched your arm”—she leaned forward and clasped my wrist gently—“you relaxed just a little bit, very much like you’re doing right now.”
Even as she was describing my reaction, I was following along in spite of myself.
“And you seem to like agreement and approval more than simple small talk,” she said, almost as though she were talking to herself. “Do you like when I agree with you?”
“I...don’t understand what you mean.”
“Let me ask you another way. Do you like when someone approves or enjoys what you say?”
“I imagine so, yes.”
“For example, what if I asked you to take your glasses off for me? Would that be okay with you?”
I removed them and was intercepted. She took my glasses and folded them with care. The details of her face became a smoothed-out, blurred image.
“Very good. Thank you so much for letting me hold your glasses, Albert. How do you feel?”
As a matter of fact, I did very much like her approval. It was what occupied my thoughts at that moment. I wanted to hear her say the words again, but which words I wasn’t sure. My inner dialogue captured my attention, otherwise I would have noticed my eyelids were getting heavier. I felt her fingers on my forehead and then it was like a blanket dropped over my head.
“...Three, two, one, and wide awake,” Ona said in a crisp, businesslike voice, snapping sharply by my ear.
Time had passed. My glasses were on. I was aware that something amusing had happened from the look on her face.
“Would you mind if I held your glasses?” she said.
She had asked me that only moments before. This was either a game of memory or she had some other purpose. Some young ladies really like the bespectacled professor and silver look.
Touching the rim of my minimalist glasses gave my arms a tingling weakness that spread from there to my face; without my glasses I could see details from afar that became increasingly blurry the closer they came to arm’s length. And she was just beyond reach, watching me with a fixed, languid smile.
I handed her my glasses and it seemed as though I was repeating the gesture in slow motion and simultaneously in quick repetition. Her eyes seemed to follow me while boring deep within my awareness.
“Look at this,” she said, in a simple, reasonable tone, in the same way one might bring attention to a balloon in the sky. She was turning my glasses, catching the fluorescent lights in the lens, a tame reflection that winked and glinted in the carpeted room. The vents hummed faintly. I strained to feel a slight current, even though I knew I was too far away from the wall to feel any sort of breeze.
I unbuttoned my shirt cuffs.
“How are you feeling?” Ona murmured, stepping a little closer, clearer in my vision.
“Hm. A bit warm,” I said, wondering why my throat was dry.
“Keep looking,” she said, lowering her gaze to her hands to draw me in.
With her thumbs, she outlined the rims I felt a corresponding pressure that moved along my forehead. The same with the earpieces. Placing a hand on both ears did not lessen the sensation.
She rested the glasses against her blouse; I could hear rustling and was reminded of the coziness of a duvet on a winter morning, a comforting sensation that kept my eyes on her for more delights.
“I can tell you enjoy a little cuddling as much as the next,” she whispered, lightly stroking the glasses along the line of her sleeve. My arms were similarly touched by warm hands running up and down, even the pressure of palms transferred right through my shirt. I placed a hand on my other elbow, hoping to intercept the invisible hands. The perception was there regardless.
I did not understand fully how Ona was doing what she did. All I knew was this had the freshness of discovery and the sensual mystery of awakening. For although I had a few lovers in my five decades of life, I had never ventured to explore the depths of this sort of imagination.
The minute she handed me the glasses the phantom touches ceased, not even to resurface when I felt along my arms. It wasn’t the same.
“Did you like that, just a little?” Ona turned to pick up her bag.
I watched the curve of her behind. How many lovers did she have? If these sexy mind games were common for her, then she must have quite a few admirers, perhaps more broken hearts. Certainly she had a charming way about her.
“Yes...yes, I did. Very much,” I said, separating myself from musing. “When you come by again, might we spend some more time explaining how it is you do all that?” I remembered how late it was and added, “Maybe it’s better if we schedule mid-morning, or alternatively, off hours. I’m here up to an hour after closing.”
“Either would do fine. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your duties,” she said, smiling fully and raising her eyebrows. “How about I book an appointment, to make it official?”
“Before I go, one more,” she leaned closer than a donor should. A series of words, or names, delivered below a whisper. I could not discern the meaning; I mulled over the significance as it looped over and over in my thoughts.
Next Sunday at 5:45 after closing was the time of our next meeting. The appointment book was oversized and bursting with thick papers. She ruffled the pages, grinning at me.
A breeze, warm yet refreshing, lifted the hairs at my temples.
Her smile turned into outright laughter when I smoothed a quick hand along my hairline. “We’ll do as much as you can handle, Albert,” she said, making a subtle variation of the bosom-nestling move that she did with my glasses.
I exhaled in spite of myself.
She didn’t want me to see her off, saying she preferred hellos to goodbyes—for now.
When Sunday ushered itself in, skulking too slowly for my liking, I was anxious with excitement and anticipation. I had more questions but wanted to phrase them carefully. It wouldn’t be too good an idea to bombard her with my curiosity like a lovesick college boy. Of course, this was not in any way infantile, infatuation, indecency. A staff member could come in at a second’s notice, in the space of a knock, and that person would see merely a quiet conversation taking place, nothing more.
Ona arrived at the edge of our agreed-upon time, tapping the doorway with her fingernail.
“Will you let me in?” she said, smiling at me with a sparkling, sassy expression.