Archives, Room D4
Chapter Four
by Ian Febland
There was at least one sure way I could identify how Ona did what she did with her voice. I needed to get to the root of the matter, to figure out what was said during a session without succumbing to her directives. I set a digital recorder by the bookshelf, tucked up between the tallest books where it would not be seen. I’d have an extra pair of ears for analyzing her voice later. Three solid hours was enough to record a session from start to finish.
This was not because I was obsessed; I simply wanted to know more about her techniques, or so I told myself.
Today she was in a playful mood. According to Ona, I was too absentminded. She said so with a pointed stare.
“Are you joking? I asked.
“We should go back to the basics. I recall how the pen fascinated you from the start.”
It seemed like years, when I had only met her months ago.
“The necklace,” she continued, “was your second favorite, I think.” She peered at me as though from a height. Ona was not wearing a necklace today, and she made no move to open her purse. In her hand she held an insulated mug with a leakproof cap. She was an avid fan of tea, always carrying some fruity, herbal variety in an insulated café bottle or mug.
I was already drifting, listening to her words, allowing them to sink into what I privately called “the unawareness”. Subconscious always sounded like a medical, dry term to me, but I used it in conversation with her. I kept my personal vocabulary to myself.
A persistent haze lingered around me, although her voice was a beacon and magnet to my wandering attention.
“This mug is cool to the touch. See for yourself,” and she slid the container across my desk.
When I grasped the mug, my hand looked like an ordinary man’s hand, a stranger’s, disembodied and purposeful. The mug was lacquered in a candy apple red sleeve and stainless steel rim and bottom.
“From now on, you might experience something and feel something else. Do you agree with going forward?”
“Yes.” I gave my consent, because agreeing meant something new and appealing to my hungry and curious brain.
“You know you’re safe with me, don’t you?” She nodded, waiting for my answer.
“Yes.” My eyelids felt heavy and lethargic.
“Then we’ll start. Are you comfortable where you’re sitting?”
“Yes.” It was easier to go along with what she said. There was a serene elegance in the way she led me along. This time was different. She began in a soft tone, reaching forward to hold my hands in both of hers. I was instructed to look down at our hands, clasped together on the desk, then into her eyes.
She told me that I would remember everything she said. No gaps or lapses unless I wanted it to happen.
I was asked to decide between simply inhaling the sweetness of the warm beverage in her mug or enjoy a deeper pleasure—watching her drink from the mug. As for the latter choice, she promised it would be worth the experience, and there would be benefits. I was aware of her smooth skin against my own, palm to palm. It was better to nod; words could come later.
“...And open your eyes.” Her voice cut into my thoughts like a sudden clap. Ona was sitting on the far side of the desk, a sly smile on her lips.
“How much of the past thirty minutes do you remember?”
More time had passed than I realized. Truly, it felt like a brief nap, but I was sure she spoke to me the whole while.
“How about you tell me a story about your first year working at the library?” She leaned an arm on the desk and recrossed her legs. The blouse she wore was a flattering V neck that bracketed her cleavage tastefully. Under the V neck she wore a pale cream camisole that hugged the twin lines of her breasts.
I told her about my time as a desk clerk and how I started in the General Circulation Area on the second floor, the music score section.
“Back then, the library system was a little different,” I said, shifting back into my seat, the better to remember.
Ona reached toward the mug and took a graceful sip.
I gazed at her, captivated. A surge of melting washed over me and dwindled as soon as she put the mug down.
“Yes, go on.” Her expression was open, encouraging.
“Well...there were security guards that checked the due date for each outgoing book“—I hoped her hand would lift the rim of the mug to her mouth soon—“I mean, the scores, which could be signed out. Bags were cursorily inspected. Visually.” I chafed under a hint of growing anticipation, but pressed on.
She took another sip and then another, pausing in between but keeping the mug close.
I had to collect my thoughts and arrange them in a tellable order. A sinuous heat spread out from my throat down into my stomach. One more sip advanced the warmth to my arms, another sip progressed that seething heat to my back and legs.
Stories of the past were forgotten and Ona soon became the focus of my interest. Her eyes bored into mine as she drank. The smoldering that circulated at her suggestion pulsed and grew within me the longer her lips touched the mug. The more I concentrated on the individual processes of her movements, the more complex my responses became.
Finally I could no longer look, for all the intensity that was building in my veins.
She tilted the mug up, up, her throat working in an audible swallow. Ona took her time rotating the mug in slow circles before playing with the rim and eyeing me all the while. “That’s right, allow yourself to drift now,” she said.
An exquisite drowsiness sifted over my head and eyes. I was falling, yet stationary. I wanted to watch her over and over; with every swallow, my heart responded in rhythm. A culmination of warmth and tension swelled within me and I was helpless as I sat, gazing at her as she drank at a deliberately slow pace, caressing the rim with her lips and fingers.
Ona placed the mug on the far side of the desk and reached forward to tap my forehead.
I fell down into a bottomless and instant sleep.
From the quietest level, she was there, too. I was suspended with only her voice guiding me.
Swallowing to ease my dry throat was a useless remedy. The air was fresh and cool but brought no true relief, even when she brought me back to alertness.
I wanted to lie back on the sofa.
She was at the cooler filling a glass of water to the halfway point, waiting for me to straighten in my seat before presenting the beverage. The water was colder at a gulp than the AC currents moving around the room.
I ran a hand down my shirt to indicate where residual but imaginary warmth churned inside. “The water’s great. I want this to last. Maybe coffee would shock this out of me too prematurely?” I glanced at her.
“We can fix that, you know,” she said.
“Sorry, fix what?”
“You can keep all the wonderful lightness you are experiencing right now and still be energized and functioning.”
There was that tone, that now unmistakable voice she used so well.
“Close your eyes once again. For me,” she said, and I bowed my head, deep introspection sweeping over me. Once more, she spoke for a while and gradually I opened my eyes to her moving around the room. Observing how she helped herself to the things in my office was strange but comforting to me.
“This,” she said, pointing to the glass of water on the side table, “will help keep those relaxed feelings last a little longer.”
I looked at her, and without moving my chin looked at the glass. “I don’t see how that can be.”
“Okay. I’ll prove it.”
Ona had me follow her hand by sight up and down, up and down until I could no longer keep my eyes open. She touched my forehead and a curtain of darkness descended over my already closed eyelids. She was speaking just above a whisper; after a while my muscles released their tension under her words until my mind was unencumbered by thoughts. Her voice became my own inner voice. I could hear nothing else except the steady beating of my heart. From that quiet space she continued on, in a storytelling style:
Imagine it’s a humid summer day, one of those times at high noon when everything is sun-drenched and the wind is an occasional relief. That’s right, you can lean back and revel in the gentle gust of air cooling on your skin. Take a breath in and go even deeper so only the sound of my voice leads you. Concentrate on the scene in front of you.
Very good.
Now as you sit in the sun on this hot summer day, you realize how dry your throat is. It is cozy and agreeable to lie there as the warm breeze wafts over your skin, to enjoy how plush the cushion is under your back, the sand powdering between your toes. You could lounge here all afternoon except your lips are very dry, soothed only when you lick them for relief.
How long can you hold out? The sea is full of water that’s too salty and will only increase your thirst. You can swallow a little, just to imagine, but it makes you want something cool and satisfying, doesn’t it?
We’ll look for that something, then. Closer is better because you want to drink something refreshing and invigorating.
There are tables within reach, each with a basket. Look closely and you’ll see juicy, ripe fruit. Yellow, fragrantly sweet, ready to pick out by hand. Take one, it’s for you. Yes, it’s a handful of lemons, tropical varieties and rinds that easily are pierced by your thumbnail. You know that sensation when you peel citrus and it falls away in long spirals and strips. You can picture it now, can’t you? Cooking with the grated zest, or using the oils for other, aromatic purposes. Some of our earliest memories have scent written and stamped on them. Here it’s no different and just as safe.
Take one of the lemons, no need to imagine. See how pliable the skin is to your touch, the smell of summer wafting in the air when you raise the mouth-watering fruit to your nose. One segment of bursting pulp, and a world of memories. Go ahead. That’s right.
And what if you wanted more? Isn’t More better, more powerful, more potent? Add honey to it and make lemonade for later. Have it all to yourself, have more...in fact, have it any way you can. Your body has sensed this before and knows, after all. Your mouth is waiting and thirsty for more.
I heard Ona counting me up to alertness and when I opened my eyes, I knew I hadn’t fallen asleep and was sure that she left the room at one point. How much time had passed? I had not thought to consult my watch before this trance; I estimated one hour. I straightened my wristwatch: in forty-five minutes colleagues and patrons would trickle in on the eighth floor.
All of this I contemplated as I lay there with my eyelids sealed shut, my hypnotic temptress moving around the office. Drifting a little longer was tempting but I was drawn to assess my surroundings and my place in it.
“Come back and wide awake as soon as you are comfortable doing so, Albert.” Ona’s back was turned to me, I was sure. Her voice had a trace of preoccupation, which I chose to interpret as permission for me to take my time.
By now I recognized the signs of emerging from deep trance: a reluctance to move, a weighted lethargy of arms and legs, dry throat. All very typical, except I was terribly thirsty. While my throat was parched, my mouth had been overwatering, possibly while talking in the state I was in. My beard was wet with drool. What had happened? Had I talked so much that I was lost in myself? It took willpower to rouse my hand to fish out the kerchief I kept in my shirt pocket. I maneuvered to a sitting position and wiped at my chin.
“You’re thirsty. Aren’t you.” Ona was indeed facing the window. “It’s okay to feel thirsty.”
And I was. In fact, my need for water was increasing. If my legs were weak, it was probably due to the length of the session and lying still for so long. Studying the angle of sunlight was no help, as I had not memorized exactly where it was before she tranced me. What’s more, Ona had moved the glass to a different spot on the desk, having refilled it while I lay buried in my imagination. This time the glass was full of water, just short of the brim. As soon as I reached for the glass, she stopped me.
“Before you do.” There was that smile again, and her statement left hanging in the air between us. She approached me from behind, repeating gently, “Before you do, stand here for a moment.” She adjusted my body, moving me one step back toward her. “Yes, that’s right, in front of the glass. I have a few things for you to do first.”
Ona was continuing to watch me with that ever-present smile that burned at my patience. It was plain water from the cooler, and I was thirsty. What else was required to enjoy some refreshment?
“You’re doing very good so far, Albert. You know I like it so very much when you accommodate my requests.” She moved to the other side of the desk so that we were facing each other, with her comfortably settled in my seat. From the space between her blouse and the depths of her considerable cleavage, she withdrew a pen, the very same one that so captured my attention in our first meeting.
I wanted to look away out of politeness, but to do so meant I’d appear dejected, or else the sun would be in my eyes. Instead, I kept my focus on the glass of water, sparkling in the light.
“That’s right, keep looking at the cool water while I give you a few instructions.”
Maybe this was to be another game of obedience and reward, with tests of a sort that increased in difficulty.
“The goal, my goal, is to see you respond as quickly as I ask, with no hesitation,” she whispered.
So we began.
“Hands on the desk.”
I did so, watching the water’s surface tremble but not overflow the rim.
Click.
It was easy enough to take some of my weight with both hands. Unsteady on my feet or no, it was manageable.
I was still thirsty, and there the solution was, right in front of me, close enough to hold.
“Very good. Now lean on the desk with your elbows.”
I obligingly rested my arms, feeling a growing surge of yearning.
Click.
“Everything I tell you from this point on is true, until the end of our time together.” Click. “That’s right.” Ona slid her hand across the desk. “A little closer to me,” she said.
I took awkward shuffling steps until the desk pushed its blunt edge against my legs.
Click.
“You must be tired but it’ll feel great,” she said, stroking my hand with her fingertips until I offered my palm for her to touch. “How are you, right now?”
It was difficult to concentrate on her voice, the water in front of me, and my longing for both.
“We can resume as soon as you answer.” Silence crept into the space around us.
“I am thirsty,” I said, the words seeming to pluck themselves from somewhere in my chest. I wanted to lie on the sofa again.
Click.
“Wasn’t so bad, was it? Answer, please.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
Click-click.
“Very good. Now sleep,” she said, changing to a firm hold on my palm.
I want you to go back, in your imagination, to that place on the beach, where you had a lemon in your hand. Picture it in your mind’s eye. I’ll count to ten...
The surface of the water glimmered and held an image of sunlight dazzling my sight. There was a weight in the middle of my hand; I did not spare a glance because I didn’t want to lose the vision of beach and sand. If I stayed absolutely still perhaps I could catch the faintest breeze. Already the summery aroma of lemons had me licking my lips. That familiar narrative began where Ona’s voice ended, in tones that were as close to me as thought.
Imagine a glass of lemon juice, just like before, fresh from the lemons in the basket. Add honey or sugar, it doesn’t matter. All you need are streams of citrus-laced goodness to satisfy your thirst. Lemons are for holding but lemonade is for tasting, isn’t that right?
The glass sparkled and glittered in front of me, waiting.
Bend down...closer. Take a little and see for yourself. Not too much just yet.
I leaned down and placed my lips against the rim, carefully tasting for the first time. Breaking the surface with slow sips, I closed my eyes and breathed between swallows.
That’s enough for now. Hold on to this refreshing feeling until you’ve finished all the lemonade I poured for you. Such a delicious feeling will last until the end of our session...
“Three, two, and one, wide awake, Albert.”
I took up the glass of water and drank, immediately experiencing a wave of slaked thirst and simultaneous euphoria.
“Take your time, not so fast,” she said, laughing at my expression.
I am sure I looked incredulous studying the liquid as I tilted the glass in my hand. “It tastes fantastic,” I said, sampling another generous amount. A revitalizing infusion that warmed and tantalized my stomach while causing a sensation of coasting along, buoyant and free. On the thin sharp edge of imbibing there followed an irritant that I could only relieve with water. Again came that delirious elation; concentrating on the path of water down my throat only intensified my perception.
Ona sat, watching. She was holding the pen, twirling it between her fingers. “Does it taste good?”
“Yes, it’s delicious. You didn’t put anything in it, did you?
“Not a thing. It’s just water from the cooler.”
“You should sell this stuff. It’s marvelous.”
Only too soon the water was gone. An experimental swallow told me that the magic of lightness was wearing off. Even when I held my lips against the glass, not a single spark or unusual thing happened. I walked about, cradling the cup in my hand, wishing I could start again.
The cooler had more water.
I dashed to the side table, knelt on the carpet and with trembling hands I held the glass under the dispenser.
“What are you doing?” she asked. Click. “There isn’t any water left in there.”
“I want this to last longer,” I said, in what could have been a grumble. I would start with only a little in the glass, less than a third full.
“You’re not happy with one experience.”
I wasn’t sure if she was asking or telling me, but I answered anyway. “Oh yes, I’m happy, very happy. It’s just that it’s so…enjoyable. More water would be more enjoyable.”
“But it’s just water, Albert.”
“It is? I thought it was different somehow,” I insisted. The tap wasn’t working.
“What’s wrong?”
“How could the container be empty?” I checked the nozzle, the spout, and all around the opening. I got to my feet and felt around the back of the table for indications that might explain the apparent malfunction.
She was looking at me with an amused expression. Click. “How do you know the cooler is empty?” Click.
“Nothing’s coming out.”
“You sure?”
I examined the tap again. “Yes, I tried.”
“Does that happen often?” she gave a sweet smile that dimpled her right cheek.
“I…don’t think so.”
“Let’s check together then. Maybe you missed a step.”
My tongue was cotton dry, seeking any lingering wetness from every last corner of my mouth.
“I’m just thirsty, that’s all,” I said, shifting from one foot to the other.
“That’s understandable. How about you walk me through the process. Before you do, could you describe how the water tasted?”
“It was like lemonade, with some honey, I think.”
“Are you sure? What I gave you was water, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Why would water taste like lemonade?”
“It did taste like lemonade.” I went through the motions of showing her the tap, feeling around the heavy container. “The dispenser is supposed to operate somehow—“
“Here, let me have a go.” She took the glass from me and filled it with water. “Like this?”
“How did you do that?”
“Easy. I followed what you’re doing. You’re an excellent teacher.” She looked up at me and laughed. “Here’s the water. Can you check for me to make sure it’s still water?” Click. “Or it could be lemonade.” Click.
I took a grateful quaff and was rewarded with complete and enveloping relief and satisfaction.
“It’s lemonade, isn’t it?”
“Why, yes it is.” I inspected the glass up close.
“How does it taste?”
“Delicious. Simply delicious.” I didn’t bother to sip because it was that good. As soon as I took the last gulp, the feeling evaporated and I was left wanting more.
“All right, that’s enough,” she said, taking the glass and steering me toward the sofa. She directed me to sit beside her while she spoke a series of lulling words I was too relaxed to analyze. Today’s peculiar events and their associations faded and I opened my eyes to wakefulness. Her lap made a comfortable and warm place for my head and I would have liked to stay there the entire morning, subdued by her soft arms, but responsibility was calling.
As soon as she left my office, I retrieved the recorder. Ten minutes till opening hours.
Ona’s voice was vibrant and resonant. I fast forwarded through the first few minutes.
We should go back to the basics. I do recall how the pen fascinated you from the start. Confident and titillating, my temptress of the mind was. I dared not listen to the entirety of the session but decided to wait until closing. In the privacy of silence with no chance of interruptions, I would be free to relive and remember.
When the end of the workday arrived, I sat at my desk and replayed the section I wanted so badly to experience again.
Take one of the lemons...See how pliable the skin is to your touch…One segment of bursting pulp, and a world of memories…And what if you wanted more?
My mouth started watering at once, as if on cue. I shook myself alert, walked over to the cooler, and poured water into a freshly washed glass. The same calm suffused my entire being and I had to resist closing my eyes.
I went back to the beginning of the described scene. This time, I’d pour more water and have the full glass at the ready by my desk.
Imagine it’s a humid summer day, one of those times at high noon when everything is sun-drenched.
What a curious choice of word, drenched. It was possible she used it on purpose.
You can lean back and revel in the gentle gust of air cooling on your skin.
Much better, in keeping with my current seated position. I released the lever on the underside of the high-backed chair.
Take a breath in and go even deeper so only the sound of my voice leads you.
I sank into near unawareness, but Ona was not there; only her disembodied voice filled the space. Although my eyes remained open, images of bright sunlight and a serene beach were superimposed on the dimensions of the room. Renewed thirst blossomed and unfurled ribbons of desire as I listened to the velvet of her voice persisting and kneading at my ears.
Have it all to yourself, have more...in fact, have it any way you can.
I came back to the cool air of the office and blinked, reaching for the water and downing it all, neither stopping for breath nor the pang of brain freeze. Without further contemplation, I poured another glass, drinking it in the same manner as before, enjoying the rush of relaxation.
By the time I had looped through Ona’s description a few times, my stomach was near to bursting. Fatigued yet wanting more, I was torn between pouring an additional amount of water or being content with what was already becoming an uncomfortable situation.
There would be time just before bed to listen again. But for now, I would regroup, make a hasty trip to relieve myself, and gather my wits about me, enough to drive home. I vowed not to listen to her voice while in the car. The recording was safe in my shirt pocket. Stopping at traffic lights, I traced over my shirt the outline of the device and hummed to drown out her words, commands that I was already committing to memory.