Story of a Sociopath

  “Drink it all,” I ordered her.

  She did so. She drained it down to the last drop. Then we went to her place. It was a tiny apartment. A single room that served as bedroom, living room, and open kitchen, with a door that led to the bathroom. Everything perfectly ordered and clean. There was barely any furniture.

  “Where’s the bed?” I asked, puzzled.

  “I don’t have a bed, I sleep on a futon,” she replied.

  “We’ll see if I like it or not—if not you’ll have to buy a bed.”

  She took the futon out of the cupboard and spread it on the floor. For a moment I thought there were tears in her eyes, but that didn’t concern me.

  From then on I was in charge. I could do with her whatever I pleased.

  Many years have passed since then. I know that I possessed her body, but not Yoko herself. Yoko wasn’t there. It didn’t matter what I ordered her to do; the truth was that she was a statue of flesh, not a woman. She showed no emotion, not even a grimace of pain on her face when I insisted on grabbing at her, just so she would make a sound so I’d know she was there.

  I abused her for some time. I don’t regret it. I’ve never regretted that.

  I could have gotten Yoko without any violence, just by making her believe I had fallen in love with her. Vanity is infinite, and women are vulnerable to men who say they love them and are ready to die for them. Their egos get puffed up.

  That first night I could have told her that I had fallen in love with her, that I couldn’t live without her by my side. I could have given her something for dramatic effect, I don’t know what, maybe a ring, or some earrings that were expensive but discreet enough that she could appreciate them and accept them without her boyfriend asking where she’d gotten them. If they were discreet she could always say they were a present from her father.

  I could have sent her a bouquet of flowers every day, and lain in wait to be the first to talk to her on the evenings she went to Madame Agnès’s.

  Yes, I could have played the role of the man in love, willing to wait as long as was needed to win over the object of his affections. A sensitive woman like Yoko may have ended up softening.

  —

  But I didn’t. I never gave her a single flower, or piece of jewelry, or any caress that carried affection. I never treated her like someone who was special to me. If I had, I would have overcome her resistance, perhaps have sown doubt about her love for Dave. If I had made her laugh…But I did none of that. I didn’t even consider it.

  Yoko was a whore: that was how I’d met her, and I never believed she had any right to be treated differently. If she earned her living selling her body it was because she had no compunction. She couldn’t expect us clients to treat her any better than a choice cut of meat, there for our consumption.

  I never paid her to be with me. Even that I enjoyed. I could have her without paying a penny for her. Enjoy her body and her time as I pleased without her receiving a single benefit, save for my silence. Sometimes she would ask me to let her have her life back. I would just laugh.

  I didn’t make her break up with Dave. I preferred her to keep sleeping with him—it increased the terror she felt at the chance he could find out that she was involved in prostitution. Every so often she asked me permission to go with Dave to spend the weekend at his parents’ country house. I usually agreed. The tighter the links she had with Dave’s parents, the less she’d want them to find out that their son had a whore for a girlfriend.

  Her distress never moved me. I didn’t even falter when she started to lose weight, which the doctor diagnosed as anorexia. That day I slapped her and dragged her to a restaurant, forcing her to eat a steak. She gagged. I threatened her if she did not eat. When we got home I gave her an ultimatum: she had one month to get back to her previous weight, or I would tell everyone that she was a whore. I wasn’t willing to sleep with a slab of cold meat with sharp edges.

  It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be. She did everything she could not to vomit back up what she ate, but it took a lot of time for her to recover.

  When she fell ill I could have softened and given her her life back. Told her that I was the one who had driven her to madness and I was prepared to disappear forever. I could even have offered to pay for medical treatment. But I didn’t. I pressured her to eat, and bought a scale on which I forced her to weigh herself naked whenever I went to visit her. If she had lost a single ounce I would hit her and warn her that I would call Dave the next day to tell him who she really was. Then she would sit on the floor and, with superhuman effort, slowly eat whatever was in the fridge. She held herself back so as not to vomit, and then bore the weight of my body on top of hers, emaciated to the point where I found her unpleasant. But I still wouldn’t give her her life back.

  Yes, I could have freed her from me. But I didn’t, and neither then nor now do my actions trouble my conscience. I did what I wanted to do.

  —

  As my relationship with Yoko was secured I had time to focus on business.

  When I explained to Cooper that a businessman wanted to hire us for an underwear campaign he seemed nonplussed.

  “Underwear, and made in China to boot?”

  “Yes. The guy’s named Anthony Tyler, and he wants all the working-class and middle-class English ladies who can’t buy their silk panties at La Perla to buy the next best thing. He wants us to invent that brand.”

  It seemed like a good idea to Maggie. I imagine she hadn’t thought me capable of finding a client who wasn’t Roy Parker. As for Evelyn, it was she who gave us one of the best ideas for the campaign.

  We went to see Anthony Tyler at his office. He was on the first floor of a building that overlooked the Thames. Not the best part of town, but at least he could say that it was fashionable. His job was buying and selling. He imported electronic products from China and made a good profit selling them to London chains. He was also in the clothing trade. The Chinese company he had found made knockoffs of La Perla and Victoria’s Secret underwear, selling them at bargain prices.

  Tyler wanted lingerie stores to purchase these Chinese bras and panties, but for that to happen he needed to create demand for them. That was why he needed an ad campaign.

  Evelyn suggested a television campaign whose high cost made Cooper certain that Tyler would reject it.

  “I know, but this is the only way to get all the lingerie shops and major retailers in the country to buy these,” argued Evelyn.

  “And how would we convince them?” I inquired.

  “Simple. The ad should star a beautiful young woman, a model—if she’s famous all the better, but just a pretty girl is fine too. We see her come home, take off her shoes, her dress, and she’ll just be in her underwear as she enters the bathroom and turns on the shower. Some suggestive music, and then words on the screen: ‘Exquisite Lingerie, coming soon to all good retailers.’ This will make the lingerie shops wonder who distributes this underwear, because as soon as their customers see it on TV they’ll start asking about it. No retailer will want to be without this brand, mark my words.”

  Cooper and I had no objection; it was a good idea. Evelyn said that once the commercial began to run on TV, we would also have to place some print ads. The same model, in Chinese lingerie, not looking directly at the camera.

  “It has to be sexy but subtle,” explained Evelyn, “so that every kind of woman will want this underwear.”

  We presented the idea to Anthony Tyler. He said he’d think about it, as the proposed cost was higher than he’d expected. Evelyn made him see that our campaign would get him results fast.

  “In a couple of weeks your phone will be ringing off the hook with requests,” she assured him boldly.

  A few weeks went by with no news of Tyler, and because I didn’t want to call him I went to Madame Agnès’s. I knew that he would be there every Friday, and one could always find time to get a bit of business done at that house. By that point I was spending most of my nights with Yo
ko, but just as I obliged her to continue seeing Dave, I also forced her to keep going to Madame Agnès’s house. It didn’t suit me for her to stop being a whore. After all, she had no other means of income, and I wasn’t prepared to spend a single pound on her.

  Indeed, that very Friday Yoko was there, talking with a group of men, Anthony Tyler among them. I approached the group. Yoko tensed up, but the other men didn’t notice. As for Tyler, I could see that my presence annoyed him.

  They were talking about Russia—a couple of the men had business there. I listened to them and asked a couple of questions, not out of interest but in order to integrate myself into the group. I didn’t even look at Yoko when one of the men signaled her and the two of them went upstairs.

  I don’t know how, but I could suddenly feel someone’s gaze burning into the back of my neck. Madame Agnès was watching me. I had in fact noticed her doing that over the last couple of weeks, as if she found my indifference to Yoko strange. I smiled at her. She smiled back and lifted her glass of champagne in welcome.

  After a long time, once the men had almost all left the group so that each could dine with one of the girls, Tyler seemed to make his mind up to talk to me.

  “How about we swap this champagne for a decent whiskey?” he suggested, aware that my presence that night was because of him.

  We settled down in the library, the only place where there was no one else. A couple of waiters followed us, one with a tray of salmon, cheese, and cucumber canapés. When we were alone Tyler wasted no time getting to the matter at hand.

  “I was planning to call you, Spencer, but since we’re here…”

  “I suppose you’ve made up your mind.”

  “I have. The campaign you presented me is good. Effective.”

  “But…” I added, awaiting his response.

  “But too expensive. We’d have to sell millions of knickers to pay for it, let alone make a profit.”

  “And you will sell them,” I assured him.

  “Well, it’s not that simple. The Chinese themselves bring over a lot of their wares to the West and they manage to sell them without spending a pound on publicity.”

  “But you’re not a Chinese trader—you’re a British trader with a reputation who moves in certain financial circles. The kind of circles that expect something more from you than low-quality merchandise. That’s why you need our publicity. I won’t deny that it’ll cost money to go forward with the campaign, but publicity—good publicity—is expensive.”

  “Maybe we could lower the price,” he suggested unconvincingly.

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Tyler. The campaign costs what it costs because it is extraordinary, and it’s designed for you to make a serious profit.”

  “So you’re not prepared to lower the cost of the campaign?” he said with surprise.

  “No. If you want an effective campaign this is what it costs. If you want to spend your money placing a handful of ads where people won’t even see them, go ahead, but you won’t get results.”

  “You’re very sure of yourself,” he said rather disdainfully.

  “Mr. Tyler, you’re trying to fool millions of women. You want them to buy poor-quality underwear. The same underwear they could buy in some dollar store, but that you want to place in regular stores, in big department stores, so the price will be higher. To create demand from these women you need a story; you need to convince them that they could have something special, something that will soon be in stores. You can only reach them through a massive campaign—on TV, in women’s magazines, in newspapers. They have to see the ads for weeks, at all hours of the day. This will work. Sure, someone might offer you a cheaper campaign, but you’d be throwing your money away.”

  “That’s a pretty arrogant approach.” There was irritation in Tyler’s voice.

  “No, it’s not. It’s a genuine plan. Well, in any case, it’s been a pleasure working with you, Tyler, and I really wish you all the best.” I said this as I stood and held out my hand, assuming the conversation was over.

  Anthony Tyler seemed to hesitate. A look of confusion came over his face. He stood up and held out his hand.

  “We’ll talk on Monday at my office—does eight work for you?”

  “Of course,” I agreed, as he nodded slightly to me.

  We left the library and Tyler looked for one of the girls he usually spent his time with during his evenings at Madame Agnès’s. I went to the bar and sat down to finish savoring the whiskey in my glass. Madame Agnès came up to me.

  “A young man like you shouldn’t be alone. Is there no lady you’d like to go up to dinner with?”

  “Of course, Madame, but I also appreciate the comfort your house offers to have a quiet drink.”

  “Nataly will be here soon, would you like to dine with her?”

  “That would be a pleasure, Madame.”

  Nataly arrived a few minutes later. She carried the chill of the autumn evening on her. Madame Agnès pointed her to where I was sitting and she came straight toward me.

  “Well, long time no see,” she joked.

  “You’re always busy.”

  “Seems you are too.”

  “I haven’t come here much lately.”

  “I can guess. How’s it going with her?” she asked.

  “Who are you talking about?” I laughed.

  “Come on, Thomas! You can tell me.”

  “How about we go up for dinner, I’m hungry.”

  After the waiter left dinner on the table we started to feel more comfortable. Nataly took off her shoes, and sat down hungrily to eat.

  “The food’s great here. I love this lobster terrine.”

  “You should try it with champagne instead of Coke.”

  “At least with you I can drink what I like—even if Madame does charge you as much for Coke as champagne.”

  I always welcomed those dinners with Nataly. Beyond the sex, I enjoyed talking with her. She was naturally guileless and shameless.

  “Yoko is suffering,” she told me.

  “How do you know that?” I asked curiously.

  “She’s thinner every time I see her. She looks miserable and she hardly talks with the other girls. Her nerves have been frayed for months and I’ve heard some of her clients saying that she doesn’t seem the same. Madame is worried and has asked her over and over again what’s going on, but she says that everything’s fine. Obviously Madame doesn’t think so.”

  “You know everything,” I remarked in admiration.

  “You just have to pay attention and listen.”

  “And what conclusion has Madame come to?”

  “That Yoko has been put under a lot of pressure.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “That it’s your fault. You’ve forced your way into her life and you’re making her spend time with you. That’s what’s destroying her. Am I right?”

  “Am I that unpleasant?” I wanted to know.

  “Not on the surface—the problem is how you are deep down.”

  “How do you think I am?”

  “Oh, you’re a nasty piece of work: unfeeling, capable of doing whatever you can to get your own way. Women mean less than objects to you. Yoko included. I imagine she’s praying for you to get tired of her.”

  “You don’t think very highly of me,” I said, feigning anger.

  “You’d be worried if I did.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. Nataly always disarmed me with her sincerity.

  —

  Tyler agreed to our campaign. He made one last attempt to get us to reduce the price, but I remained inflexible.

  “Maybe we could have lowered the cost,” said Cooper once we’d left Tyler’s office.

  “Impossible.”

  Aside from Roy, Tyler was our only client, which was starting to worry me. It wasn’t that the cost of running the office was high, but without other clients we wouldn’t be able to survive. It irritated me, as I wanted to get back to New York and this was the onl
y reason I was delaying my departure.

  It took us three weeks to launch the underwear campaign. It was a hit. Tyler’s orders mounted up. There wasn’t a single store in the country that didn’t want to have synthetic silk lingerie.

  “You’ve nearly convinced me to buy a pair of those knickers,” Maggie told us, in her peculiar form of congratulations.

  Even Tyler couldn’t help but admit that it had been worth the cost. He invited Cooper, Evelyn, and me for dinner at his home with his wife and his gangly daughters.

  Mrs. Tyler was the typical middle-class housewife, supporting her husband as he climbed the social ladder rung by rung, while she tried to stretch every penny at home so they could keep paying their three daughters’ school tuition.

  One of the girls seemed taken by Cooper, unaware that he was more interested in looking at the waiter they’d hired for the occasion.

  Tyler was so grateful that he promised to remember us for future campaigns.

  “We’re so pleased—and we’d be even more so if you recommended us to some of your friends,” said Evelyn.

  “Naturally I will. In fact, I have a friend who’s thinking of importing olive oil to England. He might be interested, since your agency works wonders.”

  “Olive oil is a difficult product to sell. It’s expensive. Only the upper classes can afford it,” said Cooper, unenthused.

  Evelyn cut him off. “It’ll be a challenge.”

  After dinner I went to Yoko’s apartment. It was the best way to end a night. I’d called her in advance to stop her from inviting her boyfriend over to sleep with her. Dave was only for the times when I left her alone. She would make excuses, telling him she needed more time to study. Sometimes they argued. Her boyfriend couldn’t understand the change in Yoko’s behavior and was pressuring her to move in with him. But she ruled this out, making him believe that it was her father who was paying for her studies and her apartment, so she had to finish her degree before they could start a life together.

  I was about to put the key in the door when I heard Yoko’s broken voice begging someone to leave. I guessed it was Dave, refusing to leave her alone. I couldn’t resist the impulse to ring the bell. It was Dave who opened the door and looked at me in shock.