Table of Contents
FOR LESLIE BLUMBERG
A NONVIOLENT RAPE
A NONVIOLENT RAPE
YOU SCARED ME!
I said it without screaming, as if he were playing a joke on me.
For a moment I thought he was a downstairs neighbor who sometimes smoked in the stairwell. Physically, he was similar and the light in the corridor was dim as my eyes hadnt had time to adjust from the harsh sunlight outside.
I couldnt believe there was a man with a gun in my doorway. My first response was denial: nothing bad would happen. My second reaction was to face the reality of the situation and to try and handle it as best I could.
Do you have some money?
Yes, I think I have twenty dollars.
He entered my apartment. When I saw him cross the threshold between the corridor and my apartment, closing the door behind him, I realized that my everyday life was over. This was not a day like any other, this was the end, the last day of my life, or at least the last day of my present life.
Go in.
He pushed the door to close it shut behind him, and then double-locked it.
His presence in my apartment was like losing blood, as if my space was being emptied of air. For an instant, as he moved along the hallway, I felt as if I was going to fall, that gravity could no longer support me. The space wasnt under my control because someone else had altered it. Entering my own apartment was entering another sphere, a world unknown to me, regulated by rules I had no knowledge of, a world in which I felt completely foreign. I would feel separated from the world to which I had, until then, belonged. He was a stranger, and his presence altered my life to such an extent that I too became a stranger, strange to myself, and strange to others. In this new world, I was conscious that at any moment my life could be taken from me: I had no control.
I put my shoulder bag down on a table in the living room and searched for my wallet. I found it and looked inside.
I have thirty-one dollars.
I handed him thirty.
Can I keep one? This is all the money I have.
I asked him if I could keep a dollar. The request, though I may not have been conscious of it at the time, was supposed to indicate that I had no more money in the house. It was also an attempt to retain some minimal control over my money and thus, over the situation. Asking to keep a dollar was the first sign of negotiation.
OK. Sit down.
I sat on the red love seat that was my usual resting place when I was home. Sitting on this chair was a desperate effort to continue as if everything was normal. He sat down diagonally in front of me on a bed that I also used as a sofa. He held the gun with his hand resting on his leg, no longer pointing it at me.
Can I have a cigarette? he asked.
Yes, sure.
Why was he asking me for things when he was inside my apartment without permission? He was polite, like someone visiting for the first time. But his politeness confused me.
He held a gun, but he was asking permission. Was he playing a game? If so, what game? I didnt understand the rules, and this disorientation made me nervous.
Are you positive you dont have more money?
Yes. I am a student here. I study art downtown, and it is the end of the month.
Do you live alone?
No, I live with my boyfriend.
When is he coming back?
I do not know. I never know when he is coming. He comes back at a different time every day.
Why was he asking about my boyfriend? Did he want to know how much time he had alone with me? Was he going to wait until my boyfriend came home? My boyfriend had returned to Spain. He was not going to come back for three months. And my new roommate would not arrive until late that night, or possibly not until the following morning.
My mouth was dry. I needed to catch my breath. At the same time I needed to test my capacity for movement, to test my situation.
Can I have a glass of water? I asked.
Yes.
I stood up and went into the kitchen.
Do you want something to drink?
I was surprised when I heard myself. I was addressing him as if he was a friend whod come for a visit. But that was what I wanted to make him believethat I was his friendbecause he would not kill a friend. He would not kill such a friendly person. He would not murder a woman who asked him if he wanted something to drink. I went into the kitchen, hoping the window might be open. Sometimes, the guys in the front building smoked in the fire escape, but no one was there; it was winter.
He followed me in.
Yes, give me some water too.
A big glass I had drunk water from that morning was still on the counter. I opened the kitchen cabinet on top of the dishwasher and looked for another glass. Glass or plastic? I took the plastic cup. I guessed, wrongly, that plastic was more conducive for a saliva trace.
We went back into the living room with the water. I sat down and drank slowly. We sat silently for several minutes. The time without words was unbearable. I was being held hostage in my own house.
Do you have a phone?
Yes.
The phone was next to the window, in front of him.
Where?
Over there. I pointed to the phone.
Do you have more money?
No.
What was the relationship between asking for the telephone and asking for money? Was he going to call someone? He picked up the phone to see if there was a connection. He dialed some numbers. I panicked. I feared he was calling his friends over. They were going to destroy my home and steal my things, my photographic equipment, my computer; then they were going to torture and kill me.
He made several calls, I counted ten numbers each call, but he didnt speak to anyone.
Where is the bathroom?
I stood and walked through the hallway to the bathroom. He followed me. I opened the bathroom door for him. He went in holding the gun in one hand and the phone in the other and stood there. He wants some privacy to talk, I thought, not knowing what to make of it. The bathroom door was in front of my apartment door. I wanted him to close the bathroom door so I could open the apartment door in front of it. But he didnt close the door. He just stood there with the telephone and the gun, looking at the apartment door.
What was he doing in the bathroom with the telephone? He didnt talk to anyone but stood looking at the receiver. I crossed the living room and went into the studio. The window led onto a fire escape, but the gate was locked and I couldnt open it.
The buildings superintendent had installed the gate for us when we rented the place. I heard the mans steps and stopped trying the gate. On my way back to the living room I glanced at my open laptop. He looked at me as if to ask what I was doing. As he crossed the living room to put the wireless phone on its base, he stepped with his boots on a comforter.
I am sorry.
His apology made me more anxious. Hed forced his way into my apartment with a gun, but he was apologizing for stepping on my comforter. Did that imply a disturbance in his personality? The first time someone comes into your home they are often excessively polite because they dont feel entirely comfortable and want to create an image of themselves as a nice person. Why was he so polite? What did it mean?
