We settled down after that, screwed a little more, and then, when we were exhausted and our flesh was hot and damp, we broke apart and fell asleep.
When I woke it was dark. She wasn't in the bed, and for a second I was frantic. Then I saw her on the other side of the room, sitting in a chair beside the window, her face and breasts glowing from light cast by the streetlamps filtered through the restless leaves of the palms outside.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi. "
"I didn't hurt you, I hope."
She smiled.
"Of course you didn't. I loved every minute of it. Did you?"
"Yes. Unfortunately."
"Oh dear…"
"I want to hate you. I don't."
She stood and yawned. She was wearing just her shorts.
"You called me 'whore' and 'bitch." But still you must like me pretty well. You smiled in your sleep."
"Must have been dreaming."
"Of what?"
"A girl I knew."
"What did she look like-this girl?"
"Like you," I said.
She laughed. Then she came to me and kissed the center of my forehead.
"Yeah, that's me, Geoffrey. Just an illusion, just a dream." She smiled and floated back across the room.
Her kiss disarmed me, it was gentle, not what I expected at all. I felt confused again, about her and us. What's happening between us? I asked myself. What's our new relationship?
"Neither of us has been totally straight with the other, Geof."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.
"You concealed things."
"What things?"
"The reasons behind your block. Why you couldn't shoot people anymore."
She turned to me.
"You bullshitted me. The way I saw it that gave me the right to bullshit you a little too. "
"What do you know about my block?"
She spoke softly.
"I know plenty. Rakoubian asked around about you. He found out what happened in Guatemala.
I stared at her.
"You gave me this romantic phobia line, that it was deep and psychological, and you were just like some famous pianist who mysteriously loses the use of one of his hands. But that wasn't the reason. The real reason was much more prosaic." She looked at me, whispered, "Wasn't it, Geoffrey?"
I turned away, but she went on.
"At first, when Adam told me, I thought he was jealous, that he wanted me to think less of you so I'd think a little better of him. But today, when you told me how he set you up, I realized he'd had other reasons for checking you out. Why didn't you tell me? I'd like to hear about it. I really would, if you'd care to tell me now."
"What's this supposed to be, Kim? Truth night? We'll level with each other and henceforth never tell another lie?"
"Why not?" she asked.
"You level with me, I'll level with you. What do you say?"
"Great," I said.
"Except how will I know if you're telling me the truth?"
"How about if I pledge?" she asked. She raised her hand.
"I hereby pledge. How's that?"
That sounded pretty good, so I told her about Guateala, and, as I did, wondered why I'd held the story back. I'd gone down there on assignment for the Sunday Times to shoot portraits of human rights advocates. It was a time when the government down there had been extremely repressive, and it took a special kind of bravery to speak out and protest. I photographed some very brave people, a surgeon, a lawyer from one of the wealthy Guatemalan families, and a housewife whose husband had "disappeared." Each of them had the composed features of people who hate injustice, eyes bright with indignation and fortitude. I worked hard to catch the common quality between them, and in the end I was pleased with my work.
Later, when my pictures were published, right-wing Death Squad maniacs clipped them out. they mailed them to my subjects with holes punched in the eyes, and later, when these same subjects were all killed on a single night, it was pretty clear my pictures had been used to draw up an assassination list.
My photographer friends tried to comfort me. they said the same thing could have happened to them, and from now on we'd all have to be more careful. Colleagues who disliked me said much meaner things. But in the end my worst enemy was myself.
I blamed myself for being naive, for forgetting that a camera can be a dangerous weapon. I imposed my own punishment: I would not shoot people for a while. A childish idea, but it made me feel better. Except that what started out as an act of self-denial soon evolved into a phobia.
From the day of the killings until the day I started shooting Kim, I could not bring myself to photograph a human face.
"Oh, Geoffrey, you could have told me. I would have understood. I wouldn't have thought you were CIA, or whatever people said. I gave you lots of chances to tell me. But when you kept your secret, it seemed like… I don't know-like you wanted a dishonest relationship."
That did it. I actually felt embarrassed, which greatly softened the effect of her deceits.
"Anyway," she said, "I'm very proud that I helped you break through the way you did."
"You've been a powerful force in my life. My best friend thinks so. The first time I told him about you, he said 'Don't give that girl up."
"Then I gave you up. At least that's what you think, isn't it? One thing I want you to understand, Geoffrey, no matter what happens between us now: if, as you say, I've been a powerful force in your life, that's a power I won't ever abuse."
She held my eyes for a moment, then glanced at her watch.
"Heyl It's late."
"Hungry?'; She nodded.
"Get dressed and I'll take you out." She picked up her torn T-shirt and waved it gently before my face.
"Love to, Geoffrey, but, unfortunately, I haven't a thing to wear."
I loaned her a shirt, then we walked a couple of blocks to a dark funky place called the Full Moon Saloon.
We took a corner table, ordered crabs, then Kim started pointing out the regulars. There was the happy-go-lucky sunbu@ed shrimp-boat skipper who'd made a fortune smuggling marijuana, and the intense, shifty-eyed, young black dude who was the biggest coke dealer on the island.
She looked happy as she regaled me with all this Key West lore. Though she'd been in town for only a month, she knew a lot. I let her talk, and then I told her I was sorry, I knew she needed to relax, but there were still things I had to know.
"Don't apologize," she said.
"Ask me anything."
"What happened that Saturday night when you came running to me at two A.M.?"
She paused, looked down at her food.
"I think that was the scariest night of my life."
She started to talk, and as she did I felt this sickening feeling growing in my gut.
After Sonya was killed, Kim heard rumors about the Masked Man, stories that told her he was a lot more dangerous than the benign spectator he'd appeared to be. The stories concerned professional call girls. Kim managed to trace one of them back. She met the girl in a coffee house in the Village. The girl wore dark glasses and wouldn't give her real name.
"Just think of me as your informant," she said.
She told Kim she'd been hurt. She'd known that she would be, she'd been told up front, and on that basis an extremely high fee had been negotiated and paid.
What will happen exactly'?" her informant had asked the call girl service manager, worried because the amount offered was so many times larger than what she usually received. The answer she got was candid and complete:
"You'll be tied up and gagged and mildly drugged, and then certain minor bones will be broken by a man who likes to hear them break. It won't be nearly so bad as it sounds; the drugs will alleviate much of the pain.
But not all of it-don't say you weren't warned. Your fear and anguish are important. They're what this man is paying to see.