"Look up," he said.
I did so.
"You know where you are, of course," he said.
"Yes," I said. I looked to my right. There, in the darkness, where I could reach out and touch it, on the bottom shelf, in its place, was Harper" s Dictionary of Classical Literature and Antiquities. Probably it had not been moved since it had been replaces, months ago. I then looked up at him, again. I was in the same place where, months before, I had, in a very different reality, found myself on my knees before this man. Then, of course, I had been a helpful librarian, obedient, dutifully, to the instructions of an imperious patron. It had been a bright afternoon. I had been fully and modestly, clothed. I had worn simple, quiet, unostentatious, dignified garments. I had worn a long-sleeved blouse, a dark sweater, a plain skirt, dark stockings and low-heeled shoes. Indeed, in the dress code of the library, it was posted in the employees" room, where our lockers lined one wall, such garments were prescribed for us. But things were now much different. It was no longer a bright afternoon. It was now late at night. Others were not about. We were now alone, absolutely and frighteningly alone. I did not now kneel before him in a blouse, sweater and skirt. I now knelt before him, semi-nude, in jewelry and silk.
"Do you remember Harper" s Dictionary of Classical Literature and Antiquities?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Do you remember the paper that was in the book?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
"What did it say?" he asked.
"It said," I said, "I am a slave."
"Say the words," he said.
"I am a slave," I said.
He then reached down and took me by one arm, the left arm, and drew me to my feet and then pulled me beside him, down the aisle, toward the open part of the library, the northern part of it, near the reference desk. When we were there, he released me.
"Kneel," he said.
I then knelt there on the carpet. Without really thinking I smoothed the veil-like skirt about me, so that it was in an attractive, circular pattern. He smiled.
I looked down.
The third man was in this area, near one of the tables. On the table he had opened an attachA© case.
"Did you see me dance?" I asked.
"Look up," he said.
I did so.
"Yes," he said.
I looked down, miserable. It had been meant that no one would see me dance, especially as I had danced this night!
"But you stopped, and before the end of your dance, and without permission," he said. "Thus, you shall dance again."
I looked up at him, again, startled.
"And," he said, "this will be the first time you will dance knowingly before men."
"How could you know that I have never danced before men?" I asked.
"Do you think you have not been under surveillance," he asked, "that we do not know a great deal about you?"
"I cannot dance before men," I said.
He smiled.
"I will not!" I said.
"Get to you feet," he said.
I rose to my feet. The man near the table ran the tape back on the tape recorder.
"You will begin at the beginning," he said. "You will perform the entire dance, from beginning to end, for us."
"Please, no," I said. I could not stand the thought, the terrifying thought, of putting myself, in the beauty of the dance, before men such as these. I could not even dream of letting such men see me dance. It was utterly unthinkable. I had not even dared to show myself thusly to common men, to banal, safe, inoffensive, trivial, conquered men, men of the sort with whom I associated, men of the sort I knew. Who knew what they might think, how they might be tempted to act, what they might be prompted to do?
The man pushed the button on the tape recorder, and I danced.
The tape played for eleven minutes and seventeen seconds, its playing time. The piece was excellent, in its melodic lines, its moods, and shifts. It was one of my favorites. But never before had I danced to it in terror. Never before had I danced to it before men. Then it finished in a swirl and I spun and sank to my knees before them, my head down, my hands on my thighs, in a common ending position for such a dance. Never before, however, I think, had I been so suddenly and deeply struck with the meaning of this ending position, it following the beauty of the dance, its presentation of the dancer in a posture of submission.
"You were frightened," he said.
"Yes," I said.
He drew forth from his pocket a tiny, soft piece of cloth. He threw it to me, and I picked it up.
"Do you recognize it?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, in fear. It was a tiny garment which I had made for myself long ago, that which I had dared to wear only once, in the candlelit secrecy of my bedroom.
"Take off your clothes, and put it on," he said. "Leave the bells on your ankles. They help us keep track of you."
I looked at him, in protest.
"You may, of course, avail yourself of the privacy of your washroom," he said. I then walked between two men, the second and third man, to the ladies" room, and brushed aside the loose door. They waited outside, almost as though they might have some respect for my privacy. I turned on the light. I removed the jewelry, the ankles and necklaces, and such, I had worn. Then I reached behind my back and unhooked the scarlet halter, and slipped it from me. I looked at my breasts. In the tiny bit of scarlet silk they had given me to wear, their form, and loveliness, if they were lovely, would be in little doubt. I then slipped from the tights and skirt. I was naked, save for a leather thong on my left ankle, and bells. I felt strange, standing there in the ladies" room in the library, naked. Then I drew the small bit of silk over my head. They had obviously searched my room, perhaps ransacking it, and found it. They seemed to know a great deal about me. Perhaps they had thought it their business to learn about me. Perhaps there was little about me that they did not know. They knew even about that bit of silk, now on my body, one of my most closely guarded secrets.