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He looks me up and looks me down, appraising me. “Well, it would depend on various factors.”
“Like what?”
“Age. How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
He nods. “Measurements?”
“Five feet four. One hundred and fifteen pounds. I don’t know metric.”
“Any unusual body parts or scars or false limbs?”
“Does that matter?”
“Fetishists. They pay extra.”
“No, no prosthetic limbs or anything.” But then I remember my birthmark, which is ugly, almost like a scar, so I usually keep it hidden under my watch. But there’s something oddly tempting about exposing it, exposing me. So I slide my watch down. “I do have this.”
He takes it in, nodding his head. Then casually asks, “And are you a virgin?”
“Would that make me more or less valuable?”
“It all depends on the market.”
“You seem to know a lot about this.”
“I grew up in Amsterdam,” he says, like this explains it.
“So what am I worth?”
“You didn’t answer all the questions.”‘
I have the strangest sensation then, like I’m holding the belt to a bathrobe and I can tie it tighter—or let it drop. “No, I’m not. A virgin.”
He nods, stares in a way that unsettles me.
“I’m sure Boris will be disappointed,” I add.
“Who’s Boris?”
“The thuggish Ukrainian who’s going to do the dirty work. You were just the bait.”
Now he laughs, tilting his long neck back. When he comes up for air, he says, “I usually work with Bulgarians.”
“You tease all you want, but there was a thing on TV about it. And it’s not like I know you.”
He pauses, looks straight at me, then says: “Twenty. One point nine meters. Seventy-five kilos, last time I checked. This,” he points to a zigzag scar on his foot. Then he looks me dead in the eye. “And no.”
It takes me a minute to realize that he’s answering the same four questions he asked me. When I do, I feel a flush start to creep up my neck.
“Also, we had breakfast together. Usually the people I have breakfast with, I know very well.”
Now the flush tidal-waves into a full-on blush. I try to think of something quippy to say back. But it’s hard to be witty when someone is looking at you like that.
“Did you really believe I would leave you on the train?” he asks.
The question is oddly jarring after all that hilarity about black-market sex slavery. I think about it. Did I really think he’d do that?
