Songs of the Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B

books. I want to know everything I can. Because knowledge is power. It really is. The more knowledge you have, the more power you have. Do you see that, too?”
    â€œI understand,” she says, but she thinks: no, power is a fist in my face, a knife at my throat, rape after rape after rape until I don’t care anymore. You and your books and your science and your religion don’t know anything.
    He says, “There’s a line from the Malleus Maleficarum that has always spoken to me. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of that? No? Not many people have. It’s the Christian response to witchcraft. You could say that’s one superstition taking out another, but once again I think that’s a mistake. There’s a reason they burned those witches . . .”
    She has no idea what he’s talking about. She hates him. She hates these pompous theories that she knows will somehow— surprise—pretend to prove that men are superior to women and to everything, and that this superiority grants them the right to the lives and bodies of women. She hates all men, except her father and Petya and Osip. Listening to him drone on—no, pretending to listen to him drone—is worse than giving him a blowjob. She wishes he would shut up. It’s bad enough that he wants to fuck her for money— to buy her, as he accurately put it—but she wishes he wouldn’t try so hard to rationalize it. It is what it is, and he should just be honest about that.
    But then he tells her the line from the Malleus Maleficarum , “A woman is beautiful to look upon, contaminating to the touch, and deadly to keep.”
    Nika doesn’t understand. The man is starting to scare her. She wishes the car would slow so she could jump out. But he turns onto the on-ramp of the interstate.
    He asks, “Are you happy?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œAre you happy?”
    â€œI don’t. . . . That’s not what most men ask.”
    He looks her straight in the eye: “I am not most men.” He looks back to the highway. Then he says, light, casual, “Or maybe I am.” A pause, then, “You’re one beautiful woman, and I’m sure every man wants to have you.” Another pause, then, “You have an accent, where are you from?
    She hesitates, then says, “Russia.”
    â€œWhat makes you happy?”
    â€œIt’s my job to make you happy.”
    â€œIt’s your job to do what I say.”
    She doesn’t want to think about happiness. That’s back in the box. No one knows about the box. No one gets into the box. She asks, “Do you want to take me in the ass? I won’t make you pay extra. I like it. Just. . . .”
    â€œI want to know where you go when a man takes you. Where do you go when you go away?”
    She closes her eyes and then opens them. She thinks, He will not get inside . She takes a deep breath, but quietly so he can’t hear, and tries to force away the answers to his questions.
    They turn south off the interstate onto the Pullman Highway.
    He says, “I just want to know.”
    But she knows that’s not true. She knows what he wants. He’s a liar and a thief. He doesn’t want only her body. Him and his words and all his belief that knowledge is power. He wants those deep places inside no one ever touches, not that Lithuanian man Linas who broke her with his lies, beatings, rapes, not Viktor the pimp who now continues where Linas left off, not even the other girls. No one.
    He doesn’t say anything, and she knows why. He knows that she knows, and she can tell he likes it.
    They drive. She tries not to think about the box, tries not to think about anyone back at home, all those who surely by now think she is dead.
    â€œWe’re here,” the man says. He turns right onto a two-lane road, then soon left onto a dirt trail that heads sharply down. He stops next to a small creek, turns off the truck.