5 comments/ 4455 views/ 5 favorites Remember To Scream By: wrdonway Roland Bell concluded that Las Vegas had advantages as a place for 850 neurologists to discuss pain, advantages beyond having more hotel rooms than any other city in America. For those devoting their careers to investigating pain and confronting its harrowing extremes, chronic urgency was an occupational hazard. By its nature, however, urgency could not be permanent; it was by definition an acceleration of life's norm. Still, raked by the cries, moans, screams—and the shattering pleas for surcease or death—the urgent threatened to become the new norm. Bell wondered if that pace also accelerated the aging process. At 37, he had launched an a counter offensive against aging, propelling himself out of bed to work out—no excuses accepted on weekdays—and pushing away dessert at too many business luncheons. He had a few natural advantages—a tall frame that flared to wide shoulders, a tough-guy handsome face with blond hair kept unromantically short, and blue eyes to match the hair. Was he in the shape he was almost 17 years ago, when he passed on signing up for another U.S. Navy tour? Nope. Too fond of wine, too fond of waking up and saying, 'I'll sleep in and cook her breakfast...' Here, in the world capital of frivolity and the monumentally unimportant, one might hope for refuge from urgency. What could demand less serious attention than a manmade lake with 1,000 computer-controlled jets that flung water 240 feet skyward to sway and spray in perfect time with a Frank Sinatra oldie or the London Symphony Orchestra playing Aaron Copeland? Arguably, it was beautiful; equally arguably, it was grotesque; but by no argument did it dictate a mindset of urgency or gravity. Refreshed by such diversions, the neurologists could flock back to the meeting rooms for the next presentation on intractable cancer pain, opioid receptors, or cytokines. When it all drew to a close at day's end, there was the release of high-stakes Blackjack, topless bars (or bottomless, if you could take it without alcohol), excesses of magic and music on stage, or just the hypnotic incandescence of the Strip. Dr. Bell's meditation on the pressures of pain as a career had begun that afternoon as he idled past the Bellagio's rows of meeting rooms, consulting his program of lectures, seminars, and panel discussions on neurology and this year's theme: pain. Most participants were in meetings that had begun at 3:00, but every sitting area had its knot of refuseniks doing their science outside the formal gatherings. Bell passed few groups without catching a phrase about pain in its manifold forms; only occasionally did he catch a phrase about the distractions of Las Vegas. And then, abruptly, from behind closed double doors, came a scream, then another, and harsh sobs. A woman's voice shrieked 'no! no! God, no!' Bell had taken several quick strides toward the door. The screams had been joined by the murmured rise and fall of many voices. The doors flew open. As bystanders held them, a man with his arm around a woman's shoulders came out. The woman screamed again, protested in a language Bell did not recognize, and began to sob. Her body twisted away from the man's clasp, but only feebly. Her eyes were shut, her face streaked with tears. A crowd swirled in their wake. As Bell watched, the man steered the woman to a sitting area. Grasping his intention, people on the couch quickly rose. He eased the woman down. She leaned back, but resisted his attempts to get her to lie down. Suddenly, as though seized anew, she cried out so shrilly that those nearby drew back. Bell himself felt his heart beat faster. Everywhere around him, he heard: 'What's wrong?' 'Who is it?' 'What happened?' Without lifting his arm from the woman's shoulder, the man turned to the crowd. "I think it's all right," he said firmly. "I know her. I believe this is a bit of agoraphobia. I'll give her a sedative. She recovers quickly. This is very rare." He looked directly at those nearest him. "It's under control. I appreciate your concern," he said. His confidence, and perhaps his appearance—tall and athletic, with distinguished grey hair—had their effect. The crowd began to unclot and flow back into the meeting room, where the abandoned speaker at the lectern seemed to be preparing to resume his remarks. "Tamina," the man kept repeating, "Tamina. You're with Dr. Sturges. You're at a scientific meeting. You're in America. Do you understand?" Bell had turned with the others to enter the meeting room, but had stopped just within earshot of the conversation. He had frowned. It was unusual reassurance for a woman experiencing an attack of agoraphobia. She was considerably younger than the man, with thick black hair brushed off her face in a heavy wave and beautiful dark skin. Her eyes were large and dark, with long, dramatic eyebrows, and her lips full. With her head thrown back and her chin thrust up, her broad face seemed shaped for resolve. She was an altogether beautiful young woman. After another minute, Bell found himself in a small knot of remaining spectators who lingered, uncertain—or drawn by professional curiosity. The man turned again, looking directly at them, and said: "Please! We are all right. I'm a physician." It had become rude to remain. But by then, Bell had lost interest in the sessions, which, in any case, would end in 20 minutes. He had decided to pay a visit to the famous fountains, then return to his room to email his office. Much of the Bellagio resembles a fashionable block in Manhattan's East 50's, with 10 restaurants and lounges, ranging from Le Cirque to an old-fashioned soda fountain, and shops worthy of Madison Avenue. After half an hour on the telephone and a shower in the Roman baths that were a Bellagio standard, Bell had decided on a late lunch at the little coffee bar overlooking the gardens and pools. Dinner easily could be at 10:00 p.m. or later in this 24-hour city. Where else did the main business of a city operate 365 days a year, 24 hours a day, with never a holiday or a break to wax the floors? As he entered and glanced around for a table, Bell saw the man who had helped the stricken woman that afternoon. He was alone at a table that overlooked the gardens and, although coffee and a pastry were in front of him, he sat staring ahead, elbows on the table, hands clasped; he was not smiling. Bell had intended to question him about the incident, but had not foreseen an opportunity this soon. He strolled over to the table and asked, "Everything under control now, I hope?" "Oh!" The man looked up. "Oh, yes, yes it is. Thank you." He resumed his examination of the far wall, as though expecting Bell to move on. "She's a colleague of yours? You indicated that you were familiar with her condition." The man turned again. "Yes, she is." Bell waited. The man added, "I'm sure she will be fine." "Her name is Tamina Khouri?" asked Bell. "I noticed on the agenda that she's presenting tomorrow. I suppose that's off, now?" The man picked up his coffee. He said, "Actually, she's determined to go ahead," and bent his head to sip the coffee. For many moments, he did not look up at Bell. "Good for her," said Bell warmly. "That's courage. Is she in your department?" The man nodded, without looking at him. "Yes, yes she is." "University of California? I noticed her affiliation in the conference program." "We're a systemwide unit on problems in neuroscience. Quite new. Yes, she's with us." There was no help for it. He stood up and extended his hand. "I'm Alan Sturges." "Roland Bell. Good to meet you." "And you're with...?" "Government, actually." "NIMH? NSF?" "No, not one of the scientific shops. I'm a psychiatrist. Did my undergraduate and everything at St. Louis." Now, Sturges would not be sidetracked. "Exactly where do you labor in the great bureaucracy on the Potomac?" Bell said, "I'm in national security. I work with NIMH and NSF from time to time, though." "CIA? FBI? National Security Agency?" Two could play at politely rude persistence. "The CIA pays my salary." "That's what counts." Surges looked ready to sit down. "Well, if you're at Tamina's presentation, I'll see you there." "Listen," said Bell, "I wonder if the problem is agoraphobia, as you said. You know her, of course, but I'm familiar with the phobias and I can't make the signs fit." Sturges said slowly, "Be assured, Dr. Bell, that we will do a complete work-up back at the University." Bell's career had been built on ignoring polite hints to bug off. He pursed his lips. "You know, I'd have said it looked like Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder." Sturges gave Bell a long, rueful look, sighed, and asked: "You wouldn't want to sit down would you, Dr. Bell?" Yes, Bell would, and when Bell had ordered a sandwich and iced coffee, Sturges leaned forward over the table and said, in a low voice: "Listen, she's my postdoc and also happens to be the best postdoc in our unit. In terms of research readiness, she could go on her own right now. Obviously, these meetings are the academic bazaar—or the meat market as the young cynics put it. Tamina's going through with her presentation tomorrow because that's how you get job offers, right?" Bell nodded. "Well," Sturges continued, "throwing hysterical screaming fits--which you and I know that that yesterday wasn't, but could be taken for—is not good self promotion. I wanted to minimize what happened." He glanced out the window, frowning, and said, "That thing about agoraphobia, well, it cast what occurred into a more benign light. But PTSD raises a slew of questions, none of which you want to explore while your new faculty member is beginning to teach students, apply for grants, and attend faculty meetings. Right?" "That's how you discovered it?" Sturges said, tonelessly, "You know, Dr. Bell, it makes me quite nervous to be discussing my postdoctoral student's mental health—or anything else, for that matter—with a CIA guy. Back when I was a grad student that would have ended your academic career quicker than getting picked up on a cocaine charge. Actually, much quicker." "Okay," said Bell agreeably. "I remember that, too. But things have changed, as you imply. Didn't you? And not just since 9-11..." "In the interests of frankness, I will add that just your being at this conference troubles me. Actually, it angers me. The CIA looking into the latest research on pain? Do you know where my imagination goes with that, Dr. Bell?" "Sure." Bell took a big bite of his sandwich without shifting his eyes from Sturges's face. "Before 9-11, I don't recall ever hearing anyone float the idea publicly that we might want to torture terrorists. In special circumstances, that is. Save Los Angeles sort of circumstances." Sturges closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. "That is precisely why it disturbs me for you to be at this conference. And for me to be sitting here talking with you." He shoved back his chair and rose abruptly. "You know, right now, Dr. Bell, I feel compromised just having heard what you said." Bell grinned up at him as though greeting an old familiar stage in making friends. He said, "I'm at liberty to attend virtually any scientific meeting I choose. No matter the field, I've discovered, some participants can project horrifying applications of the research." Sturges seemed undecided about storming off. "I suppose so," he said, with a sigh, "but torture using scientific research on pain management and relief occupies a special place in my moral landscape." "Mine, too," said Bell quietly. He looked down at the remains of his sandwich, and added, "Since none of our field agents can ignore the possibility that one day they will undergo it." "All right," said Sturges, "I don't march on Washington, nowadays—except to apply for grants." He rapped the table with decision. "But listen, I have to go. See you tomorrow, maybe?" "About Miss Khouri...," said Bell. "Yes?" "Had she had any earlier episodes of, let's say, for argument's sake, PTSD?" He added, with a laugh, "Sorry to throw this into the mix, Dr. Sturges, but I hire a certain number of postdocs myself. Could be why I'm here, you know." "Oh boy," Sturges breathed fervently, "where do I come out on that one? No, I never knew her to have an episode. She's been with us just over two years." "And presumably has studied every conceivable aspect of pain? Experimented with pain? The martyrdom of the white rats?" "All that," said Sturges, "sure." "Hard to see, then, how this afternoon's discussion set off an episode. I wasn't there. Nothing unusually awful?" "Nothing she didn't know. She could have given that talk." "No horrific slides? Blood?" "No. And she's done autopsies, of course." "So you see what I mean?" Sturges shrugged. "I do. But PTSD is funny. When it comes, why it comes, what brings it on—we don't know so much. Two people have the same experience, one goes full-flown PTSD, one is born again. Why?" Out of the window, Bell watched the last daylight on the Bellagio's oceanic pool. He cracked his knuckles, one by one. Then he looked up and smiled. "I know you have to go," he said. "You're going to approach Tamina?" "Like to. This evening, if she's able." He held out a card to Sturges. "Any serious moral qualms?" "Mine are rather beside the point," he said. He laughed. "She has all of those she needs. You'll see. Sure, I'll pass along the card." "Obliged," said Bell Sturges shoved back the chair and rose. He looked down at Bell for a few moments. Then, he said, "She's gorgeous, of course. But I'm quite certain that in the two years she's been in our shop, no one has scored." "Thank you," said Bell gravely. "Thank you, doctor." Bell had told her on the telephone that he would recognize her. All she had to do was walk into the Bellagio bar and he would stand up. Still, he nearly blew it. The long black dress covered her from below her knees almost to her chin. Above it, her face looked pure and austere, the long black hair pulled back and knotted. Although her arms were bare to the shoulders, she wore no jewelry but a watch. Her only ornament was the body covered but not quite concealed by the dress. The girl in the flowing hair and business suit that afternoon had vanished. Bell might have missed his cue had he not been rather impertinently examining her figure before he knew who it was. When she had noticed it, she smiled—and everything clicked and he shot to his feet. She looked pleased. Perhaps it was the easy, athletic way he came forward. Bell still did some jujitsu because the agents with whom he worked, especially abroad, usually were exceptionally fit, and—hey, you never knew. Now, he exclaimed, "So beautiful!" and added, "And looking so evening-out-in-Las-Vegas. I love it!" Smiling, she gave his hand a firm, efficient shake, and slid into a seat. She smacked her purse down on the table, straightened her shoulders, and said, "Well!" Bell grinned. "No, I should be saying, 'well'!" Then, he realized that his admiration was ceasing to be a polite recognition and threatening to become a leer. He quickly said, "I mean, you've obviously put this afternoon behind you. It's impressive. And I'm glad." "Dr. Sturges mentioned you were there." "He handled it well." Bell didn't know if Sturges had mentioned agoraphobia to her. It wasn't a cover story that would hold up for long with neurologists. In the past hour, Bell had received an impressive initial package of information from Washington in response to his inquiries. Quite a few hot buttons had been hit: the Middle East, immigration, the Gulf War, the year 1991—all in addition to his professional interest in pain and in scientists with unusual vulnerabilities. "And this never happened before?" he asked. She shook her head, holding his gaze. "I was stunned by it. Now, I'm embarrassed." "I could say that there is no reason to be, but you may not mean that in a personal sense. In the neurology and psychiatry career game, yes, you have been slightly embarrassed." "Oh," she said sighed, shaking her head, "personally, too. I looked like a nut case. Talk about alarming." "I don't think I've seen that one in the DSM IV," said Bell. She laughed. Her dark eyes had a way of catching the light. Like a gem, thought Bell. "It has to be in there," she said. "They just added the kitchen sink, didn't they? " It was a common criticism of the proliferation of psychiatric diagnoses in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, edition IV, revision A. "Let's have a drink," suggested Bell. "Canadian Club. On the rocks, please. Actually, a double?" With the anesthesia on order, Bell reluctantly made his first decision. "I would say that it's in the DSM IV, yes. I'd check out Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, first. Don't you agree?" Her smiled was gone, but she looked at him levelly. She said quietly, "PTSD: experiencing terror as though the trauma were happening again, nightmares, jumping out of your skin when startled, losing trust in people, rage, guilt, sleep problems. Yes, it's plausible." She left it there, a warning sign over the trail. He said: "You grew up... Let's see how good I am. In the Middle East, of course. Perhaps the Levant. Ignoring the name 'Khouri'..." "What do you mean, ignoring my name?" "Americans change their names. It used to be an honorable tradition. In my business, you quickly realize that." "What is your business?" It was a demand. He held up his hand. "Wait. I'm making my guess." "Turkey," she said. "Where are the drinks, I wonder?" "College in Turkey, then medical school here?" "That's right. North Carolina. Duke." "Right after you arrived here, may I ask?" "Not much more than a year. September 1992." Bell waved to the waitress, who waved back and smiled. Tamina sat very straight in her chair, hands folded on the table, attending him. "I think I understand," said Bell. "Turkey can be trial by fire for a woman, especially a brilliant one. And if you happen to be a Kurd..." He was leaning on his elbows, hands folded, head bowed, as though contemplating a puzzle. The waitress hurried over with the drinks. Tamina raised her glass in a perfunctory toast and took a long pull. Bell said to the waitress. "Assume that we'll have another round." "I really shouldn't," said Tamina. "Usually, I don't." "Las Vegas is for doing what you never do," said Bell. "I think that we're both old enough. So anyway, a young Kurdish woman growing up in Turkey—or Iraq—" Tamina abruptly stood up, almost tipping over her chair. "All right, Dr. Bell. Perhaps I misunderstood why we were meeting." He noticed, for an instant, that he hands were shaking, but she quickly folded them. She was upset, but also angry, and perhaps more angry than upset. "Dr. Sturges told me that you are with intelligence, but I thought in America..." She added: "He said that you are connected with the NIH and NIMH." "All true," said Bell mildly. "Intelligence and psychiatry—secrets squared." He said gently, "I hope you sit down. I promise that I have no interest whatsoever in your immigration issues." He added, "As sensitive as those can be, today." "What are my immigration issues?" She did not sit down. "I'm not interested in them." "Except to get more information about them," she said, angrily. "Wherever you got it." "Are you joking? Sturges told you what I am." "Then tell me what you want. That's fair, don't you think?" She sat down. "Yes, I think so, " he said, but he thought: I can't even explain to myself exactly what I want, can I? Have I become a snoop for the sake of snooping? What do I really need to know? If anything? Is it curiosity? Because she's so beautiful—and so hurt? But he said: "As bad as Turkey can be, Iraq is worse. That would apply especially in 1991, wouldn't it? The Gulf War over and Saddam turning on the Iraqi Kurds?" Remember To Scream As he watched her face, he suddenly wondered, with alarm, if she were going to cry—or scream. Instead, she reached for her drink. She hold it up and said, "I could easily become best friends, with this." She threw back her head, emptying the glass, and banged it down. "You began to take me back—almost—to then." "Just like the presentation this afternoon?" She was shaking her head even before he finished speaking. "The cases are not comparable. So I'm going to tell you, right? For the first time in America, I will tell someone." He frowned. "Why? My interest is not to hurt you." He added, gently, "Certainly not to expose you..." "Why? Because nothing changes if you don't ever let it out. But you can't, in medical school, in your first big job... How can you? But you? You half guess, anyway, and you deal in secrets." She had been gazing down at her empty glass, but now she looked up at him. "And you deal in what happens to people, even if it is unimaginable..." Bell nodded. He 'got it.' Because it wasn't the first time. She sat in a tired slump, now. Her eyelids drooped slightly and she stared down. She shook her head slowly, as though seeing something, denying it. "You don't know what will hurt me. You don't know how much. To you, it's just finding out, just a story. Yes, I'm a Kurd. And yes, I grew up in Iraq, in Kirkuk. You said it is hard to be a woman there, an intelligent Kurdish woman." He frowned. "And you want to tell me? Even though..." She nodded slightly, gazing down at her glass. The long dark hair had come down, half-curtaining her face. When she looked up, she said: "After what happened in the meeting. Yes, it's time for me to talk." She smiled slightly. "After all, you are a psychiatrist." "Tell me, Tamina." "I was fortunate, in a way. The cities can be better. I went to good schools; there are few women who did. Do you know the Kurdistan Democratic Party? My father was involved, very involved. He was an intellectual man, not a fighter. You have heard of 'honor killings'—everyone has, now..." Bell nodded. "A woman has to know here place. Her father, her brothers, her husband, her husband's family—all of these men own a piece of her. Any of them can decide to beat her, have her stoned, killed. Hundreds of woman are slain, killed by their sons, their younger brothers. All it takes is an accusation, a little argument, and independent decision. The world knows this now; but even 10, 15 years ago, that was not so. A son burns his mother. Her husband's family stone a wife. At least I escaped all that. "My father had advanced ideas. Equality. Socialism. Nationhood or at least autonomy for the Kurdish nation." The second round of drinks had come. She picked up hers and drained half of it. "Women's bodies are found with a nose cut off. Beaten to death. Shot. Suffocated with a bag. The perpetrators are men, 'her' men—the men in her life. For them to be arrested is rare; back then, almost unknown." "But your parents sent you to school, protected you? They wanted you to have more than that?" "Much more. My father was in politics, Kurdish nationhood, liberation. A real Kurd. He even believed in Kurdish unity, that political factions must join forces. He preached that, when Saddam turned on us in spring 1991, after the cease fire. I had been graduated from the University of Mosul almost on the day in March when the Iraqi gas-bombed Halabja, which we call 'Hillebje.' Maybe 5000 died immediately. My father may have been killed that way or the Republican Guard got him. We never knew." "Did you escape through Iran?" "Oh, much later. A lifetime later. First, I fought. Because of what my father had been, they permitted it—a woman. But the odds were terrible. This was before the No Fly Zone, the 36th parallel, our big chance. We were crushed. Baath Party soldiers were everywhere. This was the feared Kurdish resistance; we might finish the job Mr. Bush had begun." She put her hands on the table, palms up, staring at him. "Well, Iraqi intelligence had my address, I suppose. I think they followed my little brother, Dawud, when he came with a message. I had decided to die before I could be captured, of course; we all had. "But it didn't work that way." "My God," muttered Bell. "Iraqi intelligence interrogated you?" "Interrogated me? Oh..." she shook her head. Slowly, she crossed her arms over her breasts and began to rub her bare arms as though the room had become cold. "Interrogation is what we say happened to the poor Kurdish women in Turkey—the ones who hadn't done anything but sign a petition for teaching Kurdish language in the schools. Or talked with a fellow student who might be a member of the People's Labor Party. That was interrogation." She studied his face. "You know, the Kurdish woman is just a plaything of men. In Iraq, in Turkey. When you are a Kurd woman arrested in Turkey for signing a petition you get raped, beaten. Perhaps your breasts are burned. Things get shoved up you till blood flows. You cry for water and get fresh piss in your face. You've read all this, of course. There was a report in the Turkish newspaper Milliyet about what three different international organizations discovered." "Listen," said Bell, "this is not why I asked you to meet." She shrugged. "All of that happened to me maybe in the first few days. Just my usual interrogation by Iraqi intelligence. I don't remember how many men had me. Of course, I cried, yes, and I begged. But in between, I became angry. Once I told them off. This I can bear, I thought. This was interrogation. Why call it torture? The goal is not the single-minded infliction of unimaginable agony. Humiliation, degradation, are mixed in. When it began..." she gestured behind her, "somewhere back there, I was a virgin. For a Kurdish girl, what they did to me was unthinkable. But torture? That came later." "Stop, now" said Bell. "Stop. I understand." "Will I have a shrieking fit, right here? Do you think? You could revive me with Canadian Club. This afternoon, when I was yelling on the couch, did I use bad words? Because when they were softening me up, during the interrogation, there were such words I was forced to say. When they brought in another woman..." "Stop!" Bell ordered. "This is enough." She seemed to ignore him. "Actually, I may have had an earlier PTSD episode, Dr. Bell. I'm just recalling it, now. It was at a health club at Duke University. I was the guest of a friend. She was very impressed with my muscles; I'm powerful, for a woman. Anyway, I hooked myself up to a machine—you close your thigh muscles. I used too much weight. I screamed. Not a big scream, a kind of yelp, but people came running. They assured me that the machine had a safety stop; the muscles of the inner thighs could not be wrenched. But it wasn't that. I was flashing back to what they did to me when they had my legs tied apart. Not rape. By then, I was nostalgic for rape." Bell stretched across the table and seized her wrist. He shook her arm, looking into her eyes. "Look at me, Tamina! Stop! This is enough! You're teaching me a good lesson in prying, yes; but this isn't about that. Is it?" He shook her harder. "Is it?" She began to weep. Her face dropped onto her arms. Her shoulders were shaking violently, but he heard no sound. She began rocking her head from side to side; her fists were clenched. Bell stood up quickly and slipped into the chair next to her. He put his arm across her shoulders. "You've never told anyone," he said softly. She shook her head a little faster. "Never, till now?" She shook her head. He glanced up. Another advantage of Las Vegas. No one was paying much attention. Some poor girl had lost next month's rent check playing roulette. Or used a guaranteed system to try to double what she saved for her daughter's college tuition... Who knew? It was Las Vegas. They sat together without speaking until Tamina slowly lifted her head. She turned to him. Her lips were slightly parted, her face relaxed; she even managed a slight smile. "My real name is Fadime," she said, "Fadime Rahman. I could get no passport from Iraq, of course. You can get a decent one made in Istanbul." "But you could have gotten refugee status. A Kurd from Iraq? Fought Saddam. Open and shut case. A hero." He added, "Which you are." She shook her head sadly. "You don't become a hero by suffering. It is not a choice to be tortured. I would have killed myself at any point, if I had had the chance." She shrugged. "But, yes, I discovered later that I could apply for political refuge. Mostly, I wanted to get out of Turkey immediately. You have more questions?" Bell sheepishly shook his head. "When I said this is the first time...that is true. More than seven years, and you are the first who ever heard. At least part of it. Now, I feel different. Now, a man actually knows that I was torn apart—nothing, no private place not ripped out and pawed. You know this, and yet I haven't died of shame." He reached over slowly and took her hands in his. "This can be the beginning of the end...well, the end of the very worse of it." Then, they sat again without speaking. After a time, she smiled, a smile like a light coming on. She said softly, "I can't describe it. But now, at last, it is exciting and beautiful that I am in this city, in America. As though I finally woke up after seven years and I'm in a new place." "Let it happen, Stay with the feeling a little while. You'll need that energy and that hope of pleasure." "You know," she said, with a sudden grin, "what if we went to dinner tonight? Dutch treat?" There was excitement in her voice. Her eyes flashed. Bell shook his head somberly. "I'm afraid not," he said. Tamina drew back from him; she looked at him almost in fear. Bell said, "I know I don't deserve to be able to do anything to redeem myself, but no even letting me buy dinner for you? That's vindictive! Will you be merciful, this once?" She laughed, delighted. "You gave no quarter, Dr. Bell!" "Roland. Or 'Rolly,' as I'm afraid some of my friends put it. "Your plea has been heard, Roland. If dinner is not too expensive." She stood up. "I need 20 minutes, all right? No would go out with his face. Where will you be?" "The face is quite indescribably beautiful, but I understand. I didn't train I psychiatry for nothing, you know. Come back here, okay?" She had taken his arm as they left the bar and, unavoidably, walked through the casino to reach the lobby. Bell felt as though he were driving a fire truck with horns and sirens blaring. Every male head turned to look after then. Tamina—Fadime—had changed into a cream-colored dress with a swooping neckline. Her shoulders were bare, her long hair down. Her dark skin and hair looked radiant against the light dress. She had the hips and breasts of generations of women born to walk mountains. "Mine eyes have seen the glory!" blurted a loud voice. Bell turned to see Alan Sturges coming toward them. Fadime suddenly looked very shy. She crossed her arms. "Hello, Alan. You've met..." "Yes, I've met the lucky bastard. What are you two swells doing?" "Just dinner over at the Paris," said Bell with a grin. "Some of us know how to live it up in Las Vegas." "So you do! Have I ever seen that dress, Tamina? Let me hasten to emphasize that I approve! I approve!" She blushed. "I've never had an occasion, I don't think. " Seeing his delighted gaze, she relaxed a little. "No use wearing it under my lab coat." "There's a little more to this story," he said, nodding wisely. "You can give me the scoop later. Meanwhile, strut your stuff! It's Vegas!" It was past midnight. The desert at last had conceded a cooling breeze. They had stood enjoying it for almost half an hour on the Italianate bridge over the Bellagio's majestic lake.. The whole lake had seemed to come alive in a dance of soaring geysers and flashing lights keeping time with "Luck, Be A Lady." Fadime's bare arm has pressed against him. Once, she had lightly rested her head against his shoulder, laughing at his zany comments on the spectacle. Now, they walked slowly toward the hotel's dramatic entrance under its glittering portico. Fadime said, happily, "Well, my new life in America. I have so much I must do." "Will you be all right tomorrow at the presentation? Not too tired?" She stopped and turned to him. "Roland, the energy that I feel, right now—you have no idea! I don't know what I'll do with myself. I guess I have to sleep; the presentation is at 2:30 tomorrow afternoon." She laughed and gave her hair a toss. "Poor Dr. Bell has got Bionic Woman on his hands!" She stood close to him, her shoulders back, looking up. She was a bit manic, thought Bell—buoyed by her emotional release, by the outrush of cleansing confession hidden so long... It was positive, although she could not know, no one could, what lay ahead if she elected to fully face her hideous demons. For now, she was transported back to a time before evil had crushed innocence. She was yearning to remain there. Without taking her eyes off his, she snaked her bare arms around him. She pressed herself against him, her breasts swelling between them. Her face looked gravely serious, now, her eyebrows knitted in consternation. She said, "Roland, I am 33 years old and I have no idea how to get a man into bed." He bent forward go give her a long, slow kiss. She returned it with frantic strength. Before they finished, she was grinding her hips against him and breathing in deep sighs. Bell grabbed her arm and started for the banks of revolving doors. Inside, they walked through what seemed acres of dinging, grinding, coughing slot machines, a factory floor of flashing lights and a thousand competing little atolls of dissonant sound. It was easy not to talk. Bell flashed his room card at the security officer as they entered the banks of elevators. He asked, gently, "We'll want to go to your room, Fadime?" "Of course! What woman can be away from her bathroom at a time like this?" "Understood, I..." The scream that began in her throat was muffled as she shoved her face against her chest. She seized his arm so hard that he felt her nails through his jacket. When he looked down in shocked bewilderment, he saw that she was screaming, her mouth pressed against him, her face distorted. Her whole body was trembling. He felt her weight sag against him and grabbed her. "What is it?" he cried. "Fadime, is it happening again?" The elevator door had slid open. A knot of people exited. Some glanced at Bell and Fadime; for the most part, though, they kept walking. Good old Las Vegas, thought Bell. He could feel Fadime struggling for self-control. She turned her head once, quickly, to glance at the elevator, empty now. "What is it?" he asked. Then, more urgently, "What is the matter, Fadime?" In response, she only seized his arm and dragged him into the elevator. A couple entered after them. Fadime's face was streaked with tears and her lips were trembling, but she stood looking straight ahead. Suddenly, she darted forward and punched the number of her floor. She glanced at him with a crooked smile. "Almost forgot." When they reached her door, Fadime fumbled in her pursue for her room card and, when she found it, had to steady her right hand with her left to push in and withdraw the card. The door swung open. She stepped in and turned to Bell, who stood in the hall. Her faced seemed a blend of tension, embarrassment, and desire. She managed a little laugh. "Do you dare to enter a dark room with a crazy woman, Roland?" He came and put his arms around her. He said, "There will be time for all this, you know, Fadime. I'm not much of a mover. This is likely to be the best offer I ever get—by far. Nothing has to happen tonight. That's what I want you to know." She said, simply, "Yes, it has to happen tonight, Roland. For me, it does. For me, there is no waiting." She turned and walked into the room. Bell followed her, closing and locking the door. When she turned and saw him, the tension melted from her face and her smile almost recaptured the moments on the bridge. She did a little parody of a vamp as she came to him, took hold of his tie, and pulled him to a chair. She shoved him down and bent to the mini-bar. Selecting a little bottle of Dewar's, which he had ordered in the bar, she poured it and handed it to him. "I've learned this much, anyway." He bowed his acknowledgment. "Now I have to repair the damage," she said. "I'll be right out. Don't go! Music?" He shook his head. "Okay," she said. Suddenly, she bent and seized his hair, pulling his face to hers for a kiss. When they finished, he drew a breath and said, "That will hold me." When she came out, he started to rise. "No," she said. "Stay. This is something I have to do. It has tormented me for nine years. I can't pretend it doesn't exist." She came and stood before him, only a dozen feet away, and gazed at him. She had removed her shoes and stockings. Looking at him, she reached back and unzipped the dress. She shrugged it off her shoulders. Bell saw that she had removed her brassiere. Under the dress, she was naked. She slowly pulled down the dress, pausing when she had exposed her breasts. "There are these," she said, her gaze never wavering from his. He nodded. Now, she pushed the dress down over her hips and let it slide to the floor. Like the canvas of a Renaissance Master with a few bullet holes through it, a canvas the vandals also had slashed with a knife. He felt his heart pounding; his face was flushed. What he felt was pure rage that made him ball his fists. He took a long breath; that is not what she needed. For Fadime his rage, at this moment, was irrelevant. She was watching him with a look of patient acceptance, allowing him to react and know his feelings. She stood before him, shoulders back, the very full, high breasts slightly thrusting, the nipples rigid. He stood up and undressed as simply, undramatically as he would in his own room, tossing the clothes onto the chair. When he dipped to push down his underwear, his back was to her. He tossed the underwear onto the pile of clothes and turned to her. Fadime looked down at his body with no attempt at subtlety. Only then did she smile. She was the scientist satisfied only with hard evidence. When she saw it, she came and pressed her body against him. As they kissed, she reached down to reassure herself, again. The evidence had become unmistakably solid. When their lips parted, she whispered. "Whatever happens tomorrow, or ever, tonight you have given me back my life." When the brilliant Las Vegas sun touched Bell's face and woke him, the first thing he heard was Fadime in the bathroom. He glanced at the clock radio: 9:45 a.m. It didn't surprise him. He remembered seeing 3:30 a.m. just before Fadime murmured, "Now I believe that a man can desire me," and rolled over to sleep. Bell had slept like a 42-year-old man who had just made love three times. When she came from the bathroom, Bell expected to see a radiant young woman, smiling at what they had discovered in each other, perhaps ready to tease awake passion once more. Instead, she seemed sad, subdued. She crossed the room and stood in the wash of white light from the windows, lifting her arms, examining her nude body. She asked, "Do you think plastic surgery could do anything around my nipples? They never tired of tormenting me, there." But Bell heard no life in her voice, and, before he could reply, she said, with a sigh, "It doesn't matter." She sat on the edge of the bed, gazing out the window toward the far blue hills. Without looking at him, she said, "Roland, I can deliver my presentation this afternoon, but it could blow up right in my face, and then, in a month, every department of neurology in America would know about it. I'm scared to death." Remember To Scream "Who is the man?" he asked. She whirled to him, but before she spoke she seemed to think for a moment, and said: "You figured that out. Last night in the elevator?" "No, when I talked with Sturges. He said you never had had a flashback and there was nothing in the subject matter or the visuals that you hadn't seen or heard many times. What else was in that room? People." She rolled onto the bed, lying on her side, and wrapped her arms around herself. Her eyes were closed tightly, her face taut. "I'm almost feeling it again," she managed to say. She said softly, "'No, no. Don't hurt me'—that's what is screaming inside me. If I saw him, I would be screaming aloud because I would be back in Iraq." Bell sat up, pulling the covers over the lower part of his body. "My God, you mean someone here, now, was there—when they were torturing you?" Fadime nodded, her face still pressed against the mattress. "I saw him yesterday afternoon, at the meeting. He's still here, attending the conference. He...he's a doctor, a neurologist. It's sickening to say that." "What's his name? How can he be here from Iraq?" "His name is Tariq Rashid. He was known in Kirkuk, my city. Here, he is calling himself Nasir Roshani. I don't know what passport he is using." "He's here picking up the latest research about pain...," Bell said thoughtfully. She nodded. She sat up, crossing her legs beneath her, folding her arms across her lap. She said, "Roland, when they first took me, when I knew I couldn't escape them by killing myself, I had one hope. One great hope. It kept me strong when they began on me. It was that I have a heart condition. Sometimes it involves a special vulnerability to arrhythmia. For me, unusual stress could precipitate a heart attack. That was my secret. I kept telling myself: When they really start on me, then I will die on them. Before it goes beyond what anyone can bear, the stress will kill me. I prayed for it. Do you see? The first things they did, I told myself: But this is not torture. It is humiliation. When torture comes, my heart will save me." Bell listened, his face drawn. He had sought out this story. He had no kick coming. He reached over to pull a sheet over Fadime's shoulders. "I'm all right, now," she said. She reached up and ran a forefinger over her breast. "Sometimes, I can't remember exactly what happened. But when it had gotten bad, and I kept passing out, Rashid came in. Doctor Rashid. He examined me. I cried to him to help me; I thought somehow it was over if this was a doctor. He didn't answer or even look at my face. He gave me an injection; then he said something to...to one of them...and left." Her look became distant for several moments. "After that, I didn't lose consciousness, no matter what they did. When Rashid came back in an hour or so, I screamed at him not to keep me alive. I was only asking to die, wasn't I? He went ahead and did some things. That's when I lost hope that my heart would give out." She looked at Bell. "I never saw him again until yesterday afternoon, nine years later, in another world. I was listening to the presentation; when I glanced up, I saw him a few seats away. Next thing I knew, I was on that couch, with Alan reassuring me and feeling as though I were back there in Iraq with it happening." Bell nodded. "Nor remembering. Re-experiencing. Being back there with all the feelings, all the terror. And last night, when he suddenly came out of the elevator..." "But you were with me and I could cling to a tiny piece of my sanity, last night." "He doesn't know?" She shook her head. "You don't realize what my face looked like when he saw me—back there. I had been hanging by my wrists for hours, naked. You wouldn't recognize me, either. To him, I was just another badly mangled carcass that still could scream." She paused. "But Roland, if he walks into my presentation, I'll have an episode: on the dais, at the lectern, in front of a whole audience." Bell abruptly tossed off the covers and stood up. "Just forget it. Forget him, for that one hour. Because I give you my promise," he said grimly, "he won't be there." He turned and walked into the bathroom. Watching him, Fadime could see the muscles of his back and arms knotting; the back of his neck was flaming red. Bell poked his head into the "Ohio Room" 20 minutes before Fadime's presentation was scheduled to begin. No one there. At a nearby conversational grouping in the wide corridor, he chose a chair from which he could watch the doors. In about 10 minutes, Fadime came down the hall carrying a manila folder and a box of slides. She spied him and managed a slight, forced smile. "I'm ready," she said. "I can give this talk in my sleep." Bell said, "Just go into the room and set up. It's still empty. Dr. Rashid won't be coming to this presentation." When she opened her mouth to ask a question, he said, "Concentrate on what you're going to say. We'll discuss this later." After a moment, she said, "All right, yes. All right." She added, in a low voice, with a gentle smile, "my darling, Roland." She turned and went into the room. Bell carefully observed the arriving audience. No Rashid. When the lecture to began, he closed the doors of the room and stood in front of them. He held a clipboard in his left hand. A minute or two later, a man came strolling down the hall. Bell recognized Rashid and felt himself go tense. When Rashid reached the door, he said, politely, "Excuse me. I'm a little late." Dr. Rashid was six inches shorter than Bell, heavy set, and bald except for a short skirt of black hair at ear level. His expression was bland and composed, but with a hint of chronic irritability that made him look dyspeptic. His suit was tailored to the best Western standards; a Rolex watch sparkled from the dense black hair on his wrist. He looked up at Bell expectantly. Bell said, "I'm sorry, this lecture is closed, now." It was one of many lines he had prepared to fit circumstances. "What? Perhaps I will have stand, then." "No, I'm sorry. It's closed." "But all sessions are open." "What is your name, please?" asked Bell. He glanced down at his clipboard. "Dr. Nasir Roshani," he said impatiently. Bell looked down. "I have no Dr. Tariq Rashid on this list." Then he looked up in Rashid's eyes. Rashid looked as though he had been slapped hard across the face. "What?" he stammered. "Who? I said 'Roshani.'" "Where are you from, Dr. Roshani?" asked Bell, studying the clipboard. ""From Turkey," snapped Rashid. "Istanbul." Bell shook his head. "I see no Dr. Tariq Rashid from Iraq. I'm sorry. The lecture is by invitation only. Do you wish to discuss this with the conference chair, Dr. Rashid?" Rashid gaped at him with an expression that kept alternating between fury and fear. His mouth opened to speak. He glanced down at Bell's clipboard as though it were a coiled snake. Then, he turned and hurried away down the corridor. Bell planted himself in front of the doors, legs spread and braced, arms folded across his chest, until he heard applause and the tumult of simultaneous conversations and scuffling chairs in the room behind the closed doors. He stepped aside as the door pushed open, but he saw that few were leaving. Instead, there was a crowd around the lectern at the front of the room. It seemed that Fadime had hit a homerun. Nearly half an hour later, Fadime made her way out amid a knot of persistent questioners. Her face was flushed with pleasure and excitement. She kept laughing as one questions interrupted another. When she saw Bell, she beamed radiantly, waving. Some of the young men surrounding her glanced at him with frosty expressions. He thought: who can blame them? With many vows to swap information, stay in touch, and meet again the crowd slowly dispersed. Finally, she could come to him. "It went really well," she said. She added, "Really well!" "I gathered that long before you emerged." "You didn't come in." "Oh, I was out here taking names," said Bell. She looked at him anxiously. "Did he come?" "Dr. Rashid from Iraq? Oh yes, but he wasn't on my list. He became confused and decided not to attend." She closed her eyes and released a long sigh. "Thank you, my darling," she murmured. "Okay, dinner at 7:30. We celebrate." "I'd love that," she said, but Bell detected little enthusiasm in her voice. What had become of her ebullient mood of several minutes ago? "You should take a nap, right now," he said. "See you in the front lobby at 7:30, okay?" "That will be fine," said Fadime. "Thanks for everything, Roland." Their table on the terrace of the Jasmine restaurant commanded a perfect view of the lake and beyond it the blazing neon flower garden that was the Strip. Cooled by the symphonic exuberance of the fountains, the soft Las Vegas night invited the long, lingering exchanges of new lovers. At first, Fadime talked with animation about her presentation and her work, explaining to Bell the concept of disconnecting the body's pain signals from conscious awareness of pain. She ordered several drinks when they sat down, but then refused more. "Not tonight," she said. Bell watched as her mood become inward and restrained. Reflecting on how much had happened over the past 24 hours, he wondered if there were so many new uncertainties that she needed down time to sort things out. He said as much. She nodded. "It's something like that. You're very understanding, doctor." After a moment, she added, "The past doesn't just go away. The present arrives, and it may be wonderful, but it doesn't change the past. It can't, can it?" He smiled. "That's not a question susceptible of experimental confirmation or disconfirmation. What the hell does it mean, any way?" She shrugged. "You have helped me as much as anyone can. Last night you gave me my life, my present life. You even...it's old-fashioned to say--you made me a woman." He shook his head. She repeated, "Made me a woman who now, for the first time, has known love." She was studying his face with a gentle smile. "But life did not begin yesterday, just because yesterday is what we want most." Bell felt helpless, frustrated because every exchange of the evening had veered into these ominous generalities. He sternly reminded himself that she was coping with emotional wounds he could not conceive. She had a baffling, often-unpredictable brain disorder that sentenced her to perhaps years of terrifying flashbacks. But sharing it was denied to him by the remoteness that had risen between them. After another half hour, he gave up and said, wearily, "Let's get to bed early. Tomorrow is the last day of the conference. We'll each have traveling to do." She stood up immediately. "Yes." Then she said, in a low voice, "Roland, I can't be with you, tonight. It isn't that I don't want to be, that I don't crave it..." She stopped. There were tears on her face. "I just can't." He said easily, "I told you. I'm a long-haul guy. Just give yourself all the time you want. But don't think you can out-wait me. I'll be here." "Thank you," she said, in a voice he barely heard. "And thank you for dinner." She took her wrap off the back of the chair. "I must attend to something before I go up to my room," she said. "I'll leave you, now. Should I give you some money for this time?" "You can't buy me off. I'll be waiting, when you're ready." "Then good night." She started away, then glanced back. "Good night, my darling." She blew him a kiss. Bell reflected that the previous evening's lovemaking had surged ever-higher on energy he scarcely had known he possessed. He would have to be careful not to doze off. In the dark room, the easy chair was far too comfortable. The lights were off and the heavy curtains drawn tight. Although he was dressed in his evening clothes, he had kicked off his shoes and laid his jacket on the bed. It was past 2:30 a.m. Fadime had left him at the restaurant at 10:00. After he had paid the bill, he had gone to the front desk and confirmed what he already knew: Dr. Roshani had checked out that afternoon, less than an hour after his run-in with Dr. Bell. Bell had asked to speak with the night manager. It had taken several telephone calls by the manager, and by Bell, before Bell had gotten what he needed and headed for the elevators. Now, he suddenly froze. Very slowly, he sat up in the chair, listening. A room card had been inserted into his door, almost noiselessly. Had he not been awake and listening for that particular sound, he would not have heard it. For several seconds, he heard nothing more. Then, a pencil-slim ray of light shot across the floor. Again, some seconds passed with no sound. The line of light suddenly widened, then disappeared a moment later. Although he knew that the door had closed, he had heard nothing. Sitting in the dimmest corner of the room, his eyes accustomed to the darkness, he had the advantage. He saw her hair and shoulders as a faintly lighter shape against the blackness. She seemed to hesitate. She would be peering at the bed. In another moment or so, she would see that it was empty. He fervently hoped that she did not have a gun. He said calmly: "Fadime, it's Roland." It was a cry of pure shock. "What?" she gasped. "You? Roland?" He reached up and switched on the light. Fadime stood frozen in a posture of utter disbelief, gaping at him. "Everything is all right, Fadime," he said. "Let me explain..." "But how could you..." She waved at the bed. "Where is he?" "How did you expect to kill Rashid?" She lowered herself to the edge of the bed, as though afraid that she might fall. He could see the changes flitting across her face as her mind raced through the possibilities. She reached into the waistband of her pants and withdrew a length of pipe. She held it up, and said, indifferently, "Hit him with this, knock him out. So merciful, so gentle. And then give him an injection"—she held up her clutch purse in the other hand—"with what's in here." "What is it? Professional curiosity, you know." "A witch's brew of temporary knockout, muscle relaxant, and pain." He nodded: "Go ahead." "He's out for a little while. He comes around but can't move or speak, just feel pain. Chemically not so different from the sting of the Portuguese Man-O-War; with this dose, he would have been dead by morning. He would have suffered—a little." She spoke off-handedly, as though her mind still whirled with the sudden turn the world had taken. "But...but how did you get in here?" Bell laughed in sudden, pure enjoyment of absurdity. He said: "I hope that the CIA can still get into an unoccupied room at the Bellagio if it can afford to pay for it. Dr. Rashid checked out this afternoon. I'm afraid I upset him. I suppose you wheedled a pass key? From a maid?" "A hospitality guy," she said bleakly. Her shoulders slumped. "Rashid's gone, then. Back to Iraq. But...why did you take this room?" "I expected you. You said a lot of things at dinner, this evening. But the message was that the past had come to claim its own. We had no future. You were saying goodbye. But if I had asked you, would you have admitted that you planned to kill him?" She shook her head. "Don't you know why?" she asked dully. "I think I know," he said. "All you wanted, at the end, was to die without giving them names. Rashid kept you alive. So they broke you. As they can break anyone if they have enough time. Anyone. That's why they finally let you go?" She put her face in her hands; her shoulder began to shake before he heard the sobs. She kept nodding. Bell came over and took her in his arms. "And you really blame yourself? " he asked in amazement. "You showed courage beyond anything I ever could imagine. Don't you realize that?" "I told them every name." "Fadime, did you ever wonder how they caught you in the first place? You told me 'they must have known my address.' Did you ask yourself how?" She frowned. He said, "Because you never wanted to ask yourself that, when your time came, you expected the impossible. You know," he added, "back in the old days, when an agent was taken by the KGB, we used to hope for at least a day to warn the people he knew. Sometimes, if an agent had a fertile imagination, we got a few days. These were agents we had trained for years in levels of revelation. You were a girl who just graduated from college." She said, dully, "They dropped what was left of me on a street somewhere, at night. It was a message to the others: We got what we wanted, you can't resist." Suddenly, her face jerked up, and she said, furiously, "I would have died. He took my hope—a doctor! Now, he's going back to Iraq!" Bell leaned back in the chair. As though musing, he said, "Well, the last I heard, he had been arrested at McCarran International Airport. FBI checked his passport. Turned out to be on the Interpol computer list of passports forged in Belgium. A very serious offense." She turned to him. "That's true? He's arrested?" "Well, I understand they searched his luggage. He was carrying a few ounces of cocaine. Exceptionally well hidden, if I do say so. He swore he had no idea where it came from—frantic. Unfortunately, he made things worse by trying to hand an agent a big bribe." He shook his head. "How can one guy get in so much trouble?" Fadime began to giggle, but quickly put a hand to her mouth. "What are you saying, Roland?" "If he ever gets to Iraq, after maximum security prison, here, how will they like his having been busted on a cocaine charge and blowing a bribe attempt? And then, I imagine he'll talk to us. The FBI, CIA, and National Security Agency all will want to have a turn. I don't know what he'll tell. We have more scruples than he does—to say the least. But then, I would guess he has much less courage than you do—to say the least." Like a tired child, Fadime leaned against him. She put her arms around him and rested her cheek on his shoulder. "And what have I done to myself?" "Well, you broke into my room. I think you're in trouble." She nodded against his shoulder. With a sign, she slipped her hand inside his shirt and slowly scratched his chest. "Maybe as they say here, you 'get off' on the idea of punishing me? Kurd girls expect that. What would you do to me?" "Jesus, I hate being a psychiatrist, "he muttered. "I have to answer that?" She murmured, her lips touching his ear. "You can do anything you want with me, you know. I won't cry out." "I will take advantage of that," he said sternly. "Ruthlessly. First, let me have those." He pointed at the pipe and the purse still in her hands. "I should recycle them." "All right," she said, "you do that, and I'll take a bath to be ready for my penalty. It isn't every day an innocent girl falls into the clutches of the CIA." Twenty minutes later, when Bell returned to the room, he heard only a dripping faucet and a soft, rhythmic buzzing. He pushed open the door of the bathroom and looked in. Thanks to the luxuriously long tub, her entire body, with the exception of two serene, brown atolls, was submerged in the warm water. With her head resting against the rear slope of the tub, several inches of long black hair floated over her bare shoulders. She snored softly but steadily, her mouth open slightly. With her chin pressed down against her chest, her lips pouted as though at some small disappointment. The scars on her breasts, legs, and belly, softened and distorted by the water, could have been the scrapes and bruises accumulated by a little girl on a busy summer day. Bell was tempted to put a folded towel under her head, but decided not to risk waking her. Instead, he offered up a brief, profane prayer—or perhaps it was meant as a grim threat—to whatever gods watch over us. And he closed the door.