Quidam

By David Leitner

Love, life, death, drugs, gain, loss, sex violence. This is a memoir of a strange life.

A young boy loses his family. He finds with an older woman at age 15 but loses her to a ghastly suicide two years later. Living a secret life of drugs and sexual debauchery, he finds love again. But, then he must learn to deal with the humiliation and dismissal by the great love of his life. Forced to travel to exotic and mundane places to commit horrible crimes for his country to protect the woman who destroyed him and keep his secrets and those of other women who treated him more kindly.

Like the Shadow, he knows what evil lies in a man's heart. He has felt it himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Leitner
• Release date: Jun 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458189592

David Leitner

David Leitner lives in Iowa with his wife and dog. He has two grown children. A practicing attorney in Iowa since 1979, he has vast experience in litigation, medical law, computer systems, and estate tax. David has lived in Iowa most of his adult life, having grown up on Long Island. His practice is centered around wealth management, protection and transfer. He is a certified Exit Planner, with extensive experience in assisting business owners move on to the next stage in lives while protecting their investment in their business. He is also a very experienced trial and appellate attorney, in areas ranging from injury to insurance and from commercial transactions to probate.

Book preview

Preface

Quidam. A term from French law. It refers to a person, known but unidentified. The term was popularized by the nineteenth-century Polish poet, Cyprian Norwood. Quidam is a stranger you know, or think you know. An anonymous passerby. It could be the man standing beside you on the subway platform. The woman sitting behind you in chemistry class. A snippet of a stranger’s conversation, only partially heard. The sound of music coming from a neighbor’s radio. It is someone not truly connected to your life except for the vagaries of random chance.

Quidam is a person in your social group, but not of your social group. The doppelganger of a friend. Someone you think you know, but only know by half. A person with a life wholly unknown to you. Your school chum that never seemed to be around at night or on weekends. Another identity altogether. The quiet and polite man who lives down the block who turns out to be a serial killer. The cold and nasty old man chasing children from his yard who serves meals at the homeless shelter.

Many people live secret lives out in the open. We only see one. We recognize the most obvious persona. A nameless, formless person we only think we know.

This is the story of such a man. Quidam. A man living two separate lives simultaneously. Not schizophrenic, but schizothymic. Not mentally ill, but troubled. Attractive and repulsive. Strong yet vulnerable. Flirtatious and shy. Bold and fearful. Forward and backward. Hard and sensitive. Powerful and weak. Self-assured and unconfident. Living in both the yin and yang. A life of contradictions, known to none. Quidam.

Chapter One

When I awoke, I was completely naked. I was securely bound, by leather straps, to an unpadded and uncomfortable chair. There was a strap at each wrist and ankle, around my knees and across my abdomen. My head was secured by a leather strap to a board attached to the back of the chair. I had an IV line in my arm, and there were electrode patches affixed to various parts of my body.

The room was dank, smelling of an old mustiness. It had been painted in bureaucratic green, with some peeling near the ceiling. Across the room from me, there was a small table with what looked like some sort of electronic control panel. The lights were low and there was no sound save for my own breathing. Totally disoriented, I soon realized I was not alone.

I am Ayanna. I am your friend. The voice, with an Eastern European accent, came from a woman. She was about five and half feet tall and appeared to be a decade or so younger than I. Mid-forties. She wore tight black pants and a tight, long sleeved, black shirt that zippered up the front. Her soft fragrance was reminiscent of a mountain spring with faint hints of lavender. Very clean and fresh. Ayanna had a very athletic build and short hair, obviously died blond. She had dark, deep-set eyes and did not smile. The overall impression was that of a very attractive, aging dominatrix.

If you were really my friend, I would not be the only one naked, I said, in my usual, smart-aleck way.

I am your friend. I am your only friend, she replied. Seeing that my eyes were giving her the once-over, she said If you want to see more, you will tell me what I want to know.

Where am I, and who are you?

I am Ayanna and I am your friend. Your only friend. Your only hope. As for where you are, you are here. In this room with your friend, Ayanna, came her reply.

She had a soothing, somewhat husky voice. It was apparent that she and I were not of long acquaintance. She certainly was no friend. Still disoriented, I foolishly engaged in further conversation with her.

What day is it? I asked.

It is Monday morning. You have somewhere to go, perhaps? was her snide reply.

We could do it right here, if you removed these straps. Or we could go to your place. It is up to you, but I would prefer we left this place, I said.

Perhaps if you tell me what I want to know, we could become better acquainted, was her teasing response.

I am tired, and this chair is not comfortable. The front half of the seat is missing, and these straps are too tight. And what is with these electrodes and IV? Are you a doctor? I asked.

I am your friend, Ayanna. That is all. You will rest now, she said as she injected something into the IV line. I quickly drifted off to unconsciousness. Several hours later I awoke, and Ayanna and I had essentially the same conversation. This cycle repeated three or four times.

Eventually, I came to and Ayanna was there, still dressed the same. My friend. We must talk. I like you, but the people I work for do not. They are pressing me to press you. I would like to press against you, but that will have to wait, she said breathily, her mouth about one centimeter from my ear.

I know you. You are my friend, Ayanna, but I do not know where I am or what day it is. Please help me with that information.

It is Wednesday. You are in the basement of this building. Naked and alone with me. Your friend, Ayanna. Do you not find it exciting? As she said this she took hold of my scrotum and squeezed gently.

Very nice. I like that. I would be happy to return the favor, I wisecracked. Her response was to squeeze, and not gently.

Releasing her grip, she said, Let us get down to business, my friend. I want to know why you killed Rustem.

I do not know what you are talking about, Ayanna. I didn’t kill anyone. And who is Rustem?

Rustem was my friend. You followed him and killed him. Please to tell me why. Things will be far more pleasant for both of us if you tell me what I want to know, she replied.

I am sorry you lost your friend. But I did not kill him. I have never heard of anyone named Rustem. And what is this place? Are we in Lubyanka? I responded.

Lubyanka was the infamous home of the KGB, now called the FSB. In Moscow, where they perfected the art of torture. Given the setup and Ayanna’s accent, this seemed a likely spot for this scenario to be playing out.

I am Ayanna. I am your friend. Your only friend. You will tell me what I want to know. Then we can move on to more pleasant pursuits, no? she whispered into my ear. Then she injected something into the IV, and I was quickly out.

When I awoke this time, I was still alone with my new best friend, Ayanna. It seemed likely that another day had passed, but she was still wearing the same outfit. And I was still naked, strapped to the chair. While I was out, I had peed on myself.

Here, let me help you. I am your friend Ayanna, and you do not have to sit in your own waste. She said this as she poured icy water on my crotch, rinsing off the partially dried urine.

That did not feel very good, Ayanna. Perhaps you can warm me up with your lovely hands, I said to her. In response, she cupped my testicles in her right hand, her skin warming them. Then she started to squeeze. She had warm, soft hands, but a worker’s grip. And it was not a pleasant sensation.

I could rip these from your body at any time, you know. But I would rather not, was all she said. She shook her head as she let go of me, sneering.

Another bolus of whatever she was drugging me with and I was out again. When I finally awoke I was still strapped into that chair, but my friend, Ayanna, was not there. I sat alone for what seemed like hours but was probably no more than forty-five minutes.

Then my friend returned. She was still wearing the same outfit that she had on when I first saw her. Though this seemed odd, I understood that she wanted me to have only one image of her, lest I become confused, in my drug-addled state, and begin to think that I had more than one friend.

Hello, my friend. It is Ayanna. Did you sleep well?

I’m not sure I would call it sleep, but it was uneventful. How long have I been here in Lubyanka? I queried, not quite fully past the stupor caused by whatever drug she was giving me.

How long do you think? No more than a week. I have not said that we are in that place. What does it matter, anyway? We are here, together. Two friends having a chat. I want you to do something for me, my friend, she replied.

I can do very little for you in this chair. If you would release me, then we could go to your place and I can do many things for you, I offered.

Shaking her head slowly from side to side, she turned a few knobs on her control panel. The pain began instantly. Enough current was flowing through the electrodes pasted on my body to make my muscles contract and spasm - extremely painful involuntary, movements, limited by the leather straps. And the electrodes attached to my genitals induced a pain not readily described. I knew that, since no serious damage was being inflicted, the electricity could be left on for quite some time.

I will be back in a few hours, my friend. Perhaps then you will tell me what I want to know, she said as she left the room. She did not turn off the current, however.

I was left to sit in agony for far longer than I thought I could take it. My thoughts were still disjointed due to the pain, the drugs, the hunger and dehydration. There was obviously some nutrient in the IV bottle, which was set to drip very slowly.

I was not so much hungry as empty. I had not eaten, or had anything to drink, for at least a week. My mouth was so dry, I could barely talk. With the dehydration, my kidneys were not producing much urine. That, at least, had me peeing on myself less often, sparing me the ice-water crotch flushes.

Ayanna came back into the room after about two hours and turned off the current. You rest now, my friend. Talk to your pain. When I return, perhaps it will have convinced you to tell me what I want to know. My superiors are becoming impatient with me. I am your friend. But I cannot help you unless you help me, she said as she left the room, current still off.

Several hours later Ayanna came back. Having neither seen nor spoken with anyone else for at least a week, her company was welcome. Even though she obviously wanted me to tell her something I knew I should not. But she was my friend. My only friend. Having been subject to her torture for this long, I longed for her company. Although I knew she was not really my friend, I was so alone that I wanted to trust her.

By now the drugs she had been pumping into me were wearing off. I started to remember my training and the times I had been tortured before. I recognized that my desire to see Ayanna, my tormenter, was the beginning of Stockholm syndrome, where the tortured captive craves the attention of the tormenter.

Are you ready to tell me what I want to know, my friend? I can reward you as well as punish you, you know. I would very much like to provide you pleasure, but you must first help me. Would you like to help your friend, Ayanna? I can provide some delectation in exchange. Would you like that? she asked me.

I would like to help you, Ayanna, and you to help me as well. What do you want me to do that I can do while attached to this contraption? I retorted.

It is not a difficult thing. I want you to tell me a story. A true story. Any true story. Not about you, but about someone else you know. You choose.

As she started the electricity flowing at a low rate, not enough to cause pain but enough to be quite uncomfortable, she said, Go ahead, my friend. Tell Ayanna a story.

I thought about it for a few moments, then I told her about Alan Oresky. After I told her about him and how his mother died, Ayanna said, A good story, my friend. Was it so hard to tell your friend Ayanna a story? I will turn off the current now. And she did.

I know you have been admiring my figure. As meed for your story I will show you something you want to see, she said, as she unzipped her shirt about five inches. I could see her cleavage. Lovely sight, but not under these circumstances. She again held my genitals in her warm, soft hands and said, I see you are enjoying the show, my friend. If you continue to cooperate, there is more. Then she injected a drug into my IV, and I was out like a light.

When I came to, I was again alone. I was disappointed that my friend Ayanna was not there for me. There I sat, alone in that torture chamber, naked, urine drying on my crotch, secured in this chair of Procrustes. As I became cogent, I started to remember the details of my training.

I had violated the first rule of resisting torture. I had engaged the inquisitor. Talking to one who is torturing you gives them three advantages. First, it gives them an opportunity to develop rapport with you. I had begun to think of Ayanna as my friend, although she clearly was not.

Second, you reveal information about yourself that will be used against you. I had let Ayanna know that I found her attractive and that I liked it when she held my genitals in her warm, soft hands. That gave her power.

The third bad result of engaging a torturer is that you will inadvertently reveal some of the information sought. While my instructor, so many years ago, cautioned me that everyone breaks eventually, by talking you start revealing information without even realizing it. This subconsciously, keeps your connection with another human being open. And while being tortured, you will always want to have another person with whom to engage. Torture is a very lonely, soul-emptying experience.

As when I had been previously tortured, I was able to follow my training. To resist torture you must disengage from the inquisitor and climb back into some deep, dark recess in your own mind. The longer you can live in the imaginary world, the longer you can resist the pain and the loneliness.

Ayanna was not my friend. I resolved fully to resist this modern-day Torquemada, even though I knew I would eventually give in. Everyone eventually does, telling the torturer everything she wants to know and everything the victim thinks she wants to hear. Those who do not break soon enough eventually become locked in their illusion and spend the remainder of their days in a psychotic hallucination. Or the torturer kills them. There are no other outcomes.

Ayanna eventually returned. As I heard the door to my private little hell opening, I steeled myself to resist further cooperation. Staring vacantly in the middle distance, I crawled back inside my head to find an image in which I could live. Everyone has some repressed fantasy life they can occasionally escape into to relieve stress. At this time the chimerical world I created in my mind was a Star Trek, Captain Kirk fantasy involving green Orion slave women. I imagined myself traveling from world to world, meeting new creatures and learning new things. Not especially original but pain-free.

The trick to maintaining sanity is not to escape so fully into that world that you cannot return at will. Most people call this dreaming, and it can be quite an effective pressure release, whether done while asleep or during the waking hours. My goal, in these odd and dangerous circumstances, however, was to escape completely, so that I would not feel the pain.

Ayanna was still wearing the same outfit. Clearly she had several copies. Her scent was as clean and alluring as on our first encounter. So she had bathed and changed her clothes, although I was still strapped naked into this chair, wetting myself and smelling like a used, unwashed jock strap.

Ayanna had the zipper pulled down to expose her enticing cleavage. Her presence was more distracting than I expected. She was extremely attractive. She was my friend. And she was another human being, one who could end this horror. It was hard to immerse myself fully in the dream state.

Seeing that I was nonresponsive, ignoring her presence, Ayanna became angry. She zipped up her shirt and raised her voice. No more show for you, unless you cooperate. I am your friend and I will continue to reward you for cooperation. You will tell me another story.

I did not respond. After all, I was not in the torture chamber, I was in space, exploring with my imaginary crew. I heard Ayanna through the imaginary starship’s communication system. When she stormed out of the room, she turned up the electricity higher than before and said, One way or another, you will cooperate with your friend Ayanna.

After hours of agony, I began to lose focus on the imaginary world to which I had retreated. I wanted desperately for the pain to stop. That would require cooperation, and I was willing to give it. Shortly after I came to this realization, my friend Ayanna reappeared and turned off the pain. She injected me with the drug. It was either a lower dosage or my body had begun to develop a tolerance for this stupefacient, for this time I did not fall asleep.

Relax, comrade. Your friend Ayanna is here. You remember me, no?

Yes, I remember you. You are my friend, Ayanna. What do you wish for me to do?

I want you to tell me a story. A true story. Tell me of your childhood, your father. I want to get to know you better, more intimately, was her enticing response. I agreed to do so, and over the next several days I told Ayanna the story of my youth. By the time I was finally done, the pain had gone away, and I was permitted to sleep, upright, in that damned chair.

When I came to, Ayanna came back into the room. Still wearing an identical outfit, she had her shirt zipper pulled alluringly down to the bottom of her sternum. She whispered into my ear, as I was still strapped, naked, into that chair. I liked that story. I can reward you for cooperating with me. I will have you moved to another room, with no chair. You will be able to stand up and walk around. Your muscles must be getting very sore, sitting immobile for this long. I am your friend, and such things are what friends do for one another, yes? But first you sleep, she said, as she injected more drugs into the IV line.

When I awoke this time, I was in a different room. This chamber, about three meters square, was also painted that awful shade of green. There was no furniture, only a drain hole in the corner. I was still naked, lying on the cold floor. Upon considerable effort and after some time, I could stand. As the hours passed, I was able to walk around the room and stretch out. The absence of the IV line and the electrodes were positive signs. I longed to see my friend Ayanna and thank her for her beneficence.

I was standing when Ayanna came into the room through the steel door. She hugged me, saying, You see, your friend Ayanna was true to her word. This room is much better than the last, no?

Ayanna, please let me go. I want to go home, I pleaded with her.

In time, perhaps my superiors will release you. I only have so much influence in this place. If you continue to cooperate, however, things will get better for you. Perhaps some clothes and a solid meal. We will see. At least now you can pee in that drain, and not soil yourself. Here, I brought you this, she said, giving me a paper cup with warm water in it.

The wonderful sensation of something so simple and basic as drinking water from a paper cup can be so humanizing. And now I could even pee like a man, standing up. I was becoming very hopeful that my friend, Ayanna, would soon release me. Nothing else much mattered to me at that point, so I was eager to cooperate with her next request.

You had been in love when you were young, have you not, my friend, she asked, with a feigned interest that I was eager to accept as sincere.

Yes, I have, Ayanna. A few times, was my response.

Tell your friend Ayanna about your first love. What was her name? she probed.

Her name was Valerie, came the response.

Interesting, where I come from, Valery is a boy’s name. But this was not a boy, am I right? she chided.

No, she was not. Valerie was all woman.

Was she pretty? Prettier than me? was Ayanna’s surprise follow up.

Yes, she was very pretty. She was taller than you. Same body type, but she had blue eyes and her blonde hair was natural. And she smiled a lot, was my response.

Tell me of her, my friend was her instruction. So I did. I told her the whole, odd story of Valerie, How we began and how we ended. When I was finished, Ayanna gave me a pill to swallow and some water. She said it would help me sleep. And it did.

This time I awoke wearing sweat pants, a tee shirt and plastic sandals. Things were looking up. I was hopeful that, whoever my captors were, they would soon let Ayanna release me. And I wanted so badly to please my friend Ayanna. I would tell her another story if she wanted. I would do almost anything she wanted. I knew I had been broken. She had yet to return to the question she originally asked, about this Rustem character. I resolved to try not to answer such questions, but I knew, deep down, that I would.

Ayanna returned with an ordinary wood chair and she sat in it. She told me I could sit in it if I wanted, but she was curious about something she had gleaned from the stories I had told her. When you were young, you experimented with drugs, no? It was common for your generation of Americans, was it not?

Yes, my youth was largely spent in a drug induced, sex addled, search for meaning and happiness, I told her.

Tell me all about it, my friend, Ayanna instructed. And I complied, over the next few hours. After I told her this story, I was again given a pill and some water with which to take it.

When I came to, Ayanna was there, still dressed in her provocative black outfit, large amounts of cleavage still showing. She had a paper, grocery store sized bag