Stamp of Sale

© 2000 All Rights Reserved........By Margaret Karmazin

When he first appeared, Veronica was struck with one of her migraines, deep in her forehead as usual, seeming to pull her downward into some kind of lower region of gray misery. The pain hit at the same time as her realization that what she was looking at was not a normal thing.

Here she was in her bathroom, trying to make some attempt at presenting a decent appearance in order to bag this job as office manager for a small cardboard box manufacturer; trying in vain to put some style into her limp light brown hair. She was wearing her only suit, an olive green V-necked affair that she'd cinched in with a narrow leather belt, but the whole ensemble only helped her resemble a stereotypical spinsterish, middle-aged librarian with a cantankerous aging mother at home who demanded all her energy. This was not entirely the case, but this was how she looked. She was just wondering what plastic surgery could possibly do and why all the good-looking genes in her family had gone to her brother when she heard a small rustle behind her and glanced behind her in the mirror to see its source.

An odd person stood there. Veronica experienced such a feeling of high strangeness that at first she did not react. Then, with heart in throat, she whirled around to face the visitor.

"Hello, dear," said the being. "Just happened to be passing through and thought I'd drop in. Your so obvious frustration with your looks is quite a pull." He (?) spoke in an ironic, facetious manner - "camp" might be the word.

She took a good look. "He" was of average height, maybe five foot six, and slim though round of limb. There was no way to tell exactly whether the person was male or female; it appeared exactly in between. The skin was finely pored, of a fine peachy hue and very smooth. No sign of whiskers. The eyes were widely spaced and heavily lidded and of a very dark brown. There was a smart-ass set to the mouth, which was a bit too red and wet looking. The hair was golden brown and tousled. The being was dressed in a jump suit of brown velvet, belted at the waist with gold leather, a very strange ensemble. Around the whole person there seemed to be a strange electric field, although this was more sensed than seen. Veronica was frightened.

"Now, Veronica, don't be a scaredy-cat. Actually, you know me quite well. Everyone knows me. Well, I suppose to be completely accurate, I'd have to say there are a very few who don't but this is such a tiny amount in the entire universe that it's hardly worth mentioning. Let's just put it this way, I am about as famous as you can get."

Veronica squinted. "Um, are you a rock star or something? I'm not too up on modern music."

The visitor laughed so hard, he had to slap his knee. "Honey, you're priceless! Rock star! Well, maybe that isn't such a bad guess actually. Um, listen. I've come to offer you a deal."

"A deal?" What was this? She didn't have a lot of time to get to the interview and besides, she was beginning to feel panic. Was this weirdo going to rape her? Kill her? What?

"Don't think it's gone unnoticed how much you've suffered over your, shall we say, unfortunate physical appearance? It's been noted, believe me. So unfair too. I mean your mother was quite a stunner in her day with that long auburn hair and huge amber eyes. Had, if I remember correctly, seven offers of marriage! And your father was no slouch either. Big quarterback on the college team, not tall but nice little build, hair like wheat, eyes so blue they glinted like ice in the sunlight. You probably don't know this but he sowed his wild oats all over the place and this very day in two major cities, which I won't mention, siblings unknown to you are going about their unimportant little lives. But I digress."

Veronica was growing angry and exhausted from being frightened out of her wits. "What do you want? If you're here to rape and murder me, let's just get it over with. Otherwise, I have an interview to get to."

"My, my," said the stranger, moving slightly closer. "Feisty, aren't we? Honey, while I find rape quiet delicious, I do have a schedule to adhere to. Maybe sometime later we can do the rape thing."

At this point, Veronica's fear resurfaced and gained over her anger. She backed away and whimpered slightly. Her head was thumping most hideously. The stranger laughed. "How much more delicious your fear would be if you happened to be beautiful. However, as you are now, it's merely mildly interesting. The thing is, Child, I've stopped by to offer you a chance to get some enjoyment out of your pathetic little life while you still have some time. I mean you're thirty-five years old, the only sexual experience you've had was with that fumbling moron, Ed Gainer, in your sophomore year of college, and your hair is beginning to thin out. You're entering premature menopause and you're drying up, honey. I see nothing ahead for you but endless years wiping your bedridden mother's ass and hauling overdue books back to the library. Am I not correct in my assessment, Ronny, old girl?"

Veronica was stunned. For a moment she lost her voice but when she found it, said, "How do you know about Ed Gainer? And the hair thing?" He laughed. "The hair thing is obvious, honey, but the Ed thing? Well, I'm in a position to know just about everything. You still don't know who I am, do you?"

She looked at him good now. Could she know him from somewhere? He seemed vaguely familiar though she couldn't figure out how. Definitely, he did not appear to be from around her neighborhood. Although she was far from any kind of clothing expert and didn't have experience with high-class hair salons, she could tell in a glance that his apparel was extremely expensive and his hair cut by an expert. His grooming and style were exquisite. No one in Meyerstown ever looked like that, yet somehow...

"I'll put an end to your brain racking. Why don't you sit down, dear? Just flip that toilet lid down and take a seat. Good. Now, even though you've not been brought up in church dogma, I'm certain you've heard of the Devil? Of Satan, Beelzebub, Old Scratch, Lucifer, the Prince of Darkness? Dig in there, honey, and it'll come back to mind."

She eyed him with more than suspicion. An insane, meglo-maniac rapist was certainly worse than a regular one. "Uh huh," she said.

"No, really. I know you'll find it difficult to accept my reality but let me just save you time and effort and make it easy for you." And with that, he waved his hand and before her very eyes produced a soft little mewing kitten. It was in her lap and she could certainly feel the weight of it as it squirmed about. Kittens were her passion; she found them irresistible, and this one was especially so - her favorite kind, a gray tabby.

"Oh my," she said, reaching for it while simultaneously frightened out of her wits.

"A little darling, isn't it?" said the stranger. "Too bad you can't keep it." And he snapped his fingers in the air to make the little cat disappear.

Suddenly her lap was glaringly empty. She looked at him with her mouth agape.

"Amazing, isn't it?" said the visitor. "You have to have a great deal of power to make a thing like that happen, don't you?"

She stuttered, "M-maybe it's stage magic."

"Yeah, right, honey," he chuckled. "Let's try this one then. Still got that headache?"

She nodded weakly.

A wave of the stranger's hand and it was gone.

She gasped while her hand flew to her forehead.

"Yep," he said. "All cleared up. Feels damned good, doesn't it? Am I getting to you yet?"

This was all more than she could digest. "Who are you?" she whispered.

"I told you, Sweetie, but you weren't listening! I am Leader of the Dark Forces, King of the Shit! Lovey-Dove, I'm Satan himself."

There was a long silence. She licked her dry lips.

"Not very talkative, are you?" he asked, appearing somewhat annoyed. "It doesn't matter. I'm sure you'll learn to be more expressive in the end.

Anyway, I suppose you're wondering why I've barged in on you like this. Probably no one ever has, considering your, ahem, lack of charms."

She was still speechless.

He sighed. "You could show a bit more enthusiasm. Well, my lollipop, I've come to offer you the deal of the century. An offer you won't refuse, a deal only an idiot would pass by. And while I know your IQ is only 112, you still squeak by into the brighter than average slot. So what say you, Buttercup? Wanna hear the terms?"

It seemed as if a glaze fell over Veronica's eyes, which she blinked, to try and clear away.

"Having trouble with the ole blinkers, Ronny? Don't pick up your remote control, it's not your TV. Honey, all I want is your itty-bitty soul. You don't even believe in souls, so what does it matter to you? You've said to anyone who brought up the subject that people just die and that's that. A pile of wormy dirt inside a rotting box six feet down. So there's nothing for you to lose. Just go along with it and sign that nonexistent thing over to yours truly and in exchange I'll make your life the one you truly deserve - one of great physical beauty and all the privileges that beauty brings! Honey, you'll hobnob with the rich and famous, your face will grace magazine covers and powerful, successful men will caress your body and adorn it with jewels. Anywhere you wish to go on the globe and someone will take you there. Twenty years of pleasure I offer you in exchange for something you say does not exist. What do you have to lose?" He made a great flourish with his delicate hand.

It felt to Veronica as if a powerful force were pulling on every atom in her body, as if she were being sucked into the floor. She tried to clear her head but neither movement nor deep breathing took away the sinking sensation. With her mind in a frenzy, she tried to come up with a satisfactory explanation for the presence of this being. She did not believe in the Devil. Her family was not religious or spiritual. She did believe in UFOs and the presence of aliens on the earth. Perhaps that was what this being, this thing, really was. Perhaps she was being tested or watched like a scientist observes insects in a lab. Tested for her reaction time, her creativity under stress; whatever, she didn't know. She did know she wanted this to be over, wanted to be by herself again and get on with her normal life, unsavory as that was. But when she tried to speak, her breath was short.

"Awwww," said the stranger. "Feeling a touch of asthma? There, there, now take a deep breath."

She did; she could breathe.

"Now, what's your answer, Dew on the Rose? Do I have what I want in exchange for a life of glamour? What? Out with it, child!"

Getting rid of him was the only thing in her mind. "Yes, yes, I don't give a crap. Just get out and don't come back! Leave me alone, for crying out loud!"

The stranger smiled so widely, it seemed his face might split. He was positively radiant. "I am overwhelmed," he said, placing a lily hand upon his small chest. "Positively overwhelmed. And I will get out of your way, my dear, just as you've demanded. However I'm afraid I'll be back in twenty years to collect my due, so you'll see me then. But in between, I'll try not to bother you unless I simply can't resist. A deal is a deal and I'm certainly fair." Suddenly his hand shot out and his finger touched her in the center of her forehead. She felt a jolt pass through her entire body and down into the earth.

"I have placed my mark upon you and identified you as mine. Only you and I will see this mark; it is invisible to everyone else. Now enjoy, my child, for much awaits you." And he backed away into the corner of the bathroom by the door.

She started to rise, but he spoke once more. "I would advise you to leave town," he said. "Before the change is complete or there might be trouble. Pack your things and leave tonight."

"What about my mother?"

"Since you've changed the future, she'll be dead soon, so what does it matter?" he said. "Leave tonight." And with that, he vanished.

For some time after he'd gone, Veronica stared into the mirror. There was a slight odor of ozone in the air. It was if she were frozen in time but seemed helpless to move; though she understood she was going to be late to the job interview. But as the minutes ticked by, she began to doubt she would bother. It crossed her mind that she might need to make an appointment with a neurologist or perhaps a psychiatrist since she didn't for a minute believe she had actually been speaking with Satan.

But what was that on her forehead? When she leaned closer to the mirror, she saw it was a smudge of soot but when she ran a little water to wipe it off, it wouldn't budge. Growing alarmed, she rubbed it with soap and still it would not disappear. Now fear punched her in the stomach. It seemed as if reality were being split in two. What had that creepy person said about the mark on her head?

Then she remembered. Could there be anything to this? If this was some kind of test aliens were putting her through, how far would they take it? They wouldn't be able to actually change her looks, would they?

Speaking of looks, she was suddenly startled. Was she imagining it or did her jaw line seem to be firmer? She bent close to the mirror and squinted. That red blotch she had on her cheek seemed to be fainter in color. She backed away and then looked again and could have sworn her breasts were slightly higher. And her hair seemed to be thicker, blonder and glossier. She jerked back so suddenly that she knocked over a bottle of shampoo which luckily fell into the sink where it glugged down the drain. But glass was all over the counter. By the time she cleaned it up with wet tissues, she noticed another change in the mirror. Her once long rather hooked nose seemed shorter and perkier, her chin smaller and eyes oddly larger. My God, something was definitely happening! What was going on?

What if that creep had really been some kind of demon? Was it possible actual demons existed? If she stretched it farther and he was some kind of head demon with the power to do things like change people, then had she actually made a bargain with him? Actually sold him her soul? She'd never believed that souls actually existed, but if this change was happening right before her eyes, didn't that mean she had transacted something?

Now she was frightened. What if she had sold her soul to the Devil? Surely that had not been any kind of fair transaction. It had happened so fast, she hadn't had any time to think. How could something so unfair be lawful on earth or anywhere else? Frantically, she remembered the usual three-day rule where you were allowed that amount of time to change your mind and bow out of any deal. That might apply here, she thought, and decided she would make an appeal and perhaps this "devil" would return so she could tell him she wanted out.

But then she stood up and happened to look in the mirror and what she saw made her gasp. My God! In only a short time - how long had it been since he'd left? - she had altered so much that she hardly recognized herself. It was utterly incredible!

"Veronica!" her mother suddenly yelled from her bed in the dining room downstairs. They had recently turned the room into a bedroom. "I have to go to the bathroom!"

What was she supposed to do now? In only a matter of half an hour or less, she'd altered so much her own mother might have difficulty recognizing her. In some ways she still looked like herself but in some incredibly improved version, like a beautiful sister or cousin. How could she possibly go downstairs and what would she say to her mother? By the second she was altering and now she understood what the visitor meant when he told her to get out that very night.

"Veronica! Where are you?" whined the voice from downstairs.

She made up her mind in a second, then whirled into her bedroom to throw her belongings into a cloth suitcase. Make-up, three good outfits, her best shoes, a book, zipdisks containing her files, her high school yearbook, some jewelry, gloves and a jacket. She dropped the suitcase out the window and heard it land in the bushes below. Into her shoulder back, she stuffed her bankbook and credit cards. Dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck, she climbed out the window at the end of the upstairs hallway onto the roof, which slanted down towards a hill against which the house was built. It was only a five-foot drop at one point and this she made with relative ease. In a moment, she had her suitcase in hand and was sprinting towards town and the bus stop.

Her sister-in-law sounded quite put out when Veronica telephoned her from Philadelphia a few hours later. "What do you mean you're in New York?" Sharon demanded in her shrill tone. Veronica had thought it best to lie about where she really was, then remembered her brother and wife had caller ID.

"Actually, I had to go out of town suddenly," she told Sharon. "Sorry to put you out. But you and Frank are going to have to take care of Mom now. I'm going away for a while."

"What?" yelled Sharon. "What?"

"Sorry," said Veronica and slammed the receiver down. She didn't feel the least bit guilty after taking care of her sickly mother for the past eight years. Not the least bit ashamed. It was her brother's turn. She did feel uncomfortable at not having said goodbye to her mother, but eventually she'd get back in touch and straighten things out. She just needed to make up a story about how she came to look like this, plastic surgery or something, some miracle drug, whatever. Just needed time to get her story straight.

But now she was barely recognizable as Veronica Baird. Not even her mother would know her. She'd grown two inches in height, dropped fifteen pounds, lost 8 inches around her waist, 3 around the hips and gained five around her breasts. Her neck had elongated and was swanlike, her skin now flawless and fine-pored, her hair lustrous and long and like thick satin around her shoulders. Her once dull brown eyes were now violet surrounded by clear whites and a thick fringe of lashes. Their lids were a soft lavender without the need for any makeup. When Veronica moved, she looked like a trained dancer. When she spoke, her voice flowed from her throat like molasses. When she glanced into anyone's eyes, they thought only of wanting her, of throwing themselves at her feet. She did not yet know this but was soon to find out.

She walked out of the bus station and waited for a taxi. Instantly, a vehicle pulled to the curb, totally ignoring other people who had been waiting for varying amounts of time. An old couple, the woman on a walker, was evidently invisible while Veronica merited this immediate pullover. But then she realized this was not a cab, it was a limousine. The driver got out to greet her.

"My employer wishes to give you a ride wherever you desire to go, Miss," he said.

"Who's your employer?" she asked.

"Mr. Miles Sloan," he replied, but the name meant nothing to Veronica.

She climbed in however, while the drive took her bag, and while they drove, learned that her protector was CEO of a company whose name sounded vaguely familiar, that his family lived on the Main Line but his office was in Washington. After dinner and drinks at an exquisite little French restaurant, Miles offered her an apartment in Virginia and eighty thousand dollars for a year of her "companionship." Why not, she thought. She, who'd never been asked to the prom - well now this made up for it, didn't it?

There were times, during the months that followed, when she had terrible moments of realizing what she'd done. That the magical changes she'd seen in her life were proof that there was indeed a Devil and, following logically, that humans had souls. That these souls were for some unknown reason valuable and that she, Veronica Baird, had handed hers over to the King of Hell. The full realization of this would come stabbing her heart in the night and then this heart would race until she was in a cold sweat of terror.

But after a while a numbness fell over her and it began to seem not so terrible. Surely her strange visitor had not been all that bad, not really grotesque or anything. He did seem to have some fun in him, a bit of the devil, as they say and humor was very important. She would then snap out of it, rise and pour herself a drink of port or vermouth, wines that somehow comforted her. She began to smoke too and indulged all she wanted since no matter what she did to her body, it had no effect on her looks. She could, for that matter, eat all she wanted of any kind of treat or junk food and never gain or lose an ounce. If she partied all night, she recovered with a few hours of sleep and looked as dewy as ever. Indeed, it seemed as if she continued to improve. And people did notice.

"I am afraid I'll not be able to hold onto you for long," Miles told her one night as they dined in her apartment. When in town, he often stayed at her place and how could she refuse him since he was footing the bills? But when she knew he was going to be away, she entertained other men and reaped the financial benefits.

"Why is that?" she asked, not really caring what the answer would be. Both he and she understood their arrangement was only temporary.

"Someone has been asking about you and I can't put him off forever."

She fixed him with her sly, mesmerizing eyes. "And who would that be, Cherie?"

Miles chuckled and sipped from his wineglass. When he set it back down, he said, "The President. I've been told in no uncertain terms that he wants to enjoy a night with you. It goes without saying that he has many contacts who might interest you. I would hardly hold you back, Veronica."

She figured Miles was tired of her, but what did it matter? She was only using him to get her foot on the ground anyway. "Set it up then, Miles," she told him and did not notice the expression on his face.

Within a week, she was picked up by an ordinary dark sedan and driven to an estate in a wooded area with which she was unfamiliar. Secret servicemen led her into a large bedroom suite, then posted themselves outside the door. She found her host seated in front of the fire, a brandy glass in hand.

"May I offer you some?" he asked, smiling and nodding slightly at his glass.

"Mr. President!" Veronica said, actually awed, but he quickly put her at her ease by rising from his chair to pour her a drink and handing it to her as he motioned to the overstuffed chintz chair opposite his own.

"Relax," he said, chuckling. "As they say, I put my pants on one leg at a time."

She smiled then, remembering why she was there, and replied, "Well, let's see if you take them off the same way."

And after that, they did very little talking at all.

The President was as good as his word and soon she was established with the Ford modeling agency in New York. They'd rushed to get everything ready for her, calling in the current top photographers to create her portfolio, and then set her up with shoots in Rio, Tahiti, New Zealand and Madrid. Of course she managed to get in side trips to Paris, London and Amsterdam where she enjoyed hedonistic exploits and excellent drugs. The other models hated her for her strange ability to down seven course dinners, chain smoke and drink men under the table without the slightest lessening of her stunning beauty. Many of them were anorexic and held down their nerves with cigarettes and drugs too, but the effects were soon obvious. Some were burned out by their early twenties. No one really knew how old Veronica was. No one would have believed it if they did.

She was having breakfast on her hotel terrace on St. Martin when she heard the news about Miles Sloan. The morning papers described his suicide at his estate in the Poconos. Five months passed before she learned that his wife had left him during the time Veronica was under his financial protection and that Miles had been terminally ill all that time. Miles' former aide explained all this to her during an accidental meeting in the Atlanta airport.

Perhaps I should have stayed with him a while longer, she told herself, but then dropped it. What was the point? He'd been close to death anyway. And as for his wife, how could Veronica be held responsible? It was Mile's choice to take her on as his mistress. If not her, it would have been someone else.

She knew also that her mother was dead. Once she had telephoned her brother's house and Sharon answered. Sharon always answered since Frank was usually out working. Her sister-in-law had sounded whiny as usual.

"Sometimes I'm at my wits end," she said. "We've taken Mom into our house because it's impossible to run over there all the time. I had to take a leave of absence since Frank brings in more money than I do. We'd never make it on my salary if he stayed home to watch her and we can't afford a nursing home."

Veronica was cold. "Well, I certainly had my turn at it. No one cared when I had no life, did they?"

But then Sharon had said something odd for her. "Well, it won't be long now; Dr. Wagner says maybe a month or less. I've sort of gotten to know Mom. I thought she didn't like me, but I was wrong. It's just the discomfort she's always in that makes her so irritable. The hospice people have her on morphine now and it takes the edge off. She's able to have a moment now and then of being her real self. We kind of like each other."

"Look, I have to go," broke in Veronica. It felt odd to be the outsider when Sharon had always filled that role. But then she remembered her years of resentment and felt herself closing off what little sentiment she had. "Good luck," she said sardonically and hung up.

That was months ago, maybe a year or more and Veronica didn't see any point in calling again. She'd never felt close to her brother; for that matter he'd never made much effort to be friendly with her. Life moved on. You could choose your friends, which was more than you could say about family.

By now, Veronica was one of the world's top models and when not traveling on shoots, spent most of her time in London. Dukes and princes sent her gifts and lay in her bed. But it was a practically penniless British earl who satisfied her physical yearnings. Tony Marsden was shiftless and not all that bright but he knew how to use all of his body parts in astounding ways and for the times she was in bed with him, sent Veronica into a state of blissful oblivion. And she needed more and more of those moments in order to escape her relentless underlying anxiety.

Unfortunately, to keep the earl properly interested, Veronica needed more money. Tony liked betting on horses, playing an expensive form of bridge and custom made Italian suits. There were many bored aristocratic wives who would also enjoy having their needs met and who had more money to encourage such acquiescence in a man. While Veronica certainly made quite a nice bit herself, she tended to spend it and had not bothered to make any serious investments.

Therefore she set about obtaining more by encouraging her other male companions to become intoxicated by one means or another until they were more forthcoming with financial information and gifts. One of these occasional companions was an American of Russian descent, a recent immigrant to the United States who made frequent visits to London. Victor was dark with a permanent scowl and blue black beard shadow. His eyes were deep blue but appeared black in their intensity.

"You say you want to make some money?" he asked in his lowdown quiet way, his accent thick and rather sexy. When she nodded, he said, "We need a representative here in London. Someone who's not afraid to apply a little pressure when payment on loans is not forthcoming."

"Pressure?" she asked.

He leaned forward and explained. There was a pause while Veronica considered, but then she said, "No problem," and the matter was settled.

It wasn't easy work. Out of the blue, when she least expected it, someone would telephone and tell her what to do. The excursions always took place at night and some in very seedy places, but usually there was little chance of being caught. Only once had she had to run for it, badly scraping her leg and spraining her wrist in the process. Most of the time she only had to shoot someone in the back of the head and with her catlike grace this had not proven difficult. One time though, she'd had to kill a woman who looked uncannily like Veronica's mother. Only this one had given her the shakes, but with the help of some Valium and a session with Tony, she'd gotten over it.

Over the years, she grew more beautiful. "Are you sure you haven't had plastic surgery," she'd be asked in interviews and when she replied in the negative, no one believed her. By now her contemporaries had had liposuction, skin sanding and various body parts lifted, but for Veronica none of this was necessary. She was used to her good fortune and took it for granted. But the fact that she didn't seem to age was beginning to present a problem.

She was in bed late one morning when she cavalierly called on the Devil. "You got me into this, now what the hell do I do about staying twenty-five years old year after year?"

She'd half expected a dramatic puff of smoke but instead someone rapped on the bedroom door.

"Who is it?" she asked, rather frightened.

"Well, moi!" replied the jaded voice she'd almost forgotten. The door swung open and he stepped into the room.

He was, for some reason, dressed like a Chinese Mandarin. "You like it?" he asked, holding out a flap of his obviously expensive silk robe. "I picked it up at a little shop in Hong Kong. Sort of a theatrical clothing place. You think I should darken my hair?"

He annoyed her while he terrified her. "I don't know," she said with exasperation.

He plopped down on the corner of her bed. "Oooh, have I gotten under your skin? Sorry, so sorry. Such nice skin too. How old are you now, Veronica? I mean your body, of course. How old is that body...let me see, about fifty is it? And you're still so dewy, so ripe for reproduction. But of course I suppose by now you know you cannot reproduce."

It had never crossed her mind. She'd always taken precautions.

Her visitor laughed and said, "Oh, I never explained that part, did I? It's part of the deal I have with my Opposing Forces, that when an individual signs over control of his soul, the body said soul is temporarily occupying becomes instantly infertile. Of course I would much prefer you be able to produce a dozen young, my Cherie, a batch of little hatchlings to influence right into my open arms, but you know how the law is. Always stopping you from full expression."

She didn't know why, but this new information had hit her somewhere deep inside and left a gaping, sore edged hole. Since she'd never particularly wanted children, she didn't comprehend her reaction.

"Miss the little darlings now, do we?" asked her detestable visitor and she looked at him, shocked.

He changed the subject. "That mark on your forehead has grown quite grotesque, hasn't it?"

She scrambled up to check it in her vanity mirror. By now she'd grown so used to the mark she hardly noticed it, but now that she did, supposed it was rather ugly. But what difference did it make since no one else could see it? She climbed back into bed, suddenly drained of energy. "What am I supposed to tell people about how I keep so young?" she asked in a whining tone.

He shrugged. "I don't know! That's your problem, Dearie. Maybe you ought to move out of the limelight and go somewhere else. You only have five year left anyway." He smiled and examined a fingernail.

"Five years left? What do you mean?"

"Have you conveniently forgotten the deal was for twenty years? That at the end of the twenty I'd come to collect? Kind of like you do for your Russian friend? By the way, isn't that business a bit on the tacky side? I mean how could you have let yourself become so needy that you'd have to resort to such lowlife behavior? Surely there are other lovers, ones you don't have to buy, Veronica."

She was speechless. Evidently, this monster knew every move she made, every thought in her head. "What difference does it make?" she asked him.

He laughed. "Well, none, really. I'm just amazed at how easily you slide down the slope." The he sighed, stood up and straightened his silken robes.

"Do you think I would look better in red than this royal blue? Does it make me look washed out?"

She glared at him, refusing to answer.

"I was just going," he said and sashayed to the door. With a wink and an effeminate wave of the hand, he slipped out of the room and softly closed the door behind him.

In a fit of pique, she whirled a pillow across the room, then burst into hysterical sobbing.

Veronica fell into a depression, which was not relieved by Prozac. The mood lasted for several weeks and she went about her work listlessly, ending up losing several modeling jobs and a cover on Elle because if it. But by now, magazine covers no longer held much of a thrill for her. There'd begun to be speculation in the press over how she managed to look so young and who her surgeons and skin specialists could be. When she failed to come up with names for reporters, they assumed she was protecting her secrets and this in turn brought about remarks in articles such as these:

"Veronica Baird pretends it's just an accident of nature that she continues to look twenty-five when, according to birth records, she's at least fifty. Her fellow models, young enough to be her daughters, wonder why she's so selfish in refusing to divulge the names of her plastic surgeon and skin specialist."

And: "Rumor has it Veronica Baird must have made a pact with the Devil. How else could she stay so young?"

People were beginning to seem afraid of her and offers only trickled in sporadically. This was why she settled on an African shoot of which most of the other models were wary. In the press, there'd been much lately about civil wars in several African countries and South Africa was no playground with its latest statistics on rape. AIDS was rampant over large areas of the continent and it was reportedly suicide if you were in an accident and needed a blood transfusion. Of course, Veronica had nothing to fear. She had her agency put in a word and within a week was on a plane bound for Senegal.

George, the photographer, a small, thin man in his late forties who suffered from severe anemia, sat next to Veronica in the first class section and slept most of the trip. She was able to watch from the window to her heart's content. As they approached Senegal, she felt a rising excitement in her body as if she were drawing near something important, perhaps her very destiny.

"Are we landing?" asked her obviously exhausted seatmate, and when she told him they were, he said, "I'm terrified to go down there."

"Why?" she asked.

"I don't know. I have a bad feeling."

His apprehensions seemed to be unwarranted as the Senegal shoot went perfectly. Veronica was stunning in the photos surrounded, as she was, with tall purple black Senegalese men in their striped robes and colorful caps. From Senegal, the photographer and other two models flew to Cameroon where they posed in the mountain town of Nkongsamba.

"Gabon is our next stop then we head to the southern countries," said George and the other models groaned. But Veronica was interested.

"We're not going where that trouble was over the diamond mining are we?"

She was referring to a news show she'd watched in which there'd been a story about criminals who'd maimed innocent villagers to prevent them from interfering with their diamond mining. On the screen were innocent children and babies who'd had their hands hacked off to prevent them from growing up to be miners and to serve as examples for others as to what they could expect if they tried. It was the worse thing Veronica had ever seen.

"I believe I heard about that," replied George. "But what country was it? My memory's shot, I swear."

"I don't want to go there!" said one of the models and George replied sarcastically, "Well, do you think we do?"

"George, you look pale," said Veronica. "Are you taking your meds?"

He shook his head slightly. "I'm meticulous about taking them. It isn't that."

"Then what is it?"

"That feeling again," he said.

At their next stop after Gabon, the little group never made it to the shoot. When they climbed into a taxi van at the airport, the driver did not take them to their requested destination. "We need you to help us," he told them and then the other two African passengers came to life and pointed guns at them.

By late afternoon, Veronica, George and the two other models were tied to chairs in a shack in a small unidentified village in the forest. The floor was swept dirt and a chicken kept wandering in and out the open door. Occasionally, skinny potbellied children giggled at the window, but they were immediately threatened with angry outbursts from the soldiers posted outside. At least they looked like soldiers, but Veronica understood they were not with any recognized army but part of a loosely organized group set on revenge over those who'd mutilated their friends and families. Since the government had failed to show any interest in helping them, they'd taken the law into their own hands.

"We're not against you!" George had pleaded, but one day they'd simply taken him outside and shot him.

"An example of what we will do to all foreigners who come here," Gustave, one of their guards, told the women. "The powers that be certainly want the business of the foreigners even if their own people mean nothing to them. Until they discover the value of their own, we will take matters into our own hands."

By the time police came to arrest their kidnappers and free "the foreigners", there were only two left, Veronica and a whimpering seventeen year old, Maria, from Spain. Veronica had never doubted she would live. A deal was a deal and she had slightly less than five years remaining to her. But she felt pity for the crying girl and an even deeper empathy for her kidnappers.

I've read about this happening, she told herself, but the feeling persisted even when she saw them being led away to a certain death. When the police questioning was over, she was left with her airline ticket and what remained of her belongings (the rebels had scattered most of them among the villagers) and the promise of an armed escort to the airport.

"I'm staying," she told the American Consulate and Chief of Police. "I'm returning to that village.

"Madame, you must have caught a fever," suggested the Chief of Police, trying to be tactful.

"No, I feel quite well. I choose to stay."

"Why would you want to do that?" they asked her.

"I have work to do," she told them.

It was certainly not difficult to locate the main village where people were hideously maimed. Men who had to support families, now helpless with both hands missing; mother's holding babies, adorable except for the fact that their chubby arms ended in stumps. Some people were lucky and lost only fingers or thumbs, others their ears or one or both eyes. They helped each other the best they could but it was easy to see that without serious aid, they were headed towards starvation. The television show had prompted groups to send in volunteers and now Veronica pitched in and cast her lot with them.

"You work like a madwoman," said one Swiss volunteer.

"There's not much time," she said enigmatically.

Because Veronica had known people with large sums of money, she was able to use this to pull in donations. Some of the villagers were fitted with artificial hands and limbs. Those that were blinded were taught Braille and given radios and cassette players to listen to books and instruction tapes. Donated clothing arrived and people with various skills taught the villagers what they could. Better farming methods were established, a school and small medical clinic built and people from the city moved in to live and work there.

Veronica labored fourteen to sixteen hours a day, seven days a week. She'd made a decision sometime back that she wanted to spend the amount of life remaining to her on this particular endeavor. Why, she did not know. She'd never been inclined towards introspection or self-examination. She had never and did not now wonder about life or its meaning.

There were few mirrors in the primitive village. Just broken bits here and there hoarded by young women, tied up in scarves and brought out only to examine themselves before important events and so Veronica did not know that as she worked each day, she rapidly aged. The other "Europeans" noticed but did not stay long enough in the village to find the speed of her transformation worth commenting on. But if anyone should have returned from the first contingent, they would not have known her.

The Africans did notice, however. One, a man of thirty-five with six children and no hands, sat down with her under the shade of a spreading tree and said, "It is none of my business Madame, but perhaps you are ill."

Veronica was sitting flat on the ground with her legs out in front of her in the manner of the village women. She held a laptop and was busy figuring expenses and how to pull in more money for the villagers. "Why do you think I'm sick, Thomas?" she asked, not looking up from her work.

He cleared his throat, obviously not knowing quite how to put it. "Um, Madame, you...you appear to have aged."

She stopped clicking on the keyboard and regarded him. "I look older?"

"Yes," he said and she read in his face, "to put it mildly."

But still she did not bother to look in mirrors.

By now the media had pretty much forgotten the maimed village but nevertheless things were humming along quite smoothly. The clinic now had two young African doctors and three nurses and the school two teachers from the capital city. New houses were springing up and there was a new musical group formed which was drawing some attention. Four men and a woman sang folk songs to a modern beat and while one had his hands and played the guitar, three of the men used their feet on the drums. They'd been filmed by a television crew and had already cut two CDs. Veronica knew that any moment they might be leaving to tour and she'd volunteered to watch over the household of one of the men should this come to pass.

It was strange but she never missed her old life, never thought now about money unless it was for the villagers, about sex or the lack of it or about attention for her beauty. Nor did she allow herself to dwell on her past mistakes though she understood how stupid she'd been to make that deal. Believing there was no way out; she was remorseful and desired to leave something good in the world. Therefore she figured she'd give the time she had left and not make any fuss about it. She was driven not with anxiety, only by time. Deep inside her there was a lightening of her spirit but she was working so intensely, she did not at first notice.

But the day came when she did. When a toothless woman in her late thirties sat with her while they cut up vegetables to make a stew. The woman had nine children, four of whom were dead. Her name was Mosa and as her gnarled brown fingers worked the old knife with which she peeled the cassavas and yams, she said to Veronica, "You a very good woman, Ma'amselle. Good soul, much light inside."

Veronica looked at her. "What? Me? If you only knew, Mosa, if you only knew."

"I do know, Cherie, I do know. You're good."

She noticed that her own hands were as gnarled as Mosa's. Later she borrowed a mirror and was utterly shocked to see her face. It was now old beyond her fifty-four years; indeed she could have passed for sixty-five. But beyond a mild scientific curiosity as to how this had come about, Veronica did not waste precious time on the mystery. Knowing there remained to her only one more year; she worked even more arduously to benefit the villagers.

Once in the night she thought she saw a light at the end of her cot, but she immediately fell back to sleep. In the morning she noticed more than ever how frail her body had become. "I seem to have arthritis," she told the doctor before he could diagnose it himself.

"That is not all," he said. "Your color isn't good."

She laughed because they often teased each other and she thought he was making a joke about her being white.

"No," he said, "I didn't mean that. I mean your skin is yellow. You have jaundice. We'd better take some blood and check your liver enzymes."

But I can't really get sick," Veronica said, thinking aloud.

"You think you're invincible but you're not," reproached the doctor. "You work as if there is no tomorrow."

There are very few tomorrows for me she thought but did not say so aloud, and held out her arm for the needle.

They insisted upon her becoming a patient in the tiny hospital connected to the clinic. "It is hepatitis," the doctor sadly informed her. "We need to isolate you but this is difficult."

"I'll stay in my own house," she said.

"No, you will stay here since we need to be very careful about your waste products so that they do not infect the village." And they took care of her the best they could.

It was in the hospital that she had another chance to see in a mirror, the small one the nurse gave her to use in the mornings when she washed herself.

"The mark is almost gone from my forehead," she said, in shock.

"What mark?" asked the nurse. "I do not see anything."

But then no one ever could see it but Veronica herself.

The day came when she was recovered enough to return to her own house, a one room cement building with a small porch in front. She was very weak but glad to be home. One by one her neighbors arrived to express their happiness that she was better. They left food in various forms, from pots of stew to single yams, whatever they could afford.

Veronica realized she was happy. Her sense of peace was so great that she did not care if the man she called The Visitor returned to claim her or not. She simply rested in herself.

Not long after, she heard talk of a "European" asking after her.

"Ma'amselle," said Jean-Pierre, one of the students now in his first year of secondary school, "this very strange white man has been asking people about you. Said he knew you were here but when we point out where you are, he says we are lying sons of bitches. We don't know what to do with him." Veronica found this amusing and laughed ruefully. "I'm sure he will find me eventually," she said. "I'm here in plain sight."

But he never did. There was no one in the village who looked anything like the Veronica he had known, no one with an identifying mark and no one with the kind of soul he liked to consume.

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