Scattered Bids for Control
From “Stalker,” by Robert Reed:
Nothing happens for a few moments.
Then she says, “Sir, I’d like to hear your voice again, sir.”
“Quiet,” you tell her.
I wasn’t going to speak to either of you.
“Not a sound,” you say.
Then a bird sings from the canopy, and she says, “Wood thrush.” Lowering the tip of the knife, she says, “A pretty song, particularly in the spring.”
The moment seems quite ridiculous to you, and you laugh.
“My name is Naomi,” she says.
“Be quiet,” you demand.
“A pretty name for an average girl,” Naomi says. “But I suppose you have scanners in my belongings, and you’re searching the Web with facial software. You probably know me better than I know myself, sir.”
“I do not,” I say.
My public voice is rarely used. Like her, I find it to be a pleasant voice.
“Shut up,” you tell me.
I want to shut up.
In “Stalker,” Robert Reed leads readers into uncomfortable territory. His narrator, a robot, describes his following of and participation in the crimes his person (his owner?) makes. I won’t discuss those events here, but know that if you do read the story, it dives into crimes of a physically intrusive, possibly sexual nature, caused by a man toward women.
To make you uncomfortable, it would be enough for Reed to flatly state that these types of encounters exist. History, without adornment, can elicit anger, fear, feelings of a need for retaliation….
Reed, instead, doubles his effort and lets the presentation of his text — particularly the way in which characters address one another — further hold your attention and heighten your trepidation.
The snippet above shows pieces of interaction that establish the tone of the narrator, the direction in which he and others speak, and the complex web of concerns each person has in this scene.
It’s third-person narration, but sometimes feels like second-person:
Then she says, “Sir, I’d like to hear your voice again, sir.”
“Quiet,” you tell her.
Sometimes it also feels like first-person:
I wasn’t going to speak to either of you.
But soon enough you’re shuffled back to third-person:
“Not a sound,” you say.
Then a bird sings from the canopy, and she says…
There are parts where it’s unclear for a split second about who is speaking to whom:
“Be quiet,” you demand.
“A pretty name for an average girl,” Naomi says. “But I suppose you have scanners in my belongings, and you’re searching the Web with facial software. You probably know me better than I know myself, sir.”
“I do not,” I say.
Interludes of the sort-of-first-person type can leave as quickly as they arrived:
My public voice is rarely used. Like her, I find it to be a pleasant voice.
“Shut up,” you tell me.
And, at times, reveries that follow feel like they take up much more space, if for no other reason that to assert control:
I want to shut up.
I see this entire scene as a bid for control within the larger story that regards itself with exact idea. The way Reed lets this scene play, however, comes across as nearly antithetical to the goal of allowing any control to take hold. But only nearly.
Reed leaves you with three characters struggling to either escape or trap one another. They cross-talk to avoid or achieve those goals, depending on their reference. They also take moments to themselves to assert identity.
You, meanwhile, see a jumble from the overhead view. No part of this scene hints about what will come next, yet you know there will be a next. Someone will overcome. Reed lets you steep in the strangeness of his writing, which as it has already been established, layers the most lamentable parts of human desire and capability. You stay as stuck and confused and nervous as the rest of them while the story figures itself out.