The Living Statue

13.

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During the days that followed Mr Torres' and I had made a silent agreement that I had to remain obedient in order to earn his trust.

Never did he mention anything like it; no. The only thing I got from him were pyramids of paperwork and oceans of numbers. Still, I knew exactly what he was trying to do - he has given me a choice to runaway from his 'exploitation' or be a good girl, obey his orders and win his trust - and this one time, and this time solely, I would let his ways pass by smoothly.

The thing is, in some twisted, inexplicable way I wanted to earn his trust, even thought I knew I wouldn't remain under his employ for too long. Maybe it was another challenge I had unconsciously put onto my impossible-things-to-do list. Surely, it was hell of a challenge, earning an utterly mistrustful person's trust, that is. On the other hand, I had this disturbing, unfamiliar feeling of understanding inside me - like I felt sorry for him for being so doubtful and withdrawn. For some reason I wanted his recognition, I simply couldn't deny it. Yet, I couldn't fathom why on earth I would need recognition from a man I simply couldn't stand. I guess in a way I really did respect him - his work, that is.

But can we really separate the man from his work? I was never able to separate an artist from his paintings, nor the musician from his songs. It shouldn't be much different with the businessman, I figured; and yet, I cought myself respecting Mr Torres' work, the Empire he's made, the power he possessed on one hand and undoubtedly thinking that he is a horrible person on the other.

I swear it was more likely I'd become the next Sultana of the Ottoman Empire than I'd solve out the mystery that was Mr Torres. His character was too complicated and naturally it kept arousing mixed feelings inside me. I couldn't make up my mind.

Was he the bad guy or the good guy?

One thing was for sure though - he was hell of a tyrant and boy did he know how to make a living hell out of one's working hours. I was a living proof for that; the employee that went through all of his merciless methods of making one a perfect trust-worthy-material.

Jeez I was sweating out like a pig. Just like every other day, I kept running up and down the office, cluttered in piles of folders, except that today, unlike any other day, the citizens of gloomy London have been blessed with a sunny, warm day.

Lucky them!

Let me tell you, never have I ever, in twenty two years of my life, experienced such a hot, sultry day in London. Certainly not in October! Is it necessary to say that the air conditioner broke down?

Yes, it seemed as if the universe had plotted a hell of a conspiracy against me.

And then, just when I thought my day at the office couldn't get any worse, God had decided to laugh at me some more and throw a punch that I - surprise, surprise - wasn't prepared for.

Let me enlighten you on this lovely situation I was so not prepared for.

I was on the verge of dehydration - it was that bad that I begun imagining I was a camel with a stored water in my humps - and decided I should go grab a drink at Starbucks which was located in the ground floor of the Northern Empire. Of course, I had a plan of doing it as quickly and inconspicuously as possible in order to avoid my dear employer's outburst if he got to find out about it. Unfortunately, as soon as I stepped out of my office, my beloved colleague Mr Miller, also known as Scaredy-cat, informed me that Mr Torres' wanted to see me right away and discuss some, I quote 'exigent business'.