The Cage Sessions(17)

By finding a place like this where he could be anonymous, just a regular human being and not rock star Damien Cage, he found the peace to heal.

Not that he is healed.

He loves her. He's always going to love her. There's nothing I can do about that. I can never replace her.

So what do I want?

Stop thinking, Annika. Just enjoy this moment. Just enjoy life, being here with this man you love. It's not perfect. It never will be. Marcellina will always be in the back of his heart.

Before we left, I Googled "Marcellina Montero" and found a few thousand clips from her porn films. I couldn't watch any of them. Felt dirty. Especially knowing her life story. Not to mention the fact that Damien pulled her out of her old life. Only to watch her fall back in.

As I look down at the morning people going about their work, it hits me. I love Marcellina too. I have to. I must. If she is loved by Damien, then she must be loved by me. I even make a decision to go visit her alone. Just her and me. I want to do it.

"Morning," says Damien as he joins me on the balcony.

"Morning yourself," I say.

He looks around at the scenery.

"So what do you think?" he says.

"I think we're in the eighteenth century," I say. "Maybe seventeenth. But I'm not complaining. I'm glad it still exists somewhere."

"I can be free here. Nobody knows I'm a rock star. Nobody even cares."

I put my hand on his face.

He leans forward and kisses me.

Best kiss of my life, by far. Just a soft, sweet touching of lips that communicates a thousand different things.

"Remember what I said last night when we passed the kids standing in the doorways?" he says as he points down to the street. "See down there? Those are prostitutes."

"They can't be! Those are just kids. Oh my God, the youngest looks like she's twelve!"

"Even younger," he says. "Disgusting, isn't it? When Eon Sphinx did our first world tour, I saw shit like that all over the world. I vowed I was going to stop it. I was going to become the richest rock star ever and use all my money to change the world."

"Which you have."

"I'm on the board of the Foundation for Exploited Children, the Sex Trafficking Awareness Committee, and three other organizations. Like any of that does shit. The girls are still here standing in doorways. Here and all over the world. I'll be long dead and gone and they'll still be here. See, in order to change the world you need to change people. And the hardest lesson I ever had to learn is that you can't change people. Like the old lightbulb joke, they need to want to change. And most never will."

"Makes me think of my mom. She's always going on about Miley Cyrus being immoral. But that down there is true immorality."

"Not to mention all the places in the world where people are being tortured and killed."

"No shit."

A brown taxi similar to the one in which we arrived pulls up. Pedro runs out and welcomes a middle-aged couple with the same enthusiasm he showed us. He grabs their bags and follows them inside.

"I think I get why you like this place so much," I say.

"Do you?" he says.

"Yeah."

"Tell me, then."

"It's Pedro."

He looks at me and smiles.

"That's part of it," he says. "Go on."

"And the people around him," I say.

Damien nods and sips his coffee.

"Look around you," he says. "These people have nothing. But the truth is they actually have everything. They have each other. Did you hear how much laughing was going on last night during dinner?"

"I know," I say. "It was ridiculous."

"That happens every night. That wasn't because I was here. That's life to them. Good friends. Family. Fantastic food. Wine. Singing."

"Terrible water, though."

"True, but compare this to everyone back home. Always fighting, griping, whining they don't have enough. Always miserable. Here, they have nothing. But they're incredibly happy because they have each other. They don't need anything else. I love that."

"Wait a minute! I thought you were all Mr. Success. Go out and make millions of dollars by carving your own path."

"Oh, I definitely am. But my only point with this place is that you don't need millions. The fancy house and the fancy cars don't bring you happiness. Your ass can't tell the difference between a gold-plated toilet and that antique back there. Trust it from someone who has all those things. I'd give them all away to bring back Marcellina for just one minute."

He pauses and looks down at the street. I put my hand on his forearm.

"The other thing about this place I love," he says, "is the strong work ethic. I respect that. These people don't live off the hands of anyone else. Each person performs a task in the community. They don't question it. The baker bakes his bread. The butcher chops his meat. The hotel owner runs his hotel. Everyone works. There is no welfare. Because there are no ultra-rich people to whom to whine that they have too much and we have too little. And notice, please, the lack of drug use. With the possible exception of the wine. Nobody needs heroin to escape from the realities of life. Life itself is joyous enough that they don't need a high. Bottom line is that we're spoiled. The United States created great wealth and it trickled down to a point where we became a nation of crybabies. This isn't right. That isn't right. Waa-waa. And if it's not just right, then we have to turn to drugs so we get high enough that we don't care."