I looked at Rita. She was frowning as she read, and shaking her head. “I've heard of Chris Burden, he was American,” she said. “But this other one, Schwarzkogler?” She stumbled over the name —after all, she had been studying French all this time, not German. “Oh,” she said, and began to blush. “It says he, he cut off his own—” She looked up at the people around the room, staring silently at something or other on the screens. “Oh my God,” she said.

“Maybe we should go,” I suggested, as my inner friend's amusement climbed steadily up the scale.

But Rita had already moved to stand in front of the first screen, and as she saw what it showed her mouth dropped open and began to twitch slightly, as if she was trying and failing to pronounce a very long and difficult word. “That's, that's, that's—” she said.

And a quick look at the screen showed that Rita was right again: it really was.

On the monitor a video clip showed a young woman dressed in an archaic stripper's costume of bangles and feathers. But instead of the kind of sexually provocative pose the outfit might have called for, she stood with one leg up on the table and, in a short and soundless loop of about fifteen seconds, she brought a whirring table saw down on her leg and threw her head back, mouth wide open in anguish. Then the clip jumped back to the start and she did the whole thing again.

“Dear God,” Rita said, shaking her head. “That's, that's some kind of trick photography. It has to be.” I was not so sure. In the first place, I had already been tipped off by the Passenger that something very interesting was going on here.

And in the second place, the expression on the woman's face was quite familiar to me from my own artistic endeavors. It was genuine pain, I was quite sure, real and extreme agony —and yet, in all my extensive research I had never before encountered someone willing to inflict this much of it on themselves. No wonder the Passenger was having a fit of the giggles. Not that I found it funny; if this sort of thing took hold I would have to find a new hobby.

Still, it was an interesting twist, and I might have been more than willing to look at the other video clips under ordinary circumstances.

But it did seem to me that I had some kind of responsibility toward Rita, and this was clearly not the sort of thing she could see and still maintain a sunny outlook. “Come on,” I said. “Let's go get some dessert.”

But she just shook her head and repeated, “It has to be a trick,” and she moved on to the next screen.

I moved with her and was rewarded with another fifteen second loop of the young woman in the same costume. In this one she actually appeared to be removing a chunk of flesh from her leg. Her expression here moved into dumb and endless agony, as if the pain had gone on long enough that she was used to it, but it still hurt.

Strangely enough, this expression reminded me of the face of the woman at the end of a movie Vince Masuoka had shown at my bachelor party -1 believe it was called Frat House Gang Bang. There was a gleam of I showed you” satisfaction showing through the fatigue and the pain as she looked down at the six-inch patch between her knee and her shin where all the flesh was peeled off to reveal the bone.

“Oh my God,” Rita murmured. And for some reason she continued to the next monitor.

I do not pretend to understand human beings. For the most part I try to maintain a logical outlook on life, which is usually a real disadvantage in trying to figure out what people really think they're doing. I mean, as far as I could tell, Rita truly was as sweet and pleasant and optimistic as Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. The sight of a dead cat beside the road could move her to tears.

And yet here she was, methodically moving through an exhibit that was clearly far worse than anything she had ever imagined. She knew that the next clip would be more of the same, graphic and appalling beyond belief. And yet, instead of sprinting for the exit she was calmly wanting more.

More people drifted in, and I watched them go through the same process of recognition and shock. The Passenger was clearly enjoying things, but to be perfectly truthful I was beginning to think that the whole affair was wearing a little thin. I couldn't really get into the spirit of the event and gain any sense of fun from the audience's suffering. After all, where was the point? Okay, Jennifer cut off pieces of her leg. So what? Why bother inflicting enormous pain on yourself when sooner or later Life would certainly get around to doing it for you? What did it prove? What happened next?

Still, Rita seemed determined to make herself as uncomfortable as possible, moving relentlessly from one video loop to the next.

I could think of nothing else to do but follow along in her wake, nobly enduring as she repeated, “Oh, God. Oh my God,” at each new horror.

At the far end of the room, the largest clump of people stood looking at something on the wall that was angled so that we could only see the metal edge of the frame. It was clear from their faces that this was a real doozy, the climax of the show, and I was a little impatient to get to it and get things over with, but Rita insisted on seeing every clip along the way first.

Each one showed the woman doing ever more dreadful things to her leg, until finally, in the last one, a slightly longer clip which showed her sitting still and staring down at her leg, there was nothing left but smooth white bone between her knee and her ankle. The flesh on the foot was left intact, and looked very odd at the end of the pale length of bone.

Even odder was the expression on Jennifer's face, a look of exhausted and triumphant pain that said she had clearly proved something. I glanced again at the program, but I found nothing to say what that something was.

Rita had no apparent insight either. She had fallen into a numb silence, and simply stared at the final clip, watching it three times before shaking her head a last time and moving on as if hypnotized to where the larger group of people stood clustered around the Something in the metal frame at the far end of the room.

It proved to be by far the most interesting piece in the exhibit, the real clincher as far as I was concerned, and I could hear the Passenger chuckling agreement. Rita, for the first time, was unable even to muster another repeat of “Oh my God'.

Mounted on a square of raw plywood and set in a steel frame was Jennifer's leg bone. The whole thing this time, including everything from the knee down.

“Well,” I said. “At least we know for sure it isn't trick photography”

“It's a fake,” Rita asserted, but I don't think she believed it.

Somewhere outside in the bright lights of the world's most glamorous city the church bells were striking the hour. But inside the little gallery there was very little glamour at that moment, and the bells sounded unusually loud —almost loud enough to cover another sound, the sibilance of a small familiar voice letting me know that things were about to get even more interesting, and because I have learned that this voice is almost always right, I turned around to look.

Sure enough, the plot was thickening even as I glanced at the front of the room. As I watched, the door swung open and with a rustle of spangles, Jennifer herself came in.

I had thought the room was quiet before, but it had been Mardi Gras compared to the silence that followed her as she clumped down the length of the room on crutches. She was pale and gaunt. Her stripper's costume hung loosely from her body, and she walked slowly and carefully, as if she was not yet used to the crutches. A clean white bandage covered the stump of her newly missing leg.

As Jennifer approached us where we stood in front of the mounted leg bone, I could feel Rita shrink back, away from any possible contact with the one-legged woman. I glanced at her; she was nearly as pale as Jennifer, and she had apparently given up breathing.