Chris smelled her before he actually heard her approach. “Cuban?” he asked, without turning his head.
“Oui, but of course! And I brought one for you.”
Ken Mandarin stepped across the stone pathway and leaned over the edge of the decorative fencing, looking over the edge, down the sloping hill. It was thick with tropical vegetation, rich in heavy, misty scents. Her cigar cut through the air like a trumpet blast, and she grinned around it. She turned back to Chris, seated on a stone bench and offered him one from her leather case.
“I’ve given it up,” he said lightly.
“Nonsense! Giving up American cigarettes is wise. They are tasteless tubes of nothing. Giving up expensive cigars rolled upon the thighs of virgins, however, is stupid. Take it.” She waved it enticingly. “Take it! You can always smoke it later, when no one is looking.”
Chris sighed and took the cigar from her, a Romeo y Julietta. He slid it into his breast pocket carefully and moved to make room for her. “Rolled on the thighs of virgins?” he asked.
“It is a pleasant image,” Ken declared, sitting down. “Even if it was truly some ancient Cuban man who has more fingers than teeth.”
Chris nodded, the scent of the rich, bitter tobacco working its seductive dance on his senses. “Ken, why are you still against me on this?’ he asked suddenly.
“Because I don’t like to be told what to do,” she said simply. “I am an Owner from birth; I am a Spotter by trade, an Agent by whim, and sometimes I am a Trainer by choice. If you, Chris Parker, come to me and say, ‘train your slaves in thus and such a way, I know it to be useful,’ I can listen to you, or tell you to go fuck yourself. Either way, it is my choice, and I continue to do my work and I succeed or fail according to what I deserve. Your way, this accredited way—it would take away my choice, no?”
“No,” Chris said calmly, even though this would be the fifth or sixth time he had explained this. “I never suggested that there should be one accepted method, or even that the governing committee should have the power to force a single method onto unwilling trainers. You should know me better than that. But you have to admit that we are getting far too loose. It’s all the buzz in the hallways, isn’t it? Too much time spent weeding out unsuitable clients, dealing with owners who want refunds, slaves who want out. We need a little more centralization of the training process, and a way to—deal with trainers who consistently turn out poor clients.”
“But who gets to be in the center? That is my question.” Ken took a long, gentle drag on her cigar and leaned back to blow smoke rings. They drifted around her head lazily until she waved them into nothingness. “I understand you, I truly do. And there is nothing I wish more than for business to be a little easier on us all. But to give one group of trainers the right to rule over the others? Not acceptable.”
Chris shook his head. “I wish I could find a way to assure you it won’t be like that.”
“Power is power is power, Mr. Parker. I will tell you now, here, alone, that I think you are a magnificent trainer. I think you are one of the best I have ever seen, and I like to work with you. I like to play with you! But you are a hard man. You don’t like people to come in and, how would you say...make a mess in your clean life. But we spotters and part-timers, we are a messy people!” She waved her cigar around and some of her ash fell onto the smooth gray stones beneath their feet. She laughed delightedly at her perfect illustration.
“I don’t understand you,” Chris said with a slight, crooked smile. “I know for a fact that you are every bit as conservative as I am. You’ve said the same things I have about some of the alternative training methods, and much worse! All you third and fourth generation Marketplacers are like that, you always remember the good old days when trainers were owned by houses, and houses were run by pure owners whose bloodlines ran back for centuries, and slaves signed away lifetime contracts like this.” He snapped his fingers arrogantly, jerking his arm to one side in a campy gesture.
For a moment, they were both still, and then they both laughed together.
“Well, it was like that!” Ken insisted, brushing her hair back with one hand. “Exactly so! But you know, Parker, even though I do think there are fools out there, I worry about the day I am called a fool. It is my low self-esteem, no?”
Chris snorted, and she laughed again, louder. “Oh, I do not like being cross with you. Come, let us come up with some way past this thing, so that we can be friends again.”
“Then help me,” Chris insisted firmly. “Help me find the way to make it...safe...for you. I swear I will listen to everything you say. But something has to be done, Ken, or we will surely pass away in this generation, and there will be no Marketplace for the next Mandarin or the next Parker.”
“You truly believe that?”
“With all my heart. Anderson believes it too, if that’s what you need to hear.”
She looked at him dead on and stubbed her cigar out on the bench. “Do you know something, Parker? I do not need to hear that. These others might think you are no more than her lackey, but I know better. Very well. I will ask some of my friends, I will give it some thought. But I do not promise anything, mon ami. You must be prepared to listen to what we say.”
“Of course I will. Thank you.” His relief was visible.
Ken took a long look at him and nodded. “Yes, I will think upon it. But in the meantime, I have spoken to Marcy and her new trainee. You do not mind if they attend my little private entertainment tonight?”
“That would be fine,” Chris said, not revealing that it had been his idea.
“Bon. It shall be a meeting of dogs, I think—your wild dog and Marcy’s tame one.” Chris looked at her in confusion and she laughed. “I am glad we can discuss things like friends, Parker.”
“Me too,” Chris said. “You have been a good friend to me, you know.”
“Well, we traditionalists must stick together in the end,” Ken laughed. “Otherwise, we shall be eaten by turkeys. Isn’t that a strange thing to say? I saw it on a poster at the airport. ‘Don’t let the turkeys get you down.’ You Americans always come up with the strangest idioms.”
“At least we don’t swear by the excrement of turtles.”
“Ayeeeya! You keep your dirty thoughts to yourself, white boy.”
* * * *
When Chris finally got back to his room to dress, Michael was already in his best suit and his tuxedo was properly laid out. But also present was a large, flat box covered with an icy green paper with gold threads running through it, and another, smaller box on the floor. Kneeling on the tatami flooring on one side of the table next to these precisely placed boxes was a slave whose throat bore the house identity disk from Sakai-san’s training facility.”
Sir,” Michael said, with only the slightest hesitation, “this—and he—were delivered for you.” He extended a folded message, on heavy, cream colored rice paper. Chris took it and sat down next to the table to open it. Michael watched curiously as Chris carefully unfolded the paper and removed the contents with both hands. The slave had told him nothing, except that he had been told to wait for Mr. Parker as long as necessary. He had yielded the message easily enough, and Michael had known better than to ask him about it.
Chris laid the message down thoughtfully and then pried the top of the box off. Michael peered in and saw carefully folded dark garments, half-wrapped in layers of more gilt paper. Chris lifted the corners of the top garment and revealed it to be a long jacket in dark gray, almost black. Under it was a slate colored kimono, and under that still was something that had a lot of pleats.
“Wow—what’s all this?” Michael asked.
“It—it’s a mens formal kimono,” Chris said. His voice shook, and Michael almost stepped back in shock. The color seemed to have drained from Chris’s face as he sat there and examined the box contents.
“Rarely worn, actually,” Chris continued, laying the pieces gently back in the box. He steadied himself a little, and took a deep breath. Then his voice took on a purely informational tone, as though he was reciting a lesson. “These days, when you see Japanese men at a formal event, they are more likely to wear a morning coat than one of these. Even at weddings where the bride may wear a unique bridal kimono, the groom is more likely to wear a western tuxedo.”
“So—who sent you this? And why, if I can ask.”
“Sakai-san sent this,” Chris said, and the slave immediately bowed down in response to the name. “Apparently, several of the Japanese trainers are wearing kimono tonight, and he thought I might like to try a different kind of fancy dress.”
Michael cocked his head to one side. “But—you’re not Japanese. Is this some kind of special honor or something? Because they support your proposal?”
“It could be,” said Chris. He adjusted the jacket slightly and stared down at the ensemble in thought. “In any event, I shall wear it.” He stood up and nodded to the kneeling slave. “Please attend me,” he said, starting to strip.
“May I help?” Michael asked, as the visiting slave rose and stepped over to Chris.
“No, but you may watch,” Chris said. “I have never worn a kimono—at least not a formal one like this.” He made the admission awkwardly, and Michael immediately retreated to his side of the room and sat down.
The slave knew his business, and was elegantly trained to move with a graceful economy. He smiled gently or broadly and rarely spoke, except to say a short phrase that Michael decided meant “like this, sir.” And Chris was as cooperative and non-committal as he had been during his haircut, prepared to be wrapped or shown a particular knot as the peculiar costume required.
Michael had never seen hakama trousers outside of a dojo, and he admitted that the strange pinstriped pattern on these gave them a decidedly elongating effect. The pleats, though, made them look like some sort of wide over-skirt. There was a white cotton kimono that was worn under the darker one. The dark gray silk jacket fastened with a long, braided cord that the slave tied twice in illustration before Chris tried it himself. Tabi and zori, the traditional Japanese socks and sandals, were in the smaller box. When Chris was dressed, the slave slid open one of the storage closets and drew out the mirror.
Chris looked at himself and felt his stomach tighten.
* * * *
“This would normally be the time to teach you Japanese dress,” Sakai-sama said, glowering down at me. I began to feel the fear—nausea again. He spoke slowly now, in English, treating me like a very stupid child on his good days, and like a stubbornly ignorant fool on days like this.
“But how do we dress you?” he continued, his arms folded. “Eh? Eh? Answer me.”
“As my honorable master wishes,” I answered in Japanese, as well as I was able. It was the phrase I was most familiar with, right after “please excuse the inexcusable behavior of this worthless person.”
“I wish you would go home,” he snapped back. “But since you will not, I do not see why I should honor you with the proper clothing of a proper person. You will stay in American clothing. You will never be called upon to wear kimono anyway. Any kimono!”
* * * *
“Looks great, sir,” Michael was saying. “Just like the Seven Samurai!”
Chris pulled himself away from the mirror and his memories. “You realize, of course, that they were a pack of ronin,” he said, surprised at the genuine humor in his voice. He moved gently, taking a moment to figure out how to walk confidently, and the slave nodded and bowed happily. “I will deliver my thanks to Sakai-san myself; thank you for your help,” Chris said, nodding to him. The slave bowed very deeply and left the room in an elaborate series of moves that involved him kneeling to open the door, edging his way through to bow again, and then sliding it closed. Michael stared after him in amusement.
“Is that they way they have to do it all the time?”
“As with everything else, it depends on their owner,” Chris said, turning and settling his shoulders comfortably. “I’m going to take a few more minutes to get used to this, Michael. You may go ahead of me; I’ve no doubt we’ll be at separate tables tonight anyway.”
Michael nodded and left immediately. As he walked out, Chris shook his head. Michael should have tried the formal exit—would it have killed him to just think ahead by that much?
He stretched, feeling the soft cotton of the layers brush against him in whispers. He bent down, flexing his knees, and caught himself in the mirror again.
And what kind of idiot am I
, he thought, with another stab of pain in his gut.
Castigating poor Michael for not thinking ahead? If this night doesn’t kill me, facing the Trainer when she finds out about it certainly will.
But he consoled himself by imagining what Ken would say when she saw he had a much more authentic outfit than she did. Ayeeyah, indeed.
A rumbling patter built up to thunderous, echoing explosions of sound. The three drummers, all wearing nothing but sandals and loin coverings with broad belts, moved their muscular arms and shoulders with perfect precision.
It was a different kind of dinner bell, to be sure. But when the doors to the main dining hall opened, there were gasps and murmurs from the trainers as they edged in. For instead of the anticipated low tables and cushions and backrests on the floor, the dining hall had been transformed into an ultra-modern, vaguely futuristic-looking eatery with shining black plates on silver-gray tablecloths, sterling accents glinting off of slender halogen lamps and perfectly posed and bound slaves mounted on silver stands, their skins dusted with powder that scintillated under colored spotlights.