Live in Infamy

by Caroline Tung Richmond

  “I’m telling the truth!” the gardener cried out. His desperate gaze clung to Ren. “What about him? That boy’s mother was a traitor. He could’ve planted the essay on me!”

  Ren felt every pair of eyes leap in his direction. He didn’t think that his bunkmates had connected him with his mother — she had died years ago and he didn’t share her last name — but White Crescent Bay was a small town, and the town’s memory was longer than he had hoped. His forehead began sweating.

  Ren had to quash this accusation fast. “My loyalty is pledged to Crown Prince Katsura and our emperor. You can look through my belongings again if you’d like. I’m on cot number fourteen.” He flicked a furious glare at the gardener, whose hands were trembling.

  While two of the soldiers marched toward Ren’s cot, the third stalked toward the wall and Ren. This soldier had a lean yet muscled frame, but baby fat still clung to his cheeks, making him look even younger than Ren. His name tag bore the surname Sasaki.

  “Who was your mother? What did she do?” said Sasaki.

  Ren tried to keep his voice even but was failing. He wanted to punch that gardener for turning the spotlight on him. “She was charged with treason, Sasaki-sama. She was executed.”

  The room went absolutely silent before Sasaki said, “You didn’t tell me her name.”

  Ren swallowed. “Jenny Tsai.”

  “Tsai.” Sasaki’s lips curled sourly around the syllable. “Was she Chinese?”

  “Yes, Sasaki-sama.” Ren grew anxious at what was left unsaid. The Empire had long viewed the Chinese as inferior, and anti-Chinese sentiment had brewed since the days of the Meiji Restoration. In recent years, those feelings had spiked after Chinese nationalists killed the crown prince’s brothers, and patrols were sent out regularly to police Chinese American communities.

  “I remember your mother now. She groveled for her life on national television, like a coward. How did scum like you get a job at the fort?”

  Ren’s jaw twitched, but he kept his eyes trained on Sasaki’s boots. His mother wasn’t a coward; she never begged for mercy. “I’m only here temporarily. The sewing room is short-staffed, and Kato-sama hired me.”

  “Kato-sama, eh? I bet he didn’t realize that your mother was a filthy traitor.”

  Wrath burned in Ren’s heart. Usually, he could ignore it, but hearing Sasaki insult his mother made that fist eager to hit something. Thankfully, the soldiers had to move on and they hauled the gardener away for questioning. But on his way out, Sasaki jammed his shoulder into Ren’s chest. “See you tomorrow.”

  As soon as the soldiers left, Ren’s bunkmates scattered out of the room, none of them looking or speaking to him. Breathing in, Ren gave himself a minute to pull it together. He did a little ritual every time the patrols left his apartment, and he did the same routine now: rolling his shoulders, clenching his hands, and then punching his pillow hard. He imagined it was Sasaki’s face. Call my mother a coward again, Ren thought as he hit the pillow. After that, he forced himself to head to work. He had a job to do, and he wouldn’t let some arrogant soldier get in the way of that. It’d all be worth it in the end anyway — helping the Resistance, saving lives, maybe seeing his mom again. That would be the best revenge against the Empire, and he needed to remember that.

  Ren hurried out of the bunkroom. He was already running late, but there was one thing that he had to do first. The corridors were clogged with workers heading to their shifts, but Ren managed to spot the janitorial closet that he was looking for. He peeked through a crack in the door to see two janitors crammed inside, both of them dressed in navy coveralls. They were shuffling a deck of cards on an overturned mop bucket and finishing off their bowls of breakfast rice porridge. One of them noticed Ren and abandoned his cards to make a quick exit, while the other remained where he sat, sweeping up the cards in one smooth motion. He was skinny and looked a handful of years older than Ren.

  Without looking up, the young man said to Ren, “Nothing to see here. Just an innocent game of Go Fish before my shift.” He glanced up finally, a grin tickling at the corner of his mouth, showing off a single dimple. “Unless you’re here for an early round?”

  “Gambling is illegal,” Ren said, the first thing he could think of. Then he flushed because he realized how uptight he sounded.

  The young man grinned wider and ran a hand through his buzzed hair. “Sure, gambling might be illegal, but playing cards isn’t.” He dealt himself a hand, and it definitely didn’t look like a game of Go Fish. “You new around here?”

  Ren nodded but didn’t elaborate. “I’m looking for Jay. Do you know where I can find him?”

  “What do you need Jay for?”

  “I heard that he could get a message to my cousin. She lives in White Crescent Bay.”

  The young man spooned some porridge into his mouth. “Do you have cash on you? Jay works for a fee, you know.”

  Ren frowned. “Tell him that I can pay. He can look for me in the sewing room or in Bunkroom Eight.”

  “No need for that. I’m Jay.” He reached for his ID badge when Ren looked doubtful. “See for yourself.”

  Ren studied the badge. It did indeed belong to a Jay Park, and the photo matched the Korean American man in front of him. “Why didn’t you say you were Jay before?”

  A smile tilted again on Jay’s mouth, easy and relaxed. Ren got the feeling that very few things rattled Jay, otherwise he wouldn’t be gambling inside the Fortress. “Where do you need this message delivered to?” Jay asked.

  “To Cabot’s Tailoring and Cobbling, over on East Main. There’s an apartment above the store.”

  “I know the place. I heard old man Cabot was going to take a job at the fort.”

  “That’s my dad.” Ren grimaced as he thought about his father again. He really wished that he could check on him. “He got hurt, which is why I’m here.”

  Jay’s grin made a fast exit. “He got hurt? How?”

  “Fell down the stairs,” Ren said warily. He wondered why Jay seemed alarmed at this news. He didn’t remember seeing him at the shop before. “Do you know him?”

  “My mom buys thread from your store sometimes.”

  “Oh. Anyway, my cousin Marty will be staying at the shop to watch after my dad. You can give her my message.”

  Jay stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles, his easiness returning. “Sure, sure. How much yen do you have on you?”

  Ren sighed and dug his hand into his pocket, holding up a few bills. “I can pay you this much now, and the other half after you give me a response.”

  “Hard bargainer, eh? Okay, if that’s how you want to play it. What’s the message?”

  Ren paused to choose his words. He couldn’t say anything outright about the mission, of course, but he had to pick a message that Marty could decipher. “Tell her that I’m stuck here for the week, so I wouldn’t mind getting introduced to some of her friends. Aren’t you going to write this down?”

  Jay tapped a finger against his temple. “I got it all right up here. What else?”

  “Tell her that she’ll need to find a new place to … um … wash her clothes. She’ll understand.” He noticed Jay’s confusion but barreled on. “How can I be sure that you’ll pass along the message?”

  “I’m a man of my word.” Jay stood up and patted Ren on the shoulder. “Plus, I want to get the rest of my payment. I’ll come find you tomorrow, tailor boy.”

  “My name’s Ren.”

  “I think I like the sound of ‘tailor boy’ better. Maybe TB for short.” Pocketing the money, Jay slid out of the janitorial closet and said over his shoulder, “Close the door behind you, TB.”

  Ren rolled his eyes, but he wasn’t going to fuss about a stupid nickname when he had a mountain of work to tackle. Back in the sewing room, he murmured an apology to Ms. Clarke and started ticking off tasks on his to-do list, which had been left there earlier that morning by Fräulein Plank. Her handwriting was unsurprisingly neat and it instruct
ed Ren to finish up the fourteen-year-old dress uniforms and to get that done by lunch. Before long, Ren was elbow-deep locating the appropriate thread, loading his bobbin and top spool, and tackling each trouser cuff and jacket sleeve and shirtwaist to Plank’s exact specifications.

  As the morning drifted by, Ren fell into a rhythm of sewing new seams and snipping soft threads. The hum of the machines droned like the buzz of bees. Across the room, Ms. Clarke and her assistants moved between the dress forms that held Aiko’s and her mother’s wardrobes. Both of them had three separate outfits for the event — one for the cocktail hour, one for the banquet dinner, and one for the dancing that would close the night. Ren wished that his dad could see all of these outfits in person. Mr. Cabot may have looked like a boxer, but his hands were as nimble as a potter’s, and he would have appreciated the handiwork in the sewing room.

  Aiko’s mother had taken the traditional route for the ball, favoring three tomesode-style kimonos made from the finest of fabrics that flowed as smoothly as a summer stream.

  Aiko, on the other hand, had made more modern selections. She would don the formal furisode-style kimonos with long swinging sleeves for most of the night, and then she’d change into a fitted European-style gown for the dancing. The gown had elbow-length sleeves and a flowing skirt — modest enough for even the most old-fashioned of dignitaries — but Aiko had chosen a bold black-and-white fabric that looked like traditional brushwork calligraphy.

  Ren quietly eyed Aiko’s wardrobe. Like Marty had said, it would be his job to take the tiny bottle of the sleeping drug and apply it onto Aiko’s outifts. The timing would have to be perfect. Apply the drug too soon, and it might lose its potency. But apply it too late, and the serum wouldn’t have enough time to seep into Aiko’s soft skin. Either Beetle or Bird was supposed to pass along the drug to Ren, and now he could only hope that Marty would send them Ren’s way. This mission would splinter and break if he didn’t have that sleeping drug.

  Once the evening arrived, the sewing staff finished their work and departed one by one, but Ren couldn’t budge. He still had four uniforms to finish off, and he couldn’t risk having Plank fire him for not meeting his quota. It was going to be a long night, and Ren thought about loading up on strong black tea when a knock on the door jolted him from his work.

  Fräulein Plank stood in the doorframe, her blond hair locked in a neat bun and her back ever straight, making her look even more severe than yesterday. Ren scuttled to his feet.

  “Fräulein!” He hurried to bow and hoped that she wasn’t here to actually fire him. She seemed like the type of boss to dismiss an employee if she was having a bad day. “I’m nearly done with this batch of uniforms.”

  But Fräulein Plank didn’t give the uniforms a second glance. “Where’s Ms. Clarke?”

  “Off to dinner. I can go find her —”

  “Then you’ll have to do. Come with me.” She was already out the door when she looked back and said, “Bring a sewing kit. And pliers!”

  Ren knew better than to ask questions, so he grabbed the supplies and jogged out of the room, dodging a half dozen gardeners heading for the showers and a flock of launderesses pushing carts full of soiled towels. Fräulein Plank marched straight out of the workers’ wing and into the hotel lobby, leading Ren toward a formal tearoom that Ren hadn’t seen before. The tearoom was decorated simply, with two enormous woodblock prints taking up residence on the far wall. There was nothing gaudy or showy about the place, which kept in line with classical Japanese aesthetics, but Ren could sense the money that was spent here. The potted orchids flanking the entrance could’ve belonged in a historic garden while those woodblock prints were probably more expensive than a seaside estate.

  Inside the tearoom, dozens of people chatted and smiled and plucked hors d’oeuvres from silver platters. The men wore military dress uniforms, both for the Imperial and Nazi armies alike, while the women showed off their finest silks and velvets, flitting around the room like prized peacocks, which made Ren’s uniform look like drab pigeon feathers.

  Ren blinked at the splendor, knowing how out of place he must have looked. Crown Princess Katsura was known for hosting beautiful dinners and receptions, and this party must have been one of them. The timing was right, too, considering the number of foreign guests arriving at the Fortress ahead of the Joint Prosperity Ball.

  Toward the back of the tearoom, Ren spotted the crown princess herself, the folds of her kimono unable to hide her growing belly, which held the future male heir to the Chrysanthemum Throne. The crown prince stood nearby and was locked in a conversation with Deputy Führer Forst. Forst himself looked like a walking Nazi stereotype. Along with his jewel-blue eyes and his red swastika armband, he had the same rectangular mustache that Adolf Hitler had made famous. Ren wouldn’t have been surprised if Forst clicked his heels together, raised his arm shoulder-high, and barked out a crisp “Sieg heil!” just for kicks.

  Fräulein Plank pulled Ren toward the butler’s pantry adjacent to the tearoom. “Cabot! Don’t keep her waiting.”

  Her?

  The pantry was packed with extra champagne glasses and serving platters, along with two beverage refrigerators stocked full of white wine and club soda. But Ren didn’t notice any of that. His gaze had fixed on the person waiting for them inside.

  Drawing a shaky breath, Ren bowed and said, “Your Imperial Highness. May I be of service?”

  The princess stood facing the wall, her hands fighting the back zipper of her tea-length dress. The dark red gown boasted a strapless neckline and looked vintage to Ren — European in style, likely French, and dating back to the 1940s or 1950s. He had to admit that Aiko looked radiant in the color, and the dress itself appeared in excellent shape considering its age. But its zipper had gotten stuck a couple of inches from the close.

  Aiko glanced over her shoulder at Ren’s arrival, and she pressed her lips together at the sight of him. Ren almost apologized for his presence but blushed instead. It wasn’t exactly proper for a male tailor to attend to a princess in a butler’s pantry, but she didn’t tell Ren to leave.

  “This is the staff tailor. I’m very sorry, Your Imperial Highness, but none of the seamstresses were available,” Plank said to Aiko by way of introducing Ren. Then she glared at him. “Can you fix the zipper?”

  “I think I’d rather change into something else,” Aiko said, twisting what must have been the dress’s matching bolero in her hands.

  Plank quickly switched back to a gentler tone. “Please, let the tailor try. This dress belonged to Deputy Führer Forst’s grandmother, and your parents would very much like you to wear it tonight.”

  Aiko sighed. Every inch of her looked impecabble, from the French twist in her hair to the glittering teardrop diamonds swinging from her earlobes, but she seemed ready to yank out the pins and toss aside the earrings and throw the whole outfit to the floor. She looked like a kettle full of steam.

  But Aiko didn’t lose her cool. She swallowed a few deep breaths, like Ren did whenever his ire ignited; and she banished the frustration from her face, slipping on a mask of calmness, like Ren did in front of the soldiers. The transformation spanned mere seconds. She must have had a lot of practice.

  Ren didn’t find this surprising. Royalty like Aiko were trained early on to obey their parents and follow societal rules. Gift-giving was a delicate art, and if Forst had given Aiko his grandmother’s dress and if her parents expected her to wear it, then she would insult them all if she refused. To be honest, Ren thought Aiko was a little childish for huffing about a dress — it wasn’t like she would have to wear it forever — but this was probably the sort of “problem” that a princess had to deal with.

  Aiko stopped fidgeting with the bolero and stood still. “Go on,” she said to Ren.

  Fräulein Plank promptly shooed Ren forward; he gripped his pliers and assessed the stubborn zipper, careful not to touch Aiko’s skin. Ren may have been sixteen years old, but he had never stood this close to
a girl his age. Of course he thought about girls — he thought about them quite a lot. But minding the shop took up most of his time, and writing his essays took up any leftover minutes. Besides, even when he struck up a conversation with a girl at the grocer’s or the park, he always got tongue-tied. He found writing much easier than talking — he could always start an essay from scratch if he messed it up — but he couldn’t do that with girls. That was why he often avoided them completely.

  But as Ren started to tackle the zipper, he found it hard to concentrate. His thoughts alternated between worrying that Aiko would dismiss him and ignoring the scent of her perfume, which smelled like an orange grove.

  Get a grip, Ren told himself. There was far too much on the line for him to be thinking about citrus fruit. Aiko could order him put to death with the snap of her fingers and no one would bat an eye. It’d be Ren’s own fault if he forgot that.

  Fräulein Plank came up behind Ren. “Can you fix the zipper or not?”

  Ren fumbled for a reply. “Unfortunately, no — not quickly anyway — but I can sew the dress closed. That way Her Imperial Highness could rejoin the party sooner.”

  “Very well,” Plank said, repinning a strand of hair that had defiantly slipped from her bun. “We can’t keep the guests waiting, and I need to update the crown princess before the first toast. Work fast, Cabot.” She turned to speak to Aiko. “I left your mother’s pearls by the faucet behind you. She noticed that you forgot to change your necklace before the party began.”

  After Plank’s departure, a hush fell inside the pantry. Ren rooted in his sewing kit to find some scarlet thread, and snippets of conversation drifted in from the party.

  “They’ll make a fine couple, aside from the age difference,” said a woman in Japanese. “I’ve heard that the empress herself had a hand in the matchmaking.”

  “Do you think the princess will move to Berlin?” asked her companion.