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 shou
lders 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.
Chapter Eighteen: Identities
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.
The army of service slaves were all in black, unrelieved by color. The slender ones wore tight bodysuits; those who would not be improved by such a garment wore a nondescript yukata. All of them were covered, though, their duty to disappear.
Michael gave his name to a slave, who guided him to a table where he was seated next to Paul Sheridan. Paul was in a Naval officer’s white dress uniform tonight, and it looked good on him. He introduced Michael to Joost de Graaf, the good-looking, light-skinned black man sitting next to him. “He’s from Amsterdam,” Paul said with a smile. Joost, who had ignored Michael the first time they met, back when he had been hanging out with Ken Mandarin, seemed far more friendly now. He was dressed in a white linen suit, which contrasted beautifully with his cafe au lait skin and looked wonderfully tropical next to Paul’s severe uniform. “This is my country’s formal wear,” Joost laughed, brushing invisible dust from his jacket with his long, slender fingers.
Chucking at Michael’s grin of confusion, Joost explained, “I am from Suriname, ja?” They chatted for a few minutes, and Michael realized that he had never even heard of the country formerly known as Dutch Guyana, and certainly never imagined that Amsterdam had a population of dark-skinned, Dutch-speaking “natives.”
“Suriname is a most beautiful country,” Joost said, carefully, accentuating his words precisely. “Tropical and lush. But difficult for this trade. Amsterdam is much, much better.”
The three men started to compare experiences with and rumors about the large Amsterdam auction houses. But as the Japanese trainers came in, conversation stilled, gradually spreading silence throughout the entire room. They were all wearing the kind of kimono that Michael had seen Chris dressed in, and in fact, it looked like most of the Asian members were wearing their national clothing over more western styles. He was fascinated by the sight of Kim in what looked like a long, colorful gown topped with an extremely short jacket. But Ken Mandarin took his breath away.
Tonight, she was not wearing masculine costume, but a long, impossibly tight cheongsam, the Chinese dress that had become the preferred style for millions of Asian women. It was slit up the side, almost to her hip. And it was a work of art! A rich pattern of bamboo shoots rose up from the bottom almost to her thighs, where the deep green and browns gave way to a gradual night sky, with blue and purple fading into black, and a moon hiding behind clouds on one shoulder. As she turned to greet someone, Michael grinned when he saw that crouched in the bamboo at the back of the dress was a tiger, mostly hidden, but his orange stripes and bright eyes showing in flashes of bright color.
Paul whistled through his teeth. “You know, if I went for girls,” he said with a grin.
“I do,” Michael laughed.
“Oh, ya,” Joost almost purred.
“More’s the pity for you two, then!” Paul laughed too, and as Ken got closer to them, Michael realized that she was being escorted to their table. He rose, biting his lip.
“Fantastic as usual,” Paul said, saluting her. “You always know exactly what to wear!”
She smiled at him, pleased. “But you, you with this white uniform, how charming you are! Much more interesting than all the black leather. Joost, you pretty man, where have you been hiding? And look, here is the wild dog, the dingo.”
Michael snorted. “Why, thank you for the nickname, ma’am,” he said.
She laughed and sat casually in her held chair, the men following her. Joost leaned over to tell her about his meeting with the South American trainers earlier in the day. Their table quickly filled with two people from Australia, a rough-looking, fair-eyed and gray-haired woman named Fi and a dark-skinned man who had straight black hair and Asian eyes. He introduced himself as Juan Matalino, and he turned out to be from the Philippines, relocated to Sydney.
“But where is your teacher?” Ken asked of Michael as the last seat was filled.
Michael repressed a grin and pointed. Ken followed his finger across the room to where the Japanese were being seated, and her eyes widened. Then she muttered something that made Mr. Matalino and Joost cough into their napkins.
“You know,” Ken suddenly grinned, “when I say such things in America, or Egypt or England, no one understands me. I must remember that here I am among those who might.”
“Really, Ken,” Juan said, shaking his head. “His mother and his sister?”
“And brother, too!” she said defiantly. And then she reconsidered. “Well—perhaps not his brother.”
Paul laughed. “If it’s kinky, then sure, throw him in. Because Ron Avidan is a major kinkster.”
Michael blinked. “Avidan? But—I didn’t know they had different last names.”
“Listen, I don’t think half of us here have the names we were born with,” said Paul, sitting back and watching as large, shining carts were rolled into the room. “Nature of the business. You don’t get here by staying the same person you were when you were a kid.”
“That is true,” said Ken, choosing a wine from the selection arrayed for her pleasure. Michael was grateful to see that there was also beer, and he had an ice cold one sitting in front of him before he even finished nodding. “Many of my slaves changed and lost many names before they found me.”
“It’s not just the slaves, though,” said Fi, after softly making a special request of a server. “Lots of us just want to make sure that mum and da back home don’t look us up at the wrong time! Can’t have the nephews come over for a dip in the pool when you’ve got a different kind of party goin’ on.” She cackled and grinned when a bottle of Victoria Bitter was brought out for her on a mirrored tray. “Bless the little details,” she said.
Paul nodded. “Between the real names, the married names, the scene names, and the Marketplace names, sometimes I need two Rolodex cards for one person,” he said. “And what’s worse is that I finally got my new computer and modem hooked up, and now I have e-mail names, too!”
“E-mail is a wonderful thing!” Ken declared. “I have many computer names, now. Andy keeps my records anyway, he tells me who I am when reading and who I am when I am answering.” She laughed. “You must all give me your e-mail, so I can send you amusing stories and pictures of all the beautiful slaves I find.”
“Bloody mess, all this Internet rot,” Fi grumbled. “Spend more time sittin’ in front of the damn screen than out loo
kin’ at folks, sometimes!”
“Join the Twentieth Century,” laughed Paul.
“Yes, join we forward-looking people,” Ken echoed. “Michael, you have e-mail, correct?”
“I did when I lived on the West Coast,” Michael said, “but right now, the only access I have is through the Marketplace BBS. Chris doesn’t even have his own access code, he uses Anderson’s. Eliot and Selador are pretty hooked in, though, both on the BBS and out there on one or two of the big commercial providers. I’ve tried to tell Chris about some of the stuff out there, discussions and live chat and everything, but he doesn’t think it’ll amount to much. I don’t think he’s looking forward to having auctions advertised on the ’net, let alone this idea of catalogs on web pages.”
Ken looked scandalized. “No wonder he is wearing some old clothes tonight,” she scoffed. “He is—what is the word—he hates the future?”Luckily, before anyone could provide a word that Michael might consider an insult, Paul leaned his arm over the back his chair as slaves industriously unfolded and arranged great silver carts arrayed all over the room. “Now—what do you think they’re doing with those things?”
The devices were scattered throughout the room, one for every three or four tables. Slaves took up positions next to them and bowed to incoming chefs, who bowed to the tables surrounding their positions and ceremoniously took up a pair of knives.
“It is teppanyaki,” declared Ken. “Excellent, I was getting weary of sushi.”
“Like at Benihana?” Michael raised an eyebrow as he accepted an exquisitely arranged tiny platter of fresh and pickled vegetables.
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