Juarez Square and Other Stories
Page 10
“Mamma mia,” the device said, startling Marcos. He’d forgotten it was still connected to his specs. “This is heaven for me, Marco. The last minutes before a show. Nothing like it in all the world. So crazy, so beautiful, so wonderful.”
Marcos disconnected the device and ran over to one of the garment racks. For the first time, he looked over the pieces that made up the fall line, the pieces the Don had been working on in private for months.
“Oh, God,” he gasped.
Every item of clothing shouted for attention. Every dress and pantsuit, every blouse, even the accessories. The pieces were brazen and daring and beautiful, far different from the conservative, classically-inspired style the designer was renowned for.
Far different from anything the Don was capable of.
Marcos’ shoulders slumped. My sweet Don, what have you done?
The device, this Gianni box, had been the creative genius behind the fall line. The undeniable evidence hung on garment racks all around him, minutes away from being revealed to the world. Suddenly so much made sense: the Don’s unusual anxiousness of late; his secret design sessions behind locked doors; the odd separation from his inner circle.
A lump formed in Marcos’ throat as he recalled the night some months ago, when he’d told the Don about his cousin’s internship in Italy with an artificial intelligence company. His cousin had told him about a hush-hush prototype, designed to emulate the mind of a long-dead fashion legend. Wasn’t that amazing? And wouldn’t it be something if it actually worked?
It had been only comment or two, little more than pillow talk between lovers. At the time Marcos hadn’t paid much attention to the Don’s sudden interest, how he’d asked question after question.
The device in his pocket suddenly took on an impossible heaviness. What was something like this worth? Billions? Trillions? Surely the AI company had people looking for it.
Don Derecho appeared in a doorway and strode into the backstage area. He dashed over to a seamstress, dropped to one knee, and helped with a hem adjustment. Time slowed to a crawl as Marcos watched the Don. His stomach twisted with a sudden dread, like he’d just received news of a loved one’s unexpected death. He reached for his pendant, but stopped halfway.
The Don looked up from the hem and noticed Marcos. He stood and walked over, a spring in his step and a smile stretching across his face. He embraced Marcos, kissed his cheek, and proudly spread out his arms.
“Now you can finally see what I’ve been working on all this time. What do you think?”
Marcos struggled for a reply. “It’s…unlike anything you’ve ever done before.” The Don’s betrayal set off a fire inside of him. He felt it bloom, hot and furious.
“Thank you.” Don Derecho’s eyes twinkled. “Maybe Paris and Milan will take some notice this time, what do you think?”
“Yes,” Marcos said flatly. “I suppose after today the secret’s going to be out.”
The Don’s grin wavered for the briefest moment.
Marcos wanted to scream. He wanted to reach into his pocket, whip out the device, and demand answers. Why had the Don had done it? Why would he take such a reckless risk? And who gave a damn if no one knew his name in Europe? Didn’t he know he was already loved by so many, by him especially? Was that worth nothing to him?
But when Marcos summoned the words they wouldn’t come. He stood there, frozen and mute. After a long moment he finally managed to grimace a smile.
“Good luck with the show,” he said.
***
It was the first runway show on the The Lexington’s rooftop in five years. Since Bossio’s ill-fated event, no designer had dared to use the unlucky location again. In an audacious move, Don Derecho had insisted on using the venue for his next show, setting off a flood of industry buzz and anticipation.
As the last of the stragglers arrived, Marcos distanced himself from the crowd and watched from a far corner of the building. He’d never seen a turnout like this. Everyone seated along the catwalk was an A-lister, all smiling and chatting and kissing hellos.
Marcos scanned the crowd’s faces, searching for skeptical smiles or arms folded in doubt. He saw only excitement and expectation. He grimly wondered how many minutes into the show things would start to unravel. How long before they spotted the fraud.
Had the Don completely forgotten how the public, this same fickle public, had turned on Bossio? Didn’t he remember how they went from adoring fans to a pack of wolves in a handful of minutes?
The device buzzed and vibrated inside his jacket. He ignored it.
The lights dimmed and the soft, diffuse twilight gave everything a surreal quality. The chatter slowly died down until the city’s traffic noise, faint and distant twelve stories below, became the only sound in the universe. A minute passed and nothing happened. Another minute. Nothing. Just as the crowd began to fidget…
LIGHTS! The catwalk and backdrop with the Don Derecho logo appeared, brilliantly illuminated in glowing white. The crowd gasped in delight, their upturned faces gleaming in the reflected light like cherubs in a religious painting.
MUSIC! A slow, electronic bassline began. The heavy beat slowly sped up, increasing in rhythm and volume until the air itself throbbed like the inside of a nightclub.
The first model burst onto the catwalk, hips swinging defiantly, a bawdy smile on her face. She wore a black denim jacket with hook and eye seams, open in the front, the pale skin of her bare torso a sharp contrast to the dark top. A steel blue miniskirt in glazed raffia hung low on her hips, wrapped in a thick leather belt with an oversized silver buckle. The skin of her arms, legs, and neck glowed with nano-tattoos, pulsing in time with the music. A rainbow-colored constellation of holographic stars orbited around her head.
Applause broke out immediately. Marcos looked through the crowd, seeing surprise and admiration everywhere. The journalists on press row shouted reports into small microphone arms attached to their specs, hands cupped over their mouths to block out the music and the raucous crowd.
The second model emerged, wearing a lavender bodice with elastic bandages and tight jeans embossed with flowers. More roars, more applause. With each model’s appearance, the audience’s approval grew louder and more enthusiastic.
Marcos blinked up the media feed in his specs and listened to the commentary.
—The Don we knew until now is gone. A greater one has taken his place.
—The rooftop of The Lexington has transformed itself into a lighthouse, a shining beacon of the fashion world.
—This collection, perhaps the finest ever by a Mexican designer, is a joyous celebration of sex and seduction.
—We are witnessing history tonight.
He blinked off the feed. The cheers assaulted his ears; the music made his head throb. Even the journalists, normally stone-faced and businesslike, clapped and hooted with each successive design. Marcos wanted to mute them like he’d muted the device.
When the last model turned and exited the catwalk, the crowd stood and erupted into a thunderous ovation.
The Don had done it. He’d fooled them all. Marcos turned and made his way down the stairs.
He’d seen enough.
***
Marcos meandered through the streets of Polanco for hours, his feet shuffling aimlessly. Around midnight the crowds thinned and the party headed indoors to the posh nightclubs that would stay open well past dawn. He eventually made his way back to Masaryk, its sidewalks empty of pedestrians and littered with trash from the pre-show festivities.
His mind wandered to the previous week, when he’d celebrated his first anniversary with the Don Derecho fashion house. He could hardly believe twelve months had passed since he’d left the tailor’s shop. The last year of his life had been a glorious blur, a non-stop dream. The staff had become like family, he loved his work, and at the center of everything was the Don, whom Marcos adored. The Don had become everything to him: his employer, his lover, the center of his universe.
“You’ve been such an unexpected blessing to me, Marcos. You have no idea.” Marcos opened the box and removed a gold necklace with a Saint Francis pendant. He clasped it around his neck and silently vowed never to remove it. “It looks wonderful on you,” the Don said, kissing Marcos tenderly on the forehead.
Marcos tried to shake the memory from his mind. He continued down Masaryk, toward the studio. He reached into his pocket and tapped a connection to the device.
“Don’t tell him,” he said. “Don’t tell him I know about you.”
“Marco, what are you doing?”
“I’m putting you back where I found you, then I’m leaving.”
“Leaving to where?”
“I don’t know, just leaving.”
For a long moment the device said nothing. “Marco, I want to tell you something. Ambition can drive you crazy. It can make do things you shouldn’t or take a big risk, you understand?”
Marcos didn’t say anything.
“After today I think the Don will need you more than ever.”
“I can’t.” Marcos imagined the Don being led out of the studio in handcuffs, the sidewalk crowded with press. How could all of this end any other way? No, it could end another way. He remembered Bossio, then cringed in horror as he pictured the Don suspended from a door frame, his neck slanting at an unnatural angle.
Marcos arrived at the studio. The night guard, watching a soccer game with his feet up, smiled and waved at him through the window. The door buzzed and Marcos reached for the latch with one hand and muted the device with the other. As he pulled on the door, he looked up at the Don Derecho logo etched into the glass above the entryway. He lingered for a moment, then entered the studio.
He entered the office and found the Don, alone and sitting at his desk, smoking a cigarette. A ceramic ashtray sat on the spot where Marcos had first seen the device hours earlier.
“I missed you at the after-party,” the Don said, his voice low and tired.
Marcos took a step forward. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Looks like the show was a big hit.”
“Yes.” The Don exhaled smoke. “Major interest from all the top European retailers.” He motioned to a stack of papers on the desk. “They’ve already sent over contracts.” It was the best possible news, but the Don’s haggard face reflected none of it.
“You don’t look too happy about it,” Marcos said, tilting his head.
The Don rubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. “I know I should be, but…” His voice trailed off, leaving the thought unspoken. He smiled thinly and said, “Have you ever wanted something for a long time, but then when you finally get it you’re not sure if it was worth all the trouble?”
When Marcos didn’t answer, the Don said, “Of course not. You’re young. Everything’s ahead of you.” Then he noticed the look on Marcos’ face and he narrowed his eyes. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Marcos walked over, took the device out of his pocket, and placed it on the desk.
The Don’s eyes grew large for a moment, then slowly the comprehension washed over his face. He lowered his head and looked as if his soul, at that very moment, emptied itself of everything except the private shame he’d been harboring all these months.
“You could have told me,” Marcos said.
The Don’s voice cracked. “I know. I should have. I almost did, so many times.”
“You should have.”
“I know.”
Marcos sighed. “You set the bar pretty high tonight, you know. Everyone’s going to expect to more of the same.”
“It wasn’t me setting the bar.”
“You know what I mean.”
The Don nodded grimly. “Yes, I know. You’re only as good as your last show. Crazy thing, this fashion business.”
The burden of carrying such a load alone had taken its toll on the Don. Marcos noticed the dark circles under his eyes; he heard the weariness in his voice. He’d never seen him so fragile, so unsteady.
The Don pulled out a cigarette, but his trembling hands couldn’t get a flame started. Marcos reached over, took the lighter, and lent him a steady hand.
“I’m sorry, Marcos,” the Don said. “I know how disappointed you must be.”
Marcos sat down in front of the desk, facing the man he’d once worshiped, the god who’d rescued him from a hot, airless tailor’s shop and changed his life. But of course he wasn’t a god. He was only a man. A flawed, imperfect man. His man.
“Could I give you a couple pieces of advice?” Marcos asked.
The Don nodded.
“First,” Marcos said, “for the next show, the three of us are going to have to tone it down a bit. We don’t want to draw too much attention to ourselves, do we?”
A smile came across the Don’s face. “Yes, I like this idea. And the second piece of advice?”
Marcos pointed to the device, buzzing and vibrating and dying to be part of the conversation. “Please don’t ever leave this sitting out again.”
Ximena
Ximena stood at the foot of the oversized bed in the dimly lit, well-appointed room, smiling as she watched her two newest nymphbots bring Señor Torres, one of her most loyal customers, to a groaning orgasm. Watching them, she felt an exquisite tingling all over and a warm, dampening pulse between her legs. After a long, savored moment, she glanced up at the wall clock.
“Señor Torres,” she said, “I hate to rush you, but my husband will be here any minute.”
Torres inhaled and exhaled deeply, like a marathon runner who’s just crossed the finish line, and reclined against the padded headboard, pulling the wrinkled sheets over his sweat-slicked torso. The nymphbots, a blonde and a brunette, whispered flirtations as they ran their hands up and down his round, protruding belly. Torres was a regular, making the hour-long drive from Valladolid to Ximena's robot brothel every Friday like clockwork.
Torres smiled dumbly in his post-orgasmic afterglow, then seemed to realize he'd missed something. “I'm sorry, what did you say, my dear?”
“I’m afraid we’re closing early today. I'm having dinner with my husband.”
Torres flashed her a confused look. “Your husband? Your husband's coming here?”
“Indeed he is,” she said, the thought sending butterflies fluttering through her insides. “And thank you again for helping to test the new models.” She motioned to the nymphbots. “I take it they performed to your satisfaction?”
Torres turned to the brunette and fondled its perfectly round breasts. The bot’s eyes rolled back in emulated pleasure.
“Yes, wonderful,” he said. “Just wonderful. What models did you say these were?”
“Ono-Hiroshi Fives. Just arrived yesterday.”
“Your customers will love them.”
Ximena winked. “I know.”
She had already tested them out herself, amazed at how much more lifelike this latest generation was, how perfectly they followed instructions, how easily they made her come. The OH4s had been a bit clumsy at times, like a high school kid who hadn't learned much yet. But the fives, what an improvement!
Torres ran his hand up the brunette’s leg and squeezed a handful of ass. He looked at Ximena with a contented smile. “Dear, would you mind terribly if I had seconds? I promise I won't be long.”
Ximena checked the time again, agreed, and then left him alone to his fun. Torres’ company performed background screens on her customers, an invaluable service in her line of work, so she felt a certain obligation to give him preferential treatment. And of course she could
n’t fault him for wanting another round with the new models. She couldn’t wait to jump back in bed with them herself.
As she passed through the reception area, she paused at the wall-length window and gazed out over the city. Her business occupied the top floor of the five-star Hotel Joya in the heart of Salamanca, Madrid's high-end commercial district. The hotel had screwed her a bit with the rent, which was high even by Salamanca standards, but when she’d first taken in the priceless view, she’d known immediately this was where she wanted to be.
She quietly watched the streets twelve stories below. The wide, tree-lined avenues swelled with late afternoon pedestrian traffic, a mix of moneyed tourists and locals. Fashionable boutiques and cafes, the bustle of commerce.
Javier was out there somewhere, on his way here. The thought excited her. She’d walked around giddy all day, hardly believing he'd finally agreed to meet her for dinner. To meet her here for dinner.
Surely this was the turning point she’d been hoping for.
***
Ximena’s eyes widened as she tasted the noodle soup. “Angela, this is unbelievable. Qué delicia.” The tiny kitchen next to her office had just enough room for Ximena, her assistant Angela, and a couple hotplates to keep the cocido madrileño warm and ready to serve.
A proud smile stretched across Angela’s freckled face. She removed her apron and hung it on a wall hook. “My mom's recipe,” she said. “Glad you like it.” Then she pointed to the cast iron pot. “Everything else is in there. So after the soup course, serve the beans and veggies, then after that the meat. Dessert’s down in the kitchen, so just call Felipe when you’re ready and he’ll bring it right up.”
Earlier the two women had converted Ximena’s office into a private dining room, replacing the desk with a candlelit table for two draped in white linen. The two women stood with hands on hips and admired their work. Ximena dimmed the lights.