After we had wound our way around a dozen ever more cartoony and debauched turtles, hamsters, and bunnies, we came to a clear area. Another orange satin, with long white hair, sat at a table covered with half a dozen screens. He stood and bowed.
Beyond him, on the black floor, lay Joelene, in nothing but her green bra and underwear. I crouched beside her. Her skin was mottled with a hundred small bruises, as if she’d been peppered with pool balls. Father had beaten her and left her to die.
Xavid stepped above us. He kicked at the thick metal cuff on her left wrist. Then he toed the chain that connected it to the floor. “Good,” he said, peering down at her.
“Get away,” I told him. After he sneered at me and stepped away, I knelt closer to her. “Joelene, can you hear me?” She didn’t speak or move. I had been hoping she could help me with Nora’s message, but clearly, I was the one who would be helping her. Touching her cheek, I found it warm and worried she had a fever. “It’s me. Michael,” I said. She moaned like she was dreaming. “I’m going to help you.” Her eyes finally opened, and I was never happier to see those amethyst irises.
“Pain,” she whispered, her dry lips sticking together. “Get me…” Her voice faded and her eyes closed.
“Get you what?”
Farther back, I heard Gold Visor say, “This prisoner’s dead.”
Beside the satin, I saw Ken Goh ten feet away. His mouth was wide open as if he had died screaming.
Xavid stepped over him. “Corporate selection,” he said. “Only the smart survive.”
I wanted him to shut up and go away and was about to tell him so, when Joelene mumbled something. Putting my ear close, I asked her to repeat it, but she just moaned. “Don’t worry,” I said, stroking her forehead, “I’m going to get you out of here.”
“Are you…” she began.
“Am I what?” I asked. She didn’t reply. “Am I marrying Elle? No! I’m not. I’m not going to.”
“Are you…” she repeated.
“No, I’m not!”
“That’s it!” said Xavid. “Your minute’s up. Let’s go.”
“I’m staying here with her.”
Xavid rolled his eyes far up in his glasses. “It’s been more than a minute.” Pointing a thumb at the satin, he said, “He will be happy to drag you back to your apartment.”
“I want more time.”
He stepped closer. “I used to watch you dance on the channels. I thought you were just wonderful. But now that I’ve gotten to know you, you’re as selfish and stupid, as your father says.” I could have hated him—I probably already did—but wasting more energy on him seemed futile.
Behind, I heard Joelene say, “Are you…” again. An instant later, I understood.
Twelve
As I hurried through the long spiral to Mr. Cedar’s showroom, I again remembered the times when I had stopped to admire his displays, contemplate the exhibits, and learn from his interactive experiments. Today, I even passed what looked like a fascinating exhibit on the history of pockets, but I had too much to accomplish before midnight. As I neared his sugar maple and hammered-palladium doors, though, I felt compelled to act civilized for at least one moment and stopped before a wood and glass display.
Inside was a large swatch of charcoal fabric held vertical and flat by several robotic When I pushed the single red button on the front of the experiment, a mannequin’s hand, representing the wearer, rose on the right side of the fabric and a metal rod lowered on the left. A fierce spark jumped from the rod toward the hand, but as indicated on a series of meters, the fabric’s electronic network reflected the lethal shock.
I stood before the experiment for several beats as I thought of the Miniature city flickers quote and the woman in the alpaca-silk and platinum dress who was covered with a thin, vaporous layer of flame, the necktie from Mr. Cedar I had thrown at the floor that burned, and the wedding blocking I had just seen at the PartyHaus, where Father and I were to stand alone on the stage.
“Michael,” said Mr. Cedar, his voice startling me, “do come in.”
Last time I’d visited, the gallery was filled with posing mannequins. This time it was empty except for his sketching board and a large sports screen, tuned to the AppleBoard Shirt Ironing Invitational. I couldn’t believe that I had forgotten about one of my favorite events. Last year, my tailor and I had attended in person.
“It’s the last round,” said Mr. Cedar.
Competitive ironing was the oldest and most prestigious sport played among the fashionable. In my dressing room at my apartment, I had my own speed and sleeve boards and several competitive irons, but of course, I was nothing compared to the people who made it their life. For the past several years, one man, Fanjor, dominated the tournaments. In the beginning, I had admired his ironing, but gradually, as he kept winning, and got more and more arrogant, I got sick of him.
Now my favorite was Isé–B. He was a handsome, wiry man with short-cropped, dark hair, stern russet eyes, and always had a five-o’clock shadow. Unlike the rest of the ironers, who used modern, souped-up, Intel-Sunbeams, Greikos, or Jaun-Tees, he preferred a coal-powered Schiaparelli-Firemaster 77, with duel chimneys, and a customized Steam-Jet 188. It was incredible to watch him work that thirty-two pound-hunk of polished iron over crisp white shirts, as it spat clouds of steam and belched black smoke. And while he was truly a brilliant ironer who regularly won the smoothest-in-show and wrinkle creativity awards, he had yet to beat Fanjor head to head.
The channel was showing a replay from Masters Trophy last year, where Isé–B had lost by a twentieth of a second. After being awarded the coveted Golden Cuff, Fanjor, dressed in his signature yellow, pranced about the stage, chanting his own name.
“How’s Isé–B doing today?” I asked, as Fanjor, now in slow motion, leapt into the crowd where his fans began licking him as though he were a lemon candy.
“He’s two hundredths of a second behind.”
That wasn’t good. In this last speed round, Isé–B needed a lead to have a chance.
“So,” said Mr. Cedar, turning his attention to me.
“I suspect my last.” He raised an eyebrow as if concerned I might be changing styles or tailors. “I have an idea,” I began. “You see, yesterday, that neck tie you made for me, Love … burned.”
“The stolen silk was juxtaposed with a small amount of nitrocellulose.” With a grimace, he eyed my neck and asked, “You weren’t injured, were you?”
“Not at all,” I said, contrite that I had thrown it at the floor in a fit.
“You need it replaced?” he guessed.
“Not that.” After an exhale, I looked him in the eye and said, “Since Nora and I can’t be together, we’ll have to be apart.” I swallowed and asked, “Can you make me a whole suit of nitrocellulose?”
He stopped twisting his beard. His eyes fell to his sketching board, and his expression turned somber. While I knew my request was extreme, now I feared I had overstepped the bounds of our relationship. How could I have asked my tailor, of all people, to help me kill my father and myself? Frantic, I tried to think of some plausible way to claim I was joking.
He asked, “Your situation is that dire?” and I saw the calm gravity I had been hoping for.
“ worse,” I answered, thinking of Father’s freeboot.
He began rolling his beard hair again. “Yesterday… I saw something new by Pentagon-Straus in The Official Fabric Guide.” After he manipulated something on his table, he nodded toward the screen. “It’s quite dangerous and curiously comes in a single color—a luminescent orange licensed from the famous suits in the Bäng epic, Adjoining Tissue.”