During a commercial for a vacuum-pressing table, he ran highlights from the Tissue movie, which I hadn’t seen in years. It opened in an eerie moonlight garden filled with long walkways, beautiful marble fountains, and dozens of perfectly trimmed geometric bushes. As the drums fire and the organ plays, they sing of loneliness and desperation. Then the garden is lit on fire and the blue is burned away so that it becomes daytime. Now, wearing big, bright orange suits, they are happy, they punch each other and scream about the band’s glorious future. In the last sequence, each member cuts off the ends of their pinkies. Doctors stitch all forty together—pinky to pinky stump. The epic ends as the camera spins above and they have become one big, human volvox.
“My old anthem,” I said. The song I associated with my first death would also be connected to my second. “Perfect.”
He switched off the video. The screen returned to the ironing competition and a buzzer sounded—the ironers were to report to their boards. I watched Isé–B step onto the stage. He added several more embers into his iron, primed it, rolled his shoulders and neck, and then stared at the heated vacuum table. What I loved about him was that he existed in his own perfect world, concerned with nothing but cotton, heat, and steam. I longed for such , such a singularity of mind.
“He doesn’t have a chance, does he?” I asked, trying to be lighthearted as if that might temper yet another second-place finish.
My tailor was busy at his drawing screen and had finished half a dozen quick sketches. The drawings disturbed me. And the way the material shimmered and smoldered made it look like fire. Worse, the silhouette was large, bold, and muscular like something a satin would wear.
Before I had time to figure out how to express my displeasure without insulting him, the commentator said, “They’re off! This is the final heat for the gold!”
Fanjor and Isé–B stood beside two parallel ironing boards arranging their white cotton shirts. Fanjor started on the cuffs, Isé–B, the back.
“Fanjor is off to another fast start,” said the announcer.
“He’s been in a zone all week,” enthused the color man.
“Go Isé,” said Mr. Cedar.
“Isé–B has finished the back,” said the commentator. “But Fanjor and his incredible quickness are already in evidence!”
Isé–B got out his sleeve board and began the left. Fanjor didn’t bother and just crushed the material flat, leaving two creases on the sleeve.
“Why isn’t he penalized for that?” I asked. “That’s not right!”
“Indeed,” agreed Mr. Cedar.
“He just guts it out with that speed,” added Color, as if he’d heard my complaint. “Fanjor wills his victories. They’re not subtle or graceful, but they’re fast.”
“They’re brutal!” I complained. “And they’re ugly!”
“Isé–B is close,” said Mr. Cedar. “He’s got a chance.”
“I just want him to beat Fanjor!”
A close-up showed Fanjor leaning in as he started the collar. While picking up his iron, he hit the steam and a blast filled the air. His goggles fogged so badly, he had to stop, and wipe them off.
“Uh oh!” cried the announcer. “That could be a costly error!”
“Yes!” I screamed. “Go! Go!”
“Three years ago, a steam-up just like that cost Fanjor the Northern Invitational,” explained Color. “That was the last major won by the veteran Matús before he retired, leaving Fanjor to dominate. Today of course, Fanjor is the veteran, and Isé–B, the upstart.”
I couldn’t believe it, but I was about to see Isé–B finally beat him! “Go!” I shouted, as Isé–B ran his Schiaparelli across the shoulder yoke. Then he flipped his shirt around and worked the collar.
“Faster! Come on!
“It’s neck and neck!” said the announcer.
“I’d say it’s completely up for grabs!” added Color.
“No!” I screamed. “Isé–B’s ahead! He’s winning!”
As Isé–B finished the collar; Fanjor flew his Intel across the front. In another flash, he grabbed a hanger and slapped it onto the finishing rod. The horn sounded. An instant later Isé–B, hung his.
“Incredible!” said Color.
“Fanjor pulled it out again!”
“He’s unbeatable,” declared Color. “And you could see it in his eyes. Right at the end, he just wanted it more.”
I felt teased, then crushed again. And it wasn’t so much that I wanted Isé–B to win, but Fanjor to be beaten, as if I wanted some proof happened, if not for me, for someone somewhere. But it was just like the Tournament of Ironing Champions, The Weave, and Fiber-Con. It was always the same. It was unfair, just like everything.
“We’re going to go down to the boards,” said the announcer. “Our own very attractive Lindsay Beech is down on the stage with Fanjor, who—”
Mr. Cedar snapped off the screen. He worked on his sketching board for several moments “Watch,” he said.
I stood in a generic-looking coffee shop of polished iron, black cement, and silver furniture. In my right hand, I held a black glass of what I assumed was cream coffee.
“It’s boxy,” I noted, unhappily.
“It’s the bastard child of early Ültra and Pure H.”
“Indeed.”
Holding up a finger, he said, “Observe.” He touched a few things on his board. Another figure, wearing black, entered the frame. He tossed what looked like a fist-sized rock. When the rock hit the orange suit, it exploded in a white flash, sending the head and arms flying. An instant later, nothing but a few glowing embers and a black spot remained on the floor.
“I’ll deliver it this evening,” said my tailor.
Thirteen
During the first few minutes of my trip back to the family compound, a feeling of regret began to swell in my stomach like a hastily eaten meal. I wanted to tell my driver to turn around, so I could go back to Mr. Cedar, ask him to design a normal suit, and devise some other way to stop Father. When I had thrown Love Alone to the floor, it had burned like a piece of paper, not a stick of dynamite. I didn’t want to end up as a fireball with my limbs flying across the stage in different directions.
Each time I was about to press the intercom button I came up with a reason why the suit made sense. First, instead of a smoldering fire like the tie, when the suit detonated, I probably wouldn’t feel much. I’d see a flash of yellow, sense a flare of pain, but then I’d be dead. Second, the power assured Father’s elimination.
Then I worried about the color of the suit. While the Adjoining Tissue orange was symmetrical and fatalistic, did I really want to end my life in an Ültra disaster? And more importantly, what would Nora think? My death would devastate her, but would the color of the suit and the ferociousness of the explosion contaminate my sacrifice and ruin our grey perfection? Or did the color separate my death from our love and protect our colorlessness?
Gazing straight ahead at the red emergency brake button with its big white E, I took several deep breaths, and tried to clear my head. I thought of how desperate Father was. I thought of Elle and the ridiculous marriage that was supposed to happen tonight. And most of all, I thought of my beautiful Nora and and Father’s threats of violence. No, the orange was good. Father had asked for color and he would get it.