Grey (9 page)

"Michael," he said, as he stood and stepped toward me, "good to see you."

Mr. Cedar was ten years older, an inch shorter, but sturdier. His hair, which stood up in front, was black, but lately, from different angles and in various lights, I'd seen flecks of grey. He was one of those men whose looks often go unnoticed. He was not stunningly handsome, and still had a faint scar down the middle of his face, but once the eye found the details beyond the basic color, texture, and silhouette, it could appreciate both his graceful features and the complexity of his steel eyes.

Today he wore what I assumed were his work clothes—an unconstructed charcoal jacket and matching pants, a soft-looking, off-white shirt, and a silvery ascot.

"Your suit design saved my life," I told him. "Thank you."

From the center of his chin grew a single black hair three inches long. He twirled it between his index and thumb a few times. "You exaggerate."

Next, he gave me a tour of the studio, showed me his de-weaving equipment, the design systems, water looms, and demonstrated a new sonic, double-lock sewing machine.

"Impressive," I said.

"We're quite modest." He then escorted me toward his screens and sat. "I understand that you have another publicity date."

"I do," I said, instantly depressed. "At the MonoBeat Tower. She's a
Petunia Tune
girl." As I mentioned the magazine, I saw him wince. "I don't like it either, but I don't have a choice." All morning I had tried to call Nora, tried to see her on the channels, tried to send messages, but everything was blocked by RiverGroup code. The same notice kept coming up:
You are disallowed from this communication, Michael. And your father has been informed.
After I had tried several dozen times, Father and the gold visor satin had come. Gold Visor picked me up by one ankle and we got as far as the garage, when I promised I wouldn't try to send Nora a message again. The satin summarily dropped me onto the floor, and I bruised my head.

Sitting up, I realized that I had slipped into a daydream and not finished my thought to my tailor. With a futile shrug, I added, "All I would like to do is share a single cream-coffee with Nora." I exhaled a shaky breath and tried to gather myself.

Twisting his beard hair a few more times, Mr. Cedar spun around, picked a brush from a jar, and began working. I watched the sable flip and dash over the glowing surface, and then glanced up at the overhead display where the drawing appeared.

On a terracotta oval, the figure assumed a pose like the models in
Pure H
. The left leg was forward, the foot, straight. The head was turned far to the left so that the face was in profile. The left arm rest on the hip, the right hung straight. As he worked, he added a tiny dot of red between the thumb and the index, as if a drop of her blood remained. While the suit was lean and elegant like always, it was boxier and darker. The lapels were higher. The white shirt looked stiff like paper, and the patterned ash tie gave an iridescent glow.

"There," he said, and touched a button labeled cut and sew.

"It's superb!" I said, not actually sure that I loved it. The truth was it looked stiff and awkward, but I felt I didn't want to complain until I saw it in three dimensions. "What is the fiber content?"

"Moon wool and steel." He swiveled on his chair and pointed toward the back of the room. "Here we are."

Assistant Pheff came with a dark charcoal suit draped over his arm. "Fresh from the Fuji-Merrow cut-and-sew automaton," he said, handing it to Mr. Cedar.

My tailor checked the seams, the lining, and the buttons. "Excellent. Bring Mr. Rivers' form," he instructed. Pheff did so, and Mr. Cedar dressed it.

In fabric and in three dimensions, I saw just how different the suit was. While all his previous garments had radiated an uplifting elegance, this one was heavy, anxious, and hard. The fabric had a ghostly metallic sheen and reminded me more of armor than the usual soft, satellite wools. To emphasize that harder feel, the buttons were cut roughly from slate, the collar hugged the neck as if the wearer were cold or frightened, and the shoulders slumped as if carrying a burden. With a sad laugh of recognition, I said, "Now I understand."

Mr. Cedar nodded as if that was what he had expected to hear. In a low drawer, he rooted through a dozen large brushes, scissors, rulers, tape measures, and spools of thread. "Ah!" he said, as he pulled out what looked like a green glass rod with a small orb at one end.

Stepping before the suit, he studied it as an artist might gaze at a canvas and then began drawing on the right shoulder with the rod. I flinched, fearing that he was going to color my suit green, but soon saw that the glass rod made no mark. I had no idea what he was doing. Glancing at Pheff, he seemed as baffled as I. So, the two of us waited for him to finish and explain.

But when he finished, he stepped back, gazed for a moment, and then told Pheff, "Turn off the lights. Close the blinds, and switch off all the screens."

The three of us were swallowed in darkness. Holding tightly onto the scooter handlebars so I felt like I wasn't drifting in space, I waited for my tailor to speak, or turn on a light, or do something. I heard nothing, but my own breathing.

Once my eyes adjusted to the tiny hint of light that came around the door, I could see my tailor standing absolutely still before the suit. While I couldn't fathom what this was about, I knew he had a reason and resolved to wait patiently.

Every few minutes Pheff cleared his throat, shifted his weight, or crossed or uncrossed his arms. Mr. Cedar was perfectly still. His arms hung at his sides. I couldn't see if his eyes were open, but guessed they were closed. He was meditating or making a silent offering of some sort. Maybe he always did this when he finished a suit.

I closed my eyes and tried to think of nothing, but images of Father screaming and dancing, and the abrasive hues from the color therapy screen, kept invading my consciousness like pollution. The more I tried to push them away, the more elastic they became. Finally, I imagined Nora's gloved hands, the texture of the material, the precise cut of the fabric, and the way it stretched over her knuckles. Gradually, the storm receded.

My body jerked, as if I was falling asleep, and I opened my eyes. The room was still black, and I feared I had dozed off for a few minutes. But there . . . on the right shoulder of the suit was a ghostly glowing grey circle six inches wide. It was like a large round, clockwise brushstroke, exactly like the logo of the SunEcho coffee shop.

Mr. Cedar said, "Lights."

As the studio floods flicked on. I clenched my eyes. Before I had a chance to ask what I'd seen, he told Pheff to turn them off again, and we were plunged back into darkness. The eerie logo was gone.

"Back on," he said. As the lights returned, he turned toward me. "Bright light bleaches visual purple in the eye."

"I thought I saw the SunEcho logo for a moment."

"You did," he said, "but I painted it on with a dye
almost
out of human perception." He took the jacket from the form and put it on a Chanel-Royce hanger. "You wanted to meet Nora for a cream coffee," he continued. "My idea is that she'll see the logo and go to meet you. But we want the message to be seen only by her, if possible."

"Right," I agreed. "My communication has been cut off."

"So," he said, "only those few people with a grey eye will have the ability to see it. Of that group, only those who have a muted décor, such that they would be watching your date in relative dim, will have enough visual purple in their grey eye to perceive it. And from that very small group, only those who are familiar with the logo of the
Pure H
coffee shop will comprehend."

As a cold shiver worked its way up my spine, I said, "You mean . . .
her
."

Later that afternoon, Joelene and I were traveling across the Pacificum Floating Bridge on our way to the city of Kong. While Joelene worked on her screen, I began to worry that Nora wouldn't see the message. What if the rods in her grey eye weren't working for some unfathomable reason? Or what if her father came in and switched on a bright light? Or what if she didn't watch the promotion date at all? She could be mad at me. Maybe she would hate me for going out with Elle, even though she had to know that I was being coerced.

"The itinerary for the date has just been finalized," said Joelene. With a sigh, she added, "I tried my best." Bringing over a screen, she sat beside me.

I looked over the date itinerary. We were to eat at a restaurant at the top of the MonoBeat Tower. That was good. I made my appearance first and drank one of the sponsor's beverages. That wasn't too bad—Nora and I had had sponsors. Elle then sampled another of the beverages. Then we described how delicious and refreshing they were. That was crass, but tolerable. For the next ten minutes she and I were to flirt. I stopped reading for a moment and felt a kind of dread that I hadn't before. Maybe I was in denial, but I had assumed we would just meet and talk. Reading ahead, I saw that we were to gaze in each other's eyes and pledge to get our parents to work together as an expression of our newfound love. Love?

I glanced at Joelene, who pursed her mouth as if to say that she knew how awful it was. After we ate dinner, one of Elle's favorite bands was to play, and we were to dance. I stared at the word. This was the worst, and yet, the next thing was unacceptable. During the dance, we were supposed to kiss, and the date was to end with one of my hands slipping between her legs.

Tossing the screen at the floor, I said, "That's disgusting!"

She retrieved the screen and sat for a moment. "I'll go back and say we can't do it from the kiss on. Your father's not going to like it."

I felt like laughing and crying at the same time. "I don't want to do any of it! Can't we go back to mkg? Do I have to forget Nora?"

"No," she said, gently, "of course not."

"I'm going to see her!" I whispered. Joelene looked confused, if curious, so I told her about the visual purple invitation to the SunEcho in my suit.

Taking a small, powered magnifying glass from a pocket, she stood and checked the jacket. "Interesting," she said. Since she did not have a grey eye, I didn't know what she was seeing. Once she had snapped the glass into its case, she said, "I applaud your courage and initiative." Her smile slowly faded, and she asked, "But how were you planning to get to the SunEcho?"

"By car?" I asked, fearing it wasn't the right answer.

"Our new driver is surely not going anywhere but straight to the promo-date wrap-party in Kobehaba where we are to meet with your father." An alarm sounded on one of her screens, she glanced toward it, then said, "I'm afraid getting to your meeting will not be easy, nor without substantial risks."

"Please?" I asked. "I have to see her and tell her that this thing with Ribo-Kool is nothing . . . that it doesn't mean anything to me. I have to tell her."

After nodding, as if she'd had an idea, she said, "I'll look into our options."

"Thank you!" I said. "I have to see her."

As she sat before her screens, she said, "Your father is on channel five thousand." She pushed a button and the monitor before me came on.

I recognized the garish nautical set of the interview show
Celebrity Research Yacht
. Across from the red-haired host, Milo Holly, who was dressed in his whites and captain's hat, sat Father in a green paisley jacket with large holes cut so that his black-painted nipples showed through like cartoon eyes. On his head he wore what looked like a rubber tire tread of a hat, and from both ears hung miniature crystal chandeliers. Usually his costumes were copies of his latest favorite Ültra band.

"It's all about love," said Father, the chandeliers jingled like wind chimes when he moved. "We make a product we love for clients we love. We do it to help all the families we love. It's in everything RiverGroup does. Love is our basic thing."

"It's all hate," I complained, with a roll of my eyes.

"But with the RiverGroup security stuff in everything, shouldn't we be worried about freeboots jumping out all over the place?" Milo Holly laughed as though it was supposed to be a joke, but he looked anxious.

"No!" said Father, smiling as though it were absurd. "Nothing to worry about. Everything's right back to our normal super-secure and super-protected . . . you know . . . normal." He smiled again. Harder. "Really. Everything's perfect."

"Maybe not
perfect
," said Milo. "I mean Michael was shot. The merger-marriage between you guys and mkg was cancelled. And your stock is sinking fast."

"RiverGroup has had a rough couple of days, but we're stronger than ever."

Milo eyed the camera, coyly. "And I saw a report that you got an implausibly big pimple on your ass!"

"Oh yeah," said Father playing along, as the audience howled. "Mount Fuji! Snow-capped and everything!" As the laugher died away, Father said, "Back to the freeboot shit for a second . . . remember kids, bad shits come along. But the lesson is even if RiverGroup—the code bastards of system security—can be hit, just think how much worse it would have been if you'd been using the flimsy crap mkg sells!"

Milo smiled stiffly. "It was implausibly tragic," he said, as if afraid to insult a potential sponsor.

"It was much worse that that! It was
Fifty Layers of Bitch
." Father leaned forward and popped Milo's shoulder with a friendly punch. "That's my new favorite song."

"We could tell," said Milo, rubbing his arm. "But you're right, that band, Sister Revölver's Tongüe, is completely implausible!" To the camera, he said, "Hey everybody, let's see a clip of their newest Ültra epic."

Three men, dressed like Father and wielding chrome guitars, tore down a city street, smashing car windshields, storefronts, women with strollers. One began singing and screeching as though he were being cut in half. A chrome guitar hit him in the face. Then the three men were bashing each other until they were covered with blood.

"That's so Ültra you have to puke over the poop deck!" gushed Milo. "Or poop over the puke deck! But, wow! Implausible. I love the Tongüe!" After he had caught his breath, he shrugged and added, "Too bad they're all busted up and in comas now."