Sins As Scarlet

by Nicolas Obregon

  Iwata looked at his empty Coke bottle. ‘Tell me about the coyotes that come to the immigrant shelters. They belong to La Familia?’

  Valentín nodded. ‘Iwata, there’s a river of money running through that border and everybody’s thirsty.’

  ‘What about Bebé Rivera? Where does he fit into this?’

  She looked at him for a moment before replying. ‘How do you know that name?’

  ‘A little birdie.’

  ‘Every person in this city knows who he is. And not a single person will say a word about him, that much I can promise you.’ She downed the last of mezcal, put money on the table and looked around. ‘Not that I should be telling you any of this.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To piss.’ She stood gingerly and squeezed Iwata’s arm. ‘Then you’re driving me home before I say something really stupid.’

  When she returned from the toilet Valentín was ashen-faced. Iwata helped her to the car and laid her in the passenger seat. He drove slowly as she mumbled directions. Several times he stopped to let her vomit. In snatches of sleep she moaned a man’s name. By the time they reached her apartment Valentín could barely move. He carried her up the stairs, shocked at how little she weighed. Her plush furnishings seemed at odds with her personality.

  As he laid her down on her bed she whispered something.

  ‘Iwata?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Get out of here.’

  ‘I’m leaving.’

  ‘No. I mean this city. Leave tonight. Don’t come back.’

  He managed to convince her to drink some water before he left.

  Outside, Iwata hailed a taxi and asked to be taken back to his hotel. At this hour the roads were empty. As they neared the motorway Iwata saw a long tunnel, its mouth grey like dead koi. On the concrete walls a message had been spray-painted in jagged black letters:

  Recuerda. Te estamos observando.

  Remember. We are watching you.

  The next morning was grey and hot. Iwata was driving through the eastern outskirts of Ciudad Cabral. It was empty land, except for warehouses and manufacturing plants. A sign proudly proclaimed the city’s designation as a Special Economic Zone following the NAFTA agreement. Underneath, graffiti had renamed the place:

  SWEATSHOP ALLEY: WHERE LABOUR IS ALWAYS COMPETITIVE!

  El Diario Cabral, the city’s only remaining newspaper, was hidden behind a sprawling dairy factory. There was no sign outside, no clue to its function. If what Valentín had said was true, nobody in this city was going to speak to Iwata about Bebé Rivera. He needed records, documentation, hard facts.

  Iwata got out of the old Mazda and the distant stink of milk hit his nose. He took out his binoculars and surveyed the building. The entrance was covered by several armed security guards. Iwata could see he wouldn’t be getting in without an invitation. Mulling it over, he got back in the car.

  Iwata drove through the grand old boulevards near the university, ancient warped trees breaking through the concrete. At the red light a little girl juggled for change while her father did magic tricks with a white dove. Taxi drivers stared straight ahead, bored and hot, plastic virgins hanging from their rear-view mirrors.

  In these beautifully decaying colonias, poetry had been painted on walls in white:

  Que bonito detalle tuyo, ese de existir.

  What a lovely detail of yours, that of existing.

  Para soñar la vida, abre los ojos.

  To dream life, open your eyes.

  It was mid-morning by the time Iwata arrived back at Cuauhtémoc market. He approached the first Asian vendor he came to and bought an entire bin bag of cloned DVDs. He threw it in the trunk of the Mazda, then drove back to the newspaper.

  Iwata changed into a faded T-shirt and cargo shorts. He left his gun in the glovebox. With the bag of DVDs on his back, Iwata approached the building. The first security guard immediately shook his head.

  ‘Come on, pal. Hit the road.’

  With a grin, Iwata put on his best broken accent. ‘Ofertas! Ofertas! Ofertas!’

  ‘Hold on a sec.’ The second security guard peered inside the bag. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Very cheap! Very cheap!’

  ‘Have you got Jurassic World?’

  ‘All best film! All new!’

  The first guard rolled his eyes. ‘Come on, man. You’ll drop us in the shit.’

  ‘Relax, it’s Holy Week.’ The second security guard took out a handful of DVDs. ‘I’ll take these and you get ten minutes, okay?’

  Once he was through Iwata ducked into the toilet, changed back into his shirt and took out one of his fake lanyards. He dumped the DVDs in the trash and made his way up the stairs, passing derelict dotcom companies from the early 2000s.

  El Diario Cabral took up the top three floors. Iwata entered without incident and crossed the office like he belonged there. It was open plan with some sixty desks, only around a third of which were occupied. The floor tiles were white, the desk dividers red and there were Mexican flags everywhere. On the wall there was a framed photograph of a young man. There were flowers beneath it. Also in the frame there was an old front page:

  PRESIDENTE, PEDIMOS JUSTICIA PARA ROBERTO – PARA EL PERIODISMO – PARA LIBERTAD DE EXPRESIÓN.

  President, we ask for justice for Roberto – for journalism – for freedom of speech.

  Iwata ignored the one or two glances he received and made his way to the back of the office. There he found what he was looking for: the records room. It was a glum room that smelled of soggy paper, rows and rows of tall shelves stealing all the light from a small window at the end. Next to the microfiche machine was an old PC. Iwata turned it on and was relieved to find that it had no password; it had obviously been left out for the purposes of basic reference searches. Iwata already knew El Diario Cabral didn’t have much of a website but even so he searched for ‘Mara Zambrano’. There were dozens of returns and it took Iwata quite some time only to discover that every single one pertained to the film actress, the last one being an article in memoriam.

  Next he tried searching ‘Bebé Rivera’. There were only two returns. The first article was six years old, concerning the marriage of local business magnate Edgardo ‘Bebé’ Rivera to a well-known flamenco dancer from Spain. In the grainy picture his lips were very full, his face was plump and his apricot chin carried a prominent beauty spot. He was half a head shorter than his wife, despite his large perm.

  The second article was more recent, concerning the takeover of the local football team.

  LOCAL BUSINESS TYCOON OVERJOYED AT OWNERSHIP OF BOYHOOD FOOTBALL CLUB

  The takeover, agreed yesterday afternoon, will see Mr Edgardo ‘Bebé’ Rivera inject millions of pesos of his own money into the struggling team via his investment fund. He declined to answer questions but told media outlets: ‘There will be money for new transfers, debt will be cleared and fans finally can look forward to a bright future for Club Deportivo Cabral.’

  In this photograph, Bebé was posing with the club manager and the team captain. He had gained weight, his perm even bigger now. The club captain was wearing the kit, a deep red. And on it, the new sponsor: Grupo Valle Dorado.

  There it was. A link. Hard and cold as a bathroom floor. Iwata didn’t know what it proved but he knew now that there was, on some level, a connection between the surgeries that Meredith and Geneviève had undergone at Fox Hills Feminization and this football team. Both were being bankrolled by the same real-estate investment fund. And from the looks of things, that meant being bankrolled by Bebé Rivera.

  Iwata span in his chair at the interconnectivity of it. It tantalized him. It meant everything. It meant nothing. It was a magic-eye picture that he was staring at; if only its true shape would reveal itself. Why would Rivera pay large sums of money for his girls to have surgery, then be flown out to Mexico, only to then have them disappear?

  Iwata searched for Valle Dorado. There wasn’t much. The fund had been start
ed some five years ago. In the single article, Bebé Rivera was opening a new housing complex, named after the fund, just outside Ciudad Cabral with golden scissors, a crowd of jubilant people in suits behind him. ‘I just want people to be housed and happy. Now that we can have the required funding, then Valle Dorado can be a dream home for families for decades to come.’

  1975 – Tokyo

  The Mannequins

  That afternoon Yoko clock-watched grumpily. She was eager to get home to search the classifieds for a way to make extra cash. Perhaps it was the fatigue but today her debt weighed particularly heavily on her. She couldn’t help but picture herself being dragged out of her front door by bailiffs, her neighbours gawping.

  A man cleared his throat and Yoko snapped on her smile.

  ‘Welcome to Department Store Q, sir.’

  He was handsome, maybe forty years old, prominent eyebrows, a neat moustache. He wore an expensively cut suit and rested his hand on her counter, a gold ring on his little ringer tapping lightly on the glass like a conductor.

  ‘I’m looking for a gift. Something with class.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Yoko beamed. ‘Is this gift for any particular occasion?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And who is the gift for?’

  He smiled. ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  To her surprise, Yoko laughed. But it was the laugh that belonged to her, not the customers. She lowered her voice now. ‘Don’t tell me you’re having an affair.’

  ‘You tell me something. Did you bring a jacket with you today?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘They said it’s going to rain later.’

  ‘Please don’t worry about me, sir. I have my jacket in the changing room.’

  ‘Good. So. What about this one? Do you like this?’ He tapped the glass counter. The gold necklace had a small jade pendant formed by two cranes, their wings and beaks touching. The price tag was well above a month’s salary for Yoko. ‘Sir, you’re teasing me. You didn’t need advice at all, you have wonderful taste.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so. I’ll take it. Please wrap the gift.’

  Yoko placed the necklace in the most tasteful box she had and wrapped it with all the diligence she could muster. The colour of the ribbon complemented the paper and the handsome man seemed pleased with her work. He opened a large leather wallet and flipped through a selection of credit cards without any real consideration, a man picking a parking space in an empty lot.

  That evening, as Yoko was closing up, she overheard the girls talking about her: ‘Did you see the way Puppet Master was flirting with that customer?’

  ‘I know! It was embarrassing. We all want to make a sale but there is such a thing as keeping your dignity, don’t you think?’

  ‘Notice she used a blue box. She only does that with the handsome men.’

  Yoko waited until they were gone and then changed into her own clothes, swearing to herself. As if any of those dumpy bitches would even be capable of flirting to make a sale! Not that she had been flirting. The man had clearly made up his mind by himself.

  As she put on her jacket she felt something against her waist. A solid weight, familiar somehow. Yoko put her hand into her pocket and took out the same box she had wrapped that afternoon. Beneath the ribbon there was a business card.

  Mr IMAI

  Commercial Director

  – 452 CORPORATION –

  Yoko had never heard of the corporation, but she was impressed with Imai’s title. On the back of the business card, something had been written in rich blue ink. It was the name of one of the finest restaurants in Osaka, with a date and time underneath.

  ‘How presumptuous!’

  It was a nice necklace, but Yoko didn’t even know the man. The idea that he could set eyes on her, buy her the first thing he pointed at and secure a date with her three days later was almost offensive. Even though she was sorely tempted by the offer, Yoko made a point of making plans with a male friend on that night instead. Still, she thought about the handsome but presumptuous Mr Imai the whole time.

  Some days later, while selling dainty peep-toe shoes to a customer with feet too wide for them, the telephone at Yoko’s counter rang. She excused herself, hoping it was one of the part-time jobs she had enquired about.

  ‘Department Store Q, how may I –’

  ‘You didn’t come.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I sat there alone like an idiot. Did you get my gift?’

  Yoko lowered her voice and wrapped the telephone cord around her finger like a snake. ‘Mr Imai, I presume.’

  ‘Then you did get it. Are you wearing it?’

  ‘No,’ she lied. ‘I only told you I liked it to make a sale.’

  Imai laughed heartily. ‘I’m going to wait for you outside the department store tonight. I insist on taking you to dinner. Just once. Consider it a one-off display of gratitude. After that, you have no obligations whatsoever to me.’

  ‘Mr Imai, I’m serving a customer. Moreover, a gift that comes with obligations can hardly be called a gift.’ She slipped two fingers inside her blouse to touch the jade cranes.

  ‘Well.’ He was flipping through some papers. ‘You have me there.’

  ‘You keep harassing me and I’ll throw the necklace down the toilet.’

  ‘Hang on.’ She could hear him smiling. ‘I thought you weren’t wearing it?’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Imai.’

  That night Yoko closed up the store and fought her umbrella open against the driving rain. She was about to cross the road and hurry over to Nippombashi Station when a black Mitsubishi Debonair pulled up and the window wound down. It was Imai, grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘Get in. Come on, you’ll drown like a rat out here.’

  The driver opened the door for her.

  Yoko sighed. ‘You better take me somewhere nice.’

  ‘Remember what you said? I have excellent taste.’

  Thud.

  Yoko woke up. The darkness was warm. Gelatinous. She felt a great weight on her chest, as if a man were sitting on her. But when she opened her eyes there was nothing there. She was naked and still drunk. Neither of those facts troubled her particularly; she clearly remembered sleeping with Imai, and she wasn’t going to worry about that now. Sitting up on her futon, Yoko felt the bruises on her breasts.

  ‘Kentaro?’ she called out in the dark.

  Imai did not reply.

  As Yoko stood up she felt pain in her vagina. This didn’t worry her too much either. Imai had been a voracious lover. She had enjoyed it, but she had decided midway through never to see him again. She was sure that this would suit him too, as he was almost certainly married. Life would go on.

  ‘Kentaro? Kentaro, are you there?’

  Only a train clacking past in the distance answered her. She was about to get out of bed when something caught her eye across the room. The atlas had fallen on to the floor. She slipped her hand under the sheet and felt her vagina. It was hot and soaked.

  In a panic, she ripped the sheet back. Between her legs there was a gushing puddle of blood. Yelping, Yoko struggled to her feet and staggered to the bathroom, dripping as she went. She had never seen so much blood, let alone from her own body. She got into the bathtub and filled it with cold water, trembling as it crept up around her, slowly turning pink.

  The next morning, Yoko called her manager and told him she couldn’t come in due to illness. As she had been such a good employee, he hardly said a word about it.

  When she finally returned to Q five days later, she arrived late and dishevelled, her hair up in a hasty bun. She found it hard to engage the customers and made practically no money that day.

  By the evening, many of her colleagues had left early, as it was Autumnal Equinox Day and the store was practically empty. Ordinarily, the temperature in the store was perfect but, for whatever reason, Yoko couldn’t get warm. She had bundled herself up in scarves from the returned stock in the back r
oom and was almost falling asleep when, a few minutes before closing time, a gaunt woman wearing sunglasses rapped her knuckles on the counter.

  ‘Long day,’ she said, her voice quiet. She was roughly Yoko’s age, wearing the Q uniform.

  ‘New?’ Yoko replied.

  The gaunt woman laughed. ‘I’ve been here for a long time.’

  ‘Explains the old uniform. But why haven’t I seen you before?’

  ‘I’m on a different level.’

  Yoko scowled. ‘Well, if you think you’re just going to move up here for the easy commission, you’ve got another think coming. I’m the senior employee around here, got it? Now beat it, I have to close up soon.’

  The gaunt woman said nothing, she just left. Yoko finished her stock papers. It was only as she was locking up with the security guard that she realized how strange the encounter had been.

  Dear Mr Kuroki,

  I’m afraid this is all I have for now. I hope it wasn’t too excruciating. If you’re wondering how the story ends: Mr Imai has planted a cursed seed in Yoko that begins to turn her into plastic! When there’s a big fire she tries to save the mannequins but she gets trapped in there by the strange woman who she encountered earlier (a ghost). When the fire is finally extinguished, her body is nowhere to be found. Yoko has ended up as the fifth mannequin, burnt and disfigured, shut away in the basement, with nobody to see her again for the rest of time. (Not exactly an upbeat ending, I know.) Well, that’s it. Thank you again. And sorry for taking up so much of your time.