Crimson Footprints Part 2

"Yeah? Like what?"

He shrugged, nonchalant, the way only rich kids can.

"Oh, I don't know. Nosferatu, Pinhead, Skeletor-"

"Skeletor!"

"Yeah."

He raised a brow. "Come on. You know the cartoon. He-man? She-ra?"

"You're insane!" Deena hooted.

"Yeah. By the power of Grayskull."

She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh, the first in a long time. But when he proceeded to prattle off a never-ending list of cartoonish villains he likened to his father, Deena found she could hold back the laughter no more. Not even there, with the foliage of her brother's demise all around her, could she hold back that unaccustomed sound.

CHAPTER THREE.

Deena hated the awkwardness of grief. As a girl, she'd experienced it with the death of her father. The staring, the avoidance, the uncomfortable ramblings of people who felt obligated to speak, yet wanted nothing more than to put distance between them and you.

Though a decade had lapsed between the death of her father and that of her brother, she found that people hadn't changed all that much. So when Deena entered her office on the third floor of the Tanaka Firm Monday morning, she was relieved to put a slab of wood between them and her. She didn't want their d.a.m.ned condolences or sickening sympathy-constant reminders that her brother was dead. What she wanted to be reminded of, was that she wasn't.

She couldn't say for sure how long she stood there, eyes shut, back pressed to mahogany. But when she opened them, a bouquet on her desk took her by surprise. Peek-a-boo pink plumerias, golden stargazers, jutting purple larkspur and mango calla lilies seemed to dance on her desk, overshadowing her little bonsai with their beauty. And could she really smell their sweetness from the door? Certainly not.

Briefcase aside, she took a seat in her leather swivel and brought the flowers in for a sniff. Deena froze mid-smile at the sound of the office intercom.

"Ms. Hammond, Mr. Tanaka's here to see you."

Deena frowned. So much for indulgences. Her boss Daichi was many things, but indulgent was definitely not one of them. So, it was back to business as usual. Could she really expect something else?

Deena met Daichi Tanaka while in her final year at M.I.T. She could still recall the thick and cramped feel in Kresge Auditorium as faculty, students and the community piled in, in mouth-foaming antic.i.p.ation of the avant-garde of architecture. She arrived early, though not early enough, as she had to step and stumble her way to a seat. Despite the darkness of the auditorium, she noted that scores of people clutched a recent copy of Time Magazine. Daichi Tanaka was on the cover.

"May I?" Deena whispered, nudging the old hawk-eyed woman she'd settled in next to. With a nod, she handed it over, dark eyes wary and watchful.

Deena turned her attention to the magazine.

Behind a Hitchc.o.c.k-style silhouette of Daichi was a collage of a dozen major city skylines-New York, Mumbai, Moscow, Miami, Hong Kong, Karachi, Cairo, L.A. and more. Underneath was probably the boldest declaration ever attributed to a single architect: Daichi Tanaka: Architectural G.o.d.

Though bold, the phrase was apropos. His was the biggest firm in the world, the most influential, and by far the most daring and cutting edge. Tanaka tempted fate with his designs, implored homemade theories and thumbed his nose at the very laws of science and society. As a junior, Deena read about the power of a single architect to reinvent a nation. Daichi Tanaka and his project Cityscape was the example, a miniature world unto itself made of glittering, twisting, turning buildings that seemed to cut into thin air and defeat the laws of gravity. Part beauty, part resort, part fantasy, the lush acreage of Cityscape was suddenly a status symbol throughout the world, a tour de force for an impoverished Guatemala. As the privileged world rushed in for the opportunity to eat four-hundred-dollar plates of carne adobada while hovering over the Pacific, Hollywood elite built mansions along the coastal mountainside. But Daichi's greatest triumph came not from single-handedly creating a tourism vacuum in a once unappealing place, but from doing what no one else dared dream. In a country little more than a decade removed from Civil War, Daichi s.h.i.+fted power to the ma.s.ses-to the rural Mayan farmers who'd been victims of state-sponsored terrorism. He paid them fair prices for the land he used and negotiated so that the influx of hotels and restaurants used locally farmed foods. And suddenly, with the rising of the sun, the Guatemalan people had a voice. Daichi, with his vision, blurred the line between architect and statesman, statesman and ideologue, demonstrating to the world the limitless power of an architect. So it came as no surprise that the people of Kresge Auditorium looked around as though a G.o.d would soon be among them. An architectural G.o.d.

After wilting under the professor's prolonged glare, Deena slipped the magazine back to its owner. A thunderous applause startled her as the room rocked with the approval of a clamoring crowd, a crowd enamored by the pop icon of architecture now before them.

Daichi took to the podium with a scowl. He bypa.s.sed preamble and dove directly into the lecture, accusing and verbally accosting them.

He ridiculed his colleagues for their ignorance, for traveling to far flung locales without studying the correlating history and culture-without respecting it. He called them presumptuous, privileged, narrow-minded.

"You all look the same and think the same and pick people of the same vein to attend your ill.u.s.trious universities. Why? Because you need validation. Because you serve yourself. But an architect is a selfless being, reflecting the client and society that seeks his services. And in this regard, you've failed."

He should've been shouted down, run off, or at the very least challenged. It was a rant more than a speech, hurled at them by the most privileged architect of them all. But he was met with a boom of approval, a roar of allegiance from an otherwise sane and brilliant bunch. They were the choir to his sermon, amen-ing his every utterance. And Deena understood. It was hard not to feel dazzled by his presence. After all, when was the last time an architect had changed the world with his vision? Ancient Rome? They had every right to be at least a little star struck. And they were. Even Deena.

Daichi took questions for half an hour.

Deena stood in line among the hopeful, waiting for an opportunity to ask something, though what she had no idea. The questions from fellow students were predictable: What drew him to architecture? What were his inspirations? How did he handle criticism? When a professor Deena recognized as an architectural one-man think tank rose, she knew a challenge was coming. Not everyone wanted to admire Daichi Tanaka. A few wanted to unseat him.

"In Time Magazine you credited your success in Guatemala to Architectural Determinism, a theory that has largely been disproven. Given that, isn't it fair to say that you have no idea why you've been so successful?"

Dr. Cook was met with a forbidden sort of silence. In it, Deena could practically hear his celebratory smile. When Daichi looked up at him, it was with a look of expectancy.

"Michael, if you can recall from our days at Harvard, architectural determinism simply espouses that the built environment is the chief determinant for social behavior."

"I know what architectural determinism means!" Dr. Cook sputtered.

"Good," Daichi said brightly. "Then perhaps I can influence the learned with a bit of common sense. Consider this, if you will. If you build beautiful things and charge high prices, then beautiful people with deep pockets will pay for them. No need to consult a thick text on that trinket. There's a charming little boy in Na.s.sau that carves wooden figurines on request, just about anything you can imagine, and charges a pretty penny for them, too. No doubt he could counsel you more on this matter."

The room erupted with laughter and the professor's face turned red. Deena was glad to see the professor get his come-uppance. After all, he was the sort of teacher that couldn't be bothered with learning students' names, or helping them for that matter, the kind who sneered down at his own breakfast as though not even it were worthy.

The questions continued and no one else dared challenged Daichi. And when it became clear that he would never get to her, Deena slipped out of the winding line and tip toed around to the side of the building, where she knew he would exit.

She didn't have to wait long. The moment Daichi stepped out of the auditorium and into the snow-covered parking lot, Deena scurried towards him.

"Mr. Tanaka! Mr. Tanaka if you could just give me a second-"

"The time for asking questions was back there, in line."

He never slowed.

"Yes sir, I know."

Deena quickened and fell in step alongside him, his stride long despite the average height.

"But we ran out of time, sir. And I really wanted to talk to you."

"Yes, yes. Everyone really wants to talk to me."

They moved faster. She scurried to keep pace.

"I-I understand that, sir. It's just that I'll probably never see you again and my question isn't the sort I'd want to ask in front of all those people-"

Daichi stopped. Deena halted; startled he'd heard anything she said.

"What's your name?"

She opened her mouth and found that it worked only with effort.

"Deena Hammond, sir."

"Deena Hammond."

He frowned as if trying to determine whether he liked the name.

"And what is your question, Deena Hammond?"

She swallowed. There was something about a person calling you by your full name that did a job on the nerves.

"As a-a person of color, sir, I w-wondered"

"Shall I give you a minute, Deena Hammond? To gather your thoughts and formulate an articulate statement?"

Her eyes widened.

"No, sir. Certainly not. I-"

He appraised her frankly.

"What is your ethnicity, Ms. Hammond?"

She froze.

"I'm black-black and white, sir."

"I see."

Daichi frowned. He looked past her to the auditorium at her back, a thin sh.e.l.l of a dome with gla.s.s on two sides.

"Ms. Hammond. How is it that you pay to attend this ill.u.s.trious inst.i.tution?"

She lowered her gaze.

"Sch-scholars.h.i.+ps, sir. That and I work in the cafeteria."

"And where did you say you were from again?"

"Miami."

A brow shot up.

"Where in Miami?"

"Liberty City, sir."

Suddenly, he eyed her with interest.

"My firm is headquartered in Miami."

"Yes, sir, I know."

Her eyes were still on the snow-covered ground.

"You know that and yet you ask about diversity?"

The sharpness in his voice caused her to look up. "Am I to believe that you're not here to clamor for an interns.h.i.+p?"

"I'm not," Deena whispered.

"Then you're a fool."

He turned from her and dug in his pocket, coming away with keys. Daichi deactivated the alarm to a sleek black Towncar mere steps away. She was losing him.

"Sir, please listen to me. I wouldn't dare presume to-"

He shot her a look of impatience.

"Did you get that from them? In there?"

Daichi nodded towards the auditorium. "Unless you've plans to return to that h.e.l.l you call home I would suggest that you beg, barter and presume, Ms. Hammond."

He opened the trunk and tossed in his briefcase. "You're a smart woman, no doubt, since you've made it this far, but the floodgates won't open with your degree. Opportunities are few, especially in these times, and fewer still for those that don't look the part."

Deena blinked. It was what she hated most about being from the slums. Dress it up or dress it down, it didn't take much for someone to peel it back and see who you really were. A "where are you from" was rarely satisfied with a single word. A city became a neighborhood, and a neighborhood the truth. The truth in her case revealing far more than she ever intended.

Trunk closed, he turned to her again.

"Tell me this, Ms. Hammond. What are your thoughts on deconstructivism?"

She hesitated, remembering the folly of Dr. Cook, and knew that he saw her thoughts.

"Do you not even know what deconstructivism is?" he demanded.

Of course she did. Considered a brain even by M.I.T. standards, she was a self-made outcast, never socializing and instead finding solace and affirmation in the only thing she fully immersed herself in-academics. There could hardly be a topic in the field that knew little about.

Deconstructivism was a postmodern notion that thrived on fragmentation-in other words, it sought to distort and dislocate the various elements of architecture. And she loved it.

Suddenly, she remembered an article in Architectural Digest where Daichi had slammed deconstructivism as an affront to the eye.

He was testing her. Problem was, she didn't know on what.

"I like deconstructivism," Deena said and immediately winced at the volume of her voice and the childishness of the declaration.

Daichi strode to the driver's side door.