Juarez Square and Other Stories (13 page)

“Marco,” the device said impatiently. “
Opticales, per favore
.”

After some fumbling, Marcos managed to connect the device to his specs’ optical stream.

“Ah,” the device said, “much better.
Grazie mille
, Marco.”

Marcos wasn’t sure where to begin. Even when Antonio had told him about the device, he had a hard time believing such a thing was possible. “How were you…How did they get you into…?”

“Marco, Marco, Marco. This question is totally impossible for me to answer.”

“Do you remember anything?”

“I remember my sister, my family, my work, my life before, when I had a body. But I don’t remember nothing about how I get inside this box.”

“Do you know how Don Derecho…” Marcos searched for the right word, “…acquired you?”

“To be honest, I don’t think this was a
transazione generale
.” The device paused for a moment. “I believe Don Derecho get the Gianni Box by—how you say?—informal means.”

“Informal means?”

“Marco, you know how these things happen. A little money falls into a security guard’s pocket, so he looks the other way for a moment and something disappears. Italy is very much like Mexico in this way.”

The chaotic noise of the city around him faded.
Stolen
, just like his cousin had said. For a long moment the only sound in the universe was the heavy thudding of his heart. What had the Don done?

The device suddenly blurted out, “Marco, the show!
Andiamo, andiamo
! We’re going to be late!”

Marcos checked the time.
Shit!
He exited the alley and hurried down the street, picking his way through crowd until The Lexington’s gray slate facade came into view.

He ran up the steps and Sanchez, the ancient doorman at The Lexington, greeted Marcos with wide eyes. “
Puta madre
, Marcos. You better hurry, they’re about to get started in there.” Sanchez pulled the door open and Marcos forced a smile as he rushed past.

He entered the marbled-floored lobby and stopped as if he’d run into an invisible wall. The cavernous, high-ceilinged space was surprisingly crowded. The buzz was loud, palpable, and a tangible expectation permeated the room. Under normal circumstances, he would have been pleased with such a turnout.

Instead he felt his stomach tighten, acutely aware of the bulge in his jacket pocket.
Keep it together
, he told himself.

He surveyed the room, taking an inventory of the A-list celebrities and industry heavyweights in attendance. It was an old habit, something he always did before every show. A dozen or so A-listers was a solid turnout, anything less was cause for concern.

Marcos moved his eyes around the lobby and gasped. Everywhere he looked was a photo from a celebrity magazine. Everyone, simply everyone, was here: rival designers, television and movie stars, national politicians, high-profile business executives. He fingered the Saint Francis pendant nervously.

He hadn’t seen such a dense gathering of glitterati since Bossio’s final show last year. Memories of that tragic event suddenly came back in vivid detail.

* * *

Bossio’s final show, staged on The Lexington’s rooftop, was a birth of sorts for Marcos, his introduction into a new world. Only days before, he’d been slaving away in an airless, dimly lit tailor’s shop when Don Derecho happened to pass by. The designer had taken an unusual interest in two of the display window mannequins, the ones wearing Marcos’ designs. Impressed with the young man’s raw talent, the Don offered Marcos a designer assistant’s job on the spot, and in a matter of days Marcos found himself delivered from a life of toiling obscurity into the epicenter of his country’s vibrant fashion industry.

“If you could only see your face,” the Don said, laughing as they entered The Lexington’s lobby. “You look like you’ve just seen
La Virgen
.”

Marcos’ head swam as he looked around the impossibly beautiful space with its overflowing flower vases and gold leaf elegance. He saw Maxi Frost, the ruggedly handsome villain from a
telenovela
, chatting with a senator from the PRI party. The room was a who’s who of Mexican glamour and wealth, a world he’d dreamed of being a part of since he was a boy. And now, miraculously, he was here with Don Derecho. Handsome, distinguished Don Derecho.

A collective gasp suddenly rippled through the lobby. A woman next to Marcos in a blue burka shouted, “It’s Bossio! It’s Bossio!”

A chirpy, restrained frenzy ensued as the national fashion legend entered the lobby, surrounded by a security detail and trailed by his notoriously large retinue. He wore his ever-present oversized black sunglasses, and his translucent white hair was pulled back into a short-cropped pony tail. The security guards quickly ushered him through the adoring throng into the adjacent ballroom.

A wide-eyed Marcos followed Don Derecho up the stairs to the hotel’s sun-drenched roof. They took their seats next to a row of photographers and press writers.

The Don waved to a morning talk show host across the catwalk, and then he leaned close to Marcos. “Bossio was my mentor. Did you know that? Before I started my own line.”

Marcos nodded. Of course he knew that. Everyone knew that. But he loved how the Don took the time to tell him things, explain things. He settled into his chair and waited for the show to start.

When the techno music began and the first model appeared, at first Marcos mistook the murmurs of the crowd for excited chatter. The show continued and model after model emerged, all of them clothed in dreary grays and drab earth tones. The ensembles were shocking in their dullness, none of them displaying the exuberant flourishes one would have expected from a Bossio spring line. The designer known for bright pastels and body-hugging cuts had suddenly abandoned his signature style in favor of the prevailing trends coming out of New York and Paris, where muted colors and traditional lines were currently in vogue. One dress even looked like a stitch-for-stitch copy of a design Marcos had seen in an Italian magazine.

Marcos turned to Don Derecho. The designer’s mouth hung open, his eyes wide in disbelief. As the show neared the finale, the crowd began to boo and jeer. By the time the last model exited the catwalk, Bossio had already left the building.

The show was a complete disaster, a twenty-eight-minute debacle that destroyed the designer’s reputation. The next day the host of
Modista
, Mexico’s venerable fashion program, told his audience, “Bossio’s spring line, I’m sorry to say, was nakedly derivative and unoriginal. And in an industry that places no higher value on a designer’s authenticity and creative vision, this once-great name in Mexican fashion has committed an unforgivable sin.”

A week after the show Bossio, by then a national joke, was found in his Acapulco condo, hanging from a door frame.

* * *

Marcos entered the backstage area and found the familiar madhouse of hairdressers, makeup artists, and seamstresses running back and forth, fretting over last-minute changes. Rushed, harried voices shouted above the throbbing dance music. Rows of bare-chested models sat in front of a long mirror under impossibly bright lights, the newbies jittery and nervous, the veterans blasé and patient, sipping champagne and smoking cigarettes while makeup artists hovered around them, working feverishly.

“
Mamma mia
,” the device said, startling Marcos. He’d forgotten it was still connected to his specs. “This is heaven for me, Marco. The last minutes before a show. Nothing like it in all the world. So crazy, so beautiful, so wonderful.”

Marcos disconnected the device and ran over to one of the garment racks. For the first time, he looked over the pieces that made up the fall line, the pieces the Don had been working on in private for months.

“Oh, God,” he gasped.

Every item of clothing shouted for attention. Every dress and pantsuit, every blouse, even the accessories. The pieces were brazen and daring and beautiful, far different from the conservative, classically-inspired style the designer was renowned for.

Far different from anything the Don was capable of.

Marcos’ shoulders slumped.
My sweet Don, what have you done?

The device, this Gianni box, had been the creative genius behind the fall line. The undeniable evidence hung on garment racks all around him, minutes away from being revealed to the world. Suddenly so much made sense: the Don’s unusual anxiousness of late; his secret design sessions behind locked doors; the odd separation from his inner circle.

A lump formed in Marcos’ throat as he recalled the night some months ago, when he’d told the Don about his cousin’s internship in Italy with an artificial intelligence company. His cousin had told him about a hush-hush prototype, designed to emulate the mind of a long-dead fashion legend. Wasn’t that amazing? And wouldn’t it be something if it actually worked?

It had been only comment or two, little more than pillow talk between lovers. At the time Marcos hadn’t paid much attention to the Don’s sudden interest, how he’d asked question after question.

The device in his pocket suddenly took on an impossible heaviness. What was something like this worth? Billions? Trillions? Surely the AI company had people looking for it.

Don Derecho appeared in a doorway and strode into the backstage area. He dashed over to a seamstress, dropped to one knee, and helped with a hem adjustment. Time slowed to a crawl as Marcos watched the Don. His stomach twisted with a sudden dread, like he’d just received news of a loved one’s unexpected death. He reached for his pendant, but stopped halfway.

The Don looked up from the hem and noticed Marcos. He stood and walked over, a spring in his step and a smile stretching across his face. He embraced Marcos, kissed his cheek, and proudly spread out his arms.

“Now you can finally see what I’ve been working on all this time. What do you think?”

Marcos struggled for a reply. “It’s…unlike anything you’ve ever done before.” The Don’s betrayal set off a fire inside of him. He felt it bloom, hot and furious.

“Thank you.” Don Derecho’s eyes twinkled. “Maybe Paris and Milan will take some notice this time, what do you think?”

“Yes,” Marcos said flatly. “I suppose after today the secret’s going to be out.”

The Don’s grin wavered for the briefest moment.

Marcos wanted to scream. He wanted to reach into his pocket, whip out the device, and demand answers. Why had the Don had done it? Why would he take such a reckless risk? And who gave a damn if no one knew his name in Europe? Didn’t he know he was already loved by so many, by him especially? Was that worth nothing to him?

But when Marcos summoned the words they wouldn’t come. He stood there, frozen and mute. After a long moment he finally managed to grimace a smile.

“Good luck with the show,” he said.

* * *

It was the first runway show on the The Lexington’s rooftop in five years. Since Bossio’s ill-fated event, no designer had dared to use the unlucky location again. In an audacious move, Don Derecho had insisted on using the venue for his next show, setting off a flood of industry buzz and anticipation.

As the last of the stragglers arrived, Marcos distanced himself from the crowd and watched from a far corner of the building. He’d never seen a turnout like this. Everyone seated along the catwalk was an A-lister, all smiling and chatting and kissing hellos.

Marcos scanned the crowd’s faces, searching for skeptical smiles or arms folded in doubt. He saw only excitement and expectation. He grimly wondered how many minutes into the show things would start to unravel. How long before they spotted the fraud.

Had the Don completely forgotten how the public, this same fickle public, had turned on Bossio? Didn’t he remember how they went from adoring fans to a pack of wolves in a handful of minutes?

The device buzzed and vibrated inside his jacket. He ignored it.

The lights dimmed and the soft, diffuse twilight gave everything a surreal quality. The chatter slowly died down until the city’s traffic noise, faint and distant twelve stories below, became the only sound in the universe. A minute passed and nothing happened. Another minute. Nothing. Just as the crowd began to fidget…

LIGHTS! The catwalk and backdrop with the Don Derecho logo appeared, brilliantly illuminated in glowing white. The crowd gasped in delight, their upturned faces gleaming in the reflected light like cherubs in a religious painting.

MUSIC! A slow, electronic bassline began. The heavy beat slowly sped up, increasing in rhythm and volume until the air itself throbbed like the inside of a nightclub.

The first model burst onto the catwalk, hips swinging defiantly, a bawdy smile on her face. She wore a black denim jacket with hook and eye seams, open in the front, the pale skin of her bare torso a sharp contrast to the dark top. A steel blue miniskirt in glazed raffia hung low on her hips, wrapped in a thick leather belt with an oversized silver buckle. The skin of her arms, legs, and neck glowed with nano-tattoos, pulsing in time with the music. A rainbow-colored constellation of holographic stars orbited around her head.