Crimson Footprints (4 page)

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 shell of a dome with
glass on two sides.

“
Ms. Hammond. How is it
that you pay to attend this illustrious institution?”

She lowered her
gaze.

“
Sch—scholarships, 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 internship?”

“
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 hell 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.

“
I—I know that you think
it’s an affront to the senses,” she rushed up to him, blocking his
way with her body. “But if you ask me, all architecture is an
affront to the senses.”

Daichi paused, lowered his
gaze to the car, and returned it to her.

“
I’m listening,” he said
quietly.

Deena swallowed. She’d half
expected his next words to be a shout for security.

“
Architecture isn’t nature
and it can’t replace it. Nature stimulates the senses whereas
architecture assaults them.”

Deena paused.

“
Take Miami, for example. A
place that seduces the senses. It’s where blistering heat drenches
you in sweat, where sweltering, breezeless nights leave you panting
and where ocean waves pound against the sights, sounds and flesh of
the city.”

Deena fell silent; her
cheeks flushed red. Had she really just said that? To Daichi
Tanaka?

He turned on her, nearly
smiling.

“
And architecture? What
does architecture do?”

She lowered her gaze
again.

“
Not that.”

“
Then why are you here? Why
aren’t you—an environmentalist?” He spat.

But she raised her head
anyway.

“
Because I’m going to make
it do that.”

She met his gaze, and found
that his dark eyes danced. “Make it do what?” he said
quietly.

Somehow, she was no longer
afraid. She’d been laughed at most her life. What difference did it
make who was doing the laughing?

“
I’m going to make
architecture like nature. I’m going to make it stimulate the
senses.”

Daichi’s gaze traveled the
length of her body. Were he another man, she might’ve thought it
suggestive. Finally, he cleared his throat.

“
Much as I’d love to finish
this conversation with you, Ms. Hammond, I’ve a flight to Nepal and
as it is, I’m already late.”

He nudged her aside and
climbed into the Lincoln. Door closed, Daichi lowered the window.
In his hand was a thick ecru business card with a gilded logo in
gold flourish.

“
Call me when you
graduate.”

Daichi peeled off, leaving
Deena to clench the crisp card in her fist as she stood in that
snow-covered parking lot, wondering just what happened.

*

When Deena worked up the
nerve to contact Daichi she was two weeks past graduation and back
at her grandmother’s house in Liberty City.

“
I take it you’re in Miami
now,” he said dully.

“
Yes, sir.”

“
Good. Meet me at my firm
in two hours. Bring some drafts with you.”

“
Sir?”

“
One more time since I’m
feeling particularly patient today. Firm. Two hours.
Portfolio.”

He hung up.

Deena borrowed the cab fare
from her cousin Keisha, and rushed to meet the architectural icon
at his office in Brickell.

The Tanaka Firm had
twenty-five locations, in cities that included London, Rio, Mumbai
and Tokyo. The U.S. headquarters, in Miami’s posh Brickell
district, reflected Daichi’s affinity for forward thinking. A
re-envisioned variation of modernism, the thirteen-story Tanaka
Firm formed a right-angled triangle, with a glistening waterfall
running the length of its straight side. Sheathed in
mirror-surfaced steel and brushed aluminum, the building gleamed
with the rise of the sun each morning. Among the perks of the
office was the dock at the rear, with its access to Biscayne Bay,
and ultimately, the Atlantic Ocean. Some days, Deena eventually
discovered, Daichi took his yacht to work.

When Deena stepped into the
firm’s brilliant gold lobby for her initial meeting with her future
boss, she had fifteen minutes to spare.

“
Can I help you?” asked the
security guard behind the desk.

Just past the sensory
automated glass doors with the gold inlaid Tanaka logo, an
automated message welcomed her in English, Spanish, French and a
few other languages she was too uncertain to name. Deena wiped the
sweat from her brow and took a deep breath, muttering a silent
mantra of encouragement before stopping to survey her
surroundings.

Turkish marble onyx covered
the floor—the first time she’d seen in any person. She was
surprised by how much she liked it. It should’ve been presumptuous,
over-the-top, obnoxious. But when paired against the gleaming,
unassuming maple walls, and an ultra-high vaulted ceiling, the gold
and chocolate marble suddenly seemed bold and elegant.

To her right, was a broad
and high brass desk, so polished it bore her reflection. Behind it
was a security guard, short and thick chested with dull black hair
and a big bulbous nose.

“
Can I help you?” he said
too loudly and she dropped her tubes.

Deena bent to retrieve them,
shuffled to the desk and nearly lost a single navy pump on the way.
Tubes back in hand; she brushed a tuft of hair out her eyes and
smiled.

“
I’m—I’m here to see Daichi
Tanaka,” she breathed.

The thickset Cuban man had a
porn moustache that quivered with a smile. Deena had never actually
seen an adult movie, but assumed that thick moustaches were
standard in them, as that was what her old roommate used to call
them. That and lip afros.

The Cuban guy raised a brow.
“Here to see Daichi Tanaka? Is that so?”

Her tubes clattered to the
floor for an encore and she cursed.

“
Yes. It—”

Deena disappeared from view
and reemerged with the plastic cylinders.

“
Yes it is.”

“
Listen, sweetheart. You
can’t just walk in here and expect to—”

“
It’s all right, Carlos.
I’m expecting her.”

Deena turned, sweaty-faced
and surprised, at the sound of Daichi Tanaka’s voice.

He’d stepped in from the
street, as urbane and intimidating as ever in his tailored Armani.
Daichi stood motionless as Deena’s work clattered to the floor for
a third time. She retrieved them and brushed the sweat heavy hair
from her face yet again.

“
About done?” Daichi
said.

She him gave a weak
nod.

“
Good.”

He took off, across the
spacious lobby, his Versace-loafered stride confident. Deena
glanced at Carlos, though she wasn’t sure why. When he nodded for
her to follow, she scurried for the elevator. Daichi punched the
brass up button and turned to face her.

“
Why don’t you have a
portfolio case?”

Deena lowered her gaze. She
couldn’t even afford cab fare, let alone the $200 to $300 those
things cost.

When she opened her mouth to
make up an answer, he held up a hand to stop her.

“
Let me see something,” he
said, nodding at her tubes.

“
Anything?”

“
Well. I certainly can’t
request anything specific, now can I?”

Mumbling a calming mantra in
her mind, Deena reached first for one tube, then another, before
deciding to show him drafts for a small-scale sub-division she’d
created in a senior level drafting class. Just as Daichi unrolled
the sketch the elevator doors opened at the top floor, and he
stepped off without looking. A healthy brunette with a stack of
manila folders toppled in an effort to avoid him.