The Academy (55 page)

No,
thought Chris.
No, not that.

“During negotiation?” Anderson laughed. “Well, it’s certainly unusual, Tetsuo, but so is everything else surrounding this.”

“He will not be so rude as to hear things which do not concern him,” Tetsuo said with a slight smile.

And so Chris knelt again, across the low table from Anderson, slightly at an angle so that they could both see his face. It was the first indication that Tetsuo had made acknowledging his presence. He composed his limbs comfortably and lowered his eyes to table height so that he could catch any hand signals.

“First of all, I wish to apologize for my presumptions,”

Tetsuo said, folding his hands politely. “I am aware that this is not what you intended, and of my great—what is the word we used at school—chutzpah—in assuming the nature of your property and your willingness to sell.”

“As it turns out, your presumptions were more or less correct, Tetsuo, and although you’re right, I didn’t plan on this, I’m open-minded enough to take advantage of a situation that might turn out in my favor. So let’s assume I’m willing to bargain.” She opened the file and withdrew the stack of contract forms and laid them to one side. “First of all, the photos in this file are not recent, and there have been changes to his body since they were taken. Did you wish an inspection?”

“I’ve already had one,” Tetsuo said with a slight touch of glee in his voice. “And I am content.”

“Did you.” Anderson shook her head with a laugh. “My God, Tetsuo, you are way ahead of me on this. OK, then, let’s cover the modifications—did you see the contract paragraphs on the marks? You’ve got the right to make additions, but not changes...”

Chris struggled not to listen, not to hear. Early in his lessons in Japan, he was told about techniques to screen out other voices, background noises, how to build a fence around himself that allowed peace and yet still permitted him to be alert enough to respond to commands. Noriko had encouraged him to concentrate on the sound of ocean waves, crashing on the shore. Steady roars, pounding, long, and multi-layered. Hear the seagulls, if you can. Feel the cool water on the rocks, hear the hissing of the sand. He tried. But it conflicted with his other training, to notice everything, to see everything, to hear everything, from the loudest of cries to the stillness of a thought... A slight pause in conversation. Chris looked up and Anderson was saying, “Your shirt, please.”

He unknotted the tie and stripped it off, following with his jacket, and then the shirt. His face seemed hot—he remembered the slaps as he moved so that they could discuss the marks on his back, the ones on his arm. “I will certainly leave this alone,” said Tetsuo, waving a hand over Chris’s right shoulder blade, “but I may wish to elaborate upon these, here, in the same fashion as they were made.”

“More brands? You’ll enjoy branding him. I’ll give you the original, if you want it.”

“Excellent, that would be quite satisfactory.”

When they were finished, he dressed again, as gracefully as he could. He tried to summon up the sea again, as they turned pages.

“You will bear the cost of private medical insurance, as outlined here—we will have to discuss local care, but that can be handled after a sale if necessary, unless you foresee difficulties—no? Then let’s skip down here, this is all boilerplate for a while...”

Waves. Rhythmic waves, I do not need to hear this,
Chris thought. He heard a gull, a harsh shriek in the air, cutting through the waves, and embraced the sound eagerly. It was finally loud enough to drown out the words. But then there was a knock at the door, as more tea was brought, and he had to serve again and resume his place even as they were discussing length of contract.

“Five years.”

“I never—never—sell a first time client for more than three.”

“Ah, but this is not a first time client. How many years has he been in service to you, shall I do the sums?”

Anderson paused. “I’ll permit four, considering his vast experience as a trainer, which should of course count for something. Four?”

“It is an unlucky number in Japan. I prefer not to handle contracts of four years.”

“Three then, with an automatic renewal for a year, pending mutual agreement with no contract modifications.”

“Automatic renewal for two years, with those stipulations.”

Chris could barely trust himself to breathe. He felt sweat at the back of his neck, and struggled to focus his eyes and build the fence again.

Anderson leaned back. “OK, Tetsuo, let’s talk turkey. I’ll give you the three plus two, if, in exchange, I get one of your three-year students and one four-year student, in two separate years, for one year each.”

“A four-year student? You wish to finish their training?” Tetsuo frowned, thinking, and rubbed the back of his neck. “That is...difficult.”

“Difficult, but you’re thinking of taking away my best pupil. I want full exposure to your best students, and I want your training books with them.”

“Ah,” Tetsuo sighed. He leaned back, nodding his head in respect. “You want us to be siblings.”

Anderson raised her eyebrows. “Isn’t it about time? Face it, Tetsuo, you will be the first Noguchi trainer to bring a gai-jin into your House. Don’t do things by half. If you’re gonna change the world, you can’t do it shyly. Let this contract be our bridge, brother and sister.”

“And your training books?” Tetsuo asked with a wry smile.

Anderson laughed and jerked a thumb in Chris’s direction. “I would say you’re negotiating to buy my training books, wouldn’t you?”

Tetsuo Sakai gave her a measured look. Neither of then looked at Chris, only into each others’ eyes, taking measure. Carefully, Tetsuo nodded, and Anderson smiled thinly and picked up her negotiation again. “You can pick the students, and the time, as long as they are one year apart and they know English, written and spoken. Or, skip the students and send me one trainer of your line for two years, so that I have time to search for a replacement...”

* * * *

Finally, the image of crashing waves caught on again—he could see the droplets of water cascading through the air and falling down against rocks and sand. There was a steady undertone of hissing, the whistling, grinding of underwater sand, and above it all, the screech of a gull, over and over again. The sounds became louder, echoing at last, drowning out the plans to replace him, trade him, send him away, give him away, and at last he realized that the waves were not water at all, but the sound had a more steady and predictable rhythm to it. He could feel the churning of wheels, and the screeching of the gull became the scream of brakes, as the Number Seven train rushed through Jackson Heights and into Corona and Flushing, stops at numbered intersections on the steel elevated tracks above Roosevelt Avenue late at night, on a school night. Each stop shook him awake again, just as the train engines lulled him to sleep, his head resting against the sidewall, his knapsack drawn up between his legs.

* * * *

It had been a profitable night, almost thirty dollars shoved into his sneakers, where the johns didn’t search when they tried to rip you off, which had happened two weeks ago. He had explained the rip in his jeans pocket with a clumsy tale about getting caught in a turnstile. The bump on his head was hidden by his hair, and the worn out army cap with the frayed lining that his brother had given him before going away. It had a peace symbol drawn on it in colored magic marker, all but faded away now.

His throat was sore. But he had the money to add to the folded collection in the ear of the old teddy bear, almost enough to leave, almost enough to get a place for one month maybe two.

The lights of the Shea Stadium stop were bright and hurt his eyes. He blinked as the car filled up with angry, sweaty people, cursing the heat, cursing the team.

“Fucking twats can’t even win a fucking game,” cried a boy who looked like a senior. “Man, I want my fucking money back!”

“Twats!” snorted one of his friends, smelling strongly of beer. “Fucking pussies!”

He pulled himself closer to the wall, avoiding their gazes. Boys like that beat up boys like him. Or worse. Besides, he was angry. The Mets were a great team. They won the World Series, and he had been there when he was nine. They could do it again. You had to have faith. He kept his eyes closed as the train pulled into the last station on the line, Main Street, and people jostled to exit or just claim seats for the ride back down Roosevelt into Manhattan. As he got up, he saw a flash of bright blue and orange on the train floor, and without thinking, bent down to pick it up.

It was a baseball cap. It was their baseball cap, in beautiful shape, barely worn, it seemed. Had one of those older boys actually thrown it away?

Finders, keepers. It was his now.

It was the first thing that his father grabbed when he finally got home.

What the hell is this thing? You went to a baseball game? On a school night? With what money? What do you mean you found it? Lying again? Where were you? Who were you with?

And his mother. Why don’t you come home when you’re told? Why don’t you dress like a normal child! Why can’t you just behave? Why do you have to look like a slob?

And his father. You’re a curse from God! Your pervert freak brother wears a dress and you go out like—like—I don’t know what and you lie and steal and why are you always hiding and what are you hiding, and I don’t believe you found this, and until you tell me the truth, you can’t have it! Why has God cursed us with two freaks as children?

Sitting on his bed in the dark, his thoughts all dark too. His brother did not wear a dress, his brother was one of the most macho guys ever, he even went to Israel and was in the army there, at least he had a gun, there was a picture of him in a tank top and heavy green pants and boots, a gun in his arms, a cocky smile on his lips. And he didn’t steal the hat, he found it, it was his.

He was a freak, though. He couldn’t do anything about that.

There was one hundred and fifty dollars in the ear of the stuffed bear.

The last thing he did before he left was take the hat from the top of the kitchen shelf where his not-very-tall father had put it.

He got back on the Seven train sometime after two in the morning and rode it all the way into Forty-Second Street and then transferred south. It was still warm enough to sleep under the piers. He couldn’t go looking for his brother until he was sure his parents wouldn’t ambush him there. Besides—he could still earn some good money under the piers. And the new cap made him look much older, he was sure, and if he bummed a cigarette from someone, they always thought he was older... the brakes of the train screeched like a gull, echoing in the tunnel as he got up, feeling tired and frightened but out of there at last, back among people who looked at him and saw what he saw, and not what they all saw at home...

* * * *

“Well, then I think we’ve ironed out the details, now it’s time to give you the final tally,” Anderson said, picking up the pen they had used to make notes all over the main sample contract. “This is my asking price.”

Tetsuo picked up the paper with both hands and sucked in a breath involuntarily. “This is...most respectable,” he said carefully.

“Yes,” Anderson admitted. “We’re talking years of my time. Not to mention the loss of his services at a point where I have no senior student to replace him with. But you know, I’m warming up to the idea of selling him. If you don’t want him, I could just go out to dinner tonight and announce a surprise auction, see if I can get a sweeter deal than this.” She was smiling, casually, and there was a slightly playful touch to her threat. But it made Chris snap out of his reverie and clench himself tightly to avoid reacting at all.

“That would be unnecessary,” Tetsuo said, laying the paper down. “I am honored to accept your asking price, with all the previous conditions we discussed. However, I must ask for an hour or two to communicate with my bankers to make arrangements, as I have stupidly not brought my man of business with me on this trip.”

“Take as long as you need, Tetsuo. We have to have the new contract drawn up anyway, I’m going to rely on you to find someone here who can do that. If I have your handshake, it’s as good as done.”

He extended a hand and they shook firmly, American style. “I will contact you when all the arrangements have been made and the new contracts drawn up.”

“Thanks muchly, Tetsuo, it’s always a pleasure to do business with you.”

Chris rose to open the door and let Tetsuo out, and quietly cleared the table of cups and trays, and put his file back together neatly. Anderson watched him silently, and when he finally turned to her, she indicated with her eyes where she wanted him. He hesitated—after spending so much time on his knees—but he went to the chair that Tetsuo had most recently occupied and sat down, gingerly.

“You belong on your knees,” Anderson said flatly.

“As the Trainer says.”

“No. Speak informally. I don’t think I will accept formal manners from you any more, unless that’s what Tetsuo wants.”

Chris winced slightly. “Please forgive me. There is no excuse for my rudeness to you, there never is.”

“Yes there is,” she said. “You are rude to me because you’ve found out that it amuses me when you say profane things, or challenge me in such a childish way. You found out it makes me laugh when you tell me to suck your cock, and you say it with a smile. And not as often, you are rude to me when you want to get a negative reaction. I usually don’t rise to such behavior in a slave, and so I let you get away with it. You then feel bad for so obviously trying to provoke me, and immediately provide your own punishment. I rarely see the need in hurting someone who is so good at hurting himself. Now Tetsuo—he’ll hurt you. He’ll never, ever, go as far as he did before, no matter how you provoke him, but he will hurt you. And you’ll have that collar you crave so much. And at last be free from my inconsistent behavior.”

Chris folded his hands between his knees and lowered his head. “May I ask a question?”