As I hurried through the long spiral to Mr. Cedar’s showroom, I again remembered the times when I had stopped to admire his displays, contemplate the exhibits, and learn from his interactive experiments. Today, I even passed what looked like a fascinating exhibit on the history of pockets, but I had too much to accomplish before midnight. As I neared his sugar maple and hammered-palladium doors, though, I felt compelled to act civilized for at least one moment and stopped before a wood and glass display.
Inside was a large swatch of charcoal fabric held vertical and flat by several robotic When I pushed the single red button on the front of the experiment, a mannequin’s hand, representing the wearer, rose on the right side of the fabric and a metal rod lowered on the left. A fierce spark jumped from the rod toward the hand, but as indicated on a series of meters, the fabric’s electronic network reflected the lethal shock.
I stood before the experiment for several beats as I thought of the Miniature city flickers quote and the woman in the alpaca-silk and platinum dress who was covered with a thin, vaporous layer of flame, the necktie from Mr. Cedar I had thrown at the floor that burned, and the wedding blocking I had just seen at the PartyHaus, where Father and I were to stand alone on the stage.
“Michael,” said Mr. Cedar, his voice startling me, “do come in.”
Last time I’d visited, the gallery was filled with posing mannequins. This time it was empty except for his sketching board and a large sports screen, tuned to the AppleBoard Shirt Ironing Invitational. I couldn’t believe that I had forgotten about one of my favorite events. Last year, my tailor and I had attended in person.
“It’s the last round,” said Mr. Cedar.
Competitive ironing was the oldest and most prestigious sport played among the fashionable. In my dressing room at my apartment, I had my own speed and sleeve boards and several competitive irons, but of course, I was nothing compared to the people who made it their life. For the past several years, one man, Fanjor, dominated the tournaments. In the beginning, I had admired his ironing, but gradually, as he kept winning, and got more and more arrogant, I got sick of him.
Now my favorite was Isé–B. He was a handsome, wiry man with short-cropped, dark hair, stern russet eyes, and always had a five-o’clock shadow. Unlike the rest of the ironers, who used modern, souped-up, Intel-Sunbeams, Greikos, or Jaun-Tees, he preferred a coal-powered Schiaparelli-Firemaster 77, with duel chimneys, and a customized Steam-Jet 188. It was incredible to watch him work that thirty-two pound-hunk of polished iron over crisp white shirts, as it spat clouds of steam and belched black smoke. And while he was truly a brilliant ironer who regularly won the smoothest-in-show and wrinkle creativity awards, he had yet to beat Fanjor head to head.
The channel was showing a replay from Masters Trophy last year, where Isé–B had lost by a twentieth of a second. After being awarded the coveted Golden Cuff, Fanjor, dressed in his signature yellow, pranced about the stage, chanting his own name.
“How’s Isé–B doing today?” I asked, as Fanjor, now in slow motion, leapt into the crowd where his fans began licking him as though he were a lemon candy.
“He’s two hundredths of a second behind.”
That wasn’t good. In this last speed round, Isé–B needed a lead to have a chance.
“So,” said Mr. Cedar, turning his attention to me.
“I suspect my last.” He raised an eyebrow as if concerned I might be changing styles or tailors. “I have an idea,” I began. “You see, yesterday, that neck tie you made for me, Love … burned.”
“The stolen silk was juxtaposed with a small amount of nitrocellulose.” With a grimace, he eyed my neck and asked, “You weren’t injured, were you?”
“Not at all,” I said, contrite that I had thrown it at the floor in a fit.
“You need it replaced?” he guessed.
“Not that.” After an exhale, I looked him in the eye and said, “Since Nora and I can’t be together, we’ll have to be apart.” I swallowed and asked, “Can you make me a whole suit of nitrocellulose?”
He stopped twisting his beard. His eyes fell to his sketching board, and his expression turned somber. While I knew my request was extreme, now I feared I had overstepped the bounds of our relationship. How could I have asked my tailor, of all people, to help me kill my father and myself? Frantic, I tried to think of some plausible way to claim I was joking.
He asked, “Your situation is that dire?” and I saw the calm gravity I had been hoping for.
“ worse,” I answered, thinking of Father’s freeboot.
He began rolling his beard hair again. “Yesterday… I saw something new by Pentagon-Straus in The Official Fabric Guide.” After he manipulated something on his table, he nodded toward the screen. “It’s quite dangerous and curiously comes in a single color—a luminescent orange licensed from the famous suits in the Bäng epic, Adjoining Tissue.”
During a commercial for a vacuum-pressing table, he ran highlights from the Tissue movie, which I hadn’t seen in years. It opened in an eerie moonlight garden filled with long walkways, beautiful marble fountains, and dozens of perfectly trimmed geometric bushes. As the drums fire and the organ plays, they sing of loneliness and desperation. Then the garden is lit on fire and the blue is burned away so that it becomes daytime. Now, wearing big, bright orange suits, they are happy, they punch each other and scream about the band’s glorious future. In the last sequence, each member cuts off the ends of their pinkies. Doctors stitch all forty together—pinky to pinky stump. The epic ends as the camera spins above and they have become one big, human volvox.
“My old anthem,” I said. The song I associated with my first death would also be connected to my second. “Perfect.”
He switched off the video. The screen returned to the ironing competition and a buzzer sounded—the ironers were to report to their boards. I watched Isé–B step onto the stage. He added several more embers into his iron, primed it, rolled his shoulders and neck, and then stared at the heated vacuum table. What I loved about him was that he existed in his own perfect world, concerned with nothing but cotton, heat, and steam. I longed for such , such a singularity of mind.
“He doesn’t have a chance, does he?” I asked, trying to be lighthearted as if that might temper yet another second-place finish.
My tailor was busy at his drawing screen and had finished half a dozen quick sketches. The drawings disturbed me. And the way the material shimmered and smoldered made it look like fire. Worse, the silhouette was large, bold, and muscular like something a satin would wear.
Before I had time to figure out how to express my displeasure without insulting him, the commentator said, “They’re off! This is the final heat for the gold!”
Fanjor and Isé–B stood beside two parallel ironing boards arranging their white cotton shirts. Fanjor started on the cuffs, Isé–B, the back.
“Fanjor is off to another fast start,” said the announcer.
“He’s been in a zone all week,” enthused the color man.
“Go Isé,” said Mr. Cedar.
“Isé–B has finished the back,” said the commentator. “But Fanjor and his incredible quickness are already in evidence!”
Isé–B got out his sleeve board and began the left. Fanjor didn’t bother and just crushed the material flat, leaving two creases on the sleeve.
“Why isn’t he penalized for that?” I asked. “That’s not right!”
“Indeed,” agreed Mr. Cedar.
“He just guts it out with that speed,” added Color, as if he’d heard my complaint. “Fanjor wills his victories. They’re not subtle or graceful, but they’re fast.”
“They’re brutal!” I complained. “And they’re ugly!”
“Isé–B is close,” said Mr. Cedar. “He’s got a chance.”
“I just want him to beat Fanjor!”
A close-up showed Fanjor leaning in as he started the collar. While picking up his iron, he hit the steam and a blast filled the air. His goggles fogged so badly, he had to stop, and wipe them off.
“Uh oh!” cried the announcer. “That could be a costly error!”
“Yes!” I screamed. “Go! Go!”
“Three years ago, a steam-up just like that cost Fanjor the Northern Invitational,” explained Color. “That was the last major won by the veteran Matús before he retired, leaving Fanjor to dominate. Today of course, Fanjor is the veteran, and Isé–B, the upstart.”
I couldn’t believe it, but I was about to see Isé–B finally beat him! “Go!” I shouted, as Isé–B ran his Schiaparelli across the shoulder yoke. Then he flipped his shirt around and worked the collar.
“Faster! Come on!
“It’s neck and neck!” said the announcer.
“I’d say it’s completely up for grabs!” added Color.
“No!” I screamed. “Isé–B’s ahead! He’s winning!”
As Isé–B finished the collar; Fanjor flew his Intel across the front. In another flash, he grabbed a hanger and slapped it onto the finishing rod. The horn sounded. An instant later Isé–B, hung his.
“Incredible!” said Color.
“Fanjor pulled it out again!”
“He’s unbeatable,” declared Color. “And you could see it in his eyes. Right at the end, he just wanted it more.”
I felt teased, then crushed again. And it wasn’t so much that I wanted Isé–B to win, but Fanjor to be beaten, as if I wanted some proof happened, if not for me, for someone somewhere. But it was just like the Tournament of Ironing Champions, The Weave, and Fiber-Con. It was always the same. It was unfair, just like everything.
“We’re going to go down to the boards,” said the announcer. “Our own very attractive Lindsay Beech is down on the stage with Fanjor, who—”
Mr. Cedar snapped off the screen. He worked on his sketching board for several moments “Watch,” he said.
I stood in a generic-looking coffee shop of polished iron, black cement, and silver furniture. In my right hand, I held a black glass of what I assumed was cream coffee.
“It’s boxy,” I noted, unhappily.
“It’s the bastard child of early Ültra and Pure H.”
“Indeed.”
Holding up a finger, he said, “Observe.” He touched a few things on his board. Another figure, wearing black, entered the frame. He tossed what looked like a fist-sized rock. When the rock hit the orange suit, it exploded in a white flash, sending the head and arms flying. An instant later, nothing but a few glowing embers and a black spot remained on the floor.
“I’ll deliver it this evening,” said my tailor.