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 her dad’s death and her brother’s, 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 damned 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 just 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 set 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.
Deena met Daichi Tanaka while in her final year at MIT She could still recall the thick and cramped feel in Kresge Auditorium as faculty, students and the community piled into it in mouth-foaming anticipation 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 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 Hitchcock-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 God’.
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 and part fantasy, the lush acreage of Cityscape was suddenly a status symbol, a tour de force for an impoverished Guatemala. As the 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 mecca 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 shifted power to the masses—to the rural Mayan farmers who’d been victims of state-sponsored terrorism. He paid them fair prices for land he built upon 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. So it came as no surprise to Deena that the people in Kresge Auditorium looked around as though a god would soon be among them. The man was a god, an architectural god.
After wilting under the professor’s glare, Deena slipped the magazine back to its owner. Suddenly, she was startled by thunderous applause. The room rocked with the approval of a clamoring crowd: a crowd enamored by the pop icon of architecture.
Daichi took to the podium and scowled.
For an hour and a half they were lectured, accused and verbally accosted. He ridiculed them for traveling to far flung locales without studying the correlating history and culture—without respecting it. He called them presumptuous, privileged and narrow-minded.
“You all look the same and think the same and pick people who are the same to attend your illustrious universities. Why? Because you need validation. Because you serve yourself. But an architect is a selfless being, reflecting the client, the society that has secured his services. And in this, 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, damned near shouted 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.
She 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 foreboding 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 Nassau 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 a ripple of laughter and the professor’s face turned red. But Deena was glad to see the professor get his come-uppance. After all, he was the kind of guy who 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 tiptoed 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.”
Their pace quickened even more.
“I—I understand that, sir. It’s just that I’ll probably never see you again and, quite frankly, my question isn’t the sort I’d want to ask in front of all those people anyway and—and—”
Daichi stopped. His eyes narrowed.
“What’s your name?”
She opened her mouth and found that it worked only with effort. “Deena Hammond, sir.”
“Deena Hammond.” He frowned at the name as if trying to determine whether he liked it. “And what is your question, Deena Hammond?”
She swallowed hard. 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 seemed interested. “My firm is headquartered in Miami.”
“Yes sir, I know.” Her eyes were still on the snow-covered ground.
“You know that and the question you pose to me is about diversity?” The sharpness in his voice caused her to look up. “Am I to believe that you’re not out here clamoring for an internship?”
“Well, I’m not,” Deena said proudly.
“Then you’re a fool.”
He turned from her and dug in his pocket, coming away with keys. He 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 just because you have a 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 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 same 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 at MIT, she was a self-made outcast, never socializing and instead finding solace and affirmation in the only thing she did understand—academics.
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 he’d 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. Immediately she 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 into the car, “but if you ask me, all architecture is an affront to the senses.”
Daichi paused and, briefly, lowered his gaze to the car, before returning it to her. “I’m listening,” he said quietly.
Deena swallowed. She’d half expected his next words to be a shout for campus security. But here he was, entertaining her.
“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 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 seemed to spit the question at her. 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.
Deena 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.
“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 late already.”
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 did work 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. And bring some drafts with you.”
“Sir?”
“One more time, since I’m feeling particularly patient today. Meet me at my firm in two hours. Bring your portfolio with you.”
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 like 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 was 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 this office was the dock at the rear, with its access to Biscayne Bay, and, ultimately, the Atlantic Ocean. Some days Daichi would take his yacht to work.
When Deena stepped into the firm’s brilliant gold lobby for her initial meeting with Daichi, 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 any in 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 that Deena could see her reflection in it. 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 a porno, 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 herself.
“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, Manuel. 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 it and brushed the hair from her face yet again.
“About done?” Daichi said.
She 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 elevator’s up button and turned to 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 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. Deena watched as a healthy brunette with a stack of manila folders toppled in an effort to avoid him.
“What am I looking at?”
He stared at her drafts as though they were the blueprints for madness.
Deena scurried to keep pace with him, stepping over the folder-laden lady on her hands and knees.
“It’s a—a mimic of nature, sir.”
He handed the draft back to her. “You have thirty seconds to tell me what this is.” He fished out his cell phone and began to punch keys.
“It’s—it’s a luxury community,” she blurted. “I—I planned it with Miami in mind. There’d be lush tropical foliage, bird life and cul-de-sacs. The plan is for an eco-friendly construction and green building practices.” Her words were frightened fragments, but she hoped they made sense. The phone was at his ear and she presumed another one, somewhere else, was ringing. She needed to do better.
“The exterior of each town house will resemble a thatched roof bungalow and the interior takes an open-air approach with cathedral ceilings, French doors and huge Palladian windows. Also, there would be views of a manmade semi-tropical jungle and the foliage can keep heating and cooling costs down.”
He wasn’t even looking at her.
“I also plan to use hammocks, wildlife, true to the habitat and safe of course, and a waterfront setting to give the homes a sense of privacy and seclusion in a community setting.”
Daichi stared at her, the phone at his ear as they stood in the hall. “Is that your best design?”
She blinked back the sting of tears. “Yes sir.”
“Fine. Start a preliminary proposal on that one. Angela will show you to your desk.”
Deena followed Daichi’s gaze to the brunette still on her hands and knees. When she turned back, it was just in time to see his office door slam.
And that, in a gist, was Daichi Tanaka.
A few short years later, with the first test behind her, she sat at her desk just as antsy as ever. “Shall I send in Mr. Tanaka?”
That jarred her back to reality. The notion of Daichi Tanaka having to ask twice to enter her office had a sobering effect whose only equivalent was a pink slip.
“Jesus, of course!” Deena cried. “Tell Mr. Tanaka that there’s no need to ask. Please, send him in.”
Breathless, she stood and rushed to the door, opening it with a potent sort of dread. A short pause later, she was met not with the senior Tanaka, but the decidedly more favorable junior.
“If only I were welcomed so warmly everywhere I went,” Tak said as he stepped into her office.
Deena stared after him. “I thought you were your father. I thought—”
He held up a hand. “Don’t. You’ll spoil the warm feeling your gushing invitation gave me.” He turned to the flowers. “Did you like them?”
Her eyes widened. “They’re from you?”
Tak shrugged. “Thought you could use a little sunshine. Was I right?”
The corners of her mouth turned up just a tad. “Yeah.”
She turned from him, eyes suddenly wet. Counting backwards, Deena waited until the tears abated, pretending to busy herself with a larkspur. Once safely dry-eyed, she turned her attention back to Tak.
“So, Mr. Tanaka, what brings you here?”
“Stopped in to see my dad, the asshole, as you like to call him.” He smiled at her sudden blush before venturing over to her flowers. Tak fingered them half-heartedly. “And to see you.”
“Oh?” She heard the breathlessness in her voice and frowned. What the hell was that?
“You know,” he slipped a calla lily from the bouquet and held it up for inspection. The stem was long and olive, the bulb mango and vaulted. It made her think of a dancer, a ballerina, breath held and waiting.
“I saw this thing,” he said, “and it made me think of you.”
“Thing?”
He looked up. “An article. About curry addiction. Have you heard of it?”
Deena shook her head, more confused now than before he’d begun to elaborate.
He stuck the lily back in its vase.
“Well, it’s a just a theory, really. Some people believe that when you eat really hot food the pain from it makes the body release endorphins.” He leaned against her desk. “Stop me if you’ve heard this.”
“I haven’t.”
“Okay. Supposedly, you get this natural high from eating hot foods, and this high leads you to want more and hotter curries, the same way any other addiction leads you to want more.”
“And that made you think of me?”
“Sort of. When I read it I thought to myself, hell, if anyone needs to get high, it’s Deena.”
She paused, unsure of how she should respond, certain she was supposed to be offended. But Deena laughed. The boy had no idea how spot on he was.
Tak smiled, clearly pleased with himself. “No rush to go curry hunting, mind you.” He nodded towards the flowers. “Maybe when the sunshine wilts and you could use some of a different kind.”
Deena lowered her gaze, suddenly shy.
“Unless…”
“Unless what?”
She bit down on her lip, surprised by her lack of control.
Tak shrugged. “I don’t know. I just hate to think that you’re going to spend your evening alone in some apartment you’ve got decked out like this sad-looking place.”
Deena looked around. “You don’t like my office?”
He stared at her. “You do?”
She laughed, despite herself. That made three—three times she’d done so since her brother’s death, all three because of him. “I think this place is cozy. Streamlined. And conducive to work.”
“It’s barren.”
Deena balked. “What are you talking about? I have Hope and your bouquet. It’s positively radiant in here.”
He looked around. “Hope?”
Deena blushed. “She’s my bonsai.”
Now he would laugh. But he didn’t. “Maybe one day you’ll tell me how she got that name,” he said softly.
She lowered her gaze. “Maybe.”
They fell silent.
“So,” Tak said suddenly. “Dinner? Six o’clock? Meet you in the lobby.”
Deena sputtered. “Oh, I don’t know, I—I—”
He held up a hand. “Listen, you don’t even have to talk to me. Just a little company, and uh, good conversation if you want.” He shrugged. “At least, I hope it’s good.”
Briefly, she thought of the box of tissues that had been her constant companion for the last few nights. “And you don’t mind if I’m not good company?”
He was already heading for the door. “Not at all.”
Deena smiled. “Okay then.”
“Excellent. There’s a new place on Ocean Drive called Spiced. Everything’s lava hot. We can burn a hole in our mouths then try to cool it with ocean water. You’ll love it.”
Deena grinned, watching the door slam behind him. Something told her she might.
Their first night together was filled with incendiary curries from India and crashing waves from the Atlantic. Dinner ran long and the coffee cold before Tak and Deena were ushered out at closing. They returned the next night and opted for decidedly more adventurous fare—a black bean and squid ink soup for her, Moroccan sea bream and braised rabbit him, all made searing with a bevy of chilies, pastes, powders and spices. And after closing this time, they were walking along the shore with a sliver of moon illuminating the sky and plans for a third night on their lips.