House of Many Rooms Hardback - 1998

Excerpt

New York

The young woman called Sakura Ueda was tense. Her mouth was so dry that she could hardly thank the driver. She paid him and got out of the taxi. Before going in, she stood in front of the building, nervously smoothing her dress over her thighs. The checked miniskirt was very short, and gave her long legs a coltish look that she did not like. She was over thirty, or so she believed, much too old to look like a gawky schoolgirl. But she had few clothes to choose from, and certainly no money to purchase a new wardrobe for this encounter.

In fact, she was wearing exactly the same clothes as the last time she had come here, the same tan pumps, the same beige blouse and light jacket. The light tropical clothes were too thin for the winter cold, and the bag slung over her shoulder contained little money. She was getting right down to zero. She would eat today and tomorrow. After that, she did not know. Taxis were expensive, but in case anybody was watching, she had chosen to arrive in style, rather than emerge from the subway entrance only fifty yards from the building, or get off the bus that stopped nearby.

She looked upward. Francine Lawrence's Manhattan office gave little outward indication of the woman's global wealth. The block was an old one on the outskirts of Chinatown. Sakura knew that when she was in town, Francine would lunch daily at one of the many cheap Cantonese or Szechuan restaurants farther down the street. That showed both a loyalty to her roots and a dislike of wasting money.

Francine's New York residence, farther uptown, on Park Avenue, was also unostentatious, but only on the outside. That building, too, was an older one, but the apartment was filled with wonderful European antiques. Sakura had glimpsed something of it when she had delivered flowers there a week earlier. The housekeeper who had answered the door had been flustered by the sight of such a huge bouquet, and had allowed her in, telling her to put the flowers in the kitchen. It was obvious that large bouquets of flowers were not regular arrivals in Francine Lawrence's life, which had surprised Sakura, who had been counting on the reverse.

She had paid for the flowers herself, of course, another reason why her dollars had run out so frighteningly fast. She had tried to extend her visit by making the housekeeper sign a spurious receipt for the flowers. Her heart beating wildly, she had tried to drink in the atmosphere of the place while the old woman fumbled shortsightedly for a pen. The furniture had been like nothing she had seen before, gleaming masterpieces out of French and Italian palaces, glowing oil paintings, Persian carpets, all of it (as far as Sakura could tell) of extraordinary value.

Right now, on the sidewalk, her heart was beating even more wildly than on that occasion. She closed her eyes for a moment, reaching for inner calm. She had rehearsed this moment so many times, and in so many ways. Yet now, all her prepared words had vanished, and her mind was empty. Perhaps it was better that way. She always did her best at improvisation, rather than rehearsed pieces.

The stream of pedestrians passing around her paid her little attention, though she was a striking young woman. Her face, with its discernible Asian lines, had the dewy freshness of an orchid. Her body was slender and graceful, so her clothes, cheap as they were, hung well on her. Her hair, a rich chestnut, tumbled down her back in shiny waves. With a little more skill, and when you got right down to it, a little more money, she would easily make the transition from striking to exquisite. Yet in her gaucheness there was also a kind of charm that the very beautiful seldom have, and that usually does not survive wealth.

She walked into the foyer and took the antiquated elevator up to the third floor, where she emerged to face a glass door bearing a plain sign reading Lawrence Enterprises. The thought that Francine Lawrence was behind that door made Sakura's legs turn to water. She tried to control her breathing, but she was panting as if she had run up the stairs.
Last time she had spoken to an elderly secretary. The memory of her kind manner helped steady Sakura's nerves now. She took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.

Last time, the reception area had been quiet. This time it was crowded. Sakura's tension increased. That must mean Francine Lawrence was in. There were seven or eight people waiting patiently on the row of chairs, some clutching bulky briefcases, others leafing through magazines listlessly. Nobody paid her very much attention as she walked to the desk. The gray-haired woman behind the sign reading Mrs. Tan looked up.

"Hello," Sakura said, leaning on the counter, her voice little more than a whisper.

"Oh, hello there," the woman answered. There was a vase with a few pink carnations on her desk. She had evidently been arranging the flowers, for now she picked up the vase and put it on the counter next to Sakura. She smiled at Sakura, but it was not the warm smile of the last interview. It was a tight little grimace, and the eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses were watchful. "Miss Ueda, isn't it?"

"Yes," Sakura said. "Could I see Mrs. Lawrence this morning?"

"I'm afraid that's impossible."

Sakura thought she had misheard. "I beg your pardon?"

"Mrs. Lawrence asked me to tell you that she is not available."

"Not available? Did you tell her about me? What I said?"

"Of course, Miss Ueda. She specifically asked me to tell you she was not available to see you."

Sakura clung to the counter to keep upright. She felt she might fall, otherwise. "I don't understand!"

"There is nothing to understand. She does not wish to see you."

"Why not?"

"I really cannot say."

Sakura stared at Mrs. Tan blindly, her gray eyes wide. "What am I going to do?" she asked quietly.

She must have looked so ghastly that there was a flicker of something like pity in the secretary's eyes for a moment. She lowered her voice.
"You could try again some other time," she murmured. "Maybe in two or three weeks. But I cannot promise anything."

"It will be too late by then," Sakura said.

"Can I give Mrs. Lawrence any message from you?" Mrs. Tan asked.

Sakura was silent for a moment. "Tell her I--" She stopped to think. "Tell her I won't ever come to her again," she said in a flat voice. "Thanks for your time."

She turned and walked out of the office.

Out in the street, the world was spinning around her dizzily. She did not know which way to walk. It hardly mattered. Her sense of failure was overwhelming. She needed time and space to consider what to do next. Yet that hardly mattered, either. Given her absolute poverty, she would be starving within a day or two. Panic caught her by the throat, and she had to fight it down.

She walked slowly toward the subway entrance. For now, she needed to go back where she had come from, and rest. She checked her purse, counting out the few coins she would need for her token. She found the New York subway system complex and difficult to understand, and down in the echoing concourse, she spent a long time staring at the map, figuring out the route she should take and where she should change trains.

She boarded her train, and sat staring at her reflection in the opposite window. Why? Why had Francine Lawrence rejected her like this? Had she done or said something wrong, made some tiny slip that had raised doubt? Did Francine Lawrence think she was a fraud? But what could possibly have aroused her suspicions? Sakura could not imagine.

She felt stiflingly hot, barely able to breathe. Awkwardly, she shuffled out of her jacket and laid it on her lap. She pushed up her sleeves and closed her eyes, her body rocking passively to the beat of the train. Her mind searched for something to console the pain.

As always, she thought of Japan, of cherry-blossom time. That was what her name meant in Japanese, "cherry blossom." She had been called that because it was at that time that she had first been brought to Japan. She remembered it so clearly. Among the dark, turbulent, and sometimes wildly confused memories she had of her childhood, that stood out like a beacon: the wonder of those acres of pink-and-white froth, the way the petals had carpeted the ground. It was the first vision she'd been given of pure beauty, and it had stayed with her, just as her name had.
S
he was not Japanese, though she had been given a Japanese name, and had lived in Japan for a time; she could not say what nationality she belonged to. Concepts like nationality were alien to her way of thinking. But those syllables, "Sakura Ueda," were among the very first things in this wide world that were truly hers, and she would cling to them until the day she died.
She opened her eyes with a jolt, feeling that she was drifting into sleep. She had to change trains here. She gathered up her jacket and her bag, and got off the train.

She pushed her way through the crowds, found the platform she needed, and got on the train. She picked listlessly at her nails as she rocked in her seat. The polish was chipped and flaking off. She could not even afford a bottle of polish remover to clean her nails. She looked up sadly. The car was half-empty. Opposite her, a tall black man was sitting in a coiled slouch. The plump white woman next to him had drawn herself, consciously or unconsciously, as far away from him as she could. The man was a symphony in black. He wore wraparound sunglasses that looked as though they had been carved out of the same material as the rest of his face, a glossy hardwood. He wore a black T-shirt and jacket, black pants and black snakeskin boots. Even the elegant briefcase that lay negligently in the man's lap was black alligator.

The buckle of the briefcase pointed at her like the muzzle of a gun. Then Sakura looked closer, struck by something. Within the brass of the buckle, something gleamed at her. Convex optical glass. Not the muzzle of a gun. The eye of a camera. The briefcase contained a camera. And the camera was filming her.

Sakura froze. Her apathy evaporated at once, to be replaced by the sharp, clear fright of a creature that had been hunted many times before. She looked away.

She thought back to the office in Chinatown. Why had so many people been lounging on the waiting-room chairs? One of them had even come down in the elevator with her, and she had not paused to ask herself why he might be leaving, without keeping his appointment.

Her eyes slid back to the tall black man. His lean body radiated arrogant boredom. His face was like a mask, his head lolling to the beat of the train. But behind the wraparound dark glasses, she knew that his eyes were watching her.

Terror seized her. But she could not afford to panic now. The danger was far too imminent, far too urgent. She let her gaze drift away from the black man, to take in the others in the compartment. There would be more watchers, more followers. Professionals always carried out such work in teams, never alone. But if they were professionals, she knew it would be hard to detect them. The others in the team could be anybody, young or old, black, brown, or white.

Her only hope was to let them think she hadn't seen them. She rose as the next station approached, and prepared to get off the train. As she waited by the doors, looking out, she sensed the black man get up behind her and join a handful of others waiting to get off. Her heart was pounding in her throat.

The train slowed to a halt. The doors rattled open. She stepped out onto the platform, and began walking toward the far exit. She let her head hang down in a torpid way, her body language radiating weary disappointment. But she kept close to the train. The black man was behind her. Though he wore boots, his tread was silent. Beyond the black man was a young woman, looking in her shopping bag. Something about her too-relaxed gait told Sakura that she, too, was a member of the team.

The public-address system boomed out a warning to stay clear of the train doors. They started to hiss closed. When barely six inches of open space remained, Sakura released the clenched muscles of her stomach and legs. She sprang to the nearest door, thrusting her hands between the rubber seals, and wrenching them apart. She had underestimated the strength it would take: It was almost impossible. Somehow, she forced herself frantically through the tiny opening, hearing her clothes catch and tear. A shoe was twisted off, and she lost it.

"Are you crazy?" a voice squawked irritably from within the train. An elderly man helped pull her in, turning his face away from her as he did so, as if wearied by the endless foolishness of the young.

Her purse was trapped outside the doors. She turned and saw it fall to the platform. The last of her money was in there. And her cigarettes. And she only had one shoe. She took it off and stood in her stockinged feet, panting.
The black man had run up to the doors, and was trying to pry them open from the outside. Sakura shrank back in horror as the doors opened a few inches. He grimaced with the effort, his teeth gleaming.

Then the train jolted, and began moving out of the station. The black man fell back, defeated. Sakura sagged weakly, all her strength gone now. She had done it. Nobody else had got on the train with her, and now nobody else could. Sakura peered out of the window. The last thing she saw before the tunnel blacked it all out was her pursuer, stooping to pick up her fallen bag.


From the Paperback edition.

Media reviews

"A sexy, gripping thriller that doesn't miss a beat."
--Kirkus Reviews

"Surprising plot twists, relentless suspense, and a humdinger of a climax. A spellbinding thriller that will keep readers riveted."
--Booklist

"Bravo! This suspense thriller weaves an intricate web of lies and deceit. The reader is kept guessing around every turn. [House of Many Rooms] touches nearly every human emotion conceivable."
--Rendezvous

"Gabriel exhibits a fine Gothic touch."
--Richmond Times-Dispatch


From the Paperback edition.