ANGELA DOUGLASS FOUND THE ROSE next to the curb in front of Alvarson�s mansion in Kensington, the one the Queen of Kinmoku had adopted as her home and her consulate, the place where her friend Usagi Chiba had lived for many years. She stopped and leaned down from her bicycle to pick it up. At first she thought it was a black rose, but inside it had narrow bands of color leading to a white center. It was difficult to see this; the blossom had not opened.
"No stopping, Ma�am," said a guard in a gray uniform. The guard was black and a woman, and maybe younger than Angela�s daughter. The guard clearly did not recognize Angela Douglass.
"All right, I understand," Angela responded. If the guard had been white and male or perhaps white or male, she might have stayed to argue a bit.
Interview in the Daily Californian, July 1, 2011.
PROFESSOR DOUGLASS NEVER KNEW which year would be her last at Berkeley. She had tenure, but that did not mean the classes she wanted to teach would continue to be offered, or that any would be required for graduation. That fall, she was teaching only one class. It was filled, because it filled two requirements at once. Angela did not think most of her students would bother to take it at all if it fitted no requirements, or even only one. Still, it was worth teaching. She did awaken a few students, and she liked to think she planted more seeds of political awareness which might bloom later.
Angela Douglass planted some real seeds as well as metaphorical seeds. She had edged into gardening, another pursuit which did not exactly fit into her standards of her twenties or even thirties. Growing vegetables was proletarian enough, but Angela found she liked growing flowers more, even if it was really harder to do right. Dr. Douglass did not attempt to grow orchids or other exotics; roses were the upper limit she had set for herself. The strange rose she had found in front of the mansion was the now-famous Ms. Chiba lived with her alien friends survived in a small vase on water and a bit of rose food. It even began putting out roots. Angela transferred it to a pot after two weeks. She was not sure it was a �real� rose at all, although it was alive enough. Was it from Kinmoku, a quarter-way around the Milky Way? Or from some other world? It looked like a rose, leaves and blossom, but the blossom did not open and did not fall. It did grow a bit larger, but she did not notice this until it was almost time for the Thanksgiving break, even though it lived in her bedroom before the south-facing window (in the back of her house.)
No one else visited the room to see it there. No one else had been in Angela�s bedroom since 2008, a very gay cable guy who had absolutely no idea that he was in the home of someone who had been known by the whole world at one time. He had to be have been less than half her age.
She had more on her mind than flowers.
The latest �compassionate conservative� Republican governor of California was relentlessly targeting programs benefiting ordinary people in need. He had done a lot of damage since taking office in January. Angela Douglass liked to think that without her loud, sharp voice, he would have done even more.
DR. DOUGLASS’ CLASS was large enough to fill a lecture theater. She had set a limit of 100 students, though the theater could hold about half again as many. She had decided 100 was the absolute maximum she could handle with a reasonable chance of giving at least some personal attention to each over the term. She had to fight and keep fighting to keep this limit. If the "business management oriented" people trying to turn not only Cal but the whole California university system into a big trade school had their way, she might be "lecturing" to thousands via teleconferencing. There was no acceptable substitute for face to face contact. One of the best of the Greek philosophers had said that the best school was a log with a student at one end and a teacher at the other. She would accept a larger log, but not a forest.
One of the first students to take a seat in the lecture theater the first day, and the first one Angela Douglass took notice of, was a tall white girl, auburn-haired, skin just toned enough to avoid freckling. She had light brown eyes with folds at the lower outer corners suggesting an ancestor from Asia. The tall girl was dressed plainly enough: shirt, sweater, heavy wool skirt with the hem below the tops of her socks, comfortable walking shoes. She chose her seat center front. The girl said nothing to Angela when she saw the professor was looking at her, nothing with words. Her eyes said something, though. Defiance? Challenge? Or maybe just a bad morning? Angela would have asked if the tall girl hadn’t been so attractive. If she had been as plain as the way she dressed, she would have immediately asked her a question or three. But the attraction gave her pause. Angela noted only one possible flamboyance: The girl tied her hair back in a simple ponytail with a tie featuring two overlarge transparent sky blue spheres. Otherwise she had small stud earrings and a ring worn on her left ring finger. No stones, or they were not large enough to catch enough light to announce themselves from the whiteboards. Instead of stepping a little closer and asking questions. Angela turned to write something on one of the motorized, sliding whiteboards. The opportunity passed.
While Angela Douglass was occupying herself with the whiteboards, an African-American jock and his girlfriend came in. Angela did not bother to catch the words, but she knew from the tone he was appropriating preferred seats for himself and his girlfriend—a white girlfriend. A whiny white voice supported his claim. Angela did not know that the tall girl was one of the relocated ones until she turned back to start the class. By that time the tall girl was in the fifth row, where she would remain for the rest of the term. Angela did not allow students to change seating after the first day. She relied on a photographic seating chart to give her at least a fair chance of recognizing each student by sight before the end of the term.
Three months and three-fourths of the fall term passed.
Reuben Fine married a sixth time. The Godolfin’s daughter was his fifth wife, though; he’d been married to Angela twice. He emailed a wedding photo of sorts. Angela sent a reply that spoke mostly about the Governor’s latest antics.
The jock turned out to be politically aware on at least a superficial level. His name was Benson Laughlin. He was there on an athletic scholarship, for basketball. He was no homeboy from a poor neighborhood, though. His father had made a fortune in the funeral business, taking so much money for throwing dirt over people he was buying more dirt to develop now. His father was one of the richest African-Americans. Benson Laughlin said he needed the scholarship because his father would pay for nothing but business school. Benson Laughlin was quite happy his father was unhappy with his choice of college and major: Political Science. If he’d come earlier, maybe he would have made a better impression on Professor Douglass. She was ready to tolerate him, even cultivate him as a possible progressive cadre. Angela was never going to really like him, though.
Wilhelmina Gertrude von François knew a bit more about the Movement from the first day. She wanted to be liked by Dr. Douglass just a little too much. Her father was even richer than BF’s, and she’d had her looks improved by plastic surgery "before I woke up to how shallow the whole thing was." However she got her looks, she had them, and the proletarian ensembles she put together could have been sold out of shops on Rodeo Drive (and maybe they had been.)
The third musketeer, Howard Furst, knew nothing about politics the first day but soaked up so much with his sponge of a brain that as the fall break approached he was regularly dredging up details Professor Douglass had forgotten. Angela was sure there wasn’t any true political awareness behind this display. It was simpler: He’d fallen in love with Wilhelmina Gertrude von François as soon as she’d appeared, and now he was hanging on, hoping no doubt to pick her up when Benson Laughlin dropped her. Angela had her share of doormat suitors in her day, both male and female.
The strange Rose, if it was a rose, put out leaves and enough roots to warrant a larger pot by Halloween. The blossom, if it was a blossom, also enlarged, but did not open—until the morning of the last day before the break. It had a lovely smell, not quite like anything. As a good Marxist, Angela could not believe in portents, but something in her wanted to believe. Reconciliation with Davilla? Her partner was also going to visit Tiffany on the break.
The lecture theater wasn’t quite big enough for all the students to have an empty seat between them, so about two dozen, picked at random, followed Angela’s senior TA Lois Lee to a smaller room in an adjacent building. Benson Laughlin and his girlfriend were part of that group. Maybe Lois had rigged the draw; it was like her to make adjustments to make things run smoother. She would miss Lois; it was her final year in her doctoral program. It would be so nice to slip away without being buttonholed by Benson Laughlin and Wilhelmina Gertrude von François.
Of course, she could have just let Lois and her other TA run the whole test themselves, giving Professor Douglass a two-day head start on the break. That was not Douglass’ style, though. She was always in class for every exam. Let it be admitted that Professor Douglass felt some regrets as time ran out. Text messages informed her that her flight had been cancelled, and that instead of flying out of Oakland to JFK direct just before three, she’d be taking a redeye flight out of San Jose to Newark with a plane change at Dallas/Fort Worth. When someone brought up their test ten minutes before time and then made changes on her desk, Angela murmered without really looking: "You should have finished your test before you brought it up." Whoever was working on the paper snapped off the point of a pencil, a mechanical pencil. Angela looked up into cold green eyes. It was Ayakashi. For a second she couldn’t say anything, but before Ayakashi could leave, Professor Douglass acted. She caught up with Ayakashi and said, "See me in my office."
"When?"
"Go there now. I’ll be there soon."
Some students took notice. One of them was Howard Furst, but Angela as usual didn’t give him a thought.
Twenty minutes later Angela showed Ayakashi from the common area into her private office and closed the door. It was a close fit, even for just two people. "I’m sorry I was short with you today. But why are you so upset? Is it all my fault?"
Ayakashi took a moment to respond. "No, it isn’t."
"Then what is it?" Angela leaned back and made a roof with her fingers. "When I saw you on the first day, you took a seat in the front row and I thought, ‘This is one that wants more than 4.5 credits and two grad requirements out of this.’ But you haven’t volunteered anything since. Why did you decide to take my class?" After a moment, Angela added, "Excuse me, but do you use colored contacts? Your eyes were green a little while ago."
"No, I don’t use contacts," said Ayakashi. "My eyes change color sometimes."
"Really? I’ve heard of that, but . . . " Angela shifted, bringing her hands apart as if parting curtains. "Does it have anything to do with Benson Laughlin?"
"Yes, it does."
"Does he frighten you?"
"No, he doesn’t frighten me. I know how to fight."
"How to fight. Well, let’s try again. The part of you that was there before you learned how to fight, is that part frightened by Benson Laughlin?"
"Maybe," said Ayakashi. "You’re sounding like Dr. Watanabe."
"Dr. Watanabe?"
"She’s a psychiatrist."
"Ah. Would you feel as you do, as strongly, if Benson Laughlin was white? Or Asian?"
"The race thing," said Ayakashi. While still looking at the professor, she began to twist her ring with her right thumb and forefinger. That had to be an unconscious gesture. "That doesn’t make him feel any creepier to me. But . . . I guess it makes a difference, because of you. If I call him on anything, I’m sure he’ll play his race card. Have you ever seen him when Wilhelmina Gertrude von François’s not around? And he doesn’t know you’re watching him?"
"I don’t spy on my students, and I don’t have a team of investigators. All I know of Mr. Benson Laughlin is what he’s chosen to told me, himself and his friends. I don’t know anything about you at all, really, except that you’ve been a disappointment. When I saw you at first, I thought to myself, ‘There’s one student who’ll come away with more than 4.5 credits and two grad requirements checked off.’ But so far, I’ve been wrong. How can Mr. Benson Laughlin have turned you into such a wallflower so—" Angela stopped what she was saying, because her thoughts had moved faster. "Ms. Ayakashi, have you ever been raped?"
"Yes." She looked down, and turned the ring to the proper position again. It had no stone, but did have a molding of a rose blossom in reddened gold. Larger versions were on her stud earrings, Douglass now noted.
"Was it by a black man?"
"No. No, he was white, as white as they come. I . . . " Ayakashi didn’t finish that thought, whatever it had been. She brushed a tear from one cheek, and then looked directly at Angela Douglass once again. "You really, really don’t know who I am?"
"Am I supposed to?" She added a hunch: "Did your mother take my class once? I believe I was teaching it before you were born."
"No, okasan has never been to Cal. But Auntie Rei took your class. She told me you made here angry nearly every day, but that she was glad she had taken your course."
"So that’s why you signed up?"
"There’s another reason. It’s what you said when Reverend Swainson was trying to take Tammy and Philip away."
"Tammy and Phil—" Dr. Douglass didn’t finish the question. Again, her thinking had overtaken her speech. "You’ve made yourself look like Ms. Urawa, haven’t you? Your adoptive mother?"
"It’s not as much work as I thought it would be," said Ayakashi. "My hair’s the same color, and sometimes my eyes. And I’ve gotten sort of tall, you might notice." She was considerably taller than Angela, who was still taller than most women.
"Roses," said Angela. "I remember your mother wearing earrings like that." For a second, she thought of the strange rose she’d found in front of the Alvarson mansion. But it seemed a small concern. Dr. Douglass used an old technique to control the flood of implications flooding into her consciousness. "So, you live in the mansion with Ms. Chiba and her friend the Kinmoku queen?"
"I do."
"You call yourself ‘Ayakashi’ so you won’t be recognized."
"Umm, actually it’s my married name, Dr. Douglass." Thumb-and-forefinger on the ring again, gaze lowered. "Juzo is the only one I can stand to touch me at all, really."
"Juzo? Like the filmmaker?"
"Yes, exactly. Mama Petzu says that if Juzo had been a girl, he would have been ‘Tampopo.’"
Angela chuckled, but went back to more serious matters. "So, you must know Sarah Uer very well. How is she?"
"Coping," said Ayakashi. "I guess you can see why I don’t hang around while you talk about justice for Michael Grandville."
"I guess I can. I hope you understand that when I speak of Mr. Grandville—"
"You’re speaking of him as a symbol. I know."
"What about the other survivor? Is she a friend too?"
"Philip has a huge crush on her." Ayakashi added after a moment, "I can’t talk any more about this. I mean, I shouldn’t."
"You don’t have to. Your partner, does he go to Cal?"
"Maybe next year. He’s in his last year at Orinda High." Ayakashi looked at her watch. "I’ve got another exam at one."
"You can go now if you like. But I expect to hear more from you in class after the break."
"As long as you’re not talking about Grandville," said Ayakashi, rising. "He’s sort of cute to look at, but I don’t think he’s another Bobby Toomey."
That remark penetrated Angela Douglass through and through. Before she could respond, Lois Lee was squeezing by Ayakashi as they traded places. Angela did not want to discuss Toomey with her senior TA. Lee shut the door as soon as Ayakashi was clear. Angela sensed another outside but did not quite assimilate enough clues as to who it was or might be, though she did get the idea Lois wanted to keep someone’s presence out for the moment. "What was that about?" asked Lee.
Angela Anita Douglass, Ph.D., processed several thoughts over the next four seconds, buying time for her eventual response by extending an "Mmmm." Should she tell Lois Lee any of what she had just learned about Ayakashi? Maybe Lee already knew. Her discretion was one of the virtues that made Ms. Lee such a treasure as a teaching assistant.
Also, what the devil was Benson Laughlin doing here now? How long had he been outside? Had he heard anything? Angela also had a notion that there might be trouble between Ayakashi and Laughlin even if Benson had picked up nothing of their conversation. "Is Wilhelmina Gertrude von François with him?"
"No, he’s alone. He—" A shriek followed by a SMACK! truncated the teaching assistant’s last sentence. Lee replaced it with, "That’s Ayakashi!" She twisted around and tried to open the door, but something hit that door heavily, so heavily it not only slammed shut, it bent visibly, sending the pushpins holding up Douglass’ venerable Che Guevara poster flying fast enough for one of them to sting Angela’s cheek. A curse followed, "Mother__!" That was Benson Laughlin. More noise and more curses followed.
Lee struggled with the door. "It’s jammed," she said. There was more noise from the other side, but by the time the combined efforts of the somewhat diminutive teaching assistant and the somewhat oversized professor sprang the warped door open, the noise had stopped. Douglass, larger, stronger, and further from the hinges than Lee surged further and faster into the common room shared with several other personal offices. No one else was there but herself and Lee and, as she had expected, Ayakashi and Laughlin. Something was very wrong about Ayakashi, but all that Angela noticed at that first moment was her eyes. Ayakashi’s eyes were green again, very wide�frightening, in fact.
"She . . . She . . . " The little-boy voice came from Benson Laughlin, and for a second Angela could not credit this voice as his. "She . . . She . . ." He held up his right hand�or rather, the end of his arm where his right had should have been. Instead, that arm ended in a stump and was busily gushing bright blood.
Ayakashi growled, "You shouldn’t play with guns, Benson Laughlin. You can get hurt." Looking back, Angela saw that the eyes looked human again. But the rest of Ayakashi—
Ayakashi made a swift move, grabbing Benson Laughlin by his bleeding arm, and vanished. Or at least most of him vanished. His clothes remained, flopping down in a disorderly pile. Lois Lee bent down and touched them. She said, "It’s like Obi-Wan and Darth Vader."
"Who?" There were some gaps in Angela Anita Douglass’ grasp of popular culture.
Lee continued to probe the floor and came up with a discovery in each hand: a gun, a good-sized automatic pistol as a cop or a soldier might carry, and what had to be Benson Laughlin’s missing hand. "Oh, damn! The cops�" She dropped the hand, but set the gun down carefully on the desk that was not overturned. "Ayakashi must be pretty fast with that sword. I didn’t hear a shot."
"Sword?" Now she remembered the sword. How could she have ignored it? Very long, the blade tinted green, a sword out of a Kurasawa movie. And that wasn’t all. "She had wings. Did you see them?"
"Yeah, I saw . . . Benson Laughlin’s going to die if . . . " "I’m calling the police," Angela Douglass found herself saying. She took out her cellphone, but before she could get through, a great wing brushed it from her hands. Ayakashi had returned. She had no sword, but she had help, two women in gray uniforms who immediately moved to grab Douglass and her teaching assistant. And just after one got a firm grip on Angela—