The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Sixth Annual Collection

ORIGAMI MOUNTAIN Nancy Farmer

When Jiro Tanaka did not come home from work, his wife, Miya, assumed he was at a nightclub. Even when he did not arrive by midnight, she sighed and went around their mansion in Pacific Heights. She checked the windows, the burglar alarm, and the children’s bedrooms. Then she lay in bed and listened for the sound of his feet on the floor.

The Tanaka house had been built with wooden floors that squeaked when anything larger than a mouse ran over them. They were called nightingale floors, a feature of old Japanese castles, where it was a matter of life and death to know when someone was creeping up on you. Dr. Tanaka had imported an architect from Japan to build them.

Miya wondered which nightclub he was in. He would be surrounded by his favorite employees. They would laugh at all his jokes and get drunk before he did. At the end of the night, Jiro would be left alone with his helpless and stupefied workers. The more disgusting they were, the more powerful he would feel, which was how it should be: he was the boss.

Or perhaps he was at an obscene movie. He liked pornography, especially the kind where the women were tied up and tortured. It wasn’t enjoyable for him to bring home a video because Miya didn’t react. She sat, stony-faced, showing neither pleasure nor distress. It was better to take a fresh-faced employee who would trip over his shoelaces if a woman smiled at him. Like Jimmy.

Miya felt sorry for Jimmy. He was as close to a farm boy as you could find in someone with a Ph.D. in physics. Jimmy came from Okinawa, a mark against him because Jiro was prejudiced against people from Okinawa. They had big heads, he said, big hands and curly hair. They were like oxen. Jimmy had a wide, innocent face and freckles, as well as a friendly, open attitude. Jiro did not trust spontaneously friendly people.

He would have taken Jimmy to an obscene movie, and perhaps others to watch the fun. Miya felt sorry for him, but there was nothing she could do about it. She couldn’t even protect herself.

When Jiro had not appeared by breakfast, another possibility occurred to her: he had a mistress. This did not upset her. She hoped he had, because he would spend all his time with her. No doubt he’d gone straight from his assignation to the office. Miya woke the children up, bathed and fed them. They spent a pleasant day in Origami Park, and when they got home, Jiro wasn’t there.

With one thing and another, a week passed before Miya thought to report it to the police.

“A whole week!” yelled Homer, slamming down the receiver. “The head of one of the biggest companies in San Francisco goes missing a week before anyone reports it.”

His partner, Stewart, opened a new file on the Mac and entered Jiro Tanaka’s name. “Anybody miss him at work?”

“Yeah, they knew he was gone,” said Homer. “The work went on without him. Japanese factories are like that. Someone drops dead, and the next person in line takes his place.”

“What do they make?” Stewart spun the cylinder in his revolver, a habit that intrigued Homer. He thought of it as the policeman’s prayer wheel.

“What don’t they make?” he said. “Every kind of chemical, but they’re best known for Yum Powder.”

Stewart whistled. “Didn't they get the pants sued off them for that?”

“Still in court. And likely to stay there for the next hundred years. Can’t prove a thing.”

“Except that one hundred thousand babies dropped about twenty I.Q. points eating it,” said Stewart.

“Babies Cry for Yum Powder,” said Homer. “How can you prove a twenty-point I.Q. drop? Anyhow, our problem is to find this benefactor of mankind and return him to his grieving employees.”

“Haven’t we got more important things to do?”

“Would you rather be breaking into a crack house in Oakland?”

“No,” admitted Stewart.

“Besides, the chief says to give this case our best. Tanaka donated about a million to certain city officials.”

“Ah,” said Stewart.

They made a strange-looking pair. Stewart was a barrel-chested white man of about two hundred pounds. In a swim suit, he looked as though he were wearing a fur coat, but even in uniform the hair crept down the back of his hands and up his neck. He had short, bandy legs, but he could move like an express train when he had to.

Homer, on the other hand, was just over the minimum height and weight limit for a police officer. He looked like a black business executive. His shoes were always polished, and the cuticles trimmed from his nails. But if you asked a crook which policeman he would rather be left alone with, he always chose the bigger man.

They stood outside the hulking mansion in Pacific Heights. “Look at the security,” said Stewart. Cameras scanned them from a high wall; floodlights pointed in at the garden. He rang the bell.

“Please show I.D.,” said a voice from behind the gate. The officers held their wallets up to the camera. The bolts drew back, and a gardener peered at them. “Down!” he shouted. For an instant the policemen thought he meant them, but snarls erupted as the man dragged a pair of pit bulls from the path and clicked chains on their collars. Stewart’s hand strayed to his can of Mace. Homer looked bland, as he always did when most dangerous.

“Very sorry,” the gardener apologized. “I should have locked them up before you arrived.”

They followed him to the house, where a small, middle-aged woman waited. “Mrs. Tanaka?” said Homer.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. She took them on a tour of the house as she talked about her husband. Homer and Stewart followed in the hope of uncovering a lead.

“These floors need an oil job,” remarked Stewart as squeaks rippled through the wood.

Mrs. Tanaka giggled, and explained about nightingale floors.

“Did your husband have a lot of enemies?” said Homer. Mrs. Tanaka giggled again, a sound, he thought, that could get irritating. She didn’t answer the question, however. They came to the master bedroom, and Homer halted abruptly at the door. Stewart swallowed hard. There, on a shelf, was a row of the most grotesque Black Sambo dolls Homer had ever seen. There were at least ten, with goggly eyes and fat, rubbery lips.

Mrs. Tanaka noticed Homer’s stare. “Aren’t they cute?” she said. “Jiro buys them in Japan. One of them even talks. Would you like to hear it?”

“No,” said Homer in a strangled voice. They went on, with the woman chattering about Jiro’s habits, but in fact saying nothing about where he might be. They came to a recreation room, and she clapped her hands at two children, a boy and a girl, who were jumping on an expensive sofa in front of a TV.

They thrust power gloves at the screen and shrieked with excitement. “Please get down,” Mrs. Tanaka said. The children slid to the floor and sat there, quivering like a pair of cats in a room full of mice.

“Can we go to Origami Park?” said the boy. “We’re bored.”

“After the officers have gone,” said Mrs. Tanaka.

“Are you cops?” said the boy. Homer nodded. “Oh boy, have you killed anyone? Let me see the guns.”

“We’re Peace Officers,” explained Stewart. “We don’t kill people. You may not see the guns.”

“They’re phonies,” the boy told his sister, and they went back to Nintendo.

The policemen found out nothing from Mrs. Tanaka or the gardener. Stewart drove to the factory. “Nice dolls,” he said, while having a mano-a-mano with a cable car on one of San Francisco’s steepest streets.

“Remind me to show you my collection of honkie dolls. Don’t play chicken with cable cars. They always win.” Homer slid down in the seat so he would not have to see the inflamed face of the cable car driver as they shot past. “I don’t think Jiro Tanaka ran away. He has everything he could want right here.”

“Maybe it was the lawsuit over Yum Powder,” grunted Stewart, bumping across the trolley tracks on Market Street. “What exactly did it do?”

“Made everything taste wonderful. It was a super brain stimulant. ”

“Like monosodium glutamate?”

“Much better. The food didn’t even have to be good to begin with. Manufacturers could use it on dog shit, and probably did.”

“How did it get past the Food and Drug people?” Stewart rolled into the wasted streets of the Mission District. Suddenly it was as though they weren’t in the same town. They found themselves in a sinkhole so depressing, you’d have to kick in a window to keep from thinking about suicide.

“It passed the tests,” said Homer. “This is one armpit of a neighborhood.” He rolled up his window. “The additive was too expensive to produce, though, so Tanaka used a genetically altered bacterium to make huge quantities of it. There was a contaminant. Jesus, is that the factory?”

They came around a corner to a dead-end street. Ahead was the Jigoku Chemical Works. Gray and windowless, it sat like a giant turd on a concrete serving dish.

“Holy Moly, I thought Japanese were fanatics about beauty,” said Stewart.

“Doesn’t look like it,” said Homer. The men were silent as they drove to the iron doors. More cameras, more clanking of chains. The air smelled—Homer wasn’t sure what it smelled like, but it made the skin on his neck creep. The gate went up, and they drove in. The bottom level was a parking lot. A guard led them to an elevator. At each floor the elevator paused, and they looked out on industrial scenes that came out of Dante.

Huge pipes snaked around boilers; vats bubbled, steam hissed, and the noise was constant, shrill, and deafening. And behind it all was the strange smell, like hot, raw meat, or maybe the mouth of a predatory beast.

“You like working here?” Homer asked the guard.

“Of course! Jigoku is the greatest company in the world. Biggest per capita production, lowest overhead. We Jigoku employees take pride in bringing better living to people everywhere.”

“Just thought I’d ask,” said Homer. He thought he was going to vomit if he didn’t get fresh air soon, but fortunately, the top floor was offices, and the smell was weaker. They were ushered into a small room.

“Air’s better,” sighed Homer. “How do they get a flower to survive here?” He nodded at a flower arrangement on a low table.

“Fake,” said Stewart, feeling the petals.

“By the time the day’s over, I’m not gonna have any illusions left. Do you think they have plastic-flower-arranging classes?”

“And tea-bag ceremonies,” said Stewart.

Their hysterical laughter was interrupted by a young man in a lab coat. “So happy you like our factory,” he said. Homer did a double take. Yes, the man had freckles.

“Jimmy Tsuga,” he said, extending a hand. Homer had the impression that, not long ago, Jimmy Tsuga had been up to his ankles in cow shit. All he needed to complete the hayseed image was a sprig of buckwheat between his front teeth.

“Have you found anything out about our director?” said Jimmy.

“We’re making inquiries,” Homer said. “Can you tell me why no one reported his absence for a week?”

“We thought he was taking a vacation.”

“Does the director always take vacations without telling anyone?”

Jimmy ducked his head and giggled, exactly like Mrs. Tanaka. Homer was fascinated. “There’s a film festival in town,” the scientist managed to say.

“Film festival?” said Stewart, genuinely puzzled.

Jimmy’s embarrassment deepened. “Erotic film festival.” The two policeman stared at him, but he didn’t elaborate.

“This goes on all day?” said Homer gently.

“All night. During the day”—Jimmy paused to gather his inner resources—“he rests up.”

“Where does he rest up?”

“Various places,” said Jimmy vaguely.

“Dr. Tsuga,” said Homer in a calm voice that made Stewart, who knew him, tense up. “A very important man is missing. He is a multimillionaire. He has great political influence. He is the kingpin of a worldwide chemical industry, but nobody seems to miss him for an entire week. Nobody has any idea of his habits or where he might be. You know what this smells like to me, Dr. Tsuga? It smells like murder, and one of the first things an investigator looks for is who benefits from it. Who gets to inherit the directorship of Jigoku Chemical Works if Jiro Tanaka is dead?”

“Me,” said Jimmy.

“I thought so. Now, for all I know, Jiro Tanaka has been cooked up in one of those boilers we passed on the way up here. The smell is bad enough, but before we get into the ins and outs of dismantling this place to look for bone fragments, do you have any idea where Dr. Tanaka might be resting up from his midnight beaver shows?”

The effect of this statement was extraordinary. Jimmy turned so pale, the freckles stood out like inkblots. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. For a moment, Homer thought he was going to confess, but such things happened only to Perry Mason. After a few moments, Jimmy said, “Origami Park.”

“That’s the second time I’ve heard that mentioned today. Is it reasonable for a man to spend a whole week in a park? Or is it something like Disneyland?”

“You could spend a lifetime in Origami,” said Jimmy. “But it’s not a theme park. It’s—” He struggled to find the words. “You see, most of our employees come from Japan. We have an arrangement with other companies to rotate their workers here. It gives them a chance to learn English and to see another country. ”

“It also means you don’t have to pay them much," said Homer.

“That’s true,” admitted Jimmy. “The point I’m making is, quite often they’re disappointed. Housing is difficult, customs are strange, and the workplace is not . . . attractive.”

“You could say that,” said Stewart.

“We Japanese need beauty,” went on Jimmy in a rush, as though he were afraid he would lose his nerve if he paused. “Everywhere, even in the poorest house, there’s a scroll or a flower, something a person can look at to feel uplifted. But here”—he swept out his arm to include the whole factory—“it’s like Hell. Noise, ugliness, stench. It drives people crazy. They commit suicide. You have no idea how many people we lost when this place first opened. The factories in Japan complained, and I argued with Dr. Tanaka to please, please put in a garden and control the noise, but he said this was the most efficient factory in the world. We weren’t allowed to change a single bolt or put up a picture—” He stopped, breathing heavily. Homer and Stewart didn’t say a word. They knew they would get better results by waiting.

“Finally, ” said Jimmy after he had calmed down, “the companies in Japan refused to send more workers, so he built Origami Park.”

“Which is beautiful,” said Homer softly.

“Yes! It’s like a piece of Japan. No matter what terrible things happen, you can go there and be healed.”

“You’re homesick, aren’t you?” said Homer.

Jimmy said nothing, but stared at the plastic flower arrangement. Suddenly he ripped it out and threw it on the floor. “I’ll give you a pass to Origami Park. You can’t get in otherwise.”

He led them down the stairs rather than using the elevator, so they could get a better look at the factory. “What is that smell?” said Stewart.

“Yum Powder.”

“Yum Powder?”

“Dr. Tanaka thought we should keep making it.”

“But it’s banned. ”

“Not in Africa. Anyhow, we aren’t making it anymore. I’m having the vats cleaned, which is why there’s still a slight smell. You should have been here last week.” He waved them out. Homer and Stewart paused to let a van ease onto the concrete wasteland surrounding Jigoku Chemical Works.

“Go ahead,” said Homer.

“Wait.” Stewart pointed at a group of men working on the far side of the wasteland. The sound of jackhammers floated back to them. “They’re taking up the concrete.”

“That was a nursery truck that just went up there,” said Homer.

They watched as small trees were unloaded. The workers stopped drilling and went over to admire them. “They seem pretty sure Dr. Tanaka isn’t coming back,” said Stewart at last.

“Yes,” said Homer. They drove on in silence while Homer rustled a newspaper until he found what he was looking for. "Kingdom of Snuff Film Festival,” he read.

Midnight shows. Just like the real thing: See beautiful, bosomy women beg for their lives. Scenes of medieval torture. Screams of agony. No mercy shown. Just like the real thing. Jesus, is this legal?”

“You’re the cop,” said Stewart.

“What kind of rock did this Tanaka crawl out from under?”

“You’re still mad about the Sambo dolls.”

“Shit, no. We’re talking major evil here: a factory so terrible, people kill themselves rather than work in it; baby poison shipped to Third World countries. No wonder someone oflfed him.”

“We don’t know that,” said Stewart.

“Well, I can tell you, if he isn’t dead, I’m gonna off him.”

“Way to go, Peace Officer,” said Stewart. They crossed the Bay Bridge and worked their way through the Berkeley Hills. On the other side lay a park. You needed a pass to enter it. It was so secret, Homer bet not even the neighbors knew it was there. It certainly wasn’t on the map. They drove up one of those long, golden California hills and parked in front of a high wall.

“Pretty well hidden,” said Stewart. “How big would you say this place is?”

“Five acres? Ten? I don’t know. I’m not a farm boy.” Homer went to the gate, but it opened before he could ring the bell.

“Dr. Tsuga told me to expect you,” said an old man in a gray kimono. He looked about eighty years old, but he moved with surprising briskness. The policemen followed him in. And then stopped.

And stared.

They looked for a long time, unable to speak. The scene that stretched out before them seemed to go on forever. There were hills and lakes, pines and maples, among which small houses were hidden. They were made of ribs of dark wood and paper panels: Japanese houses. The trees were Japanese, and so were the rocks. Probably the smell was, too. Homer couldn’t identify it, but it was nice. The ground below was covered with a rolling mat of thick and springy green.

“Moss,” said the old man. “We have four hundred varieties of moss in here, imported from Kyoto. Some people come just to look at that.”

They followed him in a dream. Each corner revealed more corners; each path branched off to others. Bridges crossed noisy streams; strange birds called from the trees, threading their cries among the hollow rattle of bamboo wind chimes. And there was a wind, although the air outside had been perfectly still.

But the thing that drew their eyes, and as quickly dropped them by the sheer size and impossibility of it, was the mountain.

It rose in a graceful arc high above the groves of maple and pine. The lower slopes were dark basalt, but the top—Homer had to rub his eyes —was snow-tipped. There was only one kind of mountain that had such perfect, classical lines: a volcano.

“Origami Mountain,” said the old gardener in a quiet voice.

“How—,” began Homer, but he couldn’t go on. There was no logical explanation. How could a five-acre park have a whole mountain in it, as well as forests, lakes, and houses?

“Gardening is a very old art in Japan,” said the old man in answer to his unspoken question. “We are a small island and have many people, yet everyone wants to experience nature. It was absolutely necessary to develop Origami gardening.”

He led them to an inn, where a pretty young girl ducked her head and brought them tea and cakes. “Originally, Westerners thought origami applied to paper folding. You take a large sheet of paper—” He signaled to the girl, and she brought him some. “You fold it here, here, and here, and suddenly you have a crane.” He held it up. “Or a basket or a flower. But all the while, it is really a large piece of paper. Origami gardening goes the other way. A very small piece of land is unfolded until it contains all the natural beauty in the world. There aren’t many men who know how to do this. We were lucky to get Mr. Fukuda.”

Homer found his voice at last. “Mr. Fukuda did this?”

“Yes.” The old man bit into what looked like a lump of Play-Doh. “You sip the tea, which is bitter, and taste the sweetened rice cake,” he explained. “It’s supposed to show you the inherent bitterness and sweetness of life.”

“Where is Mr. Fukuda?” said Homer, refusing to get sidetracked.

“He’s working on another park.”

Homer sighed. “Have you seen Dr. Tanaka in the past week?”

“Of course.”

The two policemen straightened up. Here at last was something to work on. They waited. “Would you care to tell us about it?” said Stewart.

“He came a week ago,” said the gardener. “About dusk, which is when most people visit. He walked up there.” He pointed at the serene, snow-tipped mountain. “Was anyone with him?”

“Many people. Origami Mountain is very popular. Dr. Tanaka was with his factory workers. They started about dusk and came back after the moon rose. It’s very nice to watch the moon rise from up there, and we provide paper lanterns at the top so visitors can find their way down.”

“When they returned,” said Homer patiently, “was Dr. Tanaka with them?” “No,” said the gardener.

“Well, what happened to him?” Homer was having difficulty keeping his voice down.

“Stayed up there, I imagine.” The old man sipped his tea tranquilly, as though he hadn’t dropped a bombshell on the two policemen.

“I think we have to look. Thank you for the tea,” said Homer.

“Don’t mention it,” said the old gardener.

They followed the trail, curving around, but slowly working their way up. “It’s five miles up this fucking mountain,” puffed Stewart. “How the hell did they fit it in here?”

“Don’t ask me. I can’t even figure out my mileage,” said Homer, equally tired. But he was fueled with a kind of anger. Damn these Japanese with their boxes within boxes. He felt as though they were playing with him, deliberately leaving clues for their own ends. Well, he would follow them out. He’d get to the center of their goddamn maze and find out what their game was.

They came around a boulder and almost fell into the crater. “Jesus H. Christ,” said Stewart, swaying and hanging on to the boulder. They looked down into a pit of bubbling lava. Heat painted their faces with sweat. The reek of sulfur made them gasp.

“He came up with his faithful employees, but he didn’t come down,” said Homer. “God,” said Stewart, turning away from the searing heat.

They went down in silence. By the time they were at the bottom, it was dusk. People had come into the garden, many people: the workers of Jigoku Chemical Works. Families walked in quiet groups. Father, mother, and dull-eyed children. They weren’t at all like the children of Jiro Tanaka.

“He gave Yum Powder to his employees,” said Jimmy Tsuga, making the policemen jump. He was seated on a rock by the entrance. “They were his guinea pigs.” The old gardener sat next to him, a lump in the dusk not unlike one of the craggy rocks. “You should have stayed up there,” he said. “Moonrise is late, but starlight is also very nice.”

“Where is Mr. Fukuda?” said Homer.

“Making another park. We got a bargain this time, a whole square mile.” Homer paused cautiously. “Where?”

“Near Detroit. The land was going cheap.”

The policemen looked at the two Japanese, sitting peacefully in the shadows. Behind him a breeze stirred, laden with the scent of unknown flowers and a hint of ice. “You could fit a whole country in that,” he said at last.

“You could,” said Jimmy Tsuga, and smiling, he opened the gate and showed the officers out.