1. Smile Mannequin, Smile

SMILE MANNEQUIN, SMILE The skin was almost perfect and yet cold. A sunset glow of rusting tan spread across the lithe body. Hints of red dotted in amongst brown. A scattering of freckles running from right shoulder to elbow. A blemish-free face, even in tone. Adams tended the skin, rubbing oils deep into the surface, making it shine with an appearance of good health. There were very few defects, something that amazed her. That she, such an imperfect creature, could create something so close to perfection, so unreal. The morning Mr. Yoshimoto came, Adams was almost finished and feeling pretty pleased with herself. Despite the near perfect result, this one had been difficult; she hadn’t made the armature quite right and her casts of the feet had gone wrong too. She’d had to remould the latter, though when she looked at the mannequin now she knew that only an expert would see the inaccuracies. She blamed her mistakes on the daydreams that had consumed her while she worked, as well as the bottle of red wine she’d downed. The wine coalesced with her memories, thinking about the time she broke a molar on barbecued ribs. She was drunk. They were all drunk. It had been her wedding day. The first she knew of Mr. Yoshimoto was the realization that someone was ringing her workshop buzzer. She left her work and watched him lurk uncomfortably at the bottom right corner of the black and white monitor. He was short and nondescript, wearing a suit, tie and matching hat; some dark colour she guessed. He looked Asian, though she wasn’t sure. He spoke her name slowly and seriously into the tiny microphone, asking if it was possible to spare him five minutes. He’d made no appointment. Adams buzzed the man in and waited. Yoshimoto entered the workshop seconds later, looking up, down and around at the forest of body parts, mouth wide open. Then he saw Adams. He immediately bowed with deep a tilt of the head. Unconsciously, she did the same. When they looked up, she could see that his face was large for such a small man, almost perfectly round. ‘Good afternoon.’ ‘Domo origato.’ The man beamed, displaying a jumble of misplaced teeth and pink gums. ‘You speak Japanese?’ She smiled in return. ‘No, just visited Tokyo for a month. Picked up the basics, that’s all.’ ‘But you try. That is very good.’ Her head was still nodding like one of those puppies in the rear window of a car. She forced herself to stop. ‘Thank you. Now, what can I do for you, Mr.…?’ ‘Yoshimoto. Konishi Yoshimoto.’ Adams shot him a look tinged with disbelief – tempered slightly, in case she appeared rude. ‘What, you mean like the writer? Banana Yoshimoto?’ ‘Yes, yes; you know her too?’ Adams guided Yoshimoto towards her office space, a small cubicle with a computer and phone in a corner of the workshop. She drew up a chair and eased him into it while he continued to beam. She wondered if the knowledge that she’d been to Japan made him so cheerful, or whether he was always that way. ‘I do, Mr. Yoshimoto. So, you begin by telling me how can I help and I’ll make the tea. Is that a deal?’ ‘I accept.’ She flipped a switch on the kettle and retrieved some battered mugs and tea bags from a cupboard. When she’d made the tea, Yoshimoto was holding a magazine open on his lap. The pages were all full colour, glossy and brightly presented. Adams used the pretext of putting a mug down beside him to peek at the magazine, but she couldn’t quite see what it contained. Yoshimoto was concentrating on the pictures before him with an almost religious reverence. ‘I want you to make a doll for me. Like the ones in this magazine.’ She frowned. ‘You did check out my website before you came here, right? You know I only take mass orders from retailers?’ ‘Yes, I read that. But my need will be equally matched by my money, Miss Adams… I am prepared to pay £5000 for your services…’ She tried to retain her casual demeanour, but she could feel surprise light up her face. Before she knew it her arm was outstretched, fingers beckoning. ‘Can I see that a minute?’ ‘Of course.’ She took the magazine from him and opened it. For a long time after that she was too stunned for speech – the only sound in the workshop was the rustle of glossy paper as she turned pages. What she’d thought was a magazine was in fact a brochure, seemingly produced to promote the sale of life-sized Japanese dolls. They were fully-clothed and placed in a number of ‘real-life’ poses – sitting by a window, lying on a bed, one even perched on the toilet – still fully clothed. It was difficult for Adams not to feel admiration alongside a vague disquiet. Even in a summer dress or a blouse and jeans, the dolls still seemed overtly sexual in their intent. They were cast with breasts, pretty young faces and even what one line of advertising referred to as a ‘marriage-hole’. Yet it was the artistry of the unknown mannequin-maker’s work that really stirred her interest. The faces were so pretty, so lifelike. Adams wondered how hard it would be to recreate that type of subtle, understated beauty. All the mannequins she’d ever designed had been so obviously false she’d never even considered making them pretty. But there was the issue of earning £5000 for something that would cost peanuts to make. She raised her head from the brochure. Yoshimoto was watching her with a concentration that was a little disturbing, no longer quite so cheerful. She noted that he hadn’t said a single word or drunk from his teacup since he’d passed her the brochure. ‘Can I keep this?’ She waved the limp booklet. ‘Of course.’ ‘And I’ll need half the payment up front.’ Yoshimoto immediately began digging into his inside jacket pocket. He produced a chequebook, a gold pen and a small, slim-line silver case. He opened the case and gave Adams the embossed business card with a flourish. ‘Call this number when you have finished. It will take how long?’ ‘I’d give it six weeks or so. If it’s gonna take any longer I’ll let you know.’ ‘Finish within six and you get an extra thousand bonus.’ Interesting. She studied the card he’d given her; the title, Konishiwa Enterprises, told her nothing about the business her new client was involved in, but that was okay. She figured the less she knew about a man who wanted to buy a life-sized doll complete with ‘marriage-hole’ for twice the rate advertised in his glossy little brochure, the easier her job would be. The phone number was local, she recognised that. By the time Adams had read the card and placed it in her little desk drawer, Yoshimoto was holding a company cheque for £2500 by one corner, beaming again. ‘You will do a good job, Ms. Adams. I have made a great deal of enquiries about this matter. Everyone tells me you are the best. You are even named after a famous doll, isn’t that correct?’ Adams blushed, busying herself taking the cheque and putting it in her small desk safe, avoiding his eyes. ‘Yes; my full name’s Barbara, but I use Barbie for business’ sake really… It’s been my nickname ever since I got into mannequins…’ He was watching her with a relaxed look in his eyes again. She passed him her own business card just to give her hands something to do. ‘I have embarrassed you. I will leave now and let you continue your work.’ Yoshimoto got to his feet. She saw him to the workshop door, her mind racing with questions she dared not ask. ‘Thank you, Mr. Yoshimoto. I’ll call in a week, let you know how it’s going. Okay?’ ‘I would appreciate that very much.’ He bowed so low she could see his thinning crown. Adams did the same, smiling. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Adams.’ ‘Good afternoon…’ She was laughing in quiet disbelief before the workshop door had closed behind him. At first, Adams considered using herself as a model for the body armature; she was slim and around 5' 7", which she guessed matched the models in the brochure; and it would save her a few hundred pounds. One long look in the mirror changed her mind. There was no hiding her African figure, even if it came via Antigua. She would have to take the search outside her workshop. In the great TV game show tradition, she phoned a friend, who advised that Adams try the School of Oriental and African Studies down in Russell Square. Within four days she’d posted an ad on the college notice board and received six pictures from likely candidates. She was immediately sure which one she wanted. Sayaka was a talkative, giggly student from Kyoto. She was taking African Politics, which Adams found highly curious, and had lived in Kenya, Zambia and Ghana before she’d come to England. Sayaka was the perfect model: cool and detached, able to sit still and not fidget... She was beautiful too; her skin glowed a creamy butter colour and her lips pouted like a tiny pink flower, the upper petal slightly larger than the lower. Adams took Polaroids, noting the black beauty spot just above her upper lip. She faxed the photo to Yoshimoto for his approval, which was rapidly given. The women agreed on a price, £300 for the whole sitting, and decided to begin work the very next morning. Over the next four days, Sayaka attended the workshop every afternoon for three hours at a time, stripping down to her knickers and letting Adams wrap her in bandages like an ancient Egyptian, and then pour fine casting plaster over her limbs, torso and eventually her whole head. She was patient and compliant as Adams had judged, blasé about shedding her clothes, which made the whole process so much easier. Adams turned up the heating and kept her eyes on the work. Sayaka’s body was shapely in a way she’d never seen before: thin arms, a generous torso, firm yet small breasts, a minuscule waist leading to widened hips, the faintest raindrop curve of a bottom. She giggled a little when Adams applied the plaster down there, but other than that, Sayaka never made a sound. She held herself perfectly still, chest rising and falling imperceptibly, serene features raised to the lights. Adams wondered if the Asian girl could hear her attempts to regulate her own breathing, or whether it sounded as loud as it felt. Soon, her model was completely cast. After the last session, Adams took Sayaka into her little office cubicle and paid her the £300 in cash. It was an awkward moment, both women aware that their reason for meeting had dissipated like sugar in the tea Adams made every day. Until that point, they had almost believed they had become friends. They swapped numbers and agreed to stay in contact, though neither intended to. Sayaka waved a dainty little hand and left the workshop, her pretty blue and yellow summer dress dancing as she walked. Adams never saw her again. She waited for the plaster to set, flicked through the brochure, took a look on the internet for the company website. The daylight in the workshop dimmed and silhouettes of severed limbs made dark shadows on the bare walls. It would be a tough job, one that she hoped she could do justice. Yes, the dolls were slightly strange to look at, and the thought of their use was disturbing, but she couldn’t help noticing how close they were to the real thing. Her time in Japan had been limited – four weeks teaching art to primary school children in Tokyo. Though she’d partied and got stoned and generally hung out with a few Japanese, she’d never seen any women as up close and personal as Sayaka. She’d always thought Asian women beautiful, especially the Japanese. Now, she realised how flawless the real thing could actually be. In order to finish by Yoshimoto’s deadline, Adams decided to work nights and sleep amongst the disembodied limbs, heads and torsos – which wasn’t unusual. Fuelling herself with more tea, she used copper pipes, mechanic’s hose clamps and a bench-mounted vice to create a skeletal torso based on Sayaka’s dimensions – a laborious and sweaty task. Still, she’d always found the bending and tugging therapeutic – a chance to think and maybe even realign her chakras. She turned on the radio for company’s sake, but found the presenter’s voice drowned out by her own inner voice, her own memories. They never left her head. They were buried deep in her brain, waiting for moments like these to scratch their way to the surface, bawling for attention, leapfrogging from one to another: from her hen night, to her broken molar, to her wedding night (a stoned disaster) and subsequent honeymoon (Butlins). Indeed, the only time Adams ever thought about Frank, her estranged husband, was when she was hard at work. He had been a weak, unruly man, addicted to drugs more than her, whereas she’d used them as a temporary escape, nothing more. They were together three years before the penny finally dropped: he wasn’t going to change, even if she did. She was twenty-four years old with a chance to start again. The day she finally left the squat, Adams had been plagued by the thought that she’d never see him again. Now she knew that what she’d feared had in fact been hope. She lived on the hard wooden floors of friends and acquaintances for months after that until she was accepted into St. Martin’s Art College the following year. She was given her own room along with a shared bathroom and kitchen within the halls, the first space she’d ever had the chance to call her own. Surrounded by students of all ages and nationalities, Adams kept pretty much to herself, reading, cooking and attending the odd art exhibition if her studies and funds permitted. Amongst her fellow students were some Japanese, who formed a tight group, like fingers curling into a fist, whenever they came into class. Adam’s curiosity was raised by their cheery manner, their quiet politeness and easy beauty. She began to hang out with them, though she never really got close to any of them. When she graduated she kept in contact with one, a quietly crazy and talented twenty-one-year old named Junko. That was how she learned of the teaching job in Minowa. When she returned home Adams knew that she’d rather practice art than teach it. She applied for the first job that came her way, an apprenticeship at a mannequin workshop in West London. There, her life was shunted onto a new, though not an entirely unfamiliar track. Adams’ mentor, Barry Megson, was a cold, clinical man who rarely had time for jokes or even smiles – which suited her just fine. He taught her everything she knew, there was no doubt about that, but apart from the lessons in plasterwork they rarely spoke. She fell deeply in love, first with Megson, then with the art of mannequin-making. They slept together once and decided never to do it again. Megson claimed he loved his wife and didn’t want to complicate things. Adams, wanting to hold on to her job more than her fleeting love affair, let him go without a fight. When Megson died a year later from a sudden asthma attack, Adams was both shocked and grateful to find that he’d left her the workshop in his will. His widow tried to contest it, but there was nothing she could do. Adams ignored her phone calls and threatening letters until they trickled to a slow halt, throwing herself into her work. The only friendships she formed after that were work-related, as were her pleasures. Once the armature was finished, Adams wrapped it in chicken wire and carried the skeleton into a small back room behind the main workshop, sitting it up against a large plastic bin filled with soaking clay. She spent a couple of hours spreading an even layer of gloopy substance all over the chicken wire until it was completely covered. This would anchor the weight of the sculpture to its copper skeleton. Next step was to cast the doll using Sayaka’s body mould. That took three bags of Herculite no.2 plaster, with some left over for the feet, hands, arms and legs. The hands and feet were made using Alginate casts of another model, a lanky Australian teenager she’d met in the tea section of a Turkish supermarket in Harlesden. The girl, Alex, had the most surreal, elongated fingers and toes Adams had ever seen. They looked almost alien in real life, but were beautiful and elegant when cast in Herculite. She didn’t normally use the same model for hands as well as feet, but since she’d found Alex there’d been no need to look elsewhere. She had to wait for Sayaka’s body parts to dry, which took another day, and then attach metal fittings for the wrists, waist, shoulders, and neck. This allowed her to add movable limbs and a head. By the beginning of the fifth week, when she’d completed the sanding, Adams was forced to smile at her handywork. The doll looked undeniably sexy. Placed beside her previous mannequins, the difference was amazing. Forcing away her pride, not allowing the thought to grow roots, she tentatively spread some extra plaster on the mannequin’s rear to make it more pert. While she waited for Sayaka to dry she began to read. It seemed fitting that she’d chosen Murakami; she’d ordered Sputnik Sweetheart over the internet years ago but had never opened it. The concise, simple poetry of his prose brought back pleasant memories of Minowa; the story of Sumire’s infatuation with Miu drew her in easily, like dipping a toe in warm bath water. She dug out some traditional Japanese CDs bought during her month there, and drank green tea from the local corner shop. When the torso was dry she went back to work, getting out her brushes and paints, mixing a deep yellow colour that almost bordered brown. Of course, the paints had to be modified to fit the original colour of the mannequin, but she achieved the effect she wanted. Adams painted well into the night before falling asleep on an old sofa. The next day, she continued her task. When everything was finished, including make-up of pale pink lipstick and dark black eyeliner, Adams opened a box that contained yet another internet purchase – a shiny, almost blue/black, shoulder-length wig. She had searched long and hard for Asian hair, and was referred to a small company near Carshalton by her regular Wandsworth supplier. Slowly, breathing lightly, Adams walked over to the mannequin, which had taken centre stage on the workshop floor, away from the other mannequins. Gently as she could, she placed the wig on the bald head and at once burst into an involuntary giggle, one hand lightly touching her lips. She stepped back, a broad smile flooding her face. ‘Hello Sayaka,’ Adams breathed, unaware that her mouth had even moved, let alone that she had spoken. Yet she had voiced the truth. The doll was now the spitting image of the Japanese student. The closest to a human being Adams had ever created – and here Adams balked at the thought – as lifelike as a work by the late Duane Hanson. It was the attention to detail, the little imperfections all human beings possessed, that made her new creation so perfect. She rang Yoshimoto the next morning after spending another night sleeping in the workshop. He didn’t seem at all put out at the prospect of shelling out an extra thousand pounds, sounding as cheerful and lively as she’d expected. He told her he would arrive at her workshop by early afternoon, one p.m. at the latest. Adams nodded and put down the phone without saying any more, feeling a little tired, a mite pensive. She’d been unable to stop herself waking during the previous night and standing before her mannequin, unable to stop herself from shaking her head in pride. It was truly difficult to believe that Sayaka had come from her own hand. The doll was her best work ever, real enough to have been born of the womb. She’d run her fingers up and down the cold arm, along the line between her breasts, even fingered the hard depth of her marriage hole – putting this last intrusion down to morbid curiosity. She regretted the hole as soon as she’d finished drilling and couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to violate beauty in such a manner. Nevertheless, it was done now, and done to Yoshimoto’s specifications. How she felt about such things was irrelevant. He rang the works