Intimate Relations, Rebecca Forster [best ereader for manga .txt] 📗

Eventually Emi convinced her husband that there was no harm. She was sure she could build the woman, but it would take some doing. The 'skin' and the 'skeleton' would have to give and retract, be soft, warm, and receptive, but she could do it.

Emi urged her husband to do what the man asked. So Enver did and the doll they made was more beautiful than either of them could ever have imagined. Though he didn't tell Emi, Enver touched the doll once. He was curious about what his wife had devised to make the doll feel like a real woman. For many nights after that he lay awake berating himself for doing such a thing; for many nights he dreamed of doing it again. This both shamed and excited the artist, but soon all was well. The man took the doll away.

He was so pleased that he sent many more people to see Enver and Emi. Soon they only created dolls. They moved from the small, windowless space to another and another until they came to live in the grandest house at The Brewery.  When one of their neighbors came to see the new studio, she was amazed at the dolls lined up in the workroom. She called them companions, and there came a moment when Enver and Emi also thought of them in that way. The husband and wife, though, had very different feelings about the companions. Emi thought of them as her children, Enver did not. They didn't share their thoughts with anyone, not even each other. Instead, they made each companion better than the last, creating them with great care.

Now here they were. Wealthy. Living in a concrete castle. They created their companions one at a time to each client's needs and desires. Always they kept a few completed companions for those who weren't sure what they wanted or didn't care what they got. But always Enver painted them with such love that they far exceeded expectations. When each was complete, Emi dressed the companion in a simple shift of fine linen. Enver put the companion in a large box with a pillow under her head. Together they shipped each one to a new home.

Enver's companions had gone to every corner of the world, and still the orders came.  It didn't surprise Emi that men wanted these beautiful dolls for sex. Men were strange creatures, never satisfied with what they had, always searching for perfection. Since real women weren't perfect —nor would real women desire these men who were imperfect each in their own way—the companions made sense.  Emi was practical about that. Enver secretly tried not to think of what happened to his beautiful dolls after they left his studio.

It wasn't the desire that surprised Enver and Emi, it was the money that was spent on such things that made them shake their heads. They could have asked for the moon, and the men would find a way to pluck it from the sky. And why not? In the dark of night, when a man reached for his companion and his hands met warm skin and he kissed full lips that were soft and giving, the companion would be real to him and that would be all that mattered.

But now America was not a wonderful place, and there was no escaping reality. They were under suspicion of a terrible crime. The police believed Enver had killed that woman upstairs. Enver could get angry, yes, but he would not kill a woman. Especially not that one.

Still, Emi knew from her country that once the police decided a person was guilty they made it their business to find evidence to prove it. Sometimes that was easier than finding out the truth. In this instance they would find neither proof nor truth, but they would be back and Emi resolved to be ready.

Enver, though, had no resolve for anything. Exhausted by the interrogation, he had not spoken since they had returned home. He looked like a common criminal in the orange pants and shirt they gave him. The police had taken Enver's clothes and his shoes. It seemed that they had taken his voice, too. Now they stood staring at the front door. They had been doing it for a long while, but no one knocked. Finally, Emi said:

"I'll make coffee."

She turned and walked the length of the big room, ignoring the mess. She opened the cabinets and took out the cups, but Enver barely heard a clatter. Left alone, he shuffled into the part of the room where the beautiful sofas and chairs were now all mixed up, moved as the party guests cowered while he raged, moved again when the police separated them to ask their questions. The beautiful glass table was cracked. Glasses from which their guests drank were littered about, some were broken on the floor. One had spilled wine on the silk upholstery and it looked like a blood stain. A feather from a woman's headdress was stuck on the painting hung on the great wall. Sequins from the dresses the other women wore had fallen willy-nilly on the floor. They sparkled like silver and gold bird seed. But all the pretty birds were gone.

Enver picked one up. Holding it on the tip of his finger, he looked at it closely. He thought of the people who had come into his home, played with his dolls, done ridiculous things to one another, dressed in their costumes, and hid their faces.  He was disgusted from the moment he laid eyes on them. One man put a collar and leash on a woman and made her get on her hands and knees like a dog. That was wrong. Another man hit a woman's bottom with a leather strap. That's when Enver knew the truth. If real women were nothing more than things to these people, how would they treat the companions in their care?

And then, out of nowhere, the man who started it