In memory of Kazuki Takahashi
Oct. 4, 1961 – Jul. 6, 2021
The man who taught us to believe in the heart of the cards
I was going to hold off on posting this story, but with the sudden passing of Takahashi-sensei I decided this was a good time. This story is nowhere near completion and updates after this will be few and far between. The best way to keep up with what is going on is to follow the story and check my profile as I try to let you know what is all going on with projects.
A teenage girl sat in front of an easel. She was dressed in a long white smock with paint splatters on it, her hair and face wrapped in white cloth to keep the paint off. Only her gray eyes and a strip of pale skin were visible. Her hand was steady as she copied the strokes of the master she had been made to forge. The lights in the room began to dim and she lowered her brush. The door to her workroom opened and a weaselly looking man walked in.
"Clean up and get dressed," he ordered in a whiny voice. "We have guests coming."
He took a key from his pocket and knelt down at her feet. She was shackled to the wall by her left foot.
Once she was free, she hurried out of the room and into the little bathroom of the apartment. A few minutes later she came out dressed in a simple white blouse and a long pleated gray skirt. Her hair was her most outstanding feature. It looked black at a glance, but when the light hit it certain ways there were dark strands of violet, blue, green, pink, and orange all blended in such a way that it looked like oil in water, and it was all natural. It was currently tied in a bun at the base of her neck.
"Now don't you mess this up," said the weaselly man. He fixed his cheap suit jacket. "Mr. Scarletta has been generous enough to pay half up front. He'll pay the other half when he gets the painting, and with any luck I'll be able to get another commission out of him."
The living area of the apartment was arranged to show off the myriad of paintings in both Eastern and Western styles, some of them famous paintings that looked so much like the real thing that they could be easily passed off to the naïve collector. The man motioned for the girl to sit on the sofa, which she did.
"If you screw this up, you won't see the light for days," the man growled. "Understand?"
She sat there like a doll, staring forward.
The man lunged in her face. "Do you understand?" he hissed.
She leaned back a little in fear and nodded.
"Good."
The doorbell rang.
"That's him." He glared at her. "Remember what I said."
He walked to the door and answered it. "Mr. Scarletta, welcome. You honor us with your visit." He stepped aside with a bow to let the visitors in.
Mr. Scarletta was an old foreigner in a nice suit. He was followed by three other, younger men. They also wore suits, but they seemed of lesser quality, but still better than the suit the weaselly man was wearing.
"Mr. Scarletta has been eager to see this painting. Mr. Takamine," said one of the other men. "He couldn't wait for it to be delivered. He just had to come for himself."
"I think he would be very pleased," said the weaselly man, Takamine.
The man turned and spoke English, translating for Mr. Scarletta.
"Why don't we begin with some tea," said Takamine. He turned to the girl on to sofa. "Mahou."
She stood up.
"There's no need," said the translator.
"Sake, then? It is a bit early in the day," suggested Takamine.
"Mr. Scarletta would rather get down to business."
"Of course," said Takamine.
Impatient Americans, thought Takamine. But the sooner he sees the painting, the sooner I can get my money, and maybe he'll commission a second painting.
"Very well." He turned to Mahou. "Mahou, bring Mr. Scarletta his painting."
Mahou gave a small bow and walked out of the room.
Mr. Scarletta leaned over and said something to the translator.
"Mr. Scarletta says your niece is lovely," said the translator. "Mahou, right?"
Takamine was caught a little off-guard by the comment. "Uh, yes, Mahou."
"Interesting name," said the translator. "I've heard of Maho, but not Mahou. She does look magical with that hair."
Takamine smiled tightly. Hurry up, girl, and get back here. I don't small talk with these Americans.
Mahou came back in the room with a large canvas. It was a portrait of a woman dressed in 1950s Western evening attire.
There was silence in the room for a long moment. Mr. Scarletta stared at the portrait. Finally he broke the silence.
"'It's beautiful,'" the translator said. "'You captured her perfectly. This is like I remember her from when we first met.'"
"I am so pleased you like it," said Takamine.
Mr. Scarletta said something else.
"He wants to meet the artist," said the translator.
Mahou let out a little gasp.
Takamine balked. "He wants to meet the artist? I don't know if that's possible. They are very private. They don't like being seen in the public eye."
Mahou looked at Takamine. No, you just don't want people to know that it's me! She then looked at Mr. Scarletta as the translator informed him what was said. Mr. Scarletta saw Mahou looking at him and she quickly ducked her head.
"Mr. Scarletta wants to know how to thank the artist personally," said the translator. "It would be appropriate to do so in person since the portrait is of his late wife."
Takamine stood there for a moment. "Very well. I will call them and ask if they would like to meet. In the meantime, Mahou, make tea for our guests. It will take me a few minutes." He turned to pick up the phone.
Dammit! he thought. He wants to meet the artist! I can't let him find out who it is!
With Takamine's back turned, Mr. Scarletta looked at Mahou. She was quick to go into the kitchen area to start preparing the tea.
"I have a client who wants to meet you," Takamine could be heard saying. "In person . . . I know you don't like meeting clients – I know that why you have me for that. But he is very pleased with your work and wants to thank you in person."
Mahou looked down and noticed there was a pen on the counter near where she was preparing tea. Should I take the chance? She looked over at Takamine as he played up his fake phone call. It may be the only chance I get.
She grabbed the pen and scribbled something on her palm.
Mahou came out with the tea set and began to serve the men. They thanked her in Japanese though their accent wasn't very good. When she served the translator, she turned her palm up for him to see. She looked at her hand and then up at him pointedly. The translator glanced at Takamine who still had his back turned and was now arguing on the phone.
"Look, it's not like he's asking you to go out in public and declare that you made the painting. Just come here, accept thanks, and then you can leave."
The translator turned back to Mahou and nodded. She hid her hand again and went back to the kitchen. She hurried to wash her hands.
Takamine returned. "I'm sorry, but the artist does not wish to meet with you in person. I tried my hardest to convince them to come."
The translator relayed the message. Mr. Scarletta seemed to be fine with the response though a little disappointed. He added something else. "Mr. Scarletta would like to know about the other paintings here. Are they all done by the same artist?"
"Ah . . . yes, they are," Takamine replied.
"That's certainly talent, being able to do all those different styles," said the translator.
"They are a prodigy, but years of practice help as well," Takamine said.
"The reproductions are exquisite. It almost looks like the artists came back to life to paint them again," the translator went on. "Mr. Scarletta has always had a love for the Italian masters."
"I may be able to convince the artist to depart with one of these or paint another one," said Mr. Scarletta.
The meeting ended with a check for Takamine and Americans left with the painting.
Once inside the car, Mr. Scarletta turned to his translator. "(What did the girl show you?)"
The translator felt cold as he remembered what had been written on the girl's hand.
Help me. Prisoner. M.
The M was special as it had the exact same strokes as the M on all the signed Western style paintings, including the portrait.
Mr. Scarletta reached for the car phone and dialed a number. "(Sugoroku? It's Tony Scarletta. Heh-heh, yes, it has been a long time. Listen, do you still gamble?)"
"Get in there!" Takamine shoved Mahou into a tiny bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her.
She heard the click of the lock. She rubbed at her arm where a bruise was forming from where he grabbed her.
Her bedroom had a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe with the doors removed as Takamine had taken them off so she couldn't hide something in there from him. It only had a few clothes inside and the rest was different types of fabrics. On the desk were books on art history, CDs, and a small box full of little perfume bottles and crystals.
All her art supplies were kept in her workroom. This room was just a place where Mahou was kept when Takamine didn't need her to work. While Takamine very rarely took her out of the apartment for fear of her running away, he did give her things to keep her stimulated. Fabrics were used not only for Mahou to have something to reference when drawing or painting, but to give her something to touch. The same with the crystals. The perfume bottles and the music did the same for her olfactory and auditory senses. For doing such a good job passing off a copy of a Degas, Takamine had purchased several expensive bottles of essential oils she could use to make her own perfume. It was something Mahou liked to do in her free time. She would listen to music and use the perfumes to try to imagine herself somewhere other than the room she was locked in. Occasionally she was allowed to watch movies, but they were usually Western films and she was then expected to paint something from them in a certain style. Those were usually sold.
The light in the room suddenly went out. Mahou gasped.
No . . . I don't want to be in the dark . . . she thought, trembling. Turn the light on . . . turn it back on!
She didn't dare voice her fears. Takamine wouldn't turn the light on until he wanted to. Mahou fumbled around in the dark, finding her way to the edge of her bed. Next to the pillow was a CD player. She searched for the button and turned it on. The light indicating it was on barely put off any light and the screen didn't put out much more, but it was something.
Mahou let out a shuddering breath. It's okay. I'm not in the dark. I have a light.
It took her a few moments to untangle the headphones. She pressed play and listened to the bells tinkling. She laid down on the bed and curled up in a ball.
She must have fallen asleep because the light was turned on and Takamine was pulling her out of bed.
"What did you do?" he snarled.
"I-I . . ." stammered Mahou.
Takamine threw her on the floor. "Those damn Americans are coming back! What did you do?" He kicked her in the stomach. "What did you tell them?" He pulled back his foot a second time, but Mahou put her hands around her middle. Instead, he reached down and grabbed her by the ankle. Mahou's leg was pulled up, her skirt bunching to her hips. "You tell me right now, or I will break your foot! You don't need that to paint!"
"No, please! I didn't tell them anything!" cried Mahou.
"I don't believe you!" snarled Takamine. He threw her leg down. "If they weren't on their way over here right now I would punish you."
Mahou blinked. They're coming over? Why?
"Get up!" Takamine snapped. "Clean yourself up. I don't want our guests to see that you were crying."
Mahou ran to the bathroom.
What's going on? she wondered. Why were they coming back? If they understood my message like I thought the translator did, they would have gone to the police.
The doorbell rang.
Mahou checked herself again in the mirror. She straightened her clothes so she didn't look like she had been manhandled. She walked out of the bathroom to see Takamine playing host to the same Americans again, a saccharine smile on his face.
"I know it's a little late for tea, but perhaps you would like some?" Takamine offered. "Or sake perhaps?"
"No, thank you," said the translator.
Mr. Scarletta looked at Mahou. He motioned for her to come sit next to him on the sofa.
Wha-what? Mahou thought. He wants me to sit with him?
She looked over at Takamine. He was glaring at her, silently telling her to sit with him or else.
Mr. Scarletta motioned for her again. Mahou slowly walked over and sat next to him. Mr. Scarletta leaned back and crossed his legs, making himself at home. He began to speak, his translator interpreting for him.
"'I have done many . . . less than legal things in my life: money laundering, racketeering, murder, just to name a few.'"
Mahou gasped at that.
Mr. Scarletta put his arm around her shoulders and gave her rigid posture a pat.
"'But never have I stooped so low as imprisoning a girl and forcing her to paint, passing it off as someone else's.'"
"Wha-what? What are you talking about? I never did any of that!" Takamine denied.
The translator didn't get a chance to translate before Mr. Scarletta started talking again.
"'Don't deny it.'"
Mr. Scarletta turned to Mahou.
"'Are you even his niece?'"
"Of course she is!" Takamine yelled. "How dare you insinuate she isn't! Tell him, Mahou!"
Mahou looked to Takamine and then back at Mr. Scarletta. Her mouth opened and closed a few times. "He . . . isn't my uncle! He's my jailor!"
"You bitch!" Takamine lunged for Mahou. There was a soft pop and Takamine dropped to the floor screaming in pain. "Agh! Ahh! My leg! My leg!" He clutched at his thigh, blood seeping from between his fingers.
One of the other men was holding a handgun with a suppressor and was pointing it at Takamine.
"(Thank you, Eddie,)" Mr. Scarletta said.
Mahou cowered where she sat, staring at the blood coming from Takamine's leg.
The translator knelt in front of her, blocking her view. "Where is your room?"
Mahou blinked at him. "My room . . . ?"
"Gather up whatever you can take with you," said the translator. "You're leaving this place."
Mr. Scarletta gave her a little push and Mahou stood up. She stood there for a brief moment, taking in the scene around her.
Is this a dream? Is this really happening? she asked herself. She looked down at Takamine still writhing on the floor. He shot him and they're not even bothered by it. What did I get myself into?
"(Vinnie, help her pack,)" said Mr. Scarletta.
The other man, the one without the gun, nodded and coaxed Mahou to move.
This is really happening, Mahou thought as she took a step. I'm getting out of here!
She ran back to her bedroom, the American chuckling behind her.
Mahou burst into her room and started taking the few clothes she had out of her closet. She put them on the bed and then gathered up her perfumes, stones, and music – those were her treasures.
The man, Vinnie, stood in the doorway waiting. He didn't watch Mahou so much as he watched what was happening in the living area.
"(Apartment must be soundproof,)" he muttered, listening to Takamine babble on the floor. His eyes slid over to Mahou. "(Guess that keeps people from hearing you scream.)"
Mahou didn't respond; she couldn't understand him. She looked for something she could pack everything in, but she didn't have a suitcase. Seeing that she was looking for a suitcase, Vinnie went over to another room. He opened the door and found her workroom. A partially complete forgery of a famous painting of a girl with a pearl earring was on the easel and a shackle was on the floor next to the stool. Vinnie could clearly see that the girl had been chained to the wall and forced to work. He stormed out of the workroom and back into the living area. He kicked Takamine in the stomach.
"(Vinnie, that's enough!)" ordered Mr. Scarletta.
"(He chained her to a wall!)" yelled Vinnie.
Mr. Scarletta's face darkened and he looked at Takamine. "(How low can you sink?)"
"(He has her forging famous painters,)" Vinnie went on. "(Probably selling them, too.)"
Mr. Scarletta hummed. "(Finish getting her ready. We're leaving.)"
"(What about him?)" asked Eddie.
Before Mr. Scarletta could answer, Mahou peered around to see what was happening.
The translator smiled at her. "Have you finished packing?"
"I can't find a suitcase," Mahou replied, looking at Takamine.
Takamine turned to her. "You bitch!" he growled through gritted teeth. "When I get through with you . . ."
Mahou pulled back in fear.
The translator looked down at Takamine. "You won't be doing anything." He turned back to her. "Do you have everything to want to take with you?"
Mahou shook her head. "He has my papers. He keeps them locked in a cabinet in his room."
The translator turned to Takamine. "The key?"
"Screw . . . you . . ." Takamine panted.
"Eddie."
Eddie pointed the gun at Takamine's shoulder.
"Okay! Don't shoot!" cried Takamine. "It's in my pocket!"
The translator searched Takamine's pockets and pulled out a keyring with several keys. He handed them to Mahou and she ran out of the room.
There was a filing cabinet in Takamine's room. She found the correct key and opened it. She flicked through a few folders and found what she was looking for. Her birth certificate, her guardianship papers, medical and school paperwork, everything she needed to escape Takamine's hold over her was right there in that folder. As she started to leave the room, she saw a suitcase sitting in the corner. She dumped everything out of it and went back to her room to pack. She then carried the suitcase out into the living room.
"I'm ready," she told them.
Mr. Scarletta rose from the sofa. "(Time to go.)" He held out his arm to Mahou.
She walked over to let him usher her out of apartment.
"(Eddie, Vinnie, take care of the mess,)" Mr. Scarletta said over his shoulder. "(Paul, come with us.)"
The translator followed them out front to a luxury car that was parked at the sidewalk. The chauffer got out and opened the door for them to get into the backseat. Mahou refused to give up the suitcase in her hands and sat with it on her lap.
The car drove off.
"What's going to happen to me now?" Mahou asked in a small voice.
"For the moment, you'll stay with us," said the translator. "Mr. Scarletta is making arrangements for you to stay with an old friend of his. You will stay with him."
Anything is probably better than back there, but I'm worried that it won't be, thought Mahou.
She spent a week in a luxury Western style hotel with the Americans. She didn't say much and when she did, it was to Paul, who was the only one who was fluent in Japanese. At the end of the week, Mr. Scarletta and Paul came to her. Mr. Scarletta handed her a file folder and a passport.
"This is your new identity," said Paul.
Mahou opened up the passport. "Mutou?" she asked, looking at the surname.
"If anyone asks, you are a distant relation of Sugoroku Mutou," said Paul. "Mr. Mutou is an old friend of Mr. Scarletta. He has agreed to let you stay with him and his grandson."
She looked up from the passport. "But won't Takamine be able to find me with just a surname change?"
"How many people knew about you, other than Takamine?" asked Paul.
Who else knew? Mahou thought. Not many. My parents, but they . . .
"No one," she replied.
"Then you don't need to worry," said Paul. "Takamine won't every bother you again."
"But . . ."
"(Tell her the truth,)" said Mr. Scarletta.
Paul turned to Mr. Scarletta. "(Do you think she can handle the truth?)"
Mr. Scarletta took the folder from her and took her hands.
"'The dead can't hurt you,'" Paul translated.
Mahou's eyes widened. "You killed him?"
"Murder was one of the things Mr. Scarletta listed off to Takamine," Paul reminded her.
Mahou swallowed.
"Now, there is the matter of the paintings from the apartment," said Paul. "What would you like done with them?"
"My . . . paintings . . .?" Mahou had to think about it. "I'm not sure."
"Would you be open to selling them?" asked Paul. "Mr. Scarletta knows a few people who would be interested in them. The money would go into an account you would have access to for whatever you would need."
Sell my paintings? Takamine was already doing that, but I wasn't getting any of the money, thought Mahou.
"Are you going to pass them off as fakes?" Mahou asked.
"No, no," Paul quickly said. "You would get all the credit. We will tell people who the true painter is."
I would get the credit . . . but do I want that?
"Could . . . could you leave my name out of it? I'm not sure I want people knowing my name yet," said Mahou.
Paul and Mr. Scarletta had a brief conversation in English.
"I think we can work something out," Paul said at last.
I'm still working everything out with this story. It's going to be a mix of the first 7 volumes of Yu-Gi-Oh! and Season 0, mostly Season 0. There will be changes - obviously we have an OC - but it'll follow the main plot points of the series.