Death Watch


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 DEATH
 WATCH
 A NOVEL
 STONA FITCH
 
 
 
 
 Also by Stona Fitch
 
 
 Dark Horse (as Rory Flynn)
 
 
 Third Rail (as Rory Flynn)
 
 
 Give + Take
 
 
 Printer’s Devil
 
 
 Senseless
 
 
 Strategies for Success
 
 
 
 
 
 Death Watch
 A NOVEL BY
 Stona Fitch
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Copyright © 2023 Stona Fitch
 All rights are retained by the author.
 Published by Arrow Editions
 152 Commonwealth Ave.
 Concord, Massachusetts 01742
 
 www.arroweditions.com
 
 Designed by Chris DeFrancesco
 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
 First edition
 ISBN: 978-0-9908059-5-3
 Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9908059-8-4
 
 
 
 
 
 For Russell Banks
 
 
 
 
 
 In this short Life that only lasts an hour,
 
 
 how much – how little – is within our power.
 
 – EMILY DICKINSON
 
 
 
 THE COMPLICATIONS
 “LIKE LIFE, A WATCH PROVIDES COMPLICATIONS TO KEEP IT INTERESTING
 .” Watanabe sat cross-legged on a low stage while we sat packed around him, students at the feet of a high-art Socrates, all leaning forward to hear his surprisingly delicate voice.
 His first name was Sam, but the world knew him only as Watanabe. Dressed in black, his long hair dangling in black-gray strands, he looked like an aging heavy metal drummer. Or he could be a mononoke
 , as Watanabe’s many detractors described him—a demon spirit.
 Back at the agency, we had done some initial research on Watanabe. He was a political artist who worked with extreme materials, like decommissioned jets and tsunami debris. He wasn’t as well known or revered as Banksy or Ai Weiwei. Watanabe was a relentless provocateur, a thumb in the eye of the world. Hearing him talking about something as tame as an old-school watch sounded out of character. But confounding expectations seemed to be Watanabe’s specialty.
 A woman with pink-streaked blonde hair and red-framed glasses slipped into the Okutama Institute’s conference room and slid into the empty seat next to me.
 “Flight from L.A. was late, as usual,” she whispered, shrugging off her coat. “I’m Renata,” she said, “senior editor at Artforum
 .”
 “Coe,” I said, “from Moriawase.”
 She tilted her head.
 “Ad agency.”
 She leaned closer. “What did I miss?”
 “Introductions. Green tea. Non-disclosure agreements. Awkward small talk. Watanabe just started.”
 “So glad.” She pressed her palms together in thanks. “His work is fabulous, don’t you think?”
 Renata didn’t wait for an answer, just leaned forward to get a better view of Watanabe. Her pale face blossomed with star-struck 
 rapture.
 “The usual complications of a watch are actually quite uncomplicated,” Watanabe said. “Phases of the moon. A chime on the half-hour. In this way, even the most expensive watch is still simple enough to be used by a child. They are all pretty little toys.”
 He raised his glinting, obsidian eyes to scan his rapt audience.
 “Life can be seen as a plaything as well.” Watanabe seemed to pause when he found me, an interloper among the invited guests from the art press and the watch industry. “But this perception ignores the—”
 He leaned over to Yohji, his handsome young assistant, who whispered in his ear. “Ignores the verities,” Watanabe said. “The unrelenting truths. Like the soul, truth, courage, death.”
 He turned toward me, his eyes seeking mine—no mistaking it. “The advertisements for these expensive toys make it sound as if each owner is simply taking care of his watch for—” Watanabe’s brow wrinkled.
 “For the next generation,” I blurted, because I hated those ads and the long flight had left me jangled.
 Yohji turned and glared at the advertising guy who had broken Watanabe’s incantatory spell with his American impertinence. Renata shifted away from me.
 Watanabe seemed untroubled. “Exactly. For the next generation.
 As if an object could be a legacy. But let me be very clear about this, my friends. No object is a legacy, no matter how beautiful and well-crafted. Not a watch or an expensive sports car.” He gave a small smile. “Not even works of art. What is the true legacy that we will leave?”
 No one blurted out an answer.
 “The only legacy we leave is the memory of our actions,” Watanabe said. “What we did each day and why we did it. For those who choose to remember us, we leave behind these small traces as our gift.” He paused, shook his head slowly. “Or warning.”
 He raised his hand and snapped his fingers as if summoning a waiter. The doors at the back of the conference room opened and the engineers wheeled in a metal cart. They raised a white cloth cover to reveal a glass case the size of a small aquarium. 
 Inside it glimmered the mysterious watch that my agency was hoping to launch. The emails from Watanabe’s team had called it the most revolutionary watch ever created. Having written plenty of hype during my career, I considered myself immunized. I came to Tokyo to be convinced.
 “Meet Cassius Seven, my friends. Years in research and development. Now revealed to you, the select few.”
 Eager nodding among the audience. Renata stared with unrestrained enthusiasm. To me, Cassius Seven looked like any other elegant, understated watch. Its round case held a matte-silver face with tapered black hands. The hours were in delicate Roman numerals. The only unusual detail was a small red dot glowing on its band.
 “Looks like any other expensive watch, doesn’t it?” Watanabe said, reading my mind. “It is intentional. We are hiding its light under a bushel basket
 .” He spoke the words slowly, as if he had just learned the folksy expression and it delighted him.
 One of the engineers inched across the low stage, carrying a bowl of apples in front of him. Watanabe