Civitas Chapter 1 Press on Présence

Civitas: How to Die Together with Your Scholar Collegues

By Tristan Norman

Ed. Aran Meredith & Northern Mittler Solomon

Chapter 1

Press on Présence

There is no courtly love before he could speak, speaking of good company.

Scorpio and Giuliana were in bed, they were not sleeping. While for some elegant company is a must, for some it’s a question of corporate reasoning. To each their own calling.

She asked “How is the body farm?” He said “Good, but there were issues with animal cruelty.”

“Animal cruelty is relative.” Absently she mused.

“So is everything.” Scorpio exhaustedly exclaimed.

“Did you patch up with Zillah Laetoria?” She asked, this is not a curious question.

How did she learn that? For a while Scorpio was discontented over Zillah's vexatious liaison with the Seventh Sky, but that was about it. No need to be jealous. “We did, more or less.” He offered to make up for it, and even offered to pay for their travel expenses. Scorpio has been as vaguely as he wished.

“It was nice of him.” No need to be hypercritical.

I'm not. “It's his choice to approach our strategic oppositions.” Yes it was plural, as we all knew what Zillah can act up or carry through.

I heard you. “No alliance is wasted alliance, you should be more open to new opportunities.” As they presented themselves, as they were presenting.

No need to get this much acerbic. “Speaking as another professional broker? In another world I will.” Scorpio spatted, he knew Giuliana wouldn’t mind.

“Just consider about it.” Giuliana closed the lamp residing on her side. “Goodnight, Milord.” She hasn’t removed her makeup and Scorpio's professional opinion told him it won't matter tomorrow.

“Goodnight Lady Farnese.” He whispered, they should converse in one of Vasari’s official languages, but someone was getting petty. Contented about the performance, Scorpio reached to the bedside and continued the light reading on his medical journal.

Igor found himself back on the board. Not multiple boards at once this time, just one. On the opposite side of the chess table sat the same Vasily Kamenev, dressed in pristine charcoal grey suits, he wore shags in comparison. They must be nice shags.

The camera and magnesium light were on him, so were the spectators. The game was on, it was just as he remembered: Sicilian in Scheveningen Variation. Kamenev was trying to bog him down into yet another positional plays, which he dreaded and tried his best to remain tactical. It’s all tactics, long tactics, prolonged tactics.

After fast-forward movements for several moves, he tried the glass of water, it tasted like cheap vodka. Realising he must have been dreaming, curiously Igor explored the setting: everyone was looking especially posh, anachronistic almost, as if he went back into the fifties or sixties. Nineteen fifties or eighteen sixties.

Just as he was quietly sloping away, Kamenev uncharacteristically grabbed a sponsored pen and wrote on the notepad, in broken English "It must be go0d to feel old and young again."

Igor blinked, it was his last of the three norms, and the GM was behaving erratically. On his notepad he wrote "?!" and continued the gameplay.

They soon reached the point of critical position, in which Igor sacrificed a bishop for the queen. Supposedly, it was in this position Kamenev resigned, they shook hands and Igor stood up, saying "I win, I quit." And declared to quit chess for good after acquiring the Grandmaster title. Supposedly this should have happened sooner, but life happened, so did college, not to mention he went to watch collecting and was pressured to write his book.

This should have been a cathartic moment, but no catharsis was in store or offered. Instead of surprises and exclamations, he got a cacophony of voices interlaced with silence: a kind of silence so depressing you kinda want to withdraw earlier.

But what happened was equally bizarre. In the blink of an eye comrade Kamenev morphed into a young woman with lovely silver hair and white petticoat dress, or on a second glance a young man with wavy long hair and women's dress. Judging from his or her pale skin and crimson eyes and in reference to knowledge he gained from his mother, he or she must have been a vampire.

"Apologies for the interruption, let us continue then?" The interrupter carried traces of a slightly smoky accent, Igor couldn’t quite place it, but she did look quite familiar.

Intrigued, Igor offered to rearrange the pieces, "there is no need." The white queen, or whatever Freudian symbol she meant to be persuaded him otherwise. So they continued. Soon thereafter Igor found him in deep trouble, even with black down a queen, she continued deliberately and artfully, after an arduous and extenuating procession of what remained of the middlegame, Igor found out the best he could get would be a draw. It was this kind of game that made you question why are you in here for the first place.

She picked up a glass of used water, and turned it into wine. As some inside joke, she even changed the composition of the glass. Wine is futile, but it will do now. "Still thinking about quitting?" Quitting this or everything, she is not sure.

"Still thinking about moving on." Igor corrected her, it's not polite but it's his dream whatever.

"You are born with the faculty for better things." She satirised. For both of Igor's parents are Professors, professors with a lot of distinguishments and fancy titles for the matter.

"Yes, like subaltern studies and another round." Igor discovered the fantasticality of wine at the age of five (as a comparison, he discovered fancy chess at three), his father is not a champion of early education.

"It's interesting you think of it that way." High politics is not high tea.

"Look. I didn't have much of a choice. So you are winning (but how?), rejoice." Igor still played his endgame with tact and dignity, but he was cornered by a pair of bishops, meh, there was little he could do now.

"As much as I'd like a re-match sometime, I come to welcome you to Civitas. " An imaginary occasion for the imaginary city.

"Aha. However, you are not a visage of my imagination?"

She gifted a slightly enigmatic smile. It’s not every day she gets babysitting duties. “You are welcome to think of it this way."

"Any sacred message you are to bequeath me, Lady Solomon or her pretender?" Igor ran through his stores of knowledge and located her as the fairer twin and partner of Northern, demigod and half-angel, the city's nominal castellan.

That pleased me. "Be your own human, be independent." Tuum esto humanum, sui iuris esto is the preferred tongue, but the Latin one has legal implications.

"Gratias ago tibi, domina mea. As if they were different things." He flattered and faltered.

"Spero autem quod in tempore cognoscetis." The white king fell, she stood up and slightly she bowed, for proprietary reasons they didn't shake hands.

"In time I think I will have found everything in their places." Piace, what is this.

"As if it's all a hidden objects game." Nariel smiled and exited the scene.

Been lifted out from his own musings, Igor found himself awake and nestled in the hotel bed. The room is allocated and the room is bizarre. Fine woods and metals mixed in chestnut and maroon colours, the bed is a twin bed, dimly lit with layers and layers of velvet curtains and folds. The "mini" bar is expansive and extensive with the whole set of mixology crafts, the bookshelf is emptied, save for a proprietary copy of the scripture in its original language, implying the OT he didn’t finish in a language he is supposed to know, [MOU1] a lot of drinking glasses filled the other shelf, there is no tv, but they have a drinking globe, the kitchenette is minimal and it's quite obvious it's for other use.

As he is getting to know the space, the space is getting to know him. Upon arrival he was intrigued where is the safe, and was told politely there was no safe, Igor wished the manager implied his watches and other miscellaneous properties would be safe.

After freshening up, Igor dialled the vintage telephone and found out there was no room service for food (of any kind) in Hotel Diplomats. So a confused Igor had to go first to the currency exchange to retrieve a handful of florins and then to find food. He was still working on the exchange rates because apparently it’s some kind of floating game subject to everyday booms and busts (meaning the florin is not pegged to anything, except perhaps fraud and deception).

But where to find human food? There must be humans, determined, so he went to what he figured must be a sort of information desk at the entry point Plaza Nebula in which three hooded figures were giving away uncontrolled controlled substances to travellers and pedestrians.

He walked across the hand-painted mosaic forum with stylistically inappropriate shoes, the temperature was soothing, and the misting of an incredibly clean water fountain was equally warm to the touch——can Florence Nightingale’s statue be a tourist trap? The sculptor made her look fantastic even with metallic angel wings. Everything for industrializations.

"Good morning. Quick question: I was wondering what is a recommended place for human food?" Igor Miroslav asked in common tongue.

"Salve Professor Miroslav. The food is human?" A young-sounding one questioned. Igor took a peek, he looked vaguely Greco-Egyptian. Either way.

"Please disregard the little vampire. You can find decent Brussels pastries at the checkpoint a little south of the Diplomatic Hotel, or if you don’t want to return by the way you come, I heard Club Aspasia is going to have something interesting happening soon."

"Club Aspasia plus one!" The third one shouted.

"Thank you so much." Igor glanced at his now dysfunctional vintage Patek Philip analogue watch, the kind of watch with a decorative small circle of second hand, and asked the taboo question, "And around what time will the club be open, Mittelland adjusted?"

"It's always the same day in Civitas," hooded figures two and three chanted. This gave the illusion that they were in hospitality or the sustained tourism sector.

"It's a 24-hour enterprise, or 72-hours, depending on where you stand." The little vampire hinted at the perceived time zone differences between the known world and hell or paradise. The vanished world, if you like.

He really insisted on that. "It's roughly 24 hours to me. Thanks for the information, and of course, have a good morning." Igor eloquently said, he didn't want to dwell why a vampire who speaks praetor-Latin was up on a weekday morning. Waiting for someone important perhaps?

Although every morning was someone else’s waking dream, Club Aspasia was not hardcore enough to play buzzing music in the early morning. Impressed by the bohemian however tasteful decors, he walked to the bar area and soon discovered the back and forth between two ladies of a certain age.

The dark-haired, doe-eyed cute one slapped a particularly attractive woman with short blonde hair, that is to say, after she used flourished words to call her out as a common whore, they spoke really fast, all Igor could catch was “an up-and-coming call girl” maybe? The cute, domestic abuse one was reduced to tears, and stormed out of the scene (without paying her fare).

After the drama was over, observed to be done with, Igor approached the booth and offered “Hey, can I buy you a second round?” “Hey” was among the lamest things one could say to pick her up, which she accepted, while Igor watched her retrieve a recyclable plastic bag from her nondescript handbag, and bit by bit consumed a slice of elven bread with the strongest and cheapest vodka, off the menu. For someone who was just dumped, she held her composure well.

“You don’t look local. What are you here for?” Leni observed him, his grey plaid shirt and self-comforting wide-legged suit pants, and the frilled trimming of the trouser legs. “Another education officer? Or programmer?” An educated guess.

“I don’t want my latest job, so that I have to pick up this latest work.” Igor gloomily said.

“Just a moment, take off your glasses.” Igor cloyingly removed his glasses, Leni re-recognized him. “Igor Miroslav? What wind blows you here? I liked your games in Prague and Reykjavik.” She put her vodka on the narrow marble table, and relaxed her posture to appear less standoffish.

“I didn’t know you watch the sports channel.”

“Forget about it, it’s the moral channel.” What she wished to say was the toy channel, but she was barred from being this impolite.

“Okay, it’s your call.” Igor cheered with her, for international chess and abandoned international chess.

After a brief tit-for-tat, she didn’t welcome him into the city like everyone else, instead, she said “Civitas is not prepared for the faint of hearts.”

Igor took another sip of his choice of drink, and winked at the cloyingly sweet fruit brandy, “It turns out I have no hearts.” He was more correct than he realized.

“Then do you have clubs?” What Leni might have been referring to was that, be careful if you think you are playing chess, but others are playing house with paper cards.

“I think I was invited to play chess.” Igor naively said. “Because chess is fairly fair.”

“Only if you are not playing white.”

“Only if you are not playing white.” Igor repeated this kind of sentiment. No need to get this sentimental.

“Professor Leni Lindale, you will see me again.” Leni didn’t give him a card, because she is the card. She didn’t even give him her legal first name, because that which is obsolete, or she didn’t care.

“Professor Igor Miroslav, a pleasure to meet you, not the same as Professor Miroslav.” Technically this title is very wrong, but all professors are professors, isn’t that the case?

“I believe those are different times, because in last decade your father’s condottieri have taken hosts of all the prospective hosts back home.” Leni joked a bit, it was only then Igor noticed her ears’ shapes were not completely of humans’ shapes, and earlier her pretty blonde hair was attributed to various chemicals provided in Civitas. If Igor had to make a comment, she should be the one without glasses.

“Haha, he’s anti-war, all pacifists need hosts.” It was not supposed to be openly declared but Igor was open. She looked at her watch, unbelievably it was a tiffany blued Nautilus, “I’m sorry I have a seminar in twenty minutes, I have to run.”

After two grainy drinks? Igor checked his watch, “I have to report to active duty half an hour later, please proceed at your discretion.”

They exchanged a hurried goodbye, Igor paid by dropping some coins he didn’t recognize, and hurried across half of the district to a disgusting looking governing body. It was not that the governing body was disgusting, but the organization of the overall architecture: a pastel abomination that resembles a three-layered wedding cake. Only it was in baby blue and chalk pink. He went to the second floor, because the entire city is artificial and there is no rain, the lift was externally attached.

He is not afraid of height but he must admit he is afraid of looking like an idiot visiting a nightmarish chocolate factory. Zoran doesn’t allow him to read an excessive amount of child literature as a child, because according to the Professor, all literature is childish literature.

The one who came to greet him was the city’s temporary governor Wilson Hersh, but at the doorway he had bumped into Tarik. “Professor Miroslav, good luck.” The kid said something nice.

“Thank you, I’m gonna need it.” Igor put his hands into his trouser pockets, and was invited into the pope’s office. The office is brilliant, with big windows, big carpet, big table, a set of high-end installations and some interesting books, all of which looked like they had been left as they were by the former pope, Igor heard after his retirement the board of trustees didn’t continue to vote for another one. Not many things were on the solid wood table, a couple of files, some professional stationaries and a family photo of Wilson’s. He has a lovely wife and two kids.

They warmly shook hands, Wilson even patted his right shoulder (Igor didn’t like the gesture). Before they took a seat, the temporary governor exclaimed some pleasantries, “I’d like to welcome you to your residency in Civitas, speaking for the existing team of faculties, this is a much-needed addition.”

Igor said I just arrived half a week ago, but “so far adores the city.” “Hope you can maintain such adoration.” They then turned to business, “Your appointment is finalized, and is estimated to be publicized on news and journals on the next business day. Baldwin Political Institute is an institution proposed by the governing body, for now it is attached to the Archive of the Anarch’s City.” He didn’t say anything about history.

“So to clarify, am I at the service of Herr Northern?” This is such an ahistorical question, but Igor has to ask. Formally it should be Monsignor or HMS Northern, but what he was asking was what about Herr Heinrich?

“Nominally we are all at the service of Herr Northern.” Wilson evaded the question. “The designation is incomplete, if you have to say, please add your devotion to the institution.”

“I will try my best.” Igor expressed he would cut his coat, but he would not.

“Your office is at the faculty’s quarter in the Upper East, easter than the Sothberry Auction House, wish you the best of luck in locating the Institute’s other faculty members.” Wilson generously gave some directions, much needed ones nonetheless.

“Does that imply I have teaching responsibilities?” Igor’s teaching capability is zero because he doesn’t empathize with students.

“Not at all, if you continue to think so after ten years, please feel free to design a course of your liking, which is related to the institute. But now please focus on the public history project.”

“Sure, please send me the details at your convenience.”

“I had sent an email to your assistant.” “My assistant?” “Yep, it’s the division’s perk, you will like him.” Igor later found out, his assistant is a mechanical puppet who does not wish to disclose his name, and has more experience in academic administration than the bridges he crossed and the salt he ate.