Civitas Chapter 4 Fondue Perdue

Civitas: How to Die Together with Your Scholar Collegues

By Tristan Norman

Ed. Aran Meredith & Northern Mittler Solomon

Chapter 4

Fondue Perdue

There’s a presenting quality of presence, a presence people didn’t automatically ask for.

Norman made some money and spent some money on a readymade shirt from a seamstress’s shoppe and went to Thursday’s photographic expo. But first he had to figure out the correct place, or placement. Civitas doesn’t possess a museum, but the two gargantuan galleries in the artists’ district make perfect imperfect substitutes, one is of course under Mephistopheles’ delegate, another the holding of Monsieur Bai Yanshang, considering Mephisto and Gabriel’s entangled relationship during the first season and the rumour that the little master of Café de Etoile is their pup, the two galleries are in fact de facto one.

He coughed slightly, and hopped into the southwestern installation in which supposedly the architect had a creative seizure and stuck clay putties into a 3d printed nautilus that makes a white building, which is actually plaster. There is no window because god forbids windows.

The front-of-house persona of Zeit and Zest welcomed him, “Tristan, what brings you here today?” Tristan is his stage name, because the little assistant brother likes likes his satires in French (not figuratively speaking).

“Good afternoon, I’m here for information, I heard there’s a photography exhibition on Thursday afternoon, I only know the sketch of the place, could you be helpful as a lamp in darkness?” The boy at front desk nodded, “There are many expos on Thursday afternoon.”

“It must be the messiest one.” Norman pointed out. He hoped it was a more or less accurate description.

“Oh. If that is the case.” Front desk searched on his state-of-the-art computer, “Head north, north always, have you seen the silver pooh bear sculpture posted by the socialists near the An’ran teahouse? Observe this and turn left then turn right, later on find the façade that most looks like a gallery at the last crossroad and you are fine.”

Thanks to his non-existing professionalism, Norman is very good at simply memorizing things. “Got it, thank you.” He didn’t say I’ll treat you to lunch later, first because he is penniless, second because this breed of boys, like him, likes successful men. “The time is not short, wouldn’t you like to take a tour?” The breed of boy invited.

“Maybe later, thanks. (When I have something, I will treat you with commissions.)” Norman falsely promised. Because how much is a promise worth? Worth a cup of coffee, certainly.

“(I’ll readily thank you for your treat.) Your loss, because yesterday we got an envelope of what is said to be a letter manuscript from Iris.” The front desk bragged about some recent finds.

“Now we reached a point in idol-adoration where letter sells?” Norman cracked a joke, albeit half-hearted elegantly.

“The one comes with paints, a dove and a fat fox.” Upon hearing the news Norman nodded, and went off quickly into the side hall of the first floor to admire the proverbial fat fox. To adequately express the painter’s literacy or something else what is utilized is an adapted version of heavenly Latin, Norman could only read some, it reads,

My dear,

Your commission is satisfactory, but kitsune (nine-tailed fox) is a fortuitous creature with cultural embeddedness of the Far East, so I can only give you one-tail fox. If you are really into it, you can draw it yourself.

The signature is Iris. The one-tail fox looks relaxed, vivid, and not to be taken seriously, but it looks like the owner comes up with it to publicly denounce someone.

He’s not very familiar with the soap opera of Crimson Hill, but when sad or depressed he did read some figments from de Fernand’s social-cultural pages in Le Charme. According to fabulists they had pretending and demanding, tending and mending for two seasons onward. However, according to Norman’s incomplete conjectures about the plotline, they might have taken more than that.

Norman walked and walked in person, and eventually reached a little shop nearly completely supported by steel and glass. He is willing to place a bet it was by Lloyd Wright or one of his students. But Civitas’ Department of Civil Engineering’s mages can conjure the structure with or without base materials, turning dust into more debris, and construct the draft design accordingly. That is to say, if they acquired the construction permit. Civitas’ various exhibitions are pop-up in nature, the wordy version is floating, and in each and every negotiated timeslot the guests and the lots are different.

To this day when he came he witnessed the manager escorted a very own Adelaide Laetorius out. Back then he didn’t yet know Adelaide was Zillah, he only had a vague idea he was the Chancellor in Laetoria of the Moonlit City. To which he gave his most charming smile, in passing Adelaide gave a polite silent smile.

He went in, and soon discovered the items in questions were constant dialogues between modernism and the hypermodern, he knew little about this, but was glad there are free wines. He took white, and rapidly found he had to taste it all if he had a chance. Not a chance, the greeter greeted him, and let him be once learning the correct information that he is a master student from the Archive. Professor Anton was not here, but he did see one or two familiar faces in the exhibition hall room, while remaining uncertain, because good-looking middle-aged men all look the same.

There were nearly no youths. Alternatively, the young stayed forever young (and happy ever after). He ceremonially held the half-finished wine, perching in front of a careless photograph. The work is a pseudo-documentary-styled private photo, but for some reason more than others adopted a tilt-shift light. There was no light source in the composition. Babble babbel. “Is this a pseudo-documentary about the artists, or a pseudo-artist’s real documentary?” A young man with hair styled better than him asked him in his half-native tongue, he had clear eyes and a pale countenance. If Norman remembered correctly, who frequently appears on the covers of fashion magazines.

“I think busybody mixed the ideation between Fate and desire.” He deliberately used an arrogant French accent pronounced and enunciated in broken English.

“Not the difference between Lust of Fate and Lust of Life I presume?”

Norman looked at the picture again, on imaging canvas a young model kneeled in bed, wearing what appeared to be like scarlet lace lingerie, he looked deliberately androgynous, the white sheets were messy, the hair was not messy. “I presume there is no Lust, only a lingering misperception.” Norman voiced an unpopular sidenote.

“Lingering misperception, not lingering misconception.” He pretended to drink the wine he didn’t have, which was a cute albeit drifting look. “I’m Marquis Lewis Fernand, today I’m just Lewis.” Marquis omitted the “de” something-fix, and conjured a colourless albeit scented beverage, and lifted the glass cup to greet.

“I know, I was at your concert in Lyon.” It seemed like so, he was wearing very dated rugs, sitting on the front centre of the first row, but sprayed perfume sold by his half-blood brother, although the mass market facing version compared to the in-house variation.

I am flattered. “I read a little bit of your books, if I don’t know better, they looked like things radical left progressive humans would write.” de Fernand sincerely mocked. Norman thought a young artist/finance boy like him only got time to read the blurb and the first and last pages.

“There’s nothing left of the capitalist(capitalism)’s critique.” Nonetheless, Norman knew he was abetting his proletariat rooting. “I’m flattered, I wish to write of something new.” About progress or topics or “things”, Norman didn’t specify.

“À la Civitas? I will consider contributing to your royalty.” Like tender lightening Lewis finished his drink, Norman bet it was unacceptably unalcoholic, “Hope you can find your muse and your mousse cake.”

Norman returned the gesture; he swirled the champagne flute slightly reminiscent of someone he knew. “The muses are many and the cake is a little too sweet.”

“Good afternoon, young artist.”

“Good afternoon, Marquis Lewis.”

Without a second glass of wine (shame!), he skirted around, sightseeing a swarm of image paintings: still image of a corner of a table, a time-capsule made of wax, unstill images of timeless tillering of aspens, winterless winterises and winterlings, someone else’s crystal without someone, close up of a B&W parched lips, album cover of Farinelli, homeless person holding a MaxMara bag…They all looked the same to me.

But there is no me, only another guest guestworking in someone else’s story. According to a series of set-in-stone theories, he didn’t approach anyone, and smiled when acquaintances smiled to him.

Across the Plaza Nebula Igor approached the Law School? Library and found it looked like a bizarre blend between a shabby antique shop and a 19th-century museum. In a place normatively without laws saturated only with rules and regulations, what does it mean to place the law library in the strategic location near the transference portal? He doesn’t understand and doesn’t work to understand. However the architecture was designed to be monumental, to not “bring chaos to polite society”, and stood between grand and graceful.

Igor didn’t wash his hair but changed to a new shirt, judging from people and fake people heading in and out of the forum, he was grossly underdressed, after all, Civitas is the place that invented the four-piece suit (an adorable overcoat to further coverup your fat belly and hanging arms). He went to sign in the front counter at the first floor, “Igor Miroslav?” The uncle librarian confirmed. “Seems like it.” Truth well told. “Hope you can find what you intend to find.” Clerks in Civitas like to equivocate, to appear more intelligent than they are, that is to say.

He went to the marble stairways that may transfer him to the second floor, the sky-high atrium hung some portraits, of a lot of unrecognizable faces, what he recognized was Northern’s twin Lady Solomon, she wore light coloured suit and hung a necklace signifying rights and responsibilities which looks cool. Besides is Laetorii Judge Brunning with some iconic baby face, not knowing what the word means. Other than that, there are a few pretty devils, angels and elven judges and jurists, and a few humans whom defected to Civitas.

None of his business whatsoever, he walked pass them and immediately became interested to the four grandfather clocks adorning the atrium. For a city without a concept of Time, placing inside the political machine precision instruments regarding Heaven’s Time, Hell's Time, the Time of Moonlit City and the Times of Terram Oblivionis in particular signifies what? He has thirty watches, and evilly likes to tune them into different time zones. Because what is the significance of a world timer? If it only possesses the special timings of twenty special cities?

Intrigued and marginally impressed, he walked on. On the window side table on the second floor displayed a set of antique international chess, Metzelder was not in the facility, in turn he was accosted by another fake acquaintance, a boyish young man, he introduced himself as Tarik.

“Tarik from the OTA?” Igor raised his brows and asked.

“Tarik from Civitas.” The temporary high priest laughed around. “So what? Let’s start a game?” He was pathetic like a chess solicitor on people’s square or people’s market.

“Fine by me.” Igor gladly agreed. They sat in front of each other and played the Indian, played the Berlin, played a variation of the Sicilian, in turn he was tentatively crushed by the little vampire who was god knows how many hundred years old.

“Again.” And he was crushed. “Again.” Finally he used an open Sicilian to draw, at this time there aggregated a couple of spectators and ambitious young men. Tarik kept trying to chat with him, which is not nice. But they talked about Civitas and Time (Not the time of Civitas). Tarik expressed that “Please be mindful of your time.”

Igor was careless, more careless in his speech than his craft, “Every time is gametime.” Playtime is a better but more problematic framing.

“It’s a professional game, be careful some might drag you into professional time.” Not to appear didactic, not to equivocate. Vicariously equivocate.

“I see, keep up with the professionalisms?” Igor replied in such a friendly manner Tarik wanted to cry, to cry for him or to cry about him, he was not sure.

“As the board members are concerned they should be treated with a fair amount of friendliness.” Tarik made a sincere comment that he was only engaged in assistantship as far as the board is concerned. Then they played again, everything was fair with Vienna, this time Igor prevailed.

In a most sycophantic gesture someone brought water, Igor gracefully had it, Tarik thanked the sycophant and turned the water into wine, or bottled water into bottled wine with a pale synthetic tablet. Wine is a euphemism. Igor knew it was improper to consume blood with someone at the first meet, but he’s not old school, so whatever.

Eventually they talked about public history, Tarik stated statelessly “it’s public history not history fur public.” He used fur but Igor let it slide. What he seemed to trying to say is that he can’t help him; he should help himself. Still he said “Metzelder will on Tuesday afternoon, which is nightfall for kindred, appear in Laetorii Law School Library.” Supposedly, the purpose of the appearance is to entertain an argument with a swarm of entertaining colleagues, but he didn’t say that. “You can go through a portal.”

Igor precisely and concisely interpreted that “I will be flayed” if he goes, because in his last book he wrote about the ways in which powers and institutions colluded to construct the old new order and the story of the process of assimilation of the German-speaking regions and the Latin-speaking regions. Although the assimilation is descripted as osmotic and reversible, he is not in the spirit to think many were amused. Despite reservations, he still held the public position affairs were just a little more polished in the Holy Roman (German) Empire.[1]

Tarik withdrawn the chess piece, and exclaimed “If I were Metzelder I will not.” For a high priest and administrative assistant, he was so soothing. Only later he shot a sharp question, “Do you know how to speak Hebrew?”

It was Igor’s turn to abandon the pieces, “Regretfully no.” He didn’t speak of how his mother thought it’s unnecessary so she didn’t teach him. Instead, she spoke of the necessity of picking apart languages you are interested (at the moment) and the ones you think you are going to use. Désireux d'utiliser were the exact words.

“Regretfully so. Metzelder neither, but she would like you better if you speak in Hebrew with her.” A sharp observation in which Igor didn’t pick up. Actually he knows one word, which is either “very well” or “world peace”, he didn’t know better.

In any other worlds, there are blood in water, and surprise surprise, everyone seems to be ok with it.

Speaking of world peace, Albrecht sometimes reckons if they don’t riot there might really be authentic world peace. Because there are more movements to be moving than disputing the meagre pay checks of current students. But that was what they were working with currently.

Because some entry level faculty went on strike, the first time in decades, even the non-existing union had voiced their opposition. The reasoning of this matter is as innocuous as simple, namely Pantheon’s philosophy department’s professor resigned because the academy didn’t grant some religious holidays, for what religion let’s keep it down a little.

Then believers of religious freedom and the faithful cubs of freedom of religion had a fight, without knowing for what reason in particular equally entangled was the conservative minority in support of Civitas’ absolute neutrality. Even better, some deranged radicals used this cause to transplant the protest to the question of salary conditions. To be honest there is no such question regarding salary condition, because Civitas utilizes the sacred rules of apprenticeships, salary is from advisors not the departments.

Can’t master the art of reading the room, not any room but the curtained one with ample light source, or if you prefer, artificial sunlight. Everyone was having their favourite drink, because the context is casual: whether made-up or declared, only appropriate ones. Zillah took a sip of what seemed to be alchemist’s coffee, and thought Arles was playing coy, because for all things considered he was supposed to support the concept of base salary, students with teaching responsibilities are not workers? Hence in private he talked to him to let them be, because making a fuss is good (for the clause or business?).

Not to mention he was an avid supporter of all sorts of holidays and flexitimes for various sorts of reasons, which was trash according to Albrecht. However in the board of trustees, forgive him, the arbitration committee, he still expressed warily, “Colleges’ and students’ worries are within reasons, such affair requires prudent considerations.” What he was thinking might be prudent dealings (or fabrications). As in early years he took his classes, Professor Ulysses is a baselineless senseless faithless atheistic epicurean, how could he sudden become whoever’s believer?

Monsieur Bai Yanshang said that’s right, totally Right. “Students have the freedom to strike, faculties have the freedom to continue to be at work.” He didn’t specify what kind of freedom do colleges have, because colleges have resources not freedoms. “But my question is why does Pantheon continue to send them cheques while students are striking?”

For this matter Magister Nikolai handled it soundly and temperately, “Because students need livings while they live. Many of our children are human and other beings requiring backup resources, hence a halt of salary directly implies for them to look for a new place or position.”

He didn’t say job, he recognized Civitas’ is a sellers’ market, without the Pantheon there are government sponsored institutes, Heidelberg and Illuminarium. Even the engineering finishing school that pretends to be a watchmakers’ hub, Lange, wanted a share in the social sciences, Joshua just posited a humanities, arts, and social sciences academy (HASA) and recruited the sagely and sensible, meaning openly poaching personnel from the old ones. How quaint and admirable.

Confiscating the alchemist’s “coffee”, and thinking of a portion of Viennese Medical School has a portion of passionate students that were participating the demonstrative strike situation, Scorpio expressed “If things go south, they can register for free foods from the medical school.” What he was referring to is Scuola Medica di Padova di charity work, because they believed food banking is a way for little things who wish to make a change a fancy time to bounce back and making more choices (which they considered as a right). They even opened up a part of their residential halls to serve as applicable assisted housing, but since their current president is a social democrat, what do you expect.

“I heard a part of the international students possess chemical dependence, does the medical school offer free prescriptions?” Drugs, that is. Zillah asked languidly. Actually he was been euphemistic, because most if not all med students have some kind of chemical dependence, as the workload is abhorred and the residency lengthy. “They can consort the professionals to source their supply.” Scorpio wittily said. Because many young and ambitious alchemists are finding technical supports from successful medical schools, that is not to conclude all alchemists are drug dealers. But weren’t that the case?

Sensing the conversation was turning south, Wilson said “although there is no citable precedence, according to standard procedure it is advisable to give the students a 30-day cool down period.” The 30-day cooling down period can be traced back to the third season’s (a 1982) class action by a cohort of artists with soul-contracts affected by the workers’ party. But that was solved within 28 days, the solution was of course, not that the saboteurs were eaten by the devils, but a series of complex contract-transfers and movements of people. To make it really simple, the capital bribed the studios, the studios exiled or put into exiles a bunch of involved artists. Of course he was not implying to let Pantheon advocate for exodus of a bunch of students, but they should quiet things down before the event turns sore or south.

Tarik’s contribution was that “Why not 31 days? According to citable calendar this month has 31 days.” He was citing the eternal question of whether this month in Civitas was 28 days or 29 days. He was putting his coins on 29 days, because according to his limited knowledge Northern is a deterministic speaker. May his God bless him (more than anyone else).[2]

“Because we have to be inclusive, I mean inclusive.” Wilson eloquently babbled. He understood the little pharmacist Tarik thought young scholars valued higher than bled out artists, although his tutor is an art student. Zillah used body language to signal the subtle differences between art marketing and art business, a kind of transgression everyone tolerated, since everyone knows everyone. [MOU1] 

Annabel was here today, because recently she had cultivated some interest to the student movement. In other words, who was name-dropping and directing said movement. So she said, “Professor Ulysses can adequately bring his students supporters into his next job.” Although academic research, especially academic research within the philosophy department, is not a collaborative work, but a swarm in a swarm group.

“With occurrence like this, he can start his own stove.” Albrecht spatted. What remains unsaid is that Heidelberg was upon Hades’ communicative actions to swing both ways between his brother and his long-time partner. But one cannot generalize everything into the general dispute between the seventh sky and hell. Just like socialists’ kind-hearted mockery of the friend of resources, a lot of scholars starting from scratch are discontented to the new appointment of the committee, and need to selectively unleash and unload this kind of discontent.

Of course the unpleasantness is prefabricated, god knows what Northern was thinking. When he mentioned this possibility Nikolai subsequently raised an upvote, to which Scorpio and Zillah objected, because excuse my directness, moral education and physical education are different, and we are not sportsmen aren’t we?

Scorpio played with his straw of his un-sponsored kind of healthy green beverage, he had metal straw not the cheap plastic one that wreaks havoc on sea turtles, among other beings. “I think events like this are internal problems, shouldn’t we call it a day?” So everybody grabbed their stuff (notebook, case studies, cashewbook, drinks and protest stuff) and decided to give them a break. After that was over Zillah and Scorpio reapplied their coats, and crossed through the exquisite trees and the governing body’s square and took a turn in the Plaza Nebula, there they encountered the buzzing ambulance, which seemed to have delivered a couple of magical students involved in physical skirmishes into the ER room.

“Are you ready for it?” It was ready. “Anytime.” Anyway. So they walked for a little longer side to side into Pantheon’s quarter in the academic district.

No comment on the overarching architecture. The alchemist had grown a special liking for the artificial grassland, or dare it call them meadows, that has been organized into neat little plots for students to step on it, convene or entertain. Once mini-golf and fidgets were popular, which gave away to denouncement reading sessions and well, frisbees. Irreverent faculties also like to walk their canine pets in the facility that verbally forbids pets.

Occurring on the well-groomed grass, a bunch of little children were dialoguing and sitting. Angry children that were. The languages are colourful and borderlining well-learned, they really learned from each other, and went beyond “perceived divercity”, “heterodoxic heterogeneity” and “pressing issue of the day.” The last is a rhetorical intervention.

They didn’t wear glamours or masks, that would be preposterous, their cloths are laid back when luxury are considered (namely, £1500 shirts and £450 sneakers), their billboards were magical, such as Preserve Religious Freedom; Freedom of Religion is Freedom of Expression; BABY WANT A PAY RISE and so on. He thinks the final version is heartfelt content.

“Professor Apricot, what’s your religion?” Some feisty radical people opened with direct inquisition. Zillah saw wasn’t this the theological house, sorry, the litterature house’s first disciple? “Sorry, not a professor. You can ask me this question at my seminar.” He didn’t respond with official tongue. Scorpio accompanied with a smirk, because it’s not fun to profess.

This sentiment is shared, but Zillah didn’t show, or show off, for the better or worse. He was wearing engine-supported contact lenses with assisted reading of the room (or the meadow) because of an occupational injury in the second season, the colour is red because red is the colour. If you must insist, the darker side of every moon.

“Weren’t you supposed to be a god? You don’t believe in your creed?” Creed is not a perfume but a tenet. One of the Assistant Professors of the literature department continued to press on the issue, which seemed like it (he meant sketchy), Zillah and Apophis’ favourite priest Xandria which is Cardinal von Kret who cohabits with it took hold of the god of chaos’ godship certificate in the start of the second season, so this is in so much fair judgement.

Lukacs is relatively well-versed in Mittelland psychedelic intellectual history. “Is that the case? Wasn’t it supposed to be non-denominational?” Zillah feigned innocence, innocent enough students didn’t buy it. “Wasn’t that supposed to be underdogmatic?” Scorpio provided a better wording. Good teacher and good student.

“Herr Zillah, are you here to hand over a standard linguistic format? Can you comment something on whether you endorse the position that students are workers?” Someone who was supposed to be anti-socialist provided another match to the thatch, couchpotatoes on couchgrass. For people with relative level of sanity this kind of question remains unanswered.

“I like your question.” Scorpio smiled and replied, what an interesting smile, “but you cannot refer to him as such.” Because in his culture everything is and remains to be well-ranked.

“That’s alright.” Lots of ambiguity in Zillah’s words,[3] “you should play, careful not to get played with.” As someone’s mistress in front of the stockholder this kind of rhetoric is not to be encouraged with. Nevertheless, they sat for a little while with the students, and before the clock strikes V at the Mittelland time Zillah checked his watch and said a formal goodbye, before he came here like a second-rate magician, he changed his watch to a Glasshute one (before it was Lange’s), the way he looked at his watch looked like a jewel commercial.[4]

What he was suggesting is quite clear, please be mindful to come off work at five. Because despite popular and unpopular opinions, they don’t respect or respond to summer daylight saving time.

[1] cf’. this is so reactionary.

cf. is this so retroactive?

cf’. nonetheless,

cf. following a stable long scholarly tradition.

cf’. I didn’t follow (pun).

[2] cf. elaborate.

Takki: sorry mother, I’m sorry.

cf. you have a (living) mother, you know.

Takki: I support the freedom of metaphorical expressions.

cf. your support is explicitly voiced.

[3] cf’. the technical translation is right-wing couchgrass go die, but he didn’t say that.

[4] Scorpio: exhibitionist. (Northern: because beforehand his trench coat sleeve covers the watch.)

comet- I believe it was part of the job.

Scorpio: *shrugs*

comet-*mimics shrugs*