Reintegration

This follows on from Back Again.

She didn’t stay long in her parents’ house.  Her old room belonged to a girl she didn’t know anymore.  It had been a decade and the room was full of things she no longer cared about.  She used her terminal leave to get a job, find a flat and move.

The family objected.  Girls didn’t just move out.  They cited her sister Raquel still living at home and about to be married.  They talked about the appearance of the thing.  They sent Uncle Charlie to talk to her and he had come back shaking his head, saying, “Let her go.”

It was a nice enough flat in a decent building but Mayin never invited anyone over.  She came quietly to family parties and went home, often quieter still.  Anyone who ‘dropped in’ only ever saw the kitchen, the dining room and the toilet off the laundry and kitchen.  She never mentioned any friends.

A week before Raquel’s wedding her oldest brother’s eldest child needed somewhere to sleep: a combination of father going on the buck’s night; mother having to work; and too many children needing beds for grandma and grandpa to put them all up.  Mayin was called and asked if Neoma could stay with her.  Surely, for one night, a woman of twenty-eight could house a girl of eight?  Put like that, Mayin agreed.

Neoma was deposited in her aunt’s spare bedroom by her mother on her way to work.  Her mother checked the contents of the fridge, the state of the bathroom and the dustiness of the bedrooms before pronouncing herself satisfied that the flat was satisfactory for Neoma to stay the night in.  She handed over the list of foods Neoma wasn’t allowed to eat and the list of things she wasn’t allowed to do then left, promising to collect her daughter on the way home in the morning.

Mayin fed them both the child’s favourite meal made from fresh ingredients because the ingredients weren’t on the list of banned foods although all the pre-packaged versions of the dish were.  As Neoma happily observed, no-one turned pink all over so it must have been all right.

After dinner the ex-servicewoman taught her niece to play adult card games for points.  Card games weren’t on the list of forbidden activities.  Neither was the manufacture of homemade explosives.  Mayin thought Neoma seemed the sort of child to enjoy that but she also thought that card games were less likely to upset the girl’s parents.

The next morning when she was collected Neoma assured her mother and her aunt that she’d had a wonderful time and bounced happily down to the street.  As her mother negotiated the transit lanes Neoma said thoughtfully, “Mummy, do you think Aunty Mayin would be happier if she had a green person and some blue people?”

“What are green and blue people?”  She inwardly cursed small, dark vehicles that tried to be invisible as they came up from behind on the passenger side.

“Aunty Mayin’s got this big chart on her office wall.  People who were in the family before she went away, like her and Daddy, are black.  You’re green ‘cause you married Daddy and I’m blue cause I was born.”  Neoma waited for her mother to answer.

“I don’t know,” the woman concentrated on the traffic while she spoke, “Did Aunty Mayin say anything about it?”

“It’s in her Reassimilation and Reintegration Plan,” the little girl said the unfamiliar words carefully, “But she’s not sure if they’re essential or just desirable.”

“Reassimilation and Reintegration Plan?”  This was beginning to sound like a conversation that she wanted to concentrate on.  Why did Neoma always bring these things up in the car?

“Yep,” Neoma looked out the window, “She said it’s her plan for trying to be almost normal again.”

Reintegration

This follows on from Back Again.

She didn’t stay long in her parents’ house.  Her old room belonged to a girl she didn’t know anymore.  It had been a decade and the room was full of things she no longer cared about.  She used her terminal leave to get a job, find a flat and move.

The family objected.  Girls didn’t just move out.  They cited her sister Raquel still living at home and about to be married.  They talked about the appearance of the thing.  They sent Uncle Charlie to talk to her and he had come back shaking his head, saying, “Let her go.”

It was a nice enough flat in a decent building but Mayin never invited anyone over.  She came quietly to family parties and went home, often quieter still.  Anyone who ‘dropped in’ only ever saw the kitchen, the dining room and the toilet off the laundry and kitchen.  She never mentioned any friends.

A week before Raquel’s wedding her oldest brother’s eldest child needed somewhere to sleep: a combination of father going on the buck’s night; mother having to work; and too many children needing beds for grandma and grandpa to put them all up.  Mayin was called and asked if Neoma could stay with her.  Surely, for one night, a woman of twenty-eight could house a girl of eight?  Put like that, Mayin agreed.

Neoma was deposited in her aunt’s spare bedroom by her mother on her way to work.  Her mother checked the contents of the fridge, the state of the bathroom and the dustiness of the bedrooms before pronouncing herself satisfied that the flat was satisfactory for Neoma to stay the night in.  She handed over the list of foods Neoma wasn’t allowed to eat and the list of things she wasn’t allowed to do then left, promising to collect her daughter on the way home in the morning.

Mayin fed them both the child’s favourite meal made from fresh ingredients because the ingredients weren’t on the list of banned foods although all the pre-packaged versions of the dish were.  As Neoma happily observed, no-one turned pink all over so it must have been all right.

After dinner the ex-servicewoman taught her niece to play adult card games for points.  Card games weren’t on the list of forbidden activities.  Neither was the manufacture of homemade explosives.  Mayin thought Neoma seemed the sort of child to enjoy that but she also thought that card games were less likely to upset the girl’s parents.

The next morning when she was collected Neoma assured her mother and her aunt that she’d had a wonderful time and bounced happily down to the street.  As her mother negotiated the transit lanes Neoma said thoughtfully, “Mummy, do you think Aunty Mayin would be happier if she had a green person and some blue people?”

“What are green and blue people?”  She inwardly cursed small, dark vehicles that tried to be invisible as they came up from behind on the passenger side.

“Aunty Mayin’s got this big chart on her office wall.  People who were in the family before she went away, like her and Daddy, are black.  You’re green ‘cause you married Daddy and I’m blue cause I was born.”  Neoma waited for her mother to answer.

“I don’t know,” the woman concentrated on the traffic while she spoke, “Did Aunty Mayin say anything about it?”

“It’s in her Reassimilation and Reintegration Plan,” the little girl said the unfamiliar words carefully, “But she’s not sure if they’re essential or just desirable.”

“Reassimilation and Reintegration Plan?”  This was beginning to sound like a conversation that she wanted to concentrate on.  Why did Neoma always bring these things up in the car?

“Yep,” Neoma looked out the window, “She said it’s her plan for trying to be almost normal again.”

The Importance of Frescos

This carries on from Fresco.


“Domestic frescos are so rare,” Professor Verita explained.  “People who had enough money sponsored works in churches or on civic projects, for the prestige.  They only spent this sort of money at home if they entertained a lot for business or politics.  Frankly,” he gave an expressive shrug and hand gesture, “I’ll be doing well to limit the involvement of the History and Art faculties to this.  It doesn’t help,” he added darkly, “That in the late 1800s anyone who had money plastered over their frescos and redecorated in white and gold.”

“We can hope,” added one of the earnest young people, a red haired girl in jeans and a checked shirt, “That no-one used a sledge hammer here, the way they did in the Palazzo Borghese in Fossi Piceno.  If the picture is intact we could learn a lot about the man who built this house.”  She smiled at Rodolfo and Astanthe as if she were offering them a treat.

“I already know as much as I need to about the mind of the man who built this house,” Rodolfo said suppressingly, “He built his foyer to be a killing zone with a false door to give the illusion of an easier way out of the trap.”

“Rubia!”  Professor Verita spoke sharply to the student, “Don’t repeat that to anyone yet.  Don Rodolfo,” he turned back to the engaged couple, “I don’t doubt your expertise on the subject of-,” he stopped, looking for a polite word.

“Ambushes,” supplied Rodolfo with a feral grin.

“Ambushes,” the professor graciously accepted the help, “But do you want to get more of my colleagues involved?”

“More?”  Rodolpho looked around the room sceptically.

“These are a few of my own students plus some curating experts,” Professor Verita said dismissively.  “I’m talking about more professors from different schools.”  He paused, “Pure historians, political scientists, anyone at all with a theory on Pietro IV and condottori will want to come and look.  Some of them,” he gave his words significance, “Can pull rank on me.”

“As the owners without let or hindrance,” Rodolfo smiled, “We can pull rank on all of you.  Why don’t we talk terms?”

“Of course, Don Rodolfo.”  Professor Verita smiled amiably.  “I am happy to do so.”

“Rodolfo,” Astanthe tugged at his sleeve, “Can we talk for a moment in the next room, first.”

He looked down at her, a little surprised.  “Of course, my dear.”  He looked back at the other man.  “Professor, excuse us for a moment please.”

“Of course.”  The professor smiled indulgently.

A few moments later in the ballroom next door Rodolfo asked, “Well?  The professor may feel you’ve given him the advantage by pulling me away just as we were about to start negotiations.”

“Tell him I wanted to make sure they’re going to bring their equipment in through the front door and not through my kitchen.  Brush it off as my foible if you have to.”  She looked apologetic and added softly, “I’m sorry if you feel I’ve made you lose face in front of the professor but,” her voice firmed, “I’ve listened to a few years’ of Skein’s dinner table conversation now.  He says that the public museums and art galleries always try to get the householder to pay all their expenses in cases like this.”  Rodolfo’s face sharpened with interest.  “We want the top layer of plaster to come off to see how much of the fresco is still there and if it can be made presentable we’ll want it restored in situ, right?”

“I agree,” he nodded, “I don’t think we should pay for the time of the professor’s PhD students or for any other professors who come to research their theories.”

“On the other hand,” she suggested, “We don’t charge them rent, they don’t take over my kitchen, plus they stock the bathroom they use and clean it.”

“And we set their working hours,” Rodolfo grinned, “Not on weekends, not after five in the evening and not before nine in the morning.”

“And not this Friday at all!”  Astanthe grabbed his lapels and pulled on them, then kissed him firmly when he leant forward in response.

“Definitely not.”  He kissed her back for a few moments then they broke apart and he offered her his arm.  “Shall we?”

She took it and smiled up at him, “Definitely.”

They swept back into the dining room.  “Professor.”  Rodolfo’s voice echoed in the room and everyone looked at him.  “Interesting acoustics,” he muttered in an aside to Astanthe and then said to the Professor who was walking over to them, “Let’s start with your working hours.”

The Importance of Frescos

This carries on from Fresco.


“Domestic frescos are so rare,” Professor Verita explained.  “People who had enough money sponsored works in churches or on civic projects, for the prestige.  They only spent this sort of money at home if they entertained a lot for business or politics.  Frankly,” he gave an expressive shrug and hand gesture, “I’ll be doing well to limit the involvement of the History and Art faculties to this.  It doesn’t help,” he added darkly, “That in the late 1800s anyone who had money plastered over their frescos and redecorated in white and gold.”

“We can hope,” added one of the earnest young people, a red haired girl in jeans and a checked shirt, “That no-one used a sledge hammer here, the way they did in the Palazzo Borghese in Fossi Piceno.  If the picture is intact we could learn a lot about the man who built this house.”  She smiled at Rodolfo and Astanthe as if she were offering them a treat.

“I already know as much as I need to about the mind of the man who built this house,” Rodolfo said suppressingly, “He built his foyer to be a killing zone with a false door to give the illusion of an easier way out of the trap.”

“Rubia!”  Professor Verita spoke sharply to the student, “Don’t repeat that to anyone yet.  Don Rodolfo,” he turned back to the engaged couple, “I don’t doubt your expertise on the subject of-,” he stopped, looking for a polite word.

“Ambushes,” supplied Rodolfo with a feral grin.

“Ambushes,” the professor graciously accepted the help, “But do you want to get more of my colleagues involved?”

“More?”  Rodolpho looked around the room sceptically.

“These are a few of my own students plus some curating experts,” Professor Verita said dismissively.  “I’m talking about more professors from different schools.”  He paused, “Pure historians, political scientists, anyone at all with a theory on Pietro IV and condottori will want to come and look.  Some of them,” he gave his words significance, “Can pull rank on me.”

“As the owners without let or hindrance,” Rodolfo smiled, “We can pull rank on all of you.  Why don’t we talk terms?”

“Of course, Don Rodolfo.”  Professor Verita smiled amiably.  “I am happy to do so.”

“Rodolfo,” Astanthe tugged at his sleeve, “Can we talk for a moment in the next room, first.”

He looked down at her, a little surprised.  “Of course, my dear.”  He looked back at the other man.  “Professor, excuse us for a moment please.”

“Of course.”  The professor smiled indulgently.

A few moments later in the ballroom next door Rodolfo asked, “Well?  The professor may feel you’ve given him the advantage by pulling me away just as we were about to start negotiations.”

“Tell him I wanted to make sure they’re going to bring their equipment in through the front door and not through my kitchen.  Brush it off as my foible if you have to.”  She looked apologetic and added softly, “I’m sorry if you feel I’ve made you lose face in front of the professor but,” her voice firmed, “I’ve listened to a few years’ of Skein’s dinner table conversation now.  He says that the public museums and art galleries always try to get the householder to pay all their expenses in cases like this.”  Rodolfo’s face sharpened with interest.  “We want the top layer of plaster to come off to see how much of the fresco is still there and if it can be made presentable we’ll want it restored in situ, right?”

“I agree,” he nodded, “I don’t think we should pay for the time of the professor’s PhD students or for any other professors who come to research their theories.”

“On the other hand,” she suggested, “We don’t charge them rent, they don’t take over my kitchen, plus they stock the bathroom they use and clean it.”

“And we set their working hours,” Rodolfo grinned, “Not on weekends, not after five in the evening and not before nine in the morning.”

“And not this Friday at all!”  Astanthe grabbed his lapels and pulled on them, then kissed him firmly when he leant forward in response.

“Definitely not.”  He kissed her back for a few moments then they broke apart and he offered her his arm.  “Shall we?”

She took it and smiled up at him, “Definitely.”

They swept back into the dining room.  “Professor.”  Rodolfo’s voice echoed in the room and everyone looked at him.  “Interesting acoustics,” he muttered in an aside to Astanthe and then said to the Professor who was walking over to them, “Let’s start with your working hours.”