The administration of the University of St Lucida was conducted in a grand building just off the Plaza of Equals. The motifs here hearkened to a Baglioni-era break-through in astronomical science, an age when menial labor came cheap and was carried out with honor and spirit. Comets, stars, tiny orbs, curious bodies belted with light, all circled in whites and yellows on the red-brick mozaic of the Plaza, eddying in a path that ran up to the main steps and continued onto the frescoes of the Central Office as if flung through the intervening air. Most of the original work was two hundred years old, laid by artisans who, in their time, must have taken pride in honoring the King and the Holy Mother. These craftsmen of yore would no doubt have been disappointed to find that the packaging, as it were, no longer matched the contents -- or so it seemed to Lavinia Perregia as she stood making her case in an audience-room just down a dim little hallway from the Office foyer.

The esteemed representative of the Board preferred to sit, so as to regard Perregia and the room's perilously low ceiling from a more optimistic angle. He removed his pince-nez and swilled it in the water-glass on his desk with an air of deliberation.

"That's preposterous," he said. "Where is the-- ah, there we go. Where is the precedent?"

He fished for the pince-nez and set to wiping its lenses on the linen lapel of a suit that must have once had the color and sheen of a fresh eggplant. His wrinkled, cast-off robes draped on the slant of an open window, performing the dual duty of keeping out the sun and saving the Bursar the total of another coat-rack.

"The College was renamed in the thirties, Sir," said Perregia. "And before that, under Ottavio VII. It was originally named after Saint Latha. There was a commercial conflict, I think, with Latha Soap Company, but--"

"Yes, yes, forty years ago the Women's College was the Ladies' College," said the representative, sounding as if he really hoped the Women were happy about their evolution. "What next? Never satisfied, are you?"

"The consensus, Sir, is that Latha, being the original, is the more fitting name for our-- for this particular institution."

The representative replaced his pince-nez and peered through it at his desktop, stained and spread with Perregia's credential file and a corresponding petition. Satisfied with his enhanced ability to condemn both sets of documents, he failed to sign the latter. In the margins of the file, he jotted "obstreperous," finishing the note with a little caricature of a baleful face.

He said, "The name of the Women's College is just so, ah--"

"Descriptive?"

"Descriptive. As such, I see no reason to linger any further on your institution, particular or not. Your request will be reviewed and you shall be notified, Miss."

"Maestra," said Perregia obstreperously. She could hear her speech slipping into the cadences of her frostbitten homeland, the one she left so many years ago in hopes of making headway in the world of her peers. But she had known even then that, headway or no, she would have to wait to change it. "Don't bother about that reply. Missive paper is expensive. As you would know."

On the painted tile of the foyer, a spilled a bottle of fruit juice lay growing sticky and pungent in the midday heat. Perregia stepped around it, holding up her skirt, comforting herself with the surety that the Baglioni astronomers, too, had once done battle with recidivism, and won. Well -- some had lost their heads in the process, but bullheadedness always did bring out the strangest passions in those on its receiving end. Perregia walked out across the Plaza of Equals and its homage to conscientious objection, resolving to keep up her own.

Following adesso's lead on this! And mumumugen's OC Questionnaire. Turned out to be a super helpful exercise, because I rarely think about these two beyond their basic plot arcs.

This came out kinda long-winded. Gj.

Oh, and the antagonist? Alex Vero. He should have a special questionnaire all of his own one day. I love that dude, he gets all the best lines. Frat boy posturing and hookers, that's Vero's bag. The villain, otoh, is a one-armed dictator named Victor Copol. Can't blame him, his job is so very challenging, and he's got a family up North to provide for. Copol is also the only completely dedicated, badass, and competent character in all this. Besides Lavinia Perregia, of course, who is the voice of reason, not a villain. Still, could have your nose to the floor if she felt like it.


( ffff )

More from Conversations With the Archipelago, or The Big Book of Bad Decisions.

( 'If we do that he has won.' )

From a longer thing about the tourist industry, aqueducts, bicycle thieves, Prospero the Illusionist, and death threats. If Miro were a dog breed she would be one of those tiny Pomeranians who believe they are big as bears and maul your ankles and give you a crippling bacterial infection.

( Term fiscals loomed. )

Miro had a case of the superaids, but then.

( terrible. )

A couple of unfinished, throwaway pieces for Miro and G Arneri, each having bad days some years before present. Will likely finish the first one. It has potential, if only for minor characters Jean and Sophia who I am suddenly pretty sad will not be appearing in the main story.


***

( GASPARD )

***

( MIRO )

Theresa Andersson just about seals my music wishes for this story! There is something very chinoiserie about her melodies, a well-crafted yet unplaceable foreigness of antiquity and fable. Nice stuff. Add a dash more Europe and we got a deal.

Theresa Andersson - Innan Du Gar

Eree, you posted Detektivbyran a few weeks back, which reminded me how much I like Dosh's "Hit and Pearle," which is basically 1930s magic to Byran's 1890s magic.

Dosh - Hit and Pearle

The current, Archipelago-Colonial (ArCol??) educational system is pretty typical and a couple of centuries old, employing 10 grade levels based on comprehension rather than age. Despite the accessibility of basic education, tutors and special academies are obvs. favored by whomever can afford them. The recent intrusion of Northern socialism has muddled the system by standardizing curriculums, requiring public lyseum diplomas, and nationalizing every institution of learning except the University, which retains a tight truce between chaired officials of the Board and the Bureau of Education.

Here's a typical education for a member of the upper-middle class like Gaspard Ippolito Arneri:

nanny/governess preschooling; 0 -- 6 years (age always approximate)
Every self-respecting family employs glorified babysitters to teach their unruly children why eating vegetables = good and touching hot stovetops = bad. Often retained through primary school. Depending on the prestige of their primer, kids might be expected to know some letters and etiquette by the time they enter school. (This is supposedly Miro's job.)

primer; 7 -- 12 years
Public. Required by law to be open to both sexes and free of charge. Some primers are selective and require recommendations to accept children. Occasionally sidestep the financial and gender egalitarianism by coupling with lyseums to produce 10-year boarding programs, hearkening back to the olden days. Required courses in standard (Northern) grammar, arithmetic, histories, and basic biologies. Occasional courses in home-arts, etc. (Schools called "Short" primers charge some money for a clipped, three-year curriculum, doubling as craft schools focusing on stuff like woodwork, needlework, and tally maths.)

lyseum; 12 -- 17 years (also called "academies", in the Northern style)
Boarding-type, almost without exception. Not free. Often located overseas; prestigious Southern and Northern academies accept international applicants. Separate lyseums for boys and girls. Rarely attended by the craft and lower classes; the former go on to actual craft schools. Each lyseum is distinguished by a unique uniform, because uniforms are awesome. Required courses in literatures, standard writing, algebra and higher maths, histories, biologies, and chemic. Additional courses may include studio arts, equitation, gardening, sailing, and kitchen arts. Diplomas dependent on the INAC exam, which every student must pass to graduate.

After lyseum, many young adults (age of majority is 17) either go to work or live it up being idle and rich, though it is increasingly reputable to attend St Lucida or its sister-Universities overseas. Attendance is furthermore practically required if one is either going into teaching/research, or into the general intelligentsia. University supports 3 undergraduate years, following which one may either take off with due credentials or apply to a fellowship. Many fellows start out as research aides and drudge under the Maestral yoke until they themselves become eligible for fancy tenure, usually after ten years of teaching.

Of people not speaking english at all lolololetc

If this ever comes up, which it won't, Victor Copol makes hard Rs, the locals are non-rhotic semi-caribbean, and Arneri & Co. at St Lucida classily say the idearrrrrof it. Miro might flap-roll Rs in a decidedly japanese fashion, if only because I suspect the "ro" in her name is pronounced like the "ro" in "Sapporo".

Miro made camp beneath the claw-footed dining table, unaccustomed to high ceilings and the acrophobia of beds. "Like a dog," commented Arneri, arguing that she should feel ashamed.

Curled under the mahogany tabletop, Miro rubbed the knuckles of a carpal larger than her entire hand. "Your table has dog legs." As if he had made a compliment. "It is very beautiful."

They were a lion's, but Arneri did not feel like describing sculptural mimesis for the benefit of someone who chose to live on his floor. "And what do you make of that?" Miro looked along his pointing finger to the one-armed couch, which had served as a respite for bleary nights until Arneri ran out of shelves.

"A place to keep books. I know about furniture."

Arneri was already late for his appointment with Maestro Swift, whom he intended to ask about certain pig-headed customs of the Ama. "If you mean to sleep on my floor you should start by sleeping," he told his guest, aware that he had lost another round.

The North's most treacherous gift to the city was not the motor-car, though that triumph of modernity certainly claimed its share of pedestrian and property casualties. Nor was it the mass-produced cigarette, whose chemic caused alarming coughs; nor the colored nail-lacquer that bruised the cuticle; nor the sudden ubiquity of damningly incriminating photostills; nor the high-speed loom that relished fingers even as it encouraged overseers to double shifts and raise quotas. No, the most dangerous addition to city emporiums was a tin box roughly three hands square, with a toothy clamp that bit generators to heat a special kettle that perched atop the little stove like a fat, pyromanic hen. In the first year of its invasion, the box thoroughly confounded the fire brigades, whose ranks were just recovering from a period when candles were the vogue of interior lighting. When the city's industrialists proposed a law forbidding its use in offices, the box took to hiding in private closets, behind potted palms, and most popularly under the desks of employees like Mrs. Nora Tusori, who worked in the Interior Bureau and liked a hot drink as much as any typist.

That is not to say that Mrs. Tusori was frivolous. Her sveglia was unfailingly wound to match the fifth bell of Torre Optima, ensuring that she woke in plenty of time to iron a blouse and make an according selection from her three jackets -- blue, gray, mustard -- to mist with rosewater. She did this before balancing on the kitchen sill to snare mangoes with a long, prehensile contraption her brother-in-law proudly dubbed the "Pavel", but after boiling coffee and sweeping yesterday's dust from the floor. Once dressed, Mrs. Tusori sliced the fruit, covered the coffee, pinched her cheeks in the mirror, and knocked on both bedroom doors to apprise the men of her house that the orb had risen. Mrs. Tusori carried out these duties every morning except Lucsday and Privday, when she slept late and rolled over to wake her husband with an equitable kiss over each eyelid. On Privday too she made cakes like clouds wrapped in taffeta, or twists flavored with coriander and honey, or spiced jam from the spoils of the "Pavel", but she never used the high-end flour and refused to budget Pavel Tusori's pub forums, no matter how nicely he asked.


*

Obvs. everyone here drinks turkish-style coffee, typically flavored with cardamom and often achieving the consistency of Blackstrap molasses.

( italics italics italics italics )


I have had it with these language italics.

No one will ever speak anything ever again.

I am writing too many notes when I should be just writing. Miro and Clark are really difficult to pin down in this scene, motivationally speaking;;; And they keep switching languages. Miro is especially guilty of this, thickening her dialect and vocabulary in Ra/Ra-i-a-a (<-- idek, notes later) until I am writing one set of dialogue without contractions, another set that feels like a translation, and another set still in Clark's jargon of fancy english + less savory stuff she picked up. Clark is down in the dumps on a Clark scale of being down in the dumps, which means Clark is being silly and flippant and putting on a brave face for Miro, who is helping Clark put on a brave face while wishing she were a more capable role model; Miro knows how Clark dreams of going to school, etc. etc. Meanwhile, I need to get this scene from a to b with a minimum of words!

( So, stray notes on stuff I just now made up, WHITEY OPINIONS: )

I imagine the City feels a lot like Naples, or Sorrento. Coats-of-arms over every door. Lots of old money here:







Obvs. there's hobos and graffiti some places, too!

( + 9000 photos! )

This is what I need to find: a solid source on the Antilles. Have unconsciously set sff story in partially vaguely sort of fake Puerto Rico, down to the the hilly terrain and the crumbling grandeur of old, Victorian house facades. Oh -- and duh, Caribbean seafaring minus pirate glamour plus mercantile diplomacy. Have not read much of this sort of sff setting, though admittedly am not widely read;;;. Oh, and let's not forget indigenous persecution, slavery, and revolutionary bloodbaths! All told with a fable's levity, granted, as am unequipped to produce uninformed, un-pc account of human injustice and racial strife! :C

Setting is actually a cross between Sicily/Greece/Mediterranean (about which I know very little) and a Cuban tropic (about which I know nothing), with both sets of political problems thrown into the tank and stirred. Marxism! Warring factions! A royal lineage! The military police are called carabinieri! I am insulting many cultures. In fact am a blink away from setting narrative in actual/quasi- history, as narrative is an updated Regency scenario with mere touches of magical realism.

( things about puerto rico )

The word "apocryphal" (ἀπόκρυφος) was first applied, in a positive sense, to writings which were kept secret because they were the vehicles of esoteric knowledge considered too profound or too sacred to be disclosed to anyone other than the initiated. ~

Biblical connotations are only vaguely cromulent, but "apocryphal books" has a wider semantic range and has been used to describe Shakespeare's lost plays, for instance. Neat term.

*




Am reminded of Andrew Bird's terrific album and the Pornos' "It's Only Divine Right" --

Here's Leda in her white glory,
All her backstory has been wiped clean:
Just another apocryphal mess.

No idea what the letters actually look like. I imagine a cross between greek and cyrillic. I kind of want to draw them suddenly ffffff. The dialect of the colonies is locally called "Archipelago Colonial" or simply "Colonial". It is very similar to that of the North. There is also Ra, or Ra-ii-a-a, or "Aman", i.e. the language of the indigenous Ama people.

Being a corruption, the Archipelago Colonial alphabet has four fewer letters (26) than its Northern original (30), which includes an additional Epsilon Dash (a "yo" sound), a Sigma Dash (a "tche" sound), and is modified by hard and soft signs. Northern accents are rhotic and sound lispy. Northerners find it funny and/or irritating when important correspondence arrives apparently misspelled.

( alphabets )


*


The year is a little over 360 days, very convenient. Northern datekeeping is pretty typical, notated day/month/year (so European!). The Archipelago system, on the other hand, dispenses with months entirely. It breaks the year into four seasons -- Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter (obvs.) -- each containing ten weeks of nine days. Since the Archipelago colonies have a nine-saint pantheon, each weekday bears the name of a saint. 6.5 of these are working days, while 2.5 are off-days. There is also an unspecified leap period used to celebrate the feast of the hallow mother (i.e. the New Year) and to sober up sufficiently. Dates are notated season/week/day.

( 8 saints are named after fonts, one after a nymph )


Still can't decide whether I should keep naming locations after fonts or whether I should pretentiously switch to persons of Greek Myth. Weren't there already convincing places called Orpheus and Persephone* somewhere? Is it not nicer to live in New Courier.

* Firefly.

Mood music, of a kind ~

The Ramirez Bros. - Sizzlin'
Stereolab - Three Women
Destroyer - Your Blood
St. Vincent - Paris is Burning
My Brightest Diamond - Apples (Son Lux Remix)

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