[R8, Mid-Morning] You Can’t Print Money, Yet [Gelila]

unwanderinggirl

The Way of the Book had many narrow, winding side streets that led deeper into the less traveled, less welcoming sections of the Turtle. Ribbon Street was right off of the Way, a practically confining, winding uphill climb that was well-shaded by the tall buildings that made it into an alley. Laundry lines, a smattering of phosphor lanterns, and a few window boxes of flowers gave the claustrophobic path a little bit of friendliness to it, and if the day was a good one, the alley was both cooler than the main road and even had an occasional breeze.

The Between Hours Press was tucked away a few minutes’ walk up Ribbon Street, a medium-sized corner building that had a large hand-painted sign and an obvious residence above the shop below. It wasn't necessarily hard to find, but it wasn't easy either. Those who were looking for it first had to leave the Way of the Book itself, and then they had to be willing to climb through the narrow alley and keep an eye out for the sign. Diligent search parties were rewarded by a very non-descript baked clay building, the first floor painted a cayenne color while the rest of the clay walls reaching upward were dull beige like so many other structures in the alley. Both sides of the building had large, round windows that were open to the breeze today on the first floor, fluttering a few loose papers and allowing the print shop that sprawled the entire ground floor to be a temperature that was a little below unbearable. The second floor had a balcony, a few other windows, and most likely access to the roof. It was hard to tell without being inside, however.

Iyoas was hard at work wrapping up the artwork for another large political poster order, perched precariously over a three-foot wide lithography stone, thick grease pencil in one hand, another tucked behind his ear, and three more of varying thicknesses scattered about the stone itself. One leg up on the table itself while he stood on a squat little stool, the tall oshoor was leaning over to add some detail to the shadows of the campaign slogan near the top of the stone, carefully adding delicate linework while beads of mid-morning sweat ran down his freckled, shirtless back underneath the ties of his apron. He’d discarded his soaked shirt hours ago, afraid that any excess moisture would ruin his drawing in grease crayon onto the surface of his stone. His long, strawberry blond locks were wrapped high on his head in a colorful scarf to keep them out of his way and to keep too much sweat from pouring off his forehead onto his work.

He was humming to himself some rather saucy sea tune he’d picked up at one of the bars on the port, lagoon blue eyes narrowed at his typography in very obvious focus.

Consumed by his project at hand, the half-blooded bookbinder would hardly have noticed anyone entering his shop. While he thankfully had decided to put little brass chimes on the door to get his attention, and while guests had to walk down into the wide, open shop itself full of two large lithography presses, two smaller printing presses, a dizzying array of cabinets full of type and files full of paper, and a large central work area where he was currently drawing at, it was still often not enough to completely get Iyoas’ attention, especially when he had deadlines to meet.

So many flooding politicians had dragged their feet this year getting their orders in on time, and this made the printmaker especially grumpy. It was easy to blame Anaxi problems or possibly the currency crisis, but the truth was he was just certain politicians had no idea how much time and work it really took to get their posters ready to paste indiscriminately on any wall possible for Poster Day.

Rush

Gelila had only visited the Turtle a few times in her twenty one years of life. Once, as a child she accompanied her father to the imbali's island home to make a special delivery. Another, time as a teenager up to no good. She'd changed a lot since those days, but it seemed the Turtle did not. The home of the traditional imbali looked as it did the first time she'd set foot on the island. Though, of course, everything seemed a bit smaller. 

She had crossed over from one of three bridges, the closest to the Assembly. Passing through the Porthouse Gate, she was reminded of her childhood among the spices. Her nose was bombarded with scents from across Vita, but she immediately could identify the smells of the Muluku Islands. The scents made her think of a life that could have been if it wasn't for the Anaxi. A life among the spices, among her family. She could have been the head of the family business if she had not been so offended by the pale visitors to her country. No, she thought to herself, I am involved in politics for a reason. For my people.

After brushing aside her thoughts, she made her way towards what the locals called The Way of the Book. She was supposed to meet a Iyous Tar'iku Esef Roh for Msrah. This was the man that he had decided would do a set of four large posters to hang about The Gripe. Some imbali that he'd met on the cableways. Gelila would have gone with someone more well known, but who was she to judge her boss' decision? 

So here she was standing outside a shop called Between Hours Press. Something was stopping her from going in. Some weird feeling in her gut. It seemed like her field was getting anxious or something like that. She wasn't surprised though, she was surrounded on all sides imbali. Putting aside the feelings, she walked through the doorway.

"Hello? I'm here on behalf of Msrah Mi Mulugeta."

unwanderinggirl

His linework was satisfactory, and he finally felt comfortable with the level of care he'd put into cleaning up the shadows of the headline text. It would be up to his apprentice to properly etch the plate, provided he’d actually paid attention when they went over the process. He was just about to call the boy down to discuss the details when someone entered his shop instead.

The tall printmaker sighed at the sound of his own door chimes, blinking down at his pencil marks for more time than was arguably polite. It took a few moments to shift his focus before he could speak up to answer the woman using Msrah’s name. Putting down his grease pencils, Iyoas didn’t bother to remove his glasses as he stepped away from the work table, wiping his hands on his apron. He turned and offered Gelila what could only be considered a polite smile, well-practiced for visitors to both his shop and the Turtle in general. It was genuine, and the half-blood had spent much of his life perfecting the warmth of it for customers. Not that most of them often returned the sentiment.

It would have been obvious to Gelila that Iyoas was of mixed heritage, all creamed coffee skin and subtle freckles, though in all honesty, that was the least of her worries in his opinion. He was far enough away that she couldn’t possibly notice his field, and he had little interest in summoning his apprentice to add to the confusion.

This was a business conversation, not a cultural one.

For the moment, anyway.

“Ayah. Ma’ralio, esteemed assistant of Msrah Mi Mulugeta.” The bookbinder bobbed his head at customarily polite bowing sort of levels, pausing as he picked his way from one corner of the workshop toward the more customer-friendly front entrance, which did have a little counter as well as a small corner with a low table and floor cushions for the rare meeting with clients, “I’m Iyoas Tar'iku Esef Roh, and I trust you didn’t have too much trouble finding your way here?”

He stopped at the small countertop that separated his workspace from his more formal greeting space, leaning against it while lingering in his comfort zone. Everyone had expectations when coming to the Turtle, and Iyoas was aware that he existed outside of them, field far from impotent or non-existent like his imbali peers and neighbors.

“You are here to settle the terms of his printing request—Councillor Mulugeta’s desire for four large posters. Can I offer you tea or coffee while you are my guest this morning?”

Rush

Gelila was taken aback by the bookbinder's appearance. His mocha skin and freckles were the last thing she expected to see on the Turtle. All his features pointed to one thing: Hessian. What was he doing here? Living the life of an imbali in the capital city of Mugroba. She slowly walked closer to him, quite confused. Upon entering his general vicinity, another flag went up around her. She could feel a field. It was small, but it wasn't so small as to be a wicks. Was she dealing with a Hessian galdor for a Bull Elephant councilor's posters? 

She did not sit. In fact, she could feel the anger boiling up inside her. First it formed deep in the stomach, red hot. Then it slowly shot its way up her torso and too her throat. She tried to swallow it back down but couldn't. She wasn't necessarily angry at the printer. It was the whole situation. Was this some kind of test? Had Msrah only sent her out here to see how she handled foreigners? To prove she truly was a Bull Elephant? Maybe the whole point was to see how she reacted to surprises. 

"Epa'ma, I believe there might be some mistake. I was expecting a Mugrobi imbali," she said, debating turning and just walking out. Fortunately for her, the mind of a businessman she inherited from her parents kicked in. As she studied his features more closely, as if judging the quality of premium spices, she realized that his features didn't read wholly Hessian. She saw some qualities that could have been inherited from a Mugrobi mother or father. She did not say anything though. She wanted to see if her first instinct was correct. 

unwanderinggirl

Mistake, indeed. The tall half-blood laughed, coarse and calloused, dismissing her confusion without any semblance of humor in his tone. He rolled his lagoon blue eyes and reached up with ink-smudged fingers to remove his glasses and set them on the countertop that separated him from Gelila before spreading his dirty palms on the worn wood, leaning over to return the younger woman’s studious stare. She was young, that much was obvious, and perhaps fresh in her position, overly eager to please her new master politician. He made a show of enjoying her discomfort in his presence by letting his gaze linger for far too long in silence.

There was always that one flooding customer who turned all his hard work sour, like a moldy date left for the last bite of dessert. Drown all the politicians and their godsbedamned posters. It was a cruel joke they paid so well. Flooding Elephants--would they even know what a real Mugrobi was if one bit them in the ass? 

Iyoas' very real field bristled with his obvious lack of amusement, heavier than it had perhaps seemed at first. The oshoor simply wore his magical nature in an indescribably, uncomfortably, wildly different way than herself.

“My jura and his jura and his jura’na’jura lived and died on the Turtle here where the blessed and life-giving three rivers of Mugroba meet in our lovely expanse of a city called Thul’Ka. Epa’ma for offending your Bull Elephant sensibilities, but my jura simply chose to settle down a runaway Anaxi passive well over three decades ago because it suited him to do so. If the plague hadn't left me owner of this shop, I'd gladly let you waste his time instead of mine. I’m no less imbali by your laws than anyone else on this island, no matter what you may assume you see before you.” Legally speaking his words were the uncomfortable truth: he was just another imbala, no matter what the mona that clung to his person screamed of his genetics. His voice was incredibly deadpan, as if he had repeated these same words over and over again countless times to countless customers.

He had.

Fingers curled into the rough wood of his counter top, dirty nails gouging faint lines as he found somewhere else to channel his frustration. A godsend of a breeze exhaled through the open windows of his shop as if on cue, rustling the dizzying array of drying posters from a variety of political parties that hung from his ceiling to dry, banners for causes he cared nothing about.

“Poa’na, in case you didn’t know, it is the 8th of Roalis and I am very, very busy,” The tall printmaker set his features into a distant expression though he spoke to Gelila with a softer tone, as if he was speaking to a child and not an arata woman. Their closeness would allow the politician's assistant an unasked for view into the unflattering effects of exhaustion on Iyoas' otherwise unique features: dark circles under his eyes spoke volumes about just how little sleep he'd been existing on for days at a time, haggard lines of forced wakefulness etched into his skin by sweat and ink and grease, “If your esteemed counsellor whom you are so dutifully representing to me this fine morning, Msrah Mi Mulugeta, who chooses to dredge his votes up from the very sludge of The Gripe mind you, took no issue with me for his last-minute printing desires, then I suggest you learn to respect his decisions before you cost him the very posters he is hoping for. You do his ohante disservice by coming into my shop and questioning my heritage instead of examining my craftsmanship.”

No one ever cared to think that maybe, just maybe, he had ohante of his own. It would be, of course, a cultural impossibility by most standards, but Iyoas only saw it as an ignorant, purposefully perpetuated lie.

“You’ll be hard-pressed to find someone else willing to do Mi Mulugeta’s business with but a handful of days before Poster Day. Should I recommend some other printers for you to take the rest of the morning to find or would you like to discuss his business here instead?”

Rush

She had offended him. She had offended him and put her political career on the line just because she assumed. It all came rushing back to her. The faces her parents gave her when she thought she would be a better politician than spice merchant. The faces the Anaxi students made at her when she insulted them. Was she all wrong? Why was this imbala making her feel this.way? Making her question her life choices. To be honest, he had a way with words. 

Her face changed, contorting into a frown. She felt like a child again. Like she was being chastised by her parents for running amok in the house. Being mocked by her Anaxi peers in school. She was getting rushed with a wave of sickness. She needed to sit down. She half sat, half fell down into the cushions that the imbala presented to her before he gravely insulted her. 

She began looking around the obviously well used print shop. It was as Mugrobi as anything she had seen before. She sat on traditional Mugrobi cushions, in front of a traditional Mugrobi table.The art on the walls looked nothing like anything from Hesse or Anaxas. This man as much of a Mugrobi as she was. 

"Epa'ma. Epa'ma. I have shamed myself and my employer," she said sincerely. "I have shamed my juela and jara. Could you find it in your heart to forgive me?"

unwanderinggirl

“Bajea!” Iyoas exhaled the word of surprise through his teeth, raising a hand as if caught off-guard. Well, he was. Disarmed, slightly annoyed, and so flooding tired. This was obviously why politics was not a place for women, if they all cowered in the face of resistance. New to her position, indeed, this girl must be to whither and retreat before his well-rehearsed callousness like fresh fruit under the mid-day desert sun. Hard-heartedness was a necessary defense for his social position. Had it been in the tall printmaker’s nature to feel guilt or remorse, he might have felt a flutter through his thoughts. But, he didn’t. He struggled to feel shame enough as it was.

Unfortunately, he could only suspect Msrah Mi Mulugeta’s assistant of lying.

No arati apologized to an oshoor.

He considered telling her to buck up, to grow a pair, to hurry up and find her thick skin before the Argument tore her to pieces and tossed her into the wind like so much chaff during the harvest. Because they would. His life was hard, but he didn't put it on display like a politician.

Instead, the tall half-blood simply slipped away from his counter and wandered to the back of his shop to fetch some tea without responding, leaving Gelila wordlessly to her own thoughts all apologetic on his cushions. He didn’t even feel it necessary to voice his forgiveness, so strong was his disbelief in any honesty on her part. He just hissed another breath and walked away, lopsided smirk creasing into his exhausted features once his back was turned. Maybe he should just let her deal with Tendaji. The boy was all Mugrobi and just as timid.

It was surely a joke. Or worse, a ploy to save some precious politician’s wallet from being emptied into his hands.

Iyoas was gone for quite some time, returning with a lacquered tray carrying a squat iron teapot, two cups, and the heady smell of spices in a combination only possible on the Turtle. He set the tray on the low table by the sitting area and began preparing the tea, not looking at Gelila right away as he did so. He might as well level the playing field to make her feel better,

“I don’t have a heart. Did your esteemed superior not tell you I’m oshoor? There’s no need to beg forgiveness from someone so wretched as myself.” He finally replied to the younger woman with a smile that was too warm for the words that came from his lips. Surely he only had the illusion of an advantage over the situation, and he anticipated the tide shifting against him at any moment, as it usually did, “Don’t debase yourself in somewhere so humble as a printshop on the Turtle, poa’na of Elephants.”

Iyoas fought back a yawn, knowing that once he sat down his body would yearn to sleep instead of talk. He wasn’t sure how many houses he’d been awake, and his apprentice should be back soon enough with more paper and fresh pigments to mix ink, “Now, no more whimpering over your family. You are the voice of Msrah Mi Mulugeta this afternoon. Does he still want his impressively large posters?”

Rush

The oshoor's words echoed in her head. She was Msrah's voice today and she would be his voice many times in the future. Learning to speak with his authority and bravado would be challenging, but she gladly accepted the challenge. Letting out a long sigh and regaining her composure, she stared into this man's eyes. She would be Msrah Mi Mulugeta this afternoon.

"You're right. And yes, he still wants those impressively," she put as much emphasis on the word as possible, "large posters." She smirked slightly. "He said you proved your worth and that you might be the best in the business." Glancing around the shop, she nodded, taking everything in. "It seems you have the workshop of a master print maker and, to be honest, I am impressed with the work I've seen. But we can't break the bank with buying these posters. It's just four."

Msrah had counselled her before her visit to the Turtle. With his usual gestures and wide grin, he told her how to handle herself in the den of the imbali and specifically in front of the print maker. She had already fumbled the beginning of the meeting, but her composure was quickly returning to her. Everything he said was coming back in droves too. 

"So what are we thinking? Do you still think you can handle them?"

unwanderinggirl

((See, I can write short sometimes. Haha. I can!))

Iyoas smirked, knowing full well the young woman had yet to sample the full palette of printmaking talents available at her disposal on the Turtle and elsewhere in Thul’Ka. While he may have considered himself good at what he did, a craftsman surely, he had accepted long ago that there would always be someone better than himself out there somewhere. Probably several someones. What he lacked in talent, he’d decided, he made up for in passion. That was his worth, he supposed, if nothing else. Though, of course, being oshoor made all of those things void and without merit in the eyes of most of society.

“Ea, I can handle them without much difficulty. The challenge will be finding limestone large enough; I will most likely have to print it in sections … though that’s less something you have to worry about and more something to concern myself. It does affect the costs I incur, in terms of supplies, however.” 

The tall half-Mugrobi poured the tea, pausing for a moment in the steam. Drown all the circle at once, he was so tired already. Just a handful of days left before he could sleep, really sleep. He blinked, heavy-lidded, before focusing back on the young aide of Msrah Mi Mulugeta and offering her a hot, fragrant cup first, as was politely acceptable to do, “The paper will come from The Gripe of course; I am friends with some paper mills there that supply me, even on a whim such as this.”

He chuckled, not entirely teasing. Four large posters, only four, surely felt like an expensive whim, but it wasn’t something he felt was beyond a politician to come up with.

“I am sure that your esteemed superior already has a price in mind. Are you waiting to hear mine?”