Paris du Bois

[Mercure]

The letter had been a work of instrumented art. The paper quality was very poor, and for that he was sorry, but at least the content had been eloquent enough and he had heard that Americans cared a great deal about such things.

It was a foolish indulgence, to his mind. At home if you wanted to say something you said it and were all the better for it. Maybe you added a jibe to it, and certainly a few curses were expected, but none of these polite... meanderings that seemed so crucial outside the borders of Quebec.

If it had fallen to him, the man probably would have sent them something of that ilk.

"Okay, so, you tell them I am coming and need a job, yes? I'll be there, oh, maybe in a week if I am sober by then." He'd dictated to Luc in slurred, nearly-undistinguishable French. When he'd woken the next morning (on the bathroom floor in someone's--some maudit bloke, no doubt--empty holiday cabin) the letter had been on the sidetable, weighted down by a tumbler.

Monsieurs et Mesdammes,

I am writing to you regarding a delicate personal issue, one which I have been assured you are well-equipped to provide assistance for...

It was in English and went on for an entire two pages. He'd woken Luc and made him translate it, listening intently to a brief history of his "illness" and then a gracious inquiry about possible employment and his intent to travel into New York on a sightseeing excursion and couldn't they possible arrange a meeting?

After a brief protest about how ridiculously feminine the letter made him sound, he had allowed himself to be convinced that it was just so that he could get a foot in the door.

"After all," Luc shrugged, lighting a cigarette, "Even a school for people like us has standards, oui?"

And so that was how Issachar Aloise came to be outside the gates of Cullen's Institute, a Gauloises dangling from his lips and an 'I-Heart-NY' muscle tee covering his wispy frame. Despite the chill air, the man seemed to be anything but cold.

He studied the exterior warily. Luc's cousin's friend had gone here once, or was enrolled now, or was going to be next term. Something like that. Issachar wasn't suitably convinced that the school was what it was rumoured to be and he was once again grateful that his petite distinction was not immediately visible.

At any rate, he was expected. Patting his pocket to make sure the list of useful English phrases was still there, he started up the walkway and, coming to the door, slapped his palm against it once.

[Veritas]

After what seemed like a longer-than-usual time for a response, the door opened. Henri appeared in a grey sports coat with a white dress shirt that was wanting starch. He leaned lightly against his cane but his demeanor seemed anything but frail. Smelling of aftershave and english cigarettes, he adjusted the glasses on his nose as he regarded the visitor.

"Mister Aloise?" He began in a French accent that had been whittled down by years of living in an anglophone America.

[Mercure]

Issachar had been studying the workings on a large, earthenware pot to the left of the door when it opened. He eased to an upright position and, recognising his surname, nodded.

If he was surprised to hear a recognizable lilt in the man's voice, he didn't show it. "Oui, salut." Issachar held up one finger and pulled the crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket.

With squinted eyes, he studied it. The man appeared to be reading. A brief nod and then he extended a hand. "Welcome to America, bon?"

[Veritas]

Henri stiffened slightly at the sound of the Quebecer's patois, which was always a little off. Nevertheless, he gave an approving nod.

"I do not think you are here for apple pie and baseball."

The joke, in english, flew in the stratosphere somewhere above the young man's head, and Henri gave him a firm handshake, easing the transition by speaking in French.

"My office is a mess. It is brisk but pleasant out. Would you like to walk the campus?"

Henri rapped the masonry of the front steps with his cane, obviously undeterred by the notion of a stroll.

[Mercure]

Issachar was grateful for the use of this native tongue, even if it was far more formal than his basilectal joual. In response to the proposed stroll the man gave a brief nod and a shrug, agreeing pleasantly in the laconic devil-may-care way that was so common to the Montreal working class.

"Sure, hey, why not? I've been on a bus since Champlain/Lacolle." He spoke in a distinct mumble, barely enunciating. The effect was so indistinguishable that anyone not paying attention could passably take the ruffian for a lunatic. It was evidently clear by now that he'd not penned the articulate letter of introduction.

He stepped aside to allow Henri to lead the way. Issachar deftly removed another Gauloises from his pocket and lit it with the one in his mouth, extinguishing the latter with a slow pinch of his index finger and thumb. "How long have you been in the country, then?"

[Veritas]

"Living in America? Ten years."

Relieved to be in the company of a smoker, Henri took a moment to light a Dunhill. He watched a small group of birds feeding near a bare-branched oak across the quad.

"Before this, I worked for the Gendarmerie, in Marseille and the Riviera. That is where I got this."

He gave a light tap to his permanently injured knee with the side of his cane.

[Mercure]

Issachar gave the cane a cursory glance and nodded again. He made a mental note not to play any games with this one.

"Now you teach, is it? At this school. For the... gifted."

[Veritas]

Henri gave a slight nod, exhaling smoke as he replied.

"Among other things, yes. The concept of retirement is absurd. With a bad knee, I was of limited use as an Inspector, so I took a keen interest in my, er, condition. I met Dr. Cullen many years ago on holiday, at a seminar. I saw the writing on the wall, and decided that I was ready for a different career."

The frenchman wasn't aloof to the way that Issachar handled the word 'gifted'.

"Tell me why you're here. Not what was in your letter. Tell me the truth."

[Mercure]

There was a long pause while Issachar smoked and peered past Henri's shoulder at some point in the distance. Then he shrugged. "I need work."

Nothing followed this and it seemed at first take that nothing would. He continued to stare off into the distance, in an unfocused way. It soon became quite clear that his concentration was not absent, merely focused intently elsewhere, as beads of sweat spontaneously began to drip from the man's forehead. His chalky skin became brightly flushed; he looked sunburned.

What light dusting of snow there was on the ground quickly vanished from around his feet, and the revealed grass blackened and curled in a puff. The air smelled softly of singed cotton and burning flesh.

And then, just as abruptly, it ended. Issachar's breath came out in a gasping hiss and he took a step back. The cigarette was gone from his mouth. There was a trail of white blisters along his collarbone. His shirt was tattered.

He very quietly took another cancer stick from the steel holder in his pocket. Once it was lit, he shrugged again.

"I needed a job." He did hedge then, just a little."I'm not very welcome in my country right now and so."

[Veritas]

"Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime."

Henri poked at a clod of turf with his cane, and shifted his weight. A wind came at his back and he flicked the ash into it, carrying it away from him.

"You want work, you can probably find it here. Boring, repetitive, menial, and below your potential. Do that, and you will earn a place to sleep and enough to eat. If that's why you're here, I'll speak to the custodian and you can exist in peace."

The former inspector regarded the Quebecer with a scrutinous expression, finishing his cigarette and grinding it beneath his cane as he let it fall.

[Mercure]

Issachar nodded. A safe bed and full belly were what he'd come for but now his chest, it was aching. He hadn't meant to push it--whatever it was, if it even had a will of it's own--so far.

He didn't like to be studied so and he shifted under the older man's eyes, reminded of Père Leon's diamond-sharp gaze and the many times he'd been cut under it. He got the distinct impression that Henri knew everything about him; could somehow see his forged entry papers, his intellectual shortcomings, his checkered recent-past. It was unnerving.

Issachar motioned lightly with his cigarette to the burned trail where his collar had been. It was so casual, he might have been flicking ash away.

"Some things you teach here... they could help with this, maybe?"

[Veritas]

"We can teach you to fish, yes."

The display of wild potential from the man was disconcerting on the surface, but Henri had seen so many young bucks with the same sense of overwhelmed submission to their 'gifts'. The trouble wasn't explaining it to a mutant, or even getting them to cope. That was similar to teaching a child of the nature of their new world. The trouble was to relate to people on the outside. How do you describe Beethoven to a deaf person?

He looked into the sky, squinting at a bit of sun that peered over a large tree.

"What color is the sky?"

[Mercure]

Que? Issachar wasn't sure what to make of the question; he'd had enough experience with Catholic rule to make him cautious of such seemingly innocuous queries.

"Blue." He glanced upwards.

[Veritas]

"Of course."

Henri continued to look up.

"I will ask you the same question, but I want you to lie to me."

He returned his attention to Issachar, pushing his spectacles up on his nose. His voice sounded somehow different, but almost imperceptibly so.

"What color is the sky?"

Issachar would push against a glacier that was immoveable and inexorable. The truth would always come out.

[Mercure]

Okay, lie. That was a simple, if odd, request. But Issachar was more than happy to oblige; he was rather good at it anyway.

"Okay it's," He briefly flicked through options in his mind and settled on green, " Guh-blue."

It wouldn't come out. Issachar frowned and tried again. "..." The harder he tried to resist honesty, the harder it became to avoid it. He felt everything else being pushed back down his throat.

"Blue. Blue. Blue, damn it!" Irritated, he threw his smoke to the ground. "What's going on, hah? You are doing this?"

[Veritas]

Henri replied with only a cheeky, closed-mouth grin.

"My gift is the truth, as much as yours is to get heated up. You should appreciate your special gift, that is true, but each man is given other gifts, and some are just as unique, although perhaps less likely to be controversial."

Henri offered the young man one of his Dunhill cigarettes.

"I could have bullied your truest intention of coming here from your own lips the moment I met you. But that would be stupid. It would insult you, and you would learn only what you already know in the first place."

[Mercure]

With an almost reluctant reach, Issachar accepted a Dunhill. He didn't light it, nor did he reach for one of his own. He felt a little below the curve.

"And what is that?"

[Veritas]

"That you are here to learn how to fish."

Henri lit his second cigarette, and led the walk again, passing the open-spaced quad.

"Tell me, what did you do before you learned of your ability? Who was Issachar Aloise? You've already met Henri Bertrand, do you think he learned to listen to people only after he could make them tell the truth?"

[Mercure]

Issachar rolled the Dunhill through his fingers, shrugged. "I worked." He paused and pressed the smoke to his palm. When he trotted forward again it was lit, and he inhaled experimentally.

"For the church when I was a boy, and then odd labour later on. And I fought. You know, for the money." He feigned a few jabs. "There's more to be made in the fights than lumberyards, but they are not so often; in Quebec they are not exactly allowed." A sly grin crawled across Issachar's face.

[Veritas]

"I too was once into this."

Henri mimicked Issachar's jabs, though with only a fraction of the younger man's vigor.

"Gendarmerie were no country policemen. We took care of ourselves, you know. Maybe I could take you, if I were not so old now."

Henri assumed the best approximation of a cocksure stance and a smirk before shrugging at the silliness of it. Getting back to the discussion at hand, he continued.

"Most people come here, expecting to learn how to use their powers. How to control them, and how to increase them. Do they learn these things? Sure.

The most important thing you'll learn, if you choose to do it, is to live. If you suddenly find a hammer, you must be careful not to view the world in such a way in which everything begins to look like a nail."

Henri scratched his head as he looked back to the schoolhouse.

"But you aren't interested in all of these words. You're here for work, yes?"

[Mercure]

He followed the man's gaze. "For now. It's enough for now."

[Veritas]

Henri looked back at the young man, and allowed a small smile.

"I will speak to the groundskeeper then. When you're ready for more than work, I will hope you find my office. I'll even teach you enough passable English in the interim to prevent the groundskeeper from chasing you with a broom."

The Frenchman continued to walk the circuit around campus with the Quebecer, pointing out the dormatory wing as they passed by.

"Most of our students live in this on-campus housing. Would you like to see it?"

[Mercure]

"I'm sure I can make him chase me, English or no." Issachar chuckled, appraising the building with interest. It was almost too picturesque, with it's latticed windows and ivy-covered masonry. He'd never been comfortable around such collegiate-like architecture and he shifted a bit.

"Are there girls?"

[Veritas]

Henri looked sidelong at the newcomer with a sharp expression.

"If I say yes, should I expect any trouble of you?"

[Mercure]

Issachar raised his hands in a gesture of innocence. "I'll be a perfect gentleman, you have my word."

He began to walk forward, casting an are-you-coming? look over his shoulder.

[Veritas]

Henri had his suspicions. Issachar was a handsome fellow, and that was always more than enough reason for young girls to break a curfew. Still, he played the game, and followed the Quebecer back to the dormatory, where he picked up the pace to catch the door for the youngster. He'd sooner take a leap off a bridge than let somebody hold the door for him.

"We have a wide assortment of ages represented here, from young children to young adults. Those who have already received a primary education, we offer secondary education to as well. We have many gracious benefactors who help to provide for our students."

They walked down a series of halls, and all around could be seen the bustle of everyday life at Cullens. Most dorm rooms had their doors open or unlocked, and a few students milled about and roved from room to room.

[Mercure]

He followed with growing amazement, meticulously noting everything with a facade of nonchalance for review later. Two young boys rushed by in front of Issachar and he pulled back; one of the boys was talking to his friend while a soccer ball rested unassisted in the air beside him; the friend, a rough-skinned and yellow-eyed lad, noticed the Quebecois' stare and stuck a forked tongue out. Issachar gestured obscenely straightaway and the boys laughed before continuing on.

It was so normal. Each of the students they passed continued with their own business, undisturbed and unashamed of displaying their abilities within sight of the newcomer. Issachar had never before encountered such unnabashed personal comfort.

"I think they are very lucky to have found this place, your students." Issachar remarked, staring into the room of a striking young woman who suddenly became three striking young women, then six. His eyebrows rose.

"My... school, was not like this. You make a home for them here, yes?"

[Batdude]

Before Henri could answer, Marty rounded the corner and skidded to a halt in front of them. He paused, a little out of breath.

"Professor, hey, lucky to run into you."

Luck had nothing to do with it, he'd heard both of them halfway across campus, and he needed something. As an afterthought, he looked at the French-speaking newcomer, smiled, and blinked through his thick glasses.

"Hey newbie...er...bonjour."

[Veritas]

Henri let Marty come, looking aloof and unimpressed. As clever as the demi-bat was, Henri had that plus experience on his side. He already knew about Marty's plan for a keg party, and already knew that Marty was going to try and get permission to take the school van out, presumably on some more noble-minded mission.

"Is it lucky?"

Henri asked in that sort of knowing, feined-ignorant sort of way. Taking the opportunity to derail the demi-bat, Henri looked to Issachar.

"Mr. Aloise, this is Martin Finkelstein."

Looking back to Marty, Henri addressed his student in English.

"Mr. Finkelstein, this is our guest, Issachar Aloise."

He gave each a polite smile, but lingered a bit on Marty, squeezing his shoulder a bit tight in an unspoken warning that he was most certainly watching the troublesome demi-bat, and he'd do well to behave when under the spotlight.

[Mercure]

A delighted grin lit up Issachar's face, destroying any chance of appearing politely unaffected by Finkelstein's mutation. He noted Henri's slight shift in regards to the boy and a little balm of fellowship blossomed in his chest. It took one to know one, as the saying went. He shook his head, a knowing grin tugging at his lips.

Issachar palmed another cigarette and then offered his pack of Gauloises to the boy, oblivious to any decorum which might have restricted another from doing so. "'allo."

Poor lad. Didn't stand a chance against the Monsieur, that much was clear.

[Batdude]

The demi-bat looked to Professor Bertrand with confidence, but inwardly wondered if he was onto him. The man didn't even need to use his truth powers most time to somehow know things.

For now, he played dumb to it.

"Hey, thanks!"

Marty reached out to grab a smoke from the Quebecer.