Chapter4/5 Joric Meets Another Lady

'Somewhere there's music, how faint the tune.' -Hamilton/Lewis

\ 'I'm Always Chasing Rainbows.' -Carroll/McCarthy



STRANGER IN PARADISE                          ...if I stand starry-eyed

that's a danger in paradise

-Shiner/Capek



Monday 9.00pm                                                                                                                                                            Atalanta



The buzzer buzzed, it had to be the candidate date, what was her name again? It began with C. Cathy, Caroline, Clothilda? No, he should have made a note in his directory but he didn't, clot that he was. Half way to the door now – um - maybe it was Connie, Constance, Colleen? He opened the door.

“Hi! I'm Courtney,” said the redhead with emerald eyes, extending a be-ringed hand. He was overwhelmed by her fragrance, What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Courtney, mustn't forget, wasn't there a song about a Courtney? Ah yes, Who's the girl – we all agree? It's Courtney – it's Courtney. But let's not be frivolous, this one's the formal type, thought Joric, taking the proffered hand and analysing the grasp. Firm but not too firm, ladylike but not limp and the accent, Irish? An Irish Colleen called Courtney. 

“Do come in and sit down for a moment, a memo just came in from HQ which I really should acknowledge before we go.”

“That's fine, I'm a bit early anyway. Went to the gym straight from work and there didn't seem much point in going home before coming on here.” Ah, she worked out, good sign.

“Would you like a glass of wine? Pimms perhaps?”

“I know it's rather unfeminine of me but do you have a beer? I worked up quite a thirst doing the circuit plus an aerobics class!”

“A beer it is, I could do with one myself, just got back from the mainland.” Joric flipped the tops off two light lagers, pouring one into a suitably elegant glass. Courtney was tall and statuesque, looking sophisticated in her pale figure-hugging lilac suit, red locks piled on top of her head making her look even taller but not too intimidating. A few loose tendrils framed a pretty face with more than a few freckles. Some men didn't really go for freckles but what did he care, they were only skin-deep and Joric didn't consider himself shallow enough to be fazed by such minor blemishes, in fact he considered them quite cute. Pick out the alternate letters of her name and it spelt just that!  CoUrTnEy - cute!

He knew she worked in the legal department but apart from that, not much else. Perhaps she was one of the many who'd accessed his profile and mobile number from the display panel at the front door, attempting a harmonization with her own details, no not this lady, she'd have found him on the Elite status database. She'd then taken advantage of the five minute call permitted during office hours, to arrange a date, all the while being supposedly monitored by the State.

Courtney had only been in Atalanta for a month and hadn't got to know many people as yet. Perhaps she was one of those alpha females, prevalent in the Oneworld where women were rapidly becoming more equal than men.  A few had already pounced on him, scaring him into thinking he might settle for being a bachelor boy until his dying day, just like Sir Cliff who'd not only sung about the prospect but taken it on board. Still, as Mum had said Faint heart never won fair maid, so if she was in the mood for pouncing, bring it on; could be he was in for an interesting evening! 

Joric emailed a short reply to the memo, and their glasses empty after exchanging a few more pleasantries, he suggested they move on to The Tavern in the Town, a Greek restaurant where those reviewed by HQ as suitable candidates, could enjoy a complimentary meet-and-greet Greek starter of their choice accompanied by a carafe of Retsina. All very tacky really, but a fairly acceptable way of pairing off with members of the opposite sex.

The tavern was exactly one hundred metres from Joric's unit, not far to walk.

“Do I detect an Irish accent?” he asked as they started off down the lane.

“You do indeed” she replied, “I'm from Dublin's fair city.”

“Where the girls are so pretty, judging by tonight's company.” 

“Well that's how the song goes,” she answered with a little smile playing on her luscious lips and blushing slightly.

“In that case, perhaps we should dine on cockles and mussels?”

“Perhaps, as long as they're not alive, alive oh!” she said getting into the spirit of the moment.

“I'm not much of a muscle man, but hopefully I'll be able to warm the cockles of your heart?” He waited for a response, none came.  “Not funny, too punny?” How  corny, better change the subject, fast.

“So, what in the Oneworld is a nice young Irish Colleen like you doing in Atalanta?” he asked.

“First of all it's Courtney not Colleen, and secondly it turned out that I wasn't the love of the love of my life. I wanted to get away, start again somewhere new. I saw this job opportunity in the New World Gazette and it sounded fascinating, I mean, a suburb under the sea? I applied, was accepted, and here I am! What about you?”

“They needed a qualified historian who could help them re-write history, although that was not how they worded it of course. I'd never have accepted the job if I'd known their intentions! The pay was good, I was at a loose end and it meant I'd be on the cutting edge of what was happening in the world instead of locked in some classroom or lecture hall with demanding students!”

Flashing neon signs greeted them as they rounded the corner, every word prefaced with a capital,

                                      Don't Be A Geek - Eat Greek!

Try Our Unique Zorba Cocktails! Half Price 'Til Half Eight!

The Meat's Just Great At The Greek!

Meet & Greet Romantic Night For Two Competition!

Linga Longa And Be Serenaded Til Dawn!'

They were ushered by a waiter in national costume to a private alcove where a table was laid for two, complete with real looking fabric flowers in an ornate vase. On the walls were scenes from the pre-days in Athens, depicting couples laughing and enjoying the fare in picturesque Plaka restaurants from whence could be seen the illuminated Acropolis, evoking happy memories of a carefree bygone era. Joric wondered how long it would be before the authorities desecrated the colourful murals, painting pictures of smiling Sol in their place; Bacchus the god of wine, replaced by the god of the New Order, Sol Benevento. No, privileges didn't last long in the New Order, ironically tagged as NO. As it was, the tavern retained a reasonably credible ambience belying the State's involvement; anyway it felt good to be hosted on the house for an hour or so. After eight thirty the menu became pricier, but specials like the one on offer tonight still ran. Tonight? A two-for-the-price-of-one Mediterranean platter of one's choice for first time Meet&Greet Face2Face diners only, sounded good.

“Welcome to The Tavern on the Town! My name is Rody and I will be your waiter for the evening. Would you like to sample one of our special Mediterranean platters? I can recommend Surf and Turf or Simply Seafood.” said the waiter.

“Do you like seafood Courtney?” Courtney, well-done, he'd remembered her name.

“My favourite!”

“Perhaps we should go for the works - Simply Seafood platter for two suit you?”

“Why not? The system owes it to us, and after tonight, we just wouldn't be eligible!” She said, flirting with him.   

“Then it'll be oysters and champagne to start” said Joric taking the bait so obviously offered. He could see they were going to get along like a house on fire! Come on baby light my fire! he thought gazing into her eyes.

“Certainly Sir, and may I interest you in entering our competition? The winner will receive an hotel break for two in a suite at the Sol Sun Hotel in Ghent, with tickets to the Romantic Moods concert being held there.” He enthusiastically handed Joric an entry form. “All you have to do is add a clever caption to this photograph, fill in your details and hand your entry to me at the end of the evening. Thank you for your order sir, your champagne and oysters are on their way.” 

Joric wasn't too keen on entering any competition but Courtney suggested they give it a go. The photograph was of a lady getting into a big black car with a swan, of all things, under her arm.  It must have been taken in the late 1920s or early 1930s. The champagne and oysters arrived and they had fun thinking up corny one liners while they waited for their main course, eventually giving up their fruitless task to talk about each other.

It seemed the lady had received three months special training before moving to Atalanta, something about being groomed for an exciting assignment to be revealed at a later date. He poured a third glass of champagne and ordered a second bottle which arrived along with a trio of musicians.

“May we serenade you? A traditional love song perhaps?” suggested the lead violinist.

“If music be the food of love, play on!” responded Joric showing off his knowledge of Shakespeare.

It was halfway through dessert, just when Joric thought he had steered the evening faultlessly towards his not so honourable after dinner intentions, that Courtney abruptly changed the subject.

“Swanepoel!” she blurted, out of the blue.

“I beg your pardon?” responded a rather startled Joric.

“That's it! Swanepoel.” Joric thought he knew the female mind quite well, but this was a new one on him.

“Swanepoel?”

“Yes, it's the surname of a Dutch guy at the office. Jannie Swanepoel. 'Swan' and 'pool,' get it? The lady is taking the swan to a pool, at the home of the Swanepoels.” Just when his mind was turning to thoughts of a more carnal nature, the tempting Courtney was still attempting to capture a caption! No, Joric realized he'd never understand the workings of the female mind.

“She's saying to the man in the front seat, who could be a taxi driver, 'The Swanepoels' please driver!' Get it?” The lovely and intelligent Courtney dived into her bag for a pen and triumphantly wrote her caption on the dotted line beneath the photo. “There, that's that done,” she exclaimed, now fill in your details. This is a joint effort you know, and could lead to a fun evening in the flower capital of Belgium!”

Perhaps things were looking up after all, that is, if the competition judge just happened to be Dutch, or had at least heard of the surname Swanepoel. Joric could see she was enjoying the game, her playful eyes watching as he obediently wrote in his details; Something in her eyes was so inviting. He handed the completed entry form to the waiter as he went to pay the now sizeable bill. The word 'Dutch' reminded him that according to candidate rules, payment should be split down the middle but Joric wanting to keep up the good impression he was so obviously making, decided to take it upon himself to settle the full amount. He'd wined and dined the lady - and now - What were the chances?

Once outside he placed his arm lightly round her shoulders. “Your place or mine?”  She didn't answer, enigmatically gracing him with her mystic Mona Lisa smile once more. He assertively slipped his arm around her curvaceous waist and they ambled back to his place.   



'Finish good lady; the bright day is done and we are for the dark.'

-Shakespeare

5



'Alas, poor Yorick .. a fellow of infinite jest, most excellent fancy.'

-Shakespeare

                                                                                                   

BLUE MOON                                                                                              ...you saw me standing alone

-L Hart

                                                                                                                                 

Tuesday 1.00am                                                                                                                       



Was that a door closing?  Must've been the front door as the bathroom, damp from their midnight shower, still stood open to view. Could that be a romantic full moon illuminating his bachelor pad, flooding through open blinds at the window opposite the somewhat over-the-top queen size bed? No of course not, just one of the after-hours dimmed floodlights seldom seen by Joric, the bluish blur following the artificial daylight from six in the morning to midnight. As the pyramid had no natural sunlight, an exterior lighting system had been especially invented to give one the feeling of being outdoors, a light that was gentler to the eyes than the harshness of fluorescent floodlights. The new system had been patented under the name 'Sol-light' at the behest of Benevento. 'From bright-white-light to sapphire-light, I'm a poet and don't I know it - a poet, a lover and a lunatic,' he mumbled moronically to himself as the words of a Leona Lewis song began to turn over in his mind, It got erased, I guess that's just the danger, cos now we're just like strangers.

Joric turned over again determined to get back to sleep, after all he had a demanding job starting each day at the crack of dawn, barring blissful late lying-in on Saturdays. To sleep? Perchance to dream, - Mr Sandman, send me a dream! Oh to fall asleep and dream about his ideal woman! His blinds were usually down from seven in the evening onwards but last night he'd been - well - distracted. Now at this untimely hour, the way his life still seemed to be going down the tubes caused sober reflection to kick in, especially after the glorious awakening of the previous late afternoon which had completely slipped his mind for a few hours. How could he have been so free with his affections after meeting the lovely Abigail, perhaps his once in a blue moon opportunity? Instead he'd courted Courtney and now she was gone, leaving him without a dream in his heart, without a love of his own.

Must've let herself out then. He quite liked this Irish Colleen; Courtney, the girl from the Emerald Isle with the emerald eyes.  I'm your Venus, I'm your fire, your desire. Men were from Mars, he mustn't forget that, and  women from Venus as stated by the classic now available on DVD. The odd dimwitted work colleague passing by Joric's desk would rakishly remind him of the cliché with monotonous regularity. Mostly debauched that lot, those not responsibly Cohabiting, cockily trying to remain in the Unattached category like juveniles, daily comparing notes on working the system and self indulgently taking advantage of as many women as they could. Their sole ambition in life seemed to be aimed at triumphing in the quest to score a Perfect Ten with their Face2Face dates. As soon as the siren heralded the end of working hours, these aspiring Romeos would egg each other on, leaving the building with shouts of 'Fare thee well tonight, friend!' 

Others spent time at the Yellow Sub Pub, Heineken in hand, the famous old ex-Belgian beer now simply bearing the label, 'Product of Greater Flemish Region,' brought in wholesale from the mainland, compliments of Sol, direct from the now State Brewery reputed to be the oldest in the world.

Those on the Alpha Code PrograMMe, commonly referred to as the A Team or MMs, daydreamed their hours away on open plan floors, coming together at tea breaks and for lunch to discuss their forthcoming bonanza. These were the cashless society's guinea pigs, volunteers testing a Smart-activated double microchip implanted in their wrists, cutting edge technology simply known as DoubleM. When TripleM kicked in, the chip would become mandatory for all, according to a diktat from Sol Benevento Himself.  Posters would probably soon be appearing world wide with slogans 'Implant or starve! Don't bite the Helping Hand that feeds you.'  As one who'd never had even a minor operation, Joric was a bit squeamish, but the cut seemed unavoidable. Could it turn out to be The most unkindest cut of all? Time would tell. 

This final innovation in cashless convenience, would shortly be the only mode of legal tender for buying and selling world-wide.  The almighty dollar, described in the Philadelphia Public Ledger of 1836 as 'the only object of worship,' would soon be obsolete. Sol Benevento, or Salvatore Begnino Benevento to be correct, was now self-glorified as the All-Seeing Eye previously seen on the dollar bill within a triangle, and would consequently draw any G.O.D. worship to himself as economic saviour.

In the meantime, faint-hearted folk like Joric still had to shop in Atalanta with voice recognition technology on his mobile, making electronic cashless purchases at 'Cell-Buy 'n Sell Well' check-out points. Naturally all custom was accepted at local bistro bars and Statesman One Stop Corner Shops, State sanctioned and operated by NO uniformed workforce. 

The temporary dual-system tills, exclusive to Atalanta, were there to accommodate both Joric's lily-livered bunch of co-residents and the DoubleM volunteers who were privileged to buy at the preferential discounted State rates encoded into such tills. 

Anyone who hadn't had the foresight to keep some hard cash from the bad old days, was limited to shopping in the ticky-tacky suburb, but most in the office circles of big fish in the small Atalantian sea weren't particularly bothered, as by October all tills would be switched over to the uni-system of TripleM.

Special pleasure perks and monetary incentives had been offered to all who would join the DoubleM group. Once the system was operating world wide, they would be issued with complimentary tickets to fly to any destination of their choice, providing it was on the permitted Google tourist map. The latest flighty idea was to all join up and travel to Munich for the forthcoming Oktoberfest which would be operating cashless for the first time in history.

Now if Joric Ellis had the same opportunity to go abroad, he would fly further afield to somewhere more exotic like tourist permitted Timbuktu, the mystical old-Malian mud-built city that had recently been renovated by the Bedouin kingpin, Shauidi merchant Prince HRH al Azazel Ali Abdul Aziz bin Talon. There was just one drawback, alcohol was strictly forbidden in this ancient Dominion centre of religion; still, no chance of any such exotic trip becoming a reality for him, plodder that he was.

The lucky lads would also receive a thirteenth cheque in their microchip compatible bank accounts, Blue Chip2 money to blow on their forthcoming holiday. Although they weren't meant to tell any non-MM initiates about the perk, they did tend to broadcast this particular snippet of confidential information loudly and proudly in the inevitable canteen-talk, hyped-up by the fact that they'd be 'tripping' for three weeks at the expense of their handlers. Fantastic!

Yes, once everything was going like a Boeing, the team of unholy 'chip monks' could happily go off and monkey about in Munich wolfing down Brock worst hot dogs and unlimited beer, while Joric worked his overtime fingers to the bone as part of the covering skeleton staff. Moreover there would no doubt be all sorts of teething problems to deal with 24/7 as the DoubleM zone broadened to universal TripleM.

It certainly wasn't a social whirl for everyone who lived in sub-marine Atalanta. Joric's bird-in-a-gilded-cage type mentality made it positively claustrophobic when the time came for the SHIELD night watchman to lock up the exit platform of the underground railway. Was it safe down below? Good question.

Atalanta's advanced metal structure was joined to a giant cage with immense steel bars painted bright luminous yellow, designed to prevent or withstand collisions from the stray ships or submarine – thus giving a whole new meaning to the word suburbia! Attached to the inside of the cage was the tube though which the sub-train wound its way down to the station at ground or seabed level. Atalanta could also be described as a macro bomb shelter, what with its solid steel plate over the top meeting stringent health and safety standards that Sol dictated and forming the platform upon which the huge Pharos power turbine-cum-beacon was mounted. It was safe enough, barring an act of God in the form of a Teutonic plate shift.

How ironic that in this secular society, when the common people commented on an act of God they were generally referring to the world's benevolent dictator Sol Benevento's godlike interventions in a world of which the general perception had been that it was going to pot. And if one happened to fall foul of the myriad laws that could so easily trip one up, only by NO delegation from its most holy-Joe up there - the god-with-a-small-g Sol, could one be granted abSOLution, which was rare considering his NO-nonsense approach to all below. One could almost say humanity was not only living under an autocracy but a theocracy.