The Tale These Islands Tell [PRIVATE|CLOSED]

[La Paz de Los Ricos]

THE TALE THESE ISLANDS TELL

Private & Closed Story by La Paz de Los Ricos

OOC
Hello, everyone! After three years of inactivity, I have revived my oldest nation. I never did get very far in a comprehensive history for it, legislation in it, or roleplays as it, and I have been spending the last few years working on another personal creative writing project. As I revive this old account, I intend to pick up where I left off, as well as exercise my creative writing skills a bit. This is a story mostly for me—one which I am writing for no audience and to no critical acclaim. But it is one I will reference and utilize to expand my nation's lore. And I hope it receives feedback, and that I am told where I can improve, or that it is good. I am very much out of practice!

This is to be the story of Mr Finnegan Moresby, age 64, foreigner enrolled in the flagship Ricano university, and his unlikely and strenuous partnership with his mentor, Dr. Alekiro Ga̜en, age 93, Ricano legend and scholar responsible for engineering the backdrop of social change in the nation. Dr. Ga̜en is coming to the end of his life, and aims to conclude his legacy with the most comprehensive account of the history of La Paz de Los Ricos ever created. Mr Moresby is... tangentially related.

As always, if this thread is inappropriate or incorrectly placed, labelled, or formatted, then I apologize. Consider this a work in progress! All technology MT, unless otherwise specified.

A current map of La Paz de Los Ricos, with administrative regions, is available here.

"

"To the Ricano, to utter the word 'history' is to summon its wickedness into the modern age. To the Ricano, history is not a teacher; it is a tyrant."

- Dr. Lisa Martelo Esguarto, The Frightful Annals, 1995

This quote becomes most topical when one considers the journey of La Paz de Los Ricos. Observe it in its present form and one will see a nation idyllic. The state has its wealth, the people have their happiness, and the land has its use and its protection. Among the nations of Latin America, La Paz de Los Ricos has emerged a great triumph. Corruption and scandal have been heartily disposed of. Culture is of the utmost importance—the nation champions itself as a unity of peoples; Spanish, American, Polynesian, Pacific Islander, Latin. Its great modern endemic language—Navaluege—was fostered by the confluence of Spanish and Magonesian. Freedoms and liberties are enshrined in a land that balances itself as the pinnacle of the united effort.
"See myself!" the nation seems to declare joyously. "See the great happiness I have reaped for my people! Look upon my vast bounty and my vibrant and varied citizenry! Gaze upon my modern cities and my strong infrastructure! See me for my success!"
It is to realize that this is not a call of victory, but a distraction from history, is to understand the tale of the Ricano people.

This burden was not imposed on them by their government. I trust that this is not the doings of any conspiratorial politics, or of any dictatorial supremacy at the heart of our legislature. Nor is it even necessarily the fault of the folk themselves. This is a burden of zeitgeist. It is a deep, pervasive, infectious terror which parents unwillingly instruct their children in: The crime of poisoning the successful present with the disgusting past. The crime of our past disgrace.
Dr. Esguarto is a personal hero of mine. For this crime of bias do I happily admit full fault. Her writings on the toxicity surrounding historical discussion in our nation are some of my guiding works, and I hold her above quote in the highest regard. What she endured from the people of this nation in response to her writings were some of the ugliest and most terrible acts I have seen committed, and she deserves justice and ideological exoneration. I see this not as an isolated issue. Our national disregard for our history is greatly alarming to me. The current governance has made an effort to publish historical textbooks, but they are light in fact, slim in scope. Do not misconstrue my message. Are the texts incorrect? No. Are their contents unfaithful to the actual story of our nation? Also, no. The true issue at play here is a fundamental national inability to explore the consequences and troubles of our history. We are reminded of them often, but our courage to face them is naught.

We were a disunited people. We spoke many tongues, believed many things, worshiped many deities. These are not wrong things. We present ourselves as the highest strata of unification in the modern age, but we muddled through three Reunification Wars to achieve it. We spent centuries in the halls of our courts and in the offices of our power cursing and spitting and tearing apart our papers and parchments with fervent tips of quill and pen to do it. We were imperfect, corrupt, and our leaders brought starvation and warfare to our masses. But we are now something else. The history of our nation is an inspiration to me. And it should be for you, as well.
History ought not to be our shame. It ought to be our pride.

"

- Dr. Alekiro Ga̜en, The Overreach of Optimism, 2002

[La Paz de Los Ricos]

I - "The Heat of the Library"
8 August

Back home, all the libraries had heat.
Mr Moresby sweats in his seat, blinking hard, the tropic summer pestering him even in the faint and failing air conditioning of the old library. The concrete walls of the place are painted in flaking ocean blue, and Mr. Moresby tries to force himself to take it as the winter blue he wishes it was.
And as I walked in from the cold, I’d actually offer silent gratitude for the heat! Huh! He scratches at the short beard clamped desperately onto his jaw. What a thing! To imagine, all that I would’ve given on the walk between my car and the library for the mercy of central heating! His eyes wander sightlessly over the text on the page, and he directs his focus. With all his might, he expunges the tangential drivel from his brain, making his world only the text. Only the text…. Only the text…. Only the—
And now, what I would give for an ice bath!
His focus flees. In a fit, Mr Moresby purses his lip and shunts the book back from his curled hand onto the small oaken desk on which it had been set. The library is so cramped, and it is his duty now to find liberty from the imposing heat. He rises from the plastic seat, the perspiration from his back peeling off the seat as one would peel off an aged sticker. Or, rather, a useless bandage, as he must painfully sacrifice some of the hairs on his back to achieve his freedom, and the evidence that his legs are presently asleep comes in the form of a dangerous stumble that almost takes the gentleman to the floor—and his grave. In his distress, he knocks away the plastic chair and its legs slide angrily across the vanilla tiles which constitute the entire flooring of the building. The desk slams against the wall beneath the window into the lobby, spitting out a shrill slam. The window rattles; not as if to fall, but more so as if the building were chastizing Mr Moresby for the injury. He offers a miffed sneer to the crotchety old library, then realizes the hour.
How long has it been?
Mr Moresby glances at the clock mounted on the wall to his right. Four o’clock, it reads—post meridian. It had been seven in the morning just a moment ago… this can’t be right! But a flit of his eyes to the rectangular window with the chipping white frame beyond the cheap metal shelves and realms of old volumes confirms it, the afternoon shadows on the hill having crept and lengthened in the three hours in which he hadn’t been observing them.
Two months in this damnable inferno, Mr Moresby grunts to himself. You’d think the jet lag would have worn off by now! Why else am I so sleepy?
He dismisses that, for it is nonsense. No, the reason for his difficulty focusing, along with all those other maladies present—his sleepiness, his hunger, his general upset—can all be traced to one culprit. Mr Moresby has spent the last eight hours trapped in this wretched tomb they call an archive, wrestling with his own attention, struggling to slam its nose down into the incomprehensible paragraphs of that old book with the simply retro eighties red cover and the sepia pages. Its title in yellow—Records of Muntagones Island—smugly sprawled on its face, spites him.
Records, indeed. Nothing but scattered ramblings.
He catches sight of the subtitle at the bottom corner of the book jacket—Translated to English, 1987. And his mind mutters something uncouth. Perhaps his general upset has a different cause, then.
A shadow on the wall of the lobby beyond the glass of the archive window then helms Mr Moresby’s attention. A man rushes out from the broad and ornate white double doors serving as the portal to the library proper. His footsteps are slightly muffled, as the door to the archive room is closed. Mr Moresby recognizes him, the curator of this little library; large, stout frame, wispy white hair, angular gray mustache, and the facial contours of a man who has spent too much of his life in annoyance.
They meet eyes through the window. Mr Moresby sighs as the curator’s pace does not slow, maintaining that same unwavering annoyance. Within seconds, he crosses the room, enough time for Mr Moresby to flash an eyebrow and sigh to himself.
The metal door opens, admitting the curator. He stands there, just sort of… scrutinizing Mr Moresby.
“What happened?” the curator demands with subtle aggression. He has a heavy accent; something Latin, a tongue that has spent its life submerged in the warm and familiar nectar of Spanish and now climbs shivering into the frigid air of English as a bregrudged courtesy to a stranger.
And something else, too.
“I got up and my legs were asleep, Señor Atrevo,” Mr Moresby replies. “I, uh, lost my balance. Everything’s alright.”
The curator holds his pose—one arm idly bent upwards at the elbow, hand held limply at his breast. “Are you alright?” Apathy dulls his deep voice, whose timbre can only be described as matching the dim static in Mr Moresby’s waking legs. Unpleasant and needling.
“Well, you saw me through the window, didn’t ya?” Mr Moresby says neutrally. “I’m fine. Lucky I didn’t fall, though. I’m not looking to get any surgeries here.”
Curator Atrevo maintains his pose, but his eyes fall intensely on the desk—slightly shifted—and the chair—standing upright several feet from the desk, against one of the archive’s metal shelves populated by cardboard boxes. The stout man slinks past Mr Moresby, crossing by him to inspect the desk, leaning over it to peer over its rear. Apparently, for scratches.
Mr Moresby chuckles. “Or funerals, for that matter.”
Atrevo does not reciprocate the laugh. He casts a stare at Mr Moresby, then ambles behind him to where the chair had slid away. He inspects it, then the shelf, then each of the closest boxes for evidence of fallen books.
“I didn’t hear anything fall,” Mr Moresby assures, without a hint of actual care. “I’m sure it’s all fine.”
Atrevo, as displayed in the frown on his face, must concur. Nothing with which to throw him out of the archive justifiably. For a curator, Moresby quips within, this guy is damn unpersonable.
“Be more careful,” the curator insists. “If you need to fall, next time, use the floor.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mr Moresby retorts.
Atrevo sluggishly brings his left hand up and slides up his sleeve to peek at his watch. “Eh, you have been here for—ehm, six hours,” he huffs. “Have you still not found what you need?” The words offer assistance, but the tone is anxious to finally bid farewell to the curmudgeonly Canadian.
Mr Moresby throws an arm up, gesturing loosely to Records. “I’ve been sitting here trying to understand this book, but it’s very poorly authored. It has no structure, and most of the articles in here have no introduction and—and only a little context.” He exhales, his frustration with the book evident. “Barely any!” With a hand on his hip, he swivels his head to Atrevo. “Don’t you have any more books in English?”
Atrevo smiles dryly. He saunters over to the nearest shelf, then traces the blue tape labels back in time, strolling slyly back to 1987. He reaches a hand into the cardboard box atop the shelf, feeling for a moment, before extracting a book with a rough and dusty red jacket, and turning it for Mr Moresby to see.
Records of Muntagones Island reads its gold title.
Mr Moresby furrows his brow. Ha, ha. He bunches his upper lip in the way he does whenever he wants to shout, but can’t. “Anything else?”
“Mr Moresby,” Atrevo begins, returning the book to its shelf, “we have no more English books. This is Pueblo San Ignacio. Twenty thousand people live here. No one who comes to this library speaks English.” He claps his hands together, clasping them at his sternum, touching the front of his modest gray blazer. “No one, except for you.”
Mr Moresby rubs at his mouth with his right hand, stuffing his left into his pocket. “Surely, there must be something.”
“No, Mr Moresby!” Atrevo counters, his voice high but still restrained. “No, there is no more! Most of our texts are in Spanish, as I’m sure you can tell! The remainder are in Navaluege. The only books in English are this—” he indicates to Records, sitting lopsided on the desk.
Mr Moresby tuts. “Well, you don’t keep any online archive, so I had to come down here myself from the capital to research this island.” He folds his arms and knits his brows, beginning to pace as the blood throws itself back down his legs. “I was told this was the place to visit for historical information by everyone: by the locals; by Professor Raleigh back at Toronto; by Doctor Alekiro Ga-yen himself over at the capital university!” He shakes his head. “If there was a place to learn anything about Muntagones Island, it’s here!” He points his finger to the floor with finality, punctuating the statement. “And I don’t have anyone to translate the Spanish texts. Or the Navaluege! And even if I did, there wouldn’t be anything in them that isn’t available in the capital university or on the Internet!” He paces back to the desk, dragging with him the chair and lowering himself effortfully into it.
Atrevo raises a brow. “Then why not go to the Internet? Or at the library in the University of Alvore̜sod?”
“To find out more!” Mr Moresby insists. “This country hardly keeps any record of its history. Most of it is reconstructed from fragmented journals, and I’m here for primary sources! Anything of substance!” He motions a mad hand to the library doors in the lobby past the window. “Everything in there is widely available. And everything else is either local fiction, or tourist stuff, or church records! Not to mention the private genealogy section! Any history—any genuine history textbook about Muntagones—doesn’t go into any detail that isn’t available on the Internet!” He again meets Atrevo’s eyes, his own with an intense passion flaring in part from his dead-end search and in part from the blunt ache of the bruise he sustained on his leg from his stumble. “If I’m to build a bigger picture about La Paz de Los Ricos, and La Masallana, and La Nublada, I need to know as much about everything as possible, and Muntagones is a roadblock. All the islands are roadblocks!”
Atrevo places a hand on the desk and leans down—not enough to be in Moresby’s face, but enough to impose. “Lower your voice,” he commands, sotto voce, flicking his chin to the open archive door leading to the lobby.
Mr Moresby nods. “Sorry,” he offers with only a particle of actual remorse in the momentary embarrassment.
“I’m… sorry we couldn’t provide you with what you need,” Atrevo puts back, the apology coated in arrogance. “Muntagones is not concerned with its history. That book on that table is the best our island can offer in terms of its history. It is all we can offer.” He runs his tongue along the inside of his mouth, the bulge protruding along his lips, disgusting Mr Moresby.
“So, what?” Moresby retorts. “Nothing more? What about the Spanish texts? Or the Navaluege? Is there nothing in them of substance?”
Atrevo pins his eyes on Moresby’s own. “If you mean that you hope to find some lost account of the Breakaway War, of the Holy Grail of the Old Magonesians, then no. I cannot say that anything in here, whether in English, or in Spanish, or in Navaluege will grant you that.” He sucks a breath through his teeth. “In La Paz de Los Ricos, our history is not something we aim to preserve. We are aware of the broad strokes without the need for bloody detail. Even so, very little of our history is preserved in—” he pauses. “In primary sources.”
“Why?” Moresby queries. “Why don’t you care?”
“Because our past is one of failure,” Atrevo cements, his voice matter-of-fact, but still with that air of superiority. “And why carve your failures into stone?”
“To learn from them!” Moresby almost pleads. “To not repeat them! Isn’t that the point of history?”
“We can learn from our mistakes without needing to be reminded of them always,” Atrevo replies. “And, please, before you pelt me with any more questions, I don’t want to stand here all evening debating the philosophy of our nation. I’m not a philosopher, nor even an expert. I’m just a curator, and I can tell you only what’s in—” he puts out to his sides both his arms, directing Moresby to the library’s essence, “—these books.”
Mr Moresby slumps over to rub the festering mark on his thigh, cursing the chair, cursing the book, cursing the library and Curator Atrevo, and cursing the whole of La Paz de Los Ricos. Its history, so tantalizing, his duty so clear, but his path and the effort so nebulous. And the people all seem so… uninterested. The only one who he has met who has any interest in their history had been Doctor Alekiro Ga̜en himself, the famed jack-of-all-trades scholar and national hero, now in his nineties, and it is by his doing that he is now in this mess.
Old bastard, Moresby swears into his own memory. Thanks for the job.
“Will this be all, Mr Moresby? I really must get back to the library, I was helping someone before your… well, your disruption.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he groans. “I’ll be out of here soon enough.” He rises with a grunt of strain. “Thanks for letting me look around. Hope I didn’t take you too far out of your way.” He extends a hand.
Curator Atrevo takes it. “¿Cómo no?” And with that, he evacuates the room, and there remains Moresby alone, with an inflamed thigh and a glum disappointment as his prizes for his travel.

Moresby trudges from the archive room with nothing in hand. All he seeks now is an escape from the squeezing heat of the archive. In fact, he would hardly call it an “archive”—to think that he expected to find some lost clue buried in some ornate vault! What misguided vision is that!
Wake up! He chides himself. This isn't a movie. Things don't play out this way. To expect them to is a delusion!
He drags the foot of his bruised leg on the tile floor, creating a lethargic step-slide as he walks from the wide lobby to the open front doors. The concrete walls here are a neutral white; Mr Moresby passes the seating area in the center of the lobby, brushing his hand along the black leather sofas and armchairs. Outside, the hum of passing cars over slick asphalt filters in through the open doors.
An entire nation, willingly forgetting its own history! He laughs to himself, a sardonic gurgle. Unbelievable!
At last, he exits the library.
Whereas the library—the lobby and the archive room within—was inferno, the patio without provides a small solace to Mr Moresby. The heat remains, but it has slightly abated. It is a rectangular covered deck with a dozen stairs leading to the street and sidewalk, a concrete gable overhanging, supported by two tapering white pillars on either side. The vanilla-hued tile within extends out to even here.
The air is wet. The street beyond shines with the glint of a recent aguacero. Moresby realizes that he has been so rapt in his focus that he must not have noticed it. That, or he has become so accustomed to the random rains in his short-long stay that they can wash over his roof without disturbing him. In Canada, rainfalls had never been so intense. At least it isn’t hail.
The town of San Ignacio is a modest place. No structures of any particular magnificence. Concrete houses and old colonial structures rim the aspirant mountains stretching off into the distance, truncating Moresby’s view of the horizon. Distant tin rooves glimmer cloudily in the setting sun. A far-off cuatro whispers its song, and as Moresby draws his focus to this sound, he hears a ring of voices accompanying it in song. Or, at least, he swears to, for it might only be a phantom. He can hardly pick it out over the rhythm of the street and the birdsong.
Mr Moresby drapes himself, defeated, over the banister running along the edge of the patio. Cars pass; his ears laze in gentle traffic, lulling him into a trance. His mind brims with images of history, of the battles fought among the fronds of the rainforest. Of the Ricano politicians in their fierce discourse. Of the treacherous travel through karsts and hills, against invisible menaces in the jungle.
Why don’t they care?
Groggily, Mr Moresby extracts his phone from his pocket; it is a smartphone of some variety—it doesn’t matter to him, so long as it can call, text, and access the Internet. He fumbles with the print ID for a moment, as his fingertips have been dampened from the banister.
Mr Moresby scrolls through contacts, before finding the one he wants:
“Dr Alekiro Ga̜en” reads the contact name. The profile picture is the default, a white “D” on a purple circle. He taps to call.
It rings once.
...
Twice.
...
Thrice.
...
Quarce.
...
No dice.
He hangs up, imagining that the geriatric academic likely laid down for an afternoon nap. In this climate, he doesn't blame him. Instead, he opens up his direct messages.
No luck in Muntagones. He pauses, ponderous. Thinking of grabbing next flight back to capital from Merín airstrip. Again, he halts. Will head to university first thing to meet w you. He sends before he can change his mind, then wallows in regret for a moment. He ejects it from his mind and returns to his hypnotic immersion in the afternoon ambiance.
What else can I do? Mr Moresby wonders at the conundrum: La Paz de Los Ricos must have one of the most intriguing colonial histories of any country in America. And the people needn't celebrate their history. But they don't even acknowledge it! Some of its most critical aspects aren't even recorded. There's no public interest in history, but why, when there's so much to be exp—
Mr Moresby jumps, recoiling from the loud revving emanating out from on the road. Mr Moresby only momentarily spies a slim red sports car speeding away, RGB strips reflecting off its undercarriage onto the road beneath. Likely some cavalier adolescent showoff looking to grab attention. The roar of its engine piles into his ears and displaces any calm he has managed to find.
Kids, Moresby bemoans. Kids and heat and smug curators. How did I fall in love with this country? He laughs sordidly. What do I see in it?
The rain seems to have let up for the time being. If Mr Moresby’s time in La Paz de Los Ricos and the morning forecast flickering back into his memory are to be trusted, another isn’t far behind. He takes the fleeting chance, descending the dozen stairs from the library patio to the sidewalk. The pavement is cracked and uneven, tree roots snaking underneath and wild tropic grasses finding purchase in the faults. Ants catch the man’s eye, filing in dignified order along the edge where the mauve patio wall ducks behind the sidewalk.
Must be the wildlife, he jests to his audience of one.
In his jacket pocket, he clicks the lock of his car keys. The shiny black Chevy rental, the sole occupant of the diminutive little lot beside the San Ignacio library, flashes its lights in recognition. Mr Moresby can’t wait to pile into the leather embrace of the driver’s seat, finally to receive his long-awaited air conditioning. He hasn’t yet accustomed himself to all its modern features (not when his 2003 Honda in Toronto served him just fine for the last twenty years.) He must drive to his host family to share one final meal with them before he departs. They’ll be surprised, considering he still had two weeks in their agreement.
Nice folks, he smiles at the thought of the old man and his wife who had opened their home so readily to him. Very friendly.
And he thrusts the door open with his weight, losing all his strength as he sits behind the wheel. Closing the door, he flicks the wipers on to clear the residual rainwater from his windshield, granting him a final view of the side of the minuscule library. Really, nothing to boast about; a little concrete structure, fading white, about the same size and shape as the courthouse. His stomach grumbles at him, retracting his attention.
Good food.
And, with a press of the fob and a shift of the gear, Mr Moresby rolls his car out of the lot and onto the second lane of the town’s main artery, ready to commune with his delightful host family over a hot, delicious supper, and dreading to disappoint the greatest, most eccentric scholar of modern Ricano history.

To be continued—

[La Paz de Los Ricos]

II - "The Legend in ESK186"
10 August

“Order of Sunly Splendor within the Fifteen Islands and Whatsoever Name Binds Them,” reads the high award in the regnant walnut frame with the gold trim, doused in harsh fluorescent light and bathed in dust and lint.
The small office is littered with these same accolades: “Order of Deference from the Fifteen Islands and Whatsoever Name Binds Them,” reads one. “Order of Authority within the Fifteen Islands…,” says another. Then, “Order of Good Contribution to the Fifteen Islands….” And “Order of Gratitude….” And “Order of Respect….” And “Order of Recompense….” There are so many that they hardly fit the walls of the first-floor adjunct’s office. Certainly, they are crammed onto the wall behind the standard plywood-laminate teacher’s desk with the polvorous desktop monitors sitting atop it, and the monitors themselves (each from the 2000s with terrible resolution) block the view from the single-door entryway. There is a textbook standing between bookends in the far corner of the desk, proudly anchored where it may be best seen by all; its title reads The Frightful Annals, by Dr Lisa Martelo Esguarto. Between the paperwork shoved off to one corner, the Office Depot basic keyboard sprawled on its face (without even a keyboard pad to buffer it from the laminate surface), and the personal effects and picture frames stuffed with diplomas, the desk offers hardly any room for what it was designed for—work.
This sort of office is highly unfit for a man who helped shape the entire nation and set a path for its future. And, yet, there sits the nameplate reading “Alekiro Ga̜en” at the rim of the desktop, threatening to fall onto the linoleum floor for want of space and ring out its sharp cry.
And there sits the man himself: Doctor Alekiro Ga̜en; recipient of 23 national orders of recognition and distinction (the most of any citizen in Ricano history), Chair of National Political Discourse at the University of Alvure̜so, and subject of at least one lecture in every Ricano sociology course. His portrait proudly headlines news articles, national charters, and textbook chapters, and every Ricano knows of him in some capacity, even if by name alone.
He no longer carries the dignified head of black hair from his youth, or even the graceful head of white hair from his early seniority. The glasses perched on his ftall nose grew thicker and deeper with each new prescription until the man became barely able to process movement without them. The only recognizable details of him that one can compare to his portraits are the elegant black suit he wears, complete with the reflective aurum tie. Ricano flag patches blaze like brave flames on each of his shoulders, aligned with the red ascendant as per protocol. And the little bronze brooch at his left breast, displaying the Ricano emblem—the stylized ancient sun crowned by the Treangolist icon—sits, polished to perfection.
When asked to picture Dr Ga̜en’s activities at any given moment, one could expect a response involving some measure of academia, or education, or collaboration with the highest echelons of government. And these are correct, on occasion. But to reflect on his illustrious past and consider this office where he spends most of his working days, and to see him now, gormlessly scrolling on his phone, one must understand the intensity of the juxtaposition and the shock it might bring.
He is a man who fathered a nation’s modernity. And now, his nation has seemingly outgrown him, casting him aside as a daughter in the throes of her adult life might her irrelevant and frail father she can no longer relate to. A father who continues to work for her benefit despite her apathy.
Dr Ga̜en, donning some imperceptible smirk, some mark of mischievous amusement, gazes at the stack of messages glowing uncertainly back at him from his screen:
No luck in Muntagones. Thinking of grabbing next flight back to capital from Merín airstrip. Will head to university 1st to meet w you. The words reek of annoyance.
And then, another message. At the airport now. Boarding in half hr. Msg me when ur awake. So, he knows that Dr Ga̜en had been napping. Truly the mark of a clever mind!
Another. Connecting through Lucosta. Expect to arrive by 4pm tomorrow. Will meet with you day after. Lmk what time works for you.
Another. Landed at capital airport. Seplaning now, will head to hotel. The typo rebuts his previous assertion. Perhaps not a clever mind, but one that is prone to a clever thought now and again.
A score of missed calls dot the screen between texts. They cascade down from the end of the final message. The last text on his screen from Mr Finnegan Moresby simply reads:
Here. Coming to university. You’d better be awake.
A notice slides lazily onto the bottom corner of his desktop monitor, against the poorly-cropped desktop background of Dr Ga̜en himself, accepting some award or signing some document. (The memory of its significance eludes him.) At a gentle click, he discovers that it is an email notification, its sender marked as “SekeritoTa̜lFerent (“FrontDesk” in Navaluege) - UnAlvo”.
“Professor Ga̜en,” it begins (translated from Navaluege). “Be advised your 9 AM appointment, Finnegan Moresby, has checked in at the front office. Will you meet him in the Stateroom Study?”
Blasted…. He grumbles aloud, the thought apparently taking that much exertion. Thinking that I’ll hide my office. They put me here. I want them all to see this.
In the span of a half-minute, his rigid, arthritic fingers click out a curt reply, told here in English from the original Navaluege: “No. Direct him to ESK186. I’ll be here. Thank you.”
There is no response, so Dr Ga̜en assumes he was understood. And, so, there he waits without urgency, returning to his phone to browse whatever news articles he had been perusing. A good time elapses, and Ga̜en switches to his computer, briefly glancing over a document open on some word processor, marinating in red error bars. The operating system has yet to acknowledge Navaluege as the proper language it is, so whatever Ga̜en has not typed in English is assumed incorrect.
More time elapses, and Mr Moresby still has yet to appear. Dr Ga̜en fires off a quick “Did you send Moresby here?” to Front Desk’s address, then continues pecking away at the manuscript scratched sanguine on his monitor. Several more minutes eke away before another notification slithers onto his screen, obscuring the bottom portion of his manuscript:
“Yes, sent, informed of where to go. Has he not arrived?”
Obviously not, he fumes, arresting it before it reaches the keyboard. Better to not offer any confirmation. He will let them decipher it themselves, and elects to see if Finn has made it around at all. So, he snaps off the brakes of his wheelchair, pushes himself ‘round the desk, and heads for the open door to the hall.
It takes some maneuvering, but the scholar is able to negotiate his way through the mess, arriving at the portal and peering through. The hall is empty. The sound of traffic, carried most softly, sails in from his right side, to where the exterior wall is. Some professor’s distant lecture also wafts on the air, something to do with shipping economics.
“Oh, Doctor!”
Ga̜en swivels his head left, and there strides Finn, seemingly exhausted. The effort is visible by the light sweat on his forehead.
“At last!” Dr Ga̜en throws a hand up in mock annoyance. “Moresby, you’re here! Come in, come in!” And he retreats back into ESK186, wheels bumping over the threshold, with Finn’s eager footfalls not far behind.

The two men are situated now, Dr Ga̜en having offered Finn some ice out of his drink to cool himself, in trade for some crass jokes about the heat. The University of Alvure̜so is a prestigious institution, yes, but even she can’t seem to repulse the tropic mugginess of the late summer months.
“Good to see you made it back safely,” Dr Ga̜en wishes.
”Yeah, thank you.” Finn shifts a bit to relieve the sweat logging his back, even in the white t-shirt he wears. He glances around, his eyes very obviously probing the size of the room.
”Small, huh?” Dr Ga̜en picks up on it with ease. “What am I doing in an office built for a student assistant?”
”I mean, it did come to mind.”
”Because… they’ve grown tired of the old man with the grandiose vision.” Dr Ga̜en smiles, indicating to his awards. “I have served my time, and now that I am voicing what they do not agree with—and I am too old to do anything about it—they shove me into an office in the hopes of keeping me busy.” He taps his temple twice. “Ah, but I know, I know their ploy. I’m not so dull as they seem to take me for.”
“Yeah,” Finn says upon a gravelly breath out. “Yeah, I’m sorry.”
”Don’t be!” Dr Ga̜en perks up. “After so many years of helping my countrymen out, it’s amusing to see how they offer gratitude. I try not to ask for much, I don’t fancy myself an egoist or a narcissist; but I do deserve to put my feet up on my laurels now that I’m on my way out!”
”Yeah,” Finn answers absently.
Damn, no laugh? Well, I was never a comedian. Dr Ga̜en redirects the topic. “So, how was your flight?”
“Fine, well enough,” Finn states. “Two of them, actually. One out of Lucosta.” He furrows his brow quickly. “I texted you when I left. Why didn’t you answer me? I called you probably ten times!”
”Meh,” Dr Ga̜en dismisses it. “Like you guessed, I was asleep when you were traveling.”
”You should, like, set an alarm for me, at least,” Finn sighs. He purses his lips and scratches at his scrawly beard which he had neglected to trim. “Or aren’t I important enough to you?”
“You are,” Dr Ga̜en affirms, with a sly tensing of his eyelids. “But I was sleepy. My life doesn’t revolve around you.”
Finn scoffs. “Well, my life seems to revolve around you! Do you know the lengths I’ve been going to for you? Sometimes, it’s ridiculous!”
“Like Muntagones?”
”Yes, like Muntagones! I mean, the only town there with any hope of having information has twenty thousand people and has one book in English!”
”La Paz de Los Ricos doesn’t rely on English, Mr Moresby,” Dr Ga̜en informs, matter-of-fact, tongue-in-cheek. “Why assume that anything here operates on English rather than adapting to the language of the locals?” The absurdity of it fuels his troublemaker’s drive. He also must restrain himself from calling him ‘Finn’, though his mind habitually refers to him as that. Finn hates that nickname.
Finn opens his mouth and a sliver of voice comes out, but he shuts it with an exhale, pensive. “I just… I don’t get it. I want to help you out, Doctor. I really do. But… why have me do this? Why have me go out into the field?” He gestures out to the open door. “Why not have one of your student researchers go and do it? You know, someone who speaks Navaluege? Or even Spanish?”
Dr Ga̜en snorts, which turns then into a full-hearted guffaw, wracking the nonagenarian’s feeble form. Finn glares at him with a canted head and a puzzled countenance. Why laugh? What had he said that had been so… funny?
”Because,” Dr Ga̜en sighs, tears of mirth at his eyes. “Because I’m ninety-three years old.”
What‽ Finn leans forward instinctively in his seat. “Excuse me?”
”I’ve tried this before, Moresby,” the Ricano scholar confesses. “This experiment. I’ve devoted my life to the aid and development of this nation—my home. I’ve lent my mind to its purposes, and I’ve tried to correct its course when I feel it is wrong. But for all the energy I’ve spent trying to change it… I’ve lived in it, as well. For eighty-five years out of my life, La Paz de Los Ricos—in many forms—has been my home. I was born when this nation was still Siete Islas, struggling to be whole; and in this time, I’ve lived on each of the fifteen islands for at least some time. I watched this country shed her turbulent adolescence and mature, and enter the world stage. But I know how the people think. I know the culture and the ideals.”
There’s a strange moment of sincerity here, cloaked by the humor and the senescent bravado. To Finn, Dr Ga̜en could best be described as… lamenting. And he hasn’t seemed to him to be the sort of man who laments. It confuses Finn, and, in all honesty, it frightens him a touch.
”Yes, there has been change,” Dr Ga̜en proceeds. “Yes, I have been responsible for some of it; and, yes, I do believe that the Ricano people have the capacity to embrace their history.” He halts, ponderous. “But even those fires that burn the brightest require a spark—something from without—to light them.”
Finn steeples his hands between his thighs, contemplating the doctor’s words. They sound wise, certainly… but he fundamentally disagrees about something within them. It isn’t something that he can explicitly declare, not for fear, but for unknowing. He isn’t sure himself what part of him dissents against the doctor. And the question still lingers:
”But, why me?”
”Dr Ga̜en mulls it over for a moment.
Finn pushes on. “Surely, there are other Ricanos who feel similarly to me. To you. Other Ricanos who feel passionate about making your history known. Ones whose personal connection to the subject is stronger than mine.” He pulls himself back from his aggressive posture, settling into the back of the chair. “I love this country, and I’ve chosen to conduct my studies in this university because of it. But… I’m not Ricano. I never will be. I can be a citizen—a Ricano citizen. But I’m not one of you, and doesn’t that make me an outsider?”
”But do you not feel the love of our people?”
”I do!” Finn asserts. “I do. But, it’s not familial. When I stay with a host family, I know that they are inviting me into their home. But it is not my home. I’m merely a guest, and while your people have a remarkable penchant for welcoming guests, the distinction is… always there.” He brings up his leg, crossing it over the other. “I will help you however I can… I know that this is an important mission for you. But I just don’t believe that this is how I can help you! Send a Ricano out there to gather the evidence, translate the scraps, and let me sit here and make sense of it for you.”
”If I send a Ricano out there,” Dr Ga̜en insists, “they will be rejected. They’re too close. I’m not a psychologist, so I can’t explain it in any sort of scientific terms. But… the Ricano people of today live in a nation of wonders, of progress, of natural splendor all unrivaled by any other in Latin America. But, they’re scarred by a deeply traumatic past. Hell, many of the people alive today didn’t themselves witness these things.” He sweeps a hand up, symbolizing the absurdity of it. “But they were instructed of it by their parents, and them by their parents.” The scholar clasps his hands in his lap. “Ricanos don’t discuss their history, especially with other Ricanos. The outsider—” he puts up his hand apologetically, “—and, forgive me for this candor, is ignorant of our history in the eyes of Ricanos by the very nature of their relationship. No matter how intimately one memorizes the facts, Ricanos have felt the guilt and shame of their past so vividly that they’ve developed a unique internalization of it. The idea that no one can truly know what has happened here. So, when the Ricano speaks to the Ricano of their history, both know the solemnity of it, the gravity. But, when the Ricano speaks to the outsider of it, they assume that the outsider doesn’t grasp the severity of it. They are more open. The shame lessens.”
A songbird titters outside, a chant so similar to the birds of Canada that, were it not for the invading heat, Finn would have forgotten where he was. “I didn’t feel this in Muntagones,” he illumines. “The curator of the library of San Ignacio spoke to me a very harsh manner about your history. The same with the docents of the Museum of Lucosta. And the others. All of them were confrontational and secretive, and all I could get from our interactions was that they were… more suspicious of me for being an alien and snooping around about their history!” His eyes trail down. “Again, why me?”
”Because I wanted the perspective of someone unfettered by our national conscience.” Dr Ga̜en says this quietly, with a hint of emotionality to it, a submerged intensity. “I’m biased on the workings of our state. While living here and being a Ricano has given me an understanding of our way of life more than… well, any others… it also colors my opinion of it. You have spent your entire life in Canada. That is your home. You fostered an interest in our nation from afar, without being immersed in our zeitgeist, and this is what I seek to use!” Dr Ga̜en pushes his chair in closer to the desk, narrowing the space between them slightly. “That is what I wanted to take advantage of: a fresh mind, an opportunity I have never been presented with. At least, not that I’ve been able to use.”
The two sit there for a moment in weighted silence. The mugginess of the room almost seems to intensify as Finn rolls the issue over and again in his mind, considering it from every angle, accepting it and rebutting it a dozen times.
”Doctor, I’m sorry,” Finn finally speaks, his voice rough. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to help. I don’t think I’m able to do for you what you want. I’m sixty years old, myself, and I can’t keep doing this.” He bows his head, his lips forming various phantom endings, various paths he could take, before he at last decides on one. “Either reassign me to work here in the University for you… or I’ll have to break my professional relationship with you. Resign from your research.”
Dr Ga̜en exhales almost imperceptibly. He sits there, staring off somewhere in the distance, his eyes pinned on the haphazard items on his desktop. The tendrils of traffic, teaching, and the trilling birds all try to sneak in, but the air is practically forced into silence.
”Finn,” Ga̜en says, earnestly. “Finn, I am a very old man. I know that there will come a day soon when… I won’t be able to do this anymore. And a day after that when….” The sentence completes itself.
Finn wallows there alongside him.
“I’ve been very pleased with the work I’ve done,” Ga̜en continues. “Regardless of recognition, in the end, I have helped to better this country, this… this fountain of my blood. And for that, I am happy. I am happy to have shaped the government that runs this country and informed policy with my writings. I do not even mind the obscurity that I have now.” He pauses. “But… there is one thing that still feels missing from my opus, especially now as I reflect on my work. I see that the people of La Paz de Los Ricos don’t embrace their past, their history. Yes, it is available to them,” he punctuates this with a thumb pointing back to a ream of textbooks whose spines all tell of Ricano history, “but not as it really should be. Our nation does not care for its origins, and this is what I want to change before I leave this world.”
Finn hears this. It is the same mission statement that he was given upon first meeting Dr Ga̜en. But, this time, it is soaked in a sense of… regret. Never had Finn known this sense of wholehearted drive, marred by total helplessness. If Dr Ga̜en were a younger man still, perhaps he would head out into the field, forcefully change minds and open eyes. Or perhaps his youthful influence would do it for him. But he is an old man. Two or three years left to make an impact. And this is optimistic.
”I was hoping that I could do this. Perhaps I must pass the manuscript along to Dr López sooner than I thought.”
A surge of guilt seeps through Finn’s heart. He reacts instantly. “You can still accomplish this! I’m not the only way that you can do this!”
”Oh, I don’t mean that,” Dr Ga̜en replies. “I know that I will be able to shape this manuscript in the time that I have left. And it will be strong. But… my plans are changing, and they won’t turn out as I thought.” He pats the edge of his keyboard with a firm hand. “I will not give up on this, Finn.”
”Good, that’s… that’s good.”
The image of Dr Isidor López enters Finn’s mind. A powerful and bombastic man, he is as competent in the university with a pen as he is with a machete in the coffee fields. A wide, Black man of no more than thirty-five, with a face of authoritative ridges and a frame which hides his capabilities. Finn has only met him once, but he knows that he is the image of Ricania—that greatly elusive and nebulous concept of the quintessential culture of La Paz de Los Ricos. He is intellect and worldliness, and there seems no problem which he could not use some combination of these two attributes to solve. Finn believes that the project will be safe in his hands—though Dr Ga̜en would certainly prefer to complete it himself.
And Finn makes a decision.
”How about… we both think about it? I’m not resigning yet, and I am willing to help you out how I can. But it must be different, and I need to have a solid plan if I’m going to keep this up. I can’t be hopping frantically from island to island to gain whatever information we may hear about.”
Dr Ga̜en glances up, his eyes and Finn’s connecting. “We need a plan,” he spouts off, mind sharpened once more. “Perhaps chronological, perhaps by some other order of importance. But so far we have only been operating on any leads we may find.” He gestures at his computer screen. “The chapters of this book feel messy, as though I am starting on one without considering its place. I expand only on what I hear, and I’m not considering the broader implications.”
”Then you should start from the beginning, Doctor,” Finn offers. “Collect only that information at the start of your work which pertains to the earliest history of the nation. Then, you stick to a solid plan. Bookmark what you can’t find and come back to it when you have more information… but don’t leap around without a plan.”
”Writing without a plan has always worked for me before,” Dr Ga̜en responds. “It is the way I have written since I was a schoolboy. I guess… writing a nation’s history calls for a map before anything else.”
Finn laughs, a simple, sequential exhale, but with humor. Dr Ga̜en reciprocates. At last, levity amid the sucking weight. And the noises from outside return; a pair of songbirds land right on a branch close to the office window; a herd of cars bustles by on the road; and as the lecture period concludes in the nearby classes, the lively chatter of students making plans, cracking jokes, and discussing material illuminates the hall beyond the open office door.
”Well,” Finn says with a slap of his hands on his knees. “I’m sorry to go so quickly, but, I gotta be honest: I’m dead tired, I’ve been red-eyeing from Muntagones.”
”Oh, of course,” Dr Ga̜en says. “I’ll let you go. Get some rest. Would you be willing to meet me for coffee tomorrow?”
”Sure!” Finn says. “Anywhere good? I haven’t been anywhere much in the capital aside from the University and some tourist stuff.”
”There’s an ice cream shop on Broadleaf that makes excellent treats for the warm weather: Heladería Marovelsio. Just look it up, you’ll find it. If there’s one thing about La Paz de Los Ricos that I’ve learned in eight decades of time here, it’s that the ice cream is unmatched.”
”Well!” Finn says. “Even better!”
”Let’s say… eleven tomorrow?” Dr Ga̜en says, pushing his chair from the desk and up to Finn. “They might be serving some breakfast as well.”
”That’ll be good,” says Finn, extending a hand. “See you then. I’ll text you when I’m back at the hotel.”
Dr Ga̜en grasps it, a surprisingly strong handshake for a man of his years. “Of course. Again, please, get some rest. I’ll spend the evening drawing up a draft for where we can begin. And… I’ll talk to Isidor. Maybe I can get him to bus in from southside, we can all meet together.”
“That’d be good,” Finn confirms.
And there is a moment’s pause as the two parties consider their situation. It is… a compromise. No plan is yet set, and the uncertainty is daunting. But it is more manageable. The concerns from both parties are aired, and both Finn and Dr Ga̜en take some comfort in this as they imagine how they will each proceed. And, there is the promise of ice cream in the near future. Overall, this has been a good meeting. But as Finn’s eyelids begin to droop from the sapping heat and the exhaustion of the trip, he knows he must go, to drive back to his hotel, that air-conditioned sanctuary of his, and rest.
”Take care tonight, Finn,” says Dr Ga̜en as he shows him to the door.
Finn nods a cordial Canadian nod, then turns on his heel, confident that their partnership will endure.
Then, he runs his right shoulder directly into the doorframe. A searing pain overtakes his arm and chest, as Dr Ga̜en gasps behind him. Finn waves him off with a silent assurance that he is fine. Evidently, the drowsiness has had a greater impact than he has anticipated.
He knows he must bus back to his hotel.
”Would it be alright if I left my car at the University?” Finn inquires with a seethe. “I parked in public lot B.”
”Yeah,” Dr Ga̜en responds. “That’ll be fine.”
”Great,” Finn says, disappearing beyond the doorframe and out of room ESK186. “I’ll just pick you up from here. See you then, Alekiro.”
What? Hey, no! I’m Doctor Aleki— Wh- Doctor Ga̜en to you!
...Is what he would have said if he had the energy to correct him. Instead, he only smirks and returns his focus to the computer screen. It is time now to draft the plan for their research. Where to go, who to speak to, what to seek… all these questions swirl around the scholar’s mind, among questions of which pills he needed to take and what he planned to eat for dinner (especially as a growl of his stomach alerts him to the severity of his craving). He shoves his manuscript off to one tab on his screen and pulls up another blank document on which to plan.
Make sure to pencil in a call to Isidor once his next class is over, Dr Ga̜en notes to himself. Whenever that is.
As he calls up his files with a click to search for a copy of Dr López’s schedule, another notice shoots in at the bottom of his screen. It reads from Front Desk:
”Please answer if Mr Moresby has arrived at your room yet.”
And Dr Ga̜en, with good spirits, pecks out the following:
”Yes, he has.”

To be continued—