Casual Heroing

Chapter 217: Problems?

In the morning, I got a message from Ariostus. Apparently, it’s all good. He just wants to present me to the rest of the academy in person. That should help with the fact that our Advanced Cantrips [Professor] has just lost his job and has been sent to some backwater city as a clerk or something. I mean no disrespect, but when you have such an important position, and you botch it, that’s what you deserve. If you stab someone, that’s one person you have hurt. But if you are an idiotic [Professor]? Jesus, that can get catastrophic; the damage you can do is out of this world. Your teachings will multiply like a virus and spread like the worst of plagues.

In fact, how many lives do we ruin due to bad teaching?

And do you know what always got me about bad teachers?

Teaching is a form of self-improvement. No one knows everything, and I don’t like those professors who want to pass as people who never make mistakes. It’s like doctors who never check the guidelines. Those doctors kill people. And the professors who need the illusion of being all-knowing are the same. In my head, a professor is no different from a ship captain—wait. No, I’m not going to use the word captain. It reminds me of that film—what’s the title? ‘Dead Poets Society?’ Whatever. The point is that every class is a journey. I don’t give a damn about the state guidelines. A professor should teach something that will remain impressed in their students’ minds and go on with that. Sadly, it’s not possible at the high school level. It’s a little better at the college level. But still, very few professors have the necessary leeway to be able to do whatever they deem the best for their students.

But guess who just earned two patches on his elbows and the right to steal co-workers’ sandwiches from the teachers’ room?

“How you doin’,” I say with a giant smile at the counter, adding a wink and a tongue click.

“You,” Cassandre sighs. It’s still very early in the morning, and the formal introduction won’t start until a few hours later. I’m getting some food because I need to tell my group about my situation. I left Marcellus sleeping on the couch. He deserves some rest.

“No one around, huh?” I say, looking around the shop.

“Most of the baguettes are not ready yet. Apparently, the academy has cancelled all morning lessons today. We are getting ready for lunch instead.”

“Lunch, lovely,” I smile, “can I still place an order for some of those baguettes? I’d like a dozen. Here, I have a list of what they should—”

She snatches the piece of paper and passes it to the chef after writing something on it.

“Good. If you don’t need anything else, you can sit over there and free the queue.”

I look over my shoulder.

“Queue? There’s no one here, lady. Plus, I wanted to have a small chat. Would that be so terrible?”

“Chat? Listen, Elf, I am here to conduct some businéss.”

“Oh, I’m all for the businéss myself, lady,” I say, adding another wink as a good measure. “But I couldn’t help but notice that you seem to come from a foreign country.”

“And what businéss is that for you?”

What?

“You mean what do I care about it?”

“Uh-uh,” she nods.

“Well, I don’t know. I love learning about other countries. Would you tell me about where you come from? I bet it’s full of beautiful girls, but of course, you are still one of the prettiest.”

Cassandre mimics a puking motion before looking at me with pity.

“I come from the most beautiful country in the world,” she says with a haughty expression, pouting her lips as if it was impossible for me to understand.

“Oh, isn’t that lovely? What, pray tell, makes your country so fantastic?”

“Everything. We have the best landscaping in the world, the best food, the best culture, literature, art… We invented all those things. And we invented democracy as well.”

Fucking hell.

Sorry for swearing but…

Fucking hell.

French people.

Come on.

“What about the food? What’s so special about it?”

“Oh, we have the best patisserie expertise in the whole world,” she nods. “But I’m not here to waste my time with you, Elf. How did you say, what do you care?” she replies.

“Well, I’m waiting for food, and it’s nice to have a pleasant conversation. Especially when there’s such a beautiful girl on the other side of the counter. I was just wondering what marvelous place could give birth to such a lady. You look like a noble, you know?”

She takes one of her locks in her hand, twirling it, complacent and smug.

“Do I?”

“Yeah, the high cheekbones, the very sharp face. And your eyes have something,” I lean onto the counter and bite my lip while I fake looking deeper into her eyes. Every single woman on the planet has a story about what her eyes look like. It doesn’t matter how boring, how plain, or how normal. Every single girl will say the most idiotic thing about her—

“Oui!” she squeals louder than I’ve ever heard Princess Bianca do. “I have gold speckles in my eyes, did you notice? It’s around the pupil. My irises are green with little gold speckles all around!”

I don’t know what it is about some people. But that’s good. I need to confirm beyond reasonable doubt that this woman is from Earth. And if you’re asking why, I’m not getting a good vibe from this Cassandre. What? Do you think she might be the woman who helped Stanimal and gifted Grigio to him? Hell, it could be. But there’s something fishy about this person and the fact that she’s clearly affiliated with half-giants. One of them is the cook, and the other is a bouncer. Also, she has some protection to avoid people spying on her class. Whatever she’s up to, I’m afraid I’ll have to take a good look. Also, maybe pat her down?

Hehe.

But jokes aside, I’m getting a weird vibe from this person, and I already messed up in the past. Let’s see if she’s a criminal or something like that.

“So, what about where you come from? Would you mind telling me a little more? I’m just curious, I swear,” I smile warmly.

The woman bites her lips and sighs theatrically.

“If you insist.”

I swear, some days, I think I might have pierced the female Matrix. Yeah, yeah. I got my fair share of slaps. But do you realize how powerful a simple compliment is? Like, how far does it go to keep at it? God bless my Italian heritage. My fellow Americans either give up at the first shake of the head or become outright rape-y.josei

“My country,” she looks up at the ceiling dreamily. “The most beautiful streets of my capital have art, culture, and history written on them. You can see monuments of all kinds there. We have a massive steel construction, which is how most tourists imagine our capital. But there’s so much more. We have the most beautiful museums in the world.”

“What’s a museum?” I ask.

At this point, I could stop questioning her. She’s French—100%. No doubt. Massive steel construction? Come on. And the Louvre? I mean, I bet you the Hermitage is better. And Italian museums and Villas have their own specific charm. But yeah, the French have Impressionism, don’t they? After the Renaissance, they pretty much monopolized a lot of the arts. I think the Italians might have held their own until the 18th or 19th century, but after that, I don’t really know much. I’m not an expert in art history.

“Oh, right,” she nods, remembering that Elves don’t really have museums. “It’s a place where they exhibit art. You can pay a fee to look at the great collections.”

“Like paintings and statues?” I ask with an open mouth.

“Oui!”

Ten bucks that we have some sort of weird translation system. I think this world speaks English, but not every person who came from Earth does. And she has to force the words in her original language to pronounce them, which would explain why they come out so forcefully.

Interesting.

“Oh, and what’s your favorite kind of painting? I dig paintings of leaves and trees,” I tell her with a lot of enthusiasm.

“Leaves and trees?” Cassandre frowns. But when she sees my sincere face and the huge smile I put on, I think she feels bad for me — this time with genuine pity, not just spiteful pity.

“Well, art is not just about the subject; sometimes, it’s about the artist.

“Meaning?” I ask.

“It might be a journéy to reach something, like this artist, Mondrian,” Cassandre says with dreamy eyes while I nod at the purely circumstantial evidence I’m following.

“Piet Mondrian was a painter who aspired to reach ideals of perfection, purity, unity, and even spiritualism through his paintings. He believed there’s a perfect reality that is detached from our reality. That there is a perfect version of our world. And he was trying to reach this world through his art and the spirituality derived from his artworks. So, to reach something that’s above this world, you can’t paint elements that remind you of this world; for example, you can’t make a portrait or a landscape because they are reflections of the reality we live in. You have to reduce these elements to the bare minimum. So, you strip down everything, and you get lines, squares, and primary colors—red, blue, and yellow; these are the only colors present in his paintings. All his paintings are the same in a way; they are an iteration, his personal journey to reach an ideal, the perfect composition. Never diagonal lines, though! He got in a fight with Theo van Doesburg about that. Mondrian said that diagonal lines suggest movement and thus are not simple enough. He wasn’t even painting his later pieces; he would use tape instead. And he would put it on the canvas in whatever way. Then, he would come back the next day, and he would take off the tape and tape it somewhere else. It was very unusual. He was constantly searching for a better way to find perfection.”

I am hit by a stream of words this woman just spouted on me like a ton of bricks. But wait, isn’t Mondrian a familiar name?

“This Mondrian, he sounds like quite the character. Was he a fellow countryman of yours?”

“No, he wasn’t. And he spent most of his life overseas, in the US—in another place.”

“Like, in Carilia?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

“Sort of,” she smiles, still dreamily looking at the ceiling.

Boy, this girl definitely studied humanities, didn’t she?

But whatever. I think I was dragged by a date to a couple of museums where they had some stuff by this Mondrian fella. I wonder if he’s the guy that made the colored rectangles. If he is, this woman is crazy. The painting I’m visualizing in my head right now is the sort of art that should get you burnt at the stake like a witch. Must be my Italian blood, but I’m more of a Neo-Classical/Renaissance guy myself. The whole weirdo vibe really missed the mark for me. A literary equivalent would probably be the Futurist idiots and their garbage.

“You’ll never understand,” Cassandre sighs, getting the order that was ready already during her speech.

“Who knows, I might,” I smile in return.

“Trust me; you won’t. Also, get some flirting lessons, friend. You will have many problems with women if you behave like that.”

I laugh, not able to help myself.

Hell, if I don’t like a theatrical performance.

“Problems?” I say while leaving a random number of gold coins on the counter and picking up my order.

I turn on my heels, look over my shoulder, and deactivate my disguise.

“I got ninety-nine problems, friend, but a lady ain’t one.”

Wink, tongue click, strutting out.

And that’s Joey, motherflipping, Luciani, baby.

We are back.

“See you, Frenchie,” I say as I leave a wide-mouthed girl behind me.