Meet the Chromogentsia
9.7.12.06.098: Anyone above 50 percent receptive is given the designation “Chromogentsia” and is eligible for such privileges as listed in Appendix D.
My father straightened his bow tie for the tenth time and pressed the doorbell outside Mrs. Ochre’s house. I hadn’t seen him so fastidious with his appearance for a long time, so presumed he was interested in her. I knew for a fact that he was lonely. He and I never talked about my mother, as it was too painful, but he, like me, carried a picture of her in his valise.
“Speak when spoken to at the Chromogentsia,” he said as we heard someone come to the door, “and don’t do anything that might jeopardize my chances with Velma.”
“Velma?”
“Mrs. Ochre.”
“Ah,” I said, not realizing this had gone as far as it had, “right.”
The door opened.
“So good of you to come!” exclaimed Mrs. Ochre, who was dressed in a particularly stunning red evening dress. It hugged her body tightly, and looked as though it had been adapted from a Standard Strapless #21. I saw Dad’s eyes look downward when he thought she wasn’t watching, but I think she noticed, and was flattered.
“We wouldn’t have missed it for anything, Mrs. Ochre,” said my father. “I brought you these.”
“Roses!” she exclaimed. “How too, too divine.” She turned to her daughter, who was hovering nearby.
“Lucy, my dear, would you find a vase and some water? Too wonderful to see you, Edward—is that the rice pudding? How marvelous. Would you put it in the kitchen? Lucy will show you.”
I walked into the kitchen with Lucy and watched as she selected a vase, then ran some water into it, making something of a mess.
“Did you hear that my mum and your dad took tea at the Fallen Man?”
“I’d not heard that, no.”
“They were even laughing together. Uproariously, some say—and they may even have held hands under the table. Look,” she added, “cards on the table and all that. My mother is interested in your father. And not just for the odd cup of tea and a stroll around the Outer Markers. She’s vulnerable at present, and I don’t want her hurt. If your father thinks he can take advantage of a grief-stricken widow, he’ll have me to contend with.”
Mrs. Ochre wasn’t exactly acting like a grief-stricken widow, what with laughing uproariously at the Fallen Man on a date with her dead husband’s replacement.
“Likewise,” I replied. “I don’t want anyone taking advantage of my father’s good nature and lonely disposition to effect a union that is not in his best interest.”
“Hmm,” she said, “I think that makes them both pretty much equal in the parental vulnerability stakes.
Perhaps we should just give them free rein and see where it goes. We can meet again to discuss whether to throw a spanner into the works or not.”
“I agree. Do you have any loganberry jam, by the way?”
“Ooh!” she murmured, “chasing knowledge, are you?”
“You’ve spoken to the Apocryphal man, too?”
She smiled. “I managed to reconstitute some loganberry from a dried-out jam pot I found at the back of the cupboard. It wasn’t very good, but enough for half a question.”
She opened the cooker and checked the chicken vol-au-vents.
“If you find some jam, I’ll come in for half the cost in exchange for a question.”
“Deal.”
There was a pause.
“I’m sorry to bring this up,” I said, “but your father—did he have much to do with the Grey, Jane?”
“Whyever do you ask?”
I had to think quick, but couldn’t, so said the first thing that came into my head. “It’s part of my, um, chair census.”
“Oh. Well, no. Not that I know of. But he would have seen everyone at some point—he would have been there when she was born. Unless—”
“What gorgeous flowers!” said Mrs. Ochre as she walked in. “Lucy, would you mind pouring the tea while I greet guests with Holden—I mean, Mr. Russett—at the door? Edward, be a dear and make yourself useful with the coats, and after that you might like to hand the sandwiches around.”
I picked up the cucumberesque sandwiches and walked into the large, wood-paneled drawing room.
Mrs. Ochre could have used real cucumbers, but they don’t hold the green dye so well. These were the more dye-absorbent sliced courgettes, and were a bright emerald mock-green. Although the room was half full, the only people I recognized were Mrs. Lapis Lazuli and the Apocryphal man, who had cleaned himself up and was even wearing a suit. Since I would not be able to acknowledge the Apocryphal man in company without heavy demerit, I merely walked past him so he could take some sandwiches off my tray. I nodded a greeting to Mrs. Lapis Lazuli, who inclined her head favorably in return.
The conversation was mostly about the possibility of High Saffron’s being open for toshing and how, with full colorization from a pipeline extension, East Carmine might once more host Jollity Fair.
The next guests to arrive were Aubrey and Lisa Lemon-Skye, parents of Jabez.
“You must be Edward,” said Aubrey as Lisa chatted with Mrs. Ochre and my father, who had fallen easily into the roles of hostess and host.
“You have a bicolored name,” I observed. “I’ve never heard of that before.”
“And not likely to again,” mused Aubrey. “Although Ruleful, its use is not encouraged. My wife is Turquoise’s cousin, so she managed to swing it for us. Besides, it’s not as though we were complementary colors.”
I gave an involuntary shudder. The notion of a Red-Green, Blue-Orange or Yellow-Purple conjoining was too scandalously degrading even to contemplate.
“Do you enjoy the bedtime story?” came a loud voice. I turned to find Mrs. Lapis Lazuli staring at me.
“Very much, ma’am.”
“Splendid. I can’t imagine who taps it out—most irresponsible.”
And she gave me a broad wink.
“I understand you’re thinking of staying with us for good?”
“Not really,” I replied. “In fact, not at all.”
“Glad to hear it. We are in need of fresh seed to stir up the politics before stagnation. Good gracious!”
she exclaimed as an equally wrinkly lady on the other side of the room caught her eye. “It’s Granny Crimson. How remarkably Rot-free she looks. I must take a closer look.”
And without another word, she moved off.
“One of the stalwarts of the Debating Society,” remarked Mr. Lemon-Skye as we watched the old woman move in a sprightly fashion across the floor. “Top hockeyballist in her time; represented the village sixteen times at the Jollity Fair athletics. Her areas of expertise are bar codes, book titles and maps—she has an original Parker Brothers map of the world.”
This was interesting, since the map represented the only view we had of the world before the Something That Happened. For some reason, its destruction had not been demanded under Annex XXIV.
“Does she adhere to the theory that it represents global Chromatic regions of the pre-Epiphanic world?”
“She does, although I’m doubtful myself. If we were regionally blue when Something Happened, there’d be more evidence of it now.”
“And the RISK acronym? What does she think that stands for?”
“Regional International Spectral Kolor . Yes, I know,” Mr. Lemon-Skye agreed when I looked doubtful, “it must be an archaic spelling. But get her to show you the map. It’s almost complete, you know—only the nations of Irkutsk and Kamchatka have been eaten by clodworms.”