Post by Cristiano Orisha on Sept 13, 2014 20:51:48 GMT -8
Cristiano sat quietly across from the sweaty, large mess that was James Archibald, owner of Archibald and Cranston, a not very well known architecture and development firm in Washington State. James huffed as he smacked his lips and licked his fingers, finishing off the roast chicken before him. He reached out, caught up a chilled cup of wine and drank it down, his slurps loud and jarring in the night silence.
Cristiano's left hand rested propped upon his cane while his right idly rubbed at the well worn wood of the arm of the chair beneath him. Had it not been for this motion, he might have been a statue carved of dark olive and whose artist had a particuluar talent for capturing raw intensity.
"I took a look at those drawings," Archibald began, picking gristle from his teeth with greasy fingers. "They're good, very good if you ask me. Who is this Orisha fellow? I'm assuming he's your man." James looked up at Cristiano expectantly.
When the earth moves, all attention is focused on the event, so too did Cristiano's voice command attention. "I am Orisha. Cristiano Orisha." The lilt of his Spanish accent was thick but intelligable.
Archibald's lips turned upward into a grin, then he laughed. "I've meet a few like you, entertaining. Just yesterday I went down to one of those dance halls." He let out a long breath, "Your women... But, no, be truthful, son. Who drew these?"
Cristiano looked around the small office. Drawings and models filled the small space. He sat opposite the fat man, but it was his presence that dominated the room. Cristiano turned his gaze back to Archibald, looking over his ruddy features. Brown hair, slick with sweat. Lips and cheeks red with the effort to breathe. Pale eyes, questioning. "I've met a few like you," he began slowly. "I drew these, Mister Archibald."
"I have never seen a n-"
"Mister Archibald, choose your next words carefully. I have neither the patience or the inclination to entertain your... color issues."
Archibald quieted, peering at the dark man across from him. He sighed and leaned back, making a decision. "I can purchase these designs for-"
Cristiano raised his right hand, and James fell silent again. "I have come a long way. You indicated in your letter that my offer was generous. To purchase your floundering firm." He tilted his head a fraction of a degree. "Have you changed your mind?"
"Well, no. But I thought when I was speaking from someone from Spain I was talking with a white man." Archibald leaned forward, "Listen, boy, I brought this company up from nothing and I see what your people do to things they're given. You foul them up, ruin them." Archibald shrugged, "It is the nature of things. Now I recognize your talent, but I can't sell you my firm."
Cristiano reached into his jacket pocket and brought forth a document. "As I said, Mister Archibald, I don't have time for your stupidity." He placed it on the desk next to the carcass of the roasted chicken. "Sign the document."
Before he could comprehend, Archibald had reached across the table, unscrewed his inkpen and was signing the paper. When he finished, he looked at the header of the document. "What? How did?" He looked up at Cristiano in confusion.
The dark man reached across the table and took up the bill of sale. "Thank you for your business, Mister Archibald. You have until tomorrow night to vacate my offices." Cristiano stood and turned to leave.
"You get back here, boy and give that back." The scrape of wood against wood as Archibald climbed to his feet.
"Our business is concluded," Cristiano said, not turning around.
"Like hell." There was a metallic click. "I don't want to kill you, nig-"
Cristiano turned. His face wasn't as much an emotion as it was a representation of true indifference. It was a smile in the strictest definition but did not meet the hard brown eyes. It was the yawn of a large cat resting peacefully on the Plains watching prey cross its path. It evoked the pure terror of a sailor frozen on the deck as the storm bore down.
"Put that down and sit," he said, his voice calm, quiet and carried with it the absolute power of a king. Archibald watched, his eyes growing wide as he complied. "Speak truthfully. Would you have shot me had I tried to leave?"
"Yes," Archibald replied through clenched teeth. "And no one would have asked questions. Uppity negro coming in here like you own the-"
The dark man's eyebrow raised a fraction and Archibald fell silent.
"I thought you a more reasonable man, Mister Archibald. Obviously I was mistaken. As I said, I have neither the time nor the patience to entertain your issues."
Cristiano sat down and regarded the wide eyed James. "All you had to do was keep to our agreement."
The lamps in the room dimmed. The shadows lengthened. "You are fortunate that I am willing to teach you enlightenment. Breathe, Mister Archibald. This will be a long night. Let us explore terror."
Cristiano's left hand rested propped upon his cane while his right idly rubbed at the well worn wood of the arm of the chair beneath him. Had it not been for this motion, he might have been a statue carved of dark olive and whose artist had a particuluar talent for capturing raw intensity.
"I took a look at those drawings," Archibald began, picking gristle from his teeth with greasy fingers. "They're good, very good if you ask me. Who is this Orisha fellow? I'm assuming he's your man." James looked up at Cristiano expectantly.
When the earth moves, all attention is focused on the event, so too did Cristiano's voice command attention. "I am Orisha. Cristiano Orisha." The lilt of his Spanish accent was thick but intelligable.
Archibald's lips turned upward into a grin, then he laughed. "I've meet a few like you, entertaining. Just yesterday I went down to one of those dance halls." He let out a long breath, "Your women... But, no, be truthful, son. Who drew these?"
Cristiano looked around the small office. Drawings and models filled the small space. He sat opposite the fat man, but it was his presence that dominated the room. Cristiano turned his gaze back to Archibald, looking over his ruddy features. Brown hair, slick with sweat. Lips and cheeks red with the effort to breathe. Pale eyes, questioning. "I've met a few like you," he began slowly. "I drew these, Mister Archibald."
"I have never seen a n-"
"Mister Archibald, choose your next words carefully. I have neither the patience or the inclination to entertain your... color issues."
Archibald quieted, peering at the dark man across from him. He sighed and leaned back, making a decision. "I can purchase these designs for-"
Cristiano raised his right hand, and James fell silent again. "I have come a long way. You indicated in your letter that my offer was generous. To purchase your floundering firm." He tilted his head a fraction of a degree. "Have you changed your mind?"
"Well, no. But I thought when I was speaking from someone from Spain I was talking with a white man." Archibald leaned forward, "Listen, boy, I brought this company up from nothing and I see what your people do to things they're given. You foul them up, ruin them." Archibald shrugged, "It is the nature of things. Now I recognize your talent, but I can't sell you my firm."
Cristiano reached into his jacket pocket and brought forth a document. "As I said, Mister Archibald, I don't have time for your stupidity." He placed it on the desk next to the carcass of the roasted chicken. "Sign the document."
Before he could comprehend, Archibald had reached across the table, unscrewed his inkpen and was signing the paper. When he finished, he looked at the header of the document. "What? How did?" He looked up at Cristiano in confusion.
The dark man reached across the table and took up the bill of sale. "Thank you for your business, Mister Archibald. You have until tomorrow night to vacate my offices." Cristiano stood and turned to leave.
"You get back here, boy and give that back." The scrape of wood against wood as Archibald climbed to his feet.
"Our business is concluded," Cristiano said, not turning around.
"Like hell." There was a metallic click. "I don't want to kill you, nig-"
Cristiano turned. His face wasn't as much an emotion as it was a representation of true indifference. It was a smile in the strictest definition but did not meet the hard brown eyes. It was the yawn of a large cat resting peacefully on the Plains watching prey cross its path. It evoked the pure terror of a sailor frozen on the deck as the storm bore down.
"Put that down and sit," he said, his voice calm, quiet and carried with it the absolute power of a king. Archibald watched, his eyes growing wide as he complied. "Speak truthfully. Would you have shot me had I tried to leave?"
"Yes," Archibald replied through clenched teeth. "And no one would have asked questions. Uppity negro coming in here like you own the-"
The dark man's eyebrow raised a fraction and Archibald fell silent.
"I thought you a more reasonable man, Mister Archibald. Obviously I was mistaken. As I said, I have neither the time nor the patience to entertain your issues."
Cristiano sat down and regarded the wide eyed James. "All you had to do was keep to our agreement."
The lamps in the room dimmed. The shadows lengthened. "You are fortunate that I am willing to teach you enlightenment. Breathe, Mister Archibald. This will be a long night. Let us explore terror."
