Paint on White

Iris Gui-Hua is en route to passing her architecture course with flying greys.

"You have the passion, Gui-Hua," says Kenzie, her architecture professor—a woman with sagging cheeks and an eccentric updo. "But you're missing your head; the hard part—you're missing the foundations for your creativity. Have you finished any of the readings?"

"Yeah," Iris lies. “Look, I personally don’t think I’m missing anything—in fact, might I suggest that it is, in fact, the education system that’s missing—”

Kenzie sighs. "I’m not the faculty leader; you’re not serenading me like that, Gui-Hua.”

Iris might not be great at completing her assignments at an acceptable quality, if at all, but if there’s one thing she’s good at, it’s spewing random bullshit on the fly. “But Kenzie, we’re the future architects of Fontanelle—”

“I am,” she corrects. “Was.”

“—art literally flows in our work, Kenzie! We might die, we might pass on, be forgotten, but our work has the potential to outlast even history! Surely, surely, as architects, we have some part to play in influencing the—no, our future?”

Her professor folds her arms, a smile quirking at the corner of her pencil thin lips. “Aptly put. However, you’re also missing your deadlines and tanking your grades regardless, Miss Gui-Hua.”

Iris presses her lips together. Her hands have risen into the air mid-rant, and now they’re floating back to rest on the knot of her scarf again, where a foggy brooch pins her garments into place. As far as she is concerned, Iris has already lost.

The rest of the meeting with her professor passes without much interjection from Iris; only her subtle nods and a stifled “mhm” is peppered between damning statements.

Deadlines; ah yes, deadlines.

Deadlines, the bane of her blood.

There’s a glaring reason why she is always missing deadlines, a strange ailment that has doctors scratching their heads and swearing by her poor work ethics to save face.

The thought relay interface—a tool most uni students and her mum and her dad and her friend’s grandmothers swear by to get their three-thousand word essays done in under six hours—easily tires Iris.

Ever since she entered her last year of high school, where the workload had turned hellscape incarnate, she has attended all sorts of therapy sessions, tried every flavour of homebrewed remedy. None of them have worked. Only one thing has stuck with Iris, tried and true—her reliance on analog keyboards. And the one she has at home is beginning to decay.

She’s been putting off getting another for a while now.

Iris leaves Kenzie’s office attempting to suppress the sensation of feeling spurned. The hallway is empty, and the software for the door locks haven't been upgraded since last century; anyone with half a mind and a campus card could swipe their way inside the fine arts department regardless of their major. Not like anyone would want to, but the sentiment remains.

The floors squeak and groan as Iris walks through the halls. The walls are formed out of glass, and from here she can see a twist of polished metal rocketing into the sky—their university's engineering building. A symbol of what-could-bes and objective successes, of shining alumni and, most importantly, socially acceptable innovation. Nothing like the abomination she'd constructed for the Blumen.

The engineering building gleams like a sparkling fountain under the New England sun. The elevator that Iris is riding right now to the ground floor has not been maintained in a good five years. There isn't even an LED display of her current floor or a touchpad compatible screen of options—the user interface is baked into the metal, and the mechanical buttons smell of tangy iron. 

But Iris wouldn’t trade any of this for anything. Not even an upgrade. The fact that the Fine Arts building still stands today is a miracle in itself.

As soon as Iris steps out into the main square, the aroma of exposed iron disperses into artificial scenting and generic deodorant. Smooth, white chromium tiles cover the square, and students travel to-and-fro classes in straight lines. Personally, if it ever came down to it and society imploded on itself or zombies invaded the tiny cul-de-sac of Fontanelle, Iris would choose to live in the architecture building. If she could.

Suddenly, Iris finds herself almost stumbling on flat ground. An arm swings around her shoulder, and she lets out a half-choke, half-laugh.

“How’d the grilling go?” asks Georgia. A shock of her ginger hair flies into her mouth, and she spits it back out, laughing. “I’m serious. You get called into that office like three times a week. If it’s not this, it’s that, and holy hell, can she just get off your case already?”

“I didn’t burst into tears this time!” Iris grins. Pride overwhelms her senses.

Georgia slaps Iris on the back, which causes the handmade bangles on her wrists to jangle against each other. “Attagirl. But why don’t you just do the readings, hm?”

“Are you kidding? They’re boring. They’re all written by machines.”

“They’re mandatory.”

“Oh, so you teach 203 now?”

Georgia hums and waggles her finger in front of Iris’ face. “Maybe, just maybe, they’re letting me lead a tutorial for a first year paper next semester. I don’t know. Maybe.”

Iris’ first reaction is to hug her friend tightly. Her second reaction is to withdraw from her and say, “But wait, they let anybody lead a tutorial.”

“Yeah, but they chose the right “anybody”.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You look a bit… rebellious.” Iris makes a big show of eyeing up the rest of Georgia’s outfit; a pastel knitted turtleneck and a patchwork skirt that swoops at the ground with every step. She’s the first splotch of paint against a white canvas—confident, decisive. Everyone else is too busy wearing black and white.

Everything Iris isn’t, Georgie is.

The taste in her mouth has already turned sour. "I… think I'm gonna head home for now. Wouldn't want to miss out on the assigned readings again."

"You're not gonna pay a visit to your ancestors?"

Iris looks downwards. "You know she doesn't talk to me. What's the point?"

Georgie chews on her inner lip. "Alright. Well, my Mama wanted me to talk for a bit with Opa before his birthday—and the Ancestry Hall's always freaked me out." Her eyes turn doe-like. "Come with me?"

"...Fine."

—

The Ancestry Hall is only a few tram stations away from the campus. While Fontanelle's architectural colour scheme primarily consists of stark whites and subdued greys, the Ancestry Hall stands out like a sunflower in a field of poppies; it is a tall slab of dark, chocolate wood against a field of teeth-white towers. Hip-and-gable roofs layer each level of the Hall like a wedding cake, and etched into its sides are various figureheads of Fontanelle's parliament. Iris can name none of them.

The two are ushered into the Hall by a youngish man wearing a sleek and loose-fitting modern hanfu. Iris is thankful for the human service—most retailers have already been replaced by automated AI of varying quality. It’s rare to see a task as menial as an attendant be performed by a human.

The Ancestry Hall is strange like that. It is a puzzle piece that has been dislodged from the finished picture. Culture caught inside a bottle; relics unearthed from a recent past.

Iris holds her breath as she passes between the two massive marbled lions that stand guard near the entrance. Their eyes are huge, and nestled between their teeth are pearls larger than Iris' head.

There is no queue to the receptionist. Georgie hands over her campus ID, while Iris pats down her pockets in a panic.

"Yeah, don't worry about it." The receptionist's inch-long nails tap against the console. "Iris Gui-Hua. We know your mother."

A blush creeps across Iris cheeks. The receptionist, thankfully, makes no comment on it. Her console lets out a soft beep, and she says, "Floor five, sector eleven. You’ll need these too." She slides a wad of paper notes over the counter, pauses, then slides another wad over to Iris wordlessly. “Just in case you change your mind,” the receptionist adds.

Iris shoves the notes deep into her skirt pockets.

Once they are in the elevator, Georgie says, "I'm guessing your mother visits the Ancestry Halls often."

Often doesn't even begin to describe it, but Iris remains silent. The elevator hums, and the two step out into an ill-lit room. There are two battery-powered lanterns sitting on a shelf next to the elevator; Iris takes one and lets it dangle from the handle. A low, yellow glow illuminates her immediate surroundings, revealing a wooden wall etched with letterbox-sized shelves. A lonely sign sulks in the corner:

USE ONLY THE LIGHTS PROVIDED

NO LED DISPLAYS

TURN OFF ALL PHONES

Sector eleven is at the very end of the building. Iris watches Georgie slide out a box from the shelf with her free hand, while keeping her lamp awkwardly angled away.

"You know the vessels are made out of light resistant material, right?" asks Iris.

"I failed materials," says Georgie.

"Ok, sure. An A minus is a fail."

Her snort echoes throughout the halls. "Are you going to get yours, or…?"

Iris shrugs. "Maybe later."

They return to where the elevator is and enter another room. This room has a low ceiling, a multitude of air vents, and a statue of a grinning man in the centre. A tray sits at the man's feet—there are sticks of burned incense withering away in it already, vestiges from the last visitor. Georgie brushes them aside into a bin.

Georgie places her vessel into the tray and lights the incense. Iris watches her friend from afar bow with the incense clapped between her hands once, twice, then three times. Her eyes remain shut.

The vessel glows a delicate blue. The smoke from the incense wafts upwards in foggy wisps, where it begins to bleed together with the light.

Seeing the ritual actually work is a rare sight for Iris.

"Opa," says Georgie, her voice feather-light. "Mama had another argument with Oma last week. "

Silence. Iris finds herself holding her breath.

Then, a low voice crackles through the smoke. It sounds like a million eggshells cracking at once.

"Georgie, is she alright?" asks the voice.

"Oma is fine—"

"No, your Mama."

The conversation dives into a slurry of German and English, each language blending in with the other so seamlessly that Iris can no longer differentiate between the two. She takes this opportunity to head back outside to search for her ancestor's vessel.

She knows the location of her vessel like the fine hairs on her fingers; sector nine, floor five. The box is well kept and has been polished time and time again by the oil on her mother's fingers.

Iris supposes that it is her turn this time.

Back in her own veneration room, she sets the vessel onto the tray and lights the incense. She knows the ritual by heart thanks to her mother and the hours they’d spent praying to no avail.

The incense continues to burn its spice and smoke. Iris’ hands shake as she holds them. She doesn’t know why she’s so nervous.

The exact intonation of her ancestor’s name in pīn yīn comes out of her mouth like a wad of dried, chewed bread. “Huā Qiū Lín,” she manages. It still doesn’t quite sound right, but then again, her mother has butchered the pronunciation in worse ways.

The vessel doesn’t glow, and the smoke from the incense remains foggy. Iris recalls how Georgie had referred to her grandpa as “opa,” instead of his true name. To her dismay, she realises that not only is she not aware of her ancestor’s relationship to her, but also that she doesn’t know their gender. She tries every title. The vessel remains silent.

“Still not working?” asks Georgie, who has somehow made her way into Iris’ veneration room. Sensing her surprise, Georgie says quickly, “Door wasn’t locked. You were praying your heart out.”

“Ah.” For the second time that day, Iris finds herself blushing. She grabs a fistful of prayer money from her pockets and tosses it onto the tray along with the incense. The flames catch, and for a single, breathing moment, the notes flake and float like autumn leaves.

—

“So tell me, Iris,” Georgie says between sips of sweetened tea. “Why are you failing?”

"Oh, besides the fact that I'm basically confined to using mechanical keyboards?" Iris asks, folding her arms. "And that that said keyboard is starting to die out on me?"

"Yeah? So go get one." Georgie shrugs, as if Iris' dilemma is no dilemma at all.

"I'm—not procrastinating. I'll do it soon."

"What did Kenzie say?"

A white, rounded AI slides over to their table with a tray of cups. Iris plucks a nice one—a tall glass with a smooth, blue-to-turquoise gradient—from the tray and attempts to drink from it. Too sweet; she coughs.

“Kenzie,” Iris manages between splutters, “went on this huge spiel about how architecture is for the people, not for the history books. I got it. Sort of.”

“So you know what she meant by that?”

Iris hangs her head. “No.”

Georgie taps her chin. “Did you ask for clarification?”

“N-no.” She hadn’t wanted to seem dumb in front of her professor. A bit too late for that, she realises in hindsight.

She gestures with her hand, palms up and questioning. Why didn’t you?

Iris shrugs. "I thought I'd figure it out by myself later. Maybe something was gonna click, I don't know."

"It means you need to use your interviews better, Iris."

"I'm literally already citing them!"

"Let me see your transcripts."

Iris brings up the transcripts on her phone and slides it across the table. Her friend narrows her eyes, taps at her chin thoughtfully. Then she says drolly: "These questions are pretty dry."

"I don't really know what we're meant to ask them, the lecturers didn't give me any exemplar questions—"

""Would you live in a castle or a mansion," is, personally, not a good question."

Iris thinks about defending her case, because in her defense, that question was related to another question that was related to a question regarding whether or not her interviewee preferred brick or cobble—the interviewee hadn't supplied a proper answer. Iris prefers cobble. In retrospect, the question had not been very good.

"You need open ended questions, not if they prefer this over that—you're only gonna get as much as you ask, we don't all go on tangents about brick and mortar. What'd you hand in, by the way?"

Something akin to pride swells inside of Iris like a coming storm. "Picture this: a Blumen institution, a fortress of bright slate and unstained concrete. Now imagine that same institution, but framed with flowering gold decor, a gorgeous balustrade to observe the plant life from, and a lush garden of flowering Blumen. No walls, no glass."

At first, Georgie doesn't say anything. Then she asks, "That doesn't sound idealistic and dangerous at all."

Iris presses her lips together. "Back—back to the questions. What do I ask?"

Georgie brings out her phone. "Well, for starters…"