wanderinghamsa (wanderinghamsa) wrote in shadowlands_ic, @ 2017-06-28 21:37:00 |
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Entry tags: | chiara di palermo, zipporah bakst |
Who: Zipporah Bakst, Chiara di Palermo
What: A business negotiation
Where: Zipporah's flat on the East End
When: 28th June, 1888
Rating: G
Zipporah, her Auntie Miriam, and Ach lived in a small flat on the East End of London. Their neighborhood was a neighborhood full of immigrants -- the delis were Kosher, everything came to a halt from Friday night to Sunday morning, and business signs, newspapers, and fliers were more likely to be written in Yiddish than English.
Whenever Zipporah ventured out of her neighborhood, it was almost like she was traveling to a foreign country where she still didn’t quite know the customs, where the language could be a struggle (some Londoners spoke with such a thick accent it was difficult to pick out what on earth they were saying), and where her own welcome was uncertain. While the neighborhood had its share of challenges, she at least knew the rules, and it felt a little more like home.
Their apartment was small and worn and dingy looking no matter how hard they worked to keep it clean, with her Auntie’s herbs hanging up on hooks all over the kitchen and growing in the window boxes and on the fire escape and in a narrow strip of ground in front of their building, the wallpaper patched, the furniture cheap second-hand. The entire place hummed with protective magics -- it was woven into the weave of the rag-rugs and sewn into the curtains, the mezuzah by the front and back door and crystals hung to catch the light in the windows all carefully balanced to provide safety for all who were invited in, and to repel all who weren’t, both supernatural and mundane. The Bakst women knew how to keep trouble from their doorstep. The back bedroom was where they saw any patients -- a small but clean bed with an iron bedstead, a few comfortable chairs, and a low dresser with a basin.
Most of the people they saw were women from the neighborhood who had troublesome courses, or who had unwanted pregnancies that needed to be safely dealt with, or other complaints, but since they’d been there for a few years, it seemed as though they’d gained a bit of a reputation that exceeded Whitechapel, as these days, it wasn’t unusual for a woman to knock on the door from elsewhere.
Chiara wasn’t unfamiliar with the language of the Jews. Her background had seen her mixing with dozens of different races and learning their languages, and as it happened she rather enjoyed speaking Yiddish. They had a certain turn of phrase she hadn’t encountered in many other languages.
Looking down at the address Gabriel had given her, she walked quickly down the dingy looking streets. She was uncomfortably aware of the richness of her clothing and her hat, and that she was being eyed by certain of the people she passed, but she did her best not to acknowledge any of that outwardly. She was out of her element, that was for sure, but she had business here just like anyone else.
She knocked on the door, her practiced eye taking in the building and its surroundings. Old, worn, and dingy were charitable descriptions, but they were cosmetic concerns. Chiara’s senses told her how clean this place was, a stark contrast to some of the places she had passed on the way here. That, before anything else, earned her respect.
Zipporah was in, doing a bit of reading, and as she heard the rap on the door, she put her book aside, pocketing her notebook, and opened it, her eyes widening as she saw the stranger at the door.
Her first impression was that a charity worker was making the rounds -- and a brief second impression was a brief tingle of her sixth sense -- a slight shudder along her spine indicating she was in the presence of something old, powerful, and not quite human -- but her wards held firm. Whoever she was, she came with no ill intent.
“Please,” she said, giving a brief bob of her head. “Won’t you come in?” She’d normally ask the woman’s business, but she didn’t want her attracting more attention than she already had.
“Thank you,” Chiara said as she entered the small flat. In Yiddish, she continued speaking. “A friend gave me your address and recommended I pay you a visit. I have no need of your services myself, thankfully, but I am… affiliated with several other young women who could benefit from our acquaintance.”
Chiara’s senses thrummed with the magic that was running through the very fabric of this place. Gabriel had not been wrong. This one was powerful, perhaps even more than the witch herself understood. Chiara couldn’t help grinning at her.
“You have power,” she remarked, still speaking in Yiddish. “I do so love that in a woman.”
Zipporah realized she was staring, and she shut her open mouth firmly, recovering her grace as best as she could. “Please, do sit,” she responded in kind, beyond amazed to hear this stranger speaking her language so fluently -- albeit in an accent she couldn’t quite place. “I am quite gratified to have received your notice. May I fetch you some tea? Or wine?” She asked, a little uncertain at the custom of hospitality the woman would be accustomed to.
The words took a while to register due to her surprise, and when the complement finally sunk in, she raised her chin proudly, a brief flash in her eyes, and she nodded briefly in recognition of it.
“Wine would be lovely, thank you,” Chiara answered, switching back to English as she sat down. “Red, if you have it.”
The time had come for introductions, and Chiara began by smiling widely, extending her fangs for just a moment as a sort of signal that no, she was not necessarily what she seemed. “I am Chiara de Palermo. Originally I am from Sicily, but I have lived in England for… some time.” She could get into just how long when they knew each other a little better.
“A certain acquaintance of mine told me that you provide services to women, medical services, if I may remain delicate. As I mentioned, I am affiliated with a number of young women, and a service of your nature would be extremely useful. I could pay you for your work, of course.”
She held out her hand for the wine after Zipporah had poured it, and sipped delicately. “Mmm. Good wine. I approve.”
It took a great deal of control for Zipporah to not spill the wine everywhere in her nervousness -- the woman was an Alukah, a blood-sucker -- and while she’d heard stories, she’d never had one reveal itself to her before. As it was, her heart beat faster, even though she knew she was the safest she could possibly be -- her apartment was a veritable fortress, and none of the warning bells had sounded, Ach sitting in his usual chair, placidly, the wards steady and smooth.
So the woman had shown her as a courtesy, then -- as a sign of trust -- and knowing it would serve her far better to listen fully to what the woman was offering, she poured herself a glass to steady her nerves a touch, and sat opposite her.
“Thank you,” she replied, carefully. “I am Zipporah. Zipporah Bakst. And yes. My Auntie Miriam is the one who has the most experience -- she’s out making a house call on a new mother down the street,” she added, tipping her head in the direction her aunt had gone, “but I have been trained by her, and we both are capable of addressing a wide range of issues that may require attention, beyond and including the ones one might expect.”
She took a sip of her own wine, trying very hard not to gulp it. “The healing arts are, of course, not miraculous, there are some things that are beyond our capacities, but we do what we can and take pride in our work. It would be…” she paused, taking a breath. “It would be a great honor, to provide such a service for the women you…” she dug for the right word, flailing a bit, and switched to Yiddish. “...The women you are affiliated with, Lady di Palermo,” she finally managed.
The girl’s fear was palpable, and were she another sort of person, Chiara might have relished in it. As it stood, she felt a slight twinge of guilt. She had intended to signal her race to the young witch, not frighten her.
“Let us lay our cards on the table. A little… mutually assured destruction never hurts.” She set her glass of wine on the table. “I am the head of an organization you may have heard of…” She smirked. “And you likely have not. La Sorellanza. I am almost seven hundred years old, and I have acquired a not-inconsiderable wealth in my time on the earth. I am proposing an arrangement. I send my girls to you for their medical care, and you send me the bills. In this time of male oppression and lack of freedom for women, I very much like the idea of my girls being seen to by a woman physician.”
She picked up her wine and sipped again. “Your friend in the corner is not human, is he? Handsome fellow. Good choice of protection. I have pondered using golem to protect L’albergo, but ultimately I feel secrecy serves us better than force.”
Zipporah nodded over at Ach. “I made him for my Master work,” she said, that spark of pride once again in her eyes. “My bubbe taught me the defensive arts, and I have found that his presence makes navigating the streets easier.”
This familiar ground, and her few sips of wine, set her a bit more at ease, and she looked over at the vampire appraisingly. “This is in the territory of the Bessarabian Tigers,” she said, “and the neighborhood is rough at times. It might be a danger, for to come here. We would not advertise our clientele, of course,” she added, hastily, “but it is something to consider -- I would not want your girls to come to trouble.”
“That is a valid consideration,” Chiara said thoughtfully. “I wonder, then, if you might be convinced to come to us when we have need of your services. Again, I would pay you handsomely.”
She glanced over at the golem. “He is a fine piece of work,” she said simply. “So. Shall we have a discussion about specifics?”
A brief smile flitted across Zipporah’s face. “He’s not much for conversation,” she said, with a shrug, “but he does not require food, and is quite good for carrying the shopping.”
She nodded, settling down to a more businesslike demeanor. “We make house calls,” she said, “and would be glad to, both for regularly scheduled visits and…” she frowned, searching a little. “...More sudden need,” she settled on after a moment’s pause. “If there is an emergency elsewhere, a true emergency, and we are scheduled for you for a normal visit, we would either send just the one of us, or, in extreme circumstances, send word of a need for to be rearranging at first convenience -- babies come when they come,” she said, with a wave of her hand, “and sometimes, they come quite dangerously.”
“Of course I understand emergencies happen,” Chiara said with a wave of her hand. “And I am not so unreasonable to expect that the sniffles should take precedence over another woman’s life, just because the sniffles exist under my roof.”
Another sip of wine, and she absentmindedly held her glass out for it to be refilled, her mind more on the task at hand. “We have rooms, at L’albergo,” she mused. “We could fit one out for you, and you could stock it with whatever herbs and things you need for your work. It would save you from needing to carry things back and forth every month. And you could bill me for those, too. Or give me a list, and I can have the sorelle shop for them. You’ll need a bed, too, if this is anything to go by? We have beds aplenty.”
The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. The only thing stopping her from inviting Zipporah to live at L’albergo herself was the idea that that would take her from her home, this neighborhood, where services such as hers were sorely needed: perhaps more so than at L’albergo. Chiara could be selfish and self-serving at times, but that was beyond even her.
“I am prepared to offer you a standing five pounds per month to come out, once a month, and check over the girls. Not just the ones who are sick, but regular health checks, on a rolling basis. I have twenty one girls, and I propose you see seven each month, so each girl is having a check every three months. You can either buy your supplies out of the five pounds, or you can bill me for them, it makes no difference to me. In the case of emergency call outs I will double your monthly payment.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Are these terms acceptable to you?”
Zipporah boggled for a moment, and then nodded. “Yes,” she said, her voice cracking a little as she worked the numbers in her head. “Yes, that would be acceptable.” She’d thought it would be a challenge to convince her Auntie to go that far afield, to work for an Alukah, but this changed the rubric considerably.
“A room with a bed, and a place for storage would be ideal, yes. The supplies can be difficult to source for those not studied -- it is nothing for me to obtain the needed stock for to be adequately prepared, and then bill you after.”
She looked at Chiara, raising an eyebrow at the woman’s stated indifference about whether the supplies came out of her own pocket -- usually, the cost of supplies were not something their clients even thought of, and given there were many who couldn’t pay much (some of the poorest paid in food), there were times when their efforts ended up costing them money. Besides that, their work came in waves and spurts, sometimes with long unexpected dry spells -- they had yet to miss a payment of rent, but there were times where they’d had to tighten their belts to do so.
A steady, dependable income for one day a month’s work -- she would’ve given her pinkie toe for half the price the woman quoted, just for that assurance alone.
“If it truly does not make a difference,” she said, looking at Chiara carefully, “there are some supplies that can be variable in cost -- I would prefer to bill you as we replenish, and I would be sure to account for expenditures precisely.”
“It truly does not,” Chiara responded, looking Zipporah over just as carefully. She reached into her small purse and took out two ten pound banknotes, placing them on the small table between them. “I trust this will be enough to start with?” she said mildly. “You can buy what you need, and I will send sorelle to pick the things up - or you can come to L’albergo for the day to set up yourself. It is up to you.”
An idea was starting to form in her head, but she did not wish to speak of it now. It would be better to wait until they were better acquainted. “Do you have a telephone?” she asked, looking around. She did not see one, but that did not mean that one did not exist.
“I do not, no,” Zipporah replied, quickly losing her capacity to be further surprised. “I believe the post office down the road has one, as does the police,” she said, “but I have no notion for how to make use of it. And yes,” she managed with a modicum of grace, “that will be more than enough.” Her Auntie kept a careful budget sheet -- she resolved to keep a separate, careful accounting down to the farthing of everything purchased for this woman’s Sorelle ladies, and to give Chiara the balance; twenty pounds would go quite far, and she couldn’t fathom spending more.
L’albergo had a telephone, but Chiara sometimes wondered why, given that so few places had one so that they could be called. “Perhaps you will allow me to procure a telephone for your residence,” she suggested. “I am told that the operation of a telephone is child's play once one is acquainted with the process, and it would make communication much more expeditious in the case of an emergency. Additionally, you could give the number out to any of your existing clientele who have access to one, should there be any. What a feather in your cap, to be the first in this neighborhood who can offer such immediacy of service.”
The fact that she was now thoroughly inoculated against whatever additional unexpected curve balls this afternoon would bring her sharpened her focus -- while having a personal telephone was ridiculously ostentatious for their neighborhood, and she would never have thought of obtaining one, she could see the value in being able to be contacted so immediately, even if it was only by the sort of clients who had telephones or lived near a business that had one, as an obvious gain. Besides, they were a business of sorts, weren’t they?
They were.
She straightened her spine, giving Chiara a nod. “A telephone would be quite amenable, Lady di Palermo.”
Chiara stood, and held out her hand to shake. “I consider this to be a very fruitful afternoon, Miss Bakst. I thank you for your time, and I think we will be excellent business partners.”
She turned to take her leave, then paused. “I will consider it an insult if any of that money comes back to me,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, nodding at the twenty pounds on the table. “Perhaps you could buy your aunt a nice new chair. Some warm clothing for the winter. A treat of some description. I do not care… but as I said, I should be extremely insulted if you thought I required any of that money to be returned to me.”
An hour previous, Zipporah would’ve hesitated to take the Alukah’s hand -- and would’ve thought the premise of a woman who’d not only toss down twenty pounds to cover expenses as if it was nothing, but then demand no change be given in return was patently absurd. But this Zipporah was a different one than the one who’d opened the door to a stranger knocking, and as she took Chiara’s hand in hers without a moment’s pause, shaking it firmly, she actually laughed. “Well. I would hate to insult you,” she replied.