WHEN THE IDOL ON COATED PAPER IS FLESH AND BLOOD (3)

For a member of the coalesced army, crossing this line was extremely rare. It was not unheard of because it sometimes happened when a deserter got there and asked for political asylum before being killed but it was still extremely rare.

For Moa, it had been over a year since he had come the last time. He had never deserted. The crossing of the border was just an accident due to a signaling error which had led him to a Grenati border. The guy of the road team did not distinguish his right from his left, the error was unavoidable. He had not made ten meters in the enemy camp that he was stopped and sent back on the right side of the front.

In fact, immigration policy prohibited touristic travels without the prior purchase of a tour guide Moa could not justify. He apologized for the mistake. Obviously it was not the first time someone made this mistake that day. He even reported the error to his superiors, who then lowered the information down to the road team to change and modify the signage. The information had gotten lost in the chain of command and ultimately the error had never been changed. As an increasing number of soldiers and officers were escorted to their camp at this border post, everyone got used to it and knew that there was a mistake and there was no longer any need to modify the offending panel. Only a few new recruits ventured down this road and enlivened the Grenati border guards from time to time.

No one stood at the border post to stop him from crossing. It was a privilege to wear a white scarf. The emissaries enjoyed virtual freedom of movement on both sides, as long as the place they wanted to go was not confidential, private or restricted, which almost all military buildings were ultimately. In return, an emissary could not ask for asylum, it was something that the coalesced fought hard to make the FWJ include in the rules. After all, an emissary who deserted for the enemy, it was not the best kind.

Moa retrieved a plan from Grenati camp he was unfamiliar with. After all, he didn't have much time left and losing himself was a luxury he didn't have either, even if he no longer risked being shot by one of his own now he was no longer in coalesced earth. The snipers' range was no longer sufficient.

Basically, the Grenati camp was very similar to the coalesced camp. Passing on the other side of the barrier, apart from the prospect on the jousting ground, there was nothing leaving people disoriented. For obvious reasons of already existing infrastructure, the front had been fixed on an established city and was simply split in two around a square so there was certain architectural harmony, certain continuity in the sequence of buildings and urban unity in the design of the streets.

The grass was always greener on the other side of the fence. This was due to the use of fertilizer, an excessive watering system and the skill of the gardeners that explained that the lawns were better maintained.

For several minutes, Moa's presence did not interest anyone. An emissary on the scene did not seem to call to mind, at least anyone hailed him.

The same way as for the coalesced, many soldiers were beginning to get busy while they waiting for the start of the jousts. So Moa spectacled a little, just to see how the same action was underwent on the other side. Through the looking-glass, what he found there were scenes very similar to what was happening among the coalesced. There was nothing revolutionary, the organization was not better, the equipment probably of a slightly better quality and newer, but on the whole, as everything had to be in accordance with the rules of the FWJ, the differences were minimal and it was not the bulk of the troops that explained the supremacy of the Grenati during the jousts.

He strolled while observing and for little, in this anthill he would have forgotten what he was doing there. It was not a sightseeing tour, it was an official mission. After traveling a few hundred meters to look all around him, except the route he was following, Moa stopped and finally took a look at the map.

It was fairly basic. In fact, it took over the structure of the map the tourist office had published before the war hit the region. At that period, the municipality had just begun a reflection to define its new urban planning. They discovered that there was no official map in the archives. They decide to organize a contest opened to the elementary schoolchildren. The winner would see his work becoming the map of reference and the runner-up would have the privilege of being published for the tourists.

Finally, the first place was won by a six-year-old child whose parents were geographers. The map was used as reference but the original and the only copy existing disappeared when a fire destroyed the archives room one week after some members of the municipality were indicted of embezzlement.

The second place was held by an eight-year-old boy who lived in a city a few hundred kilometers away. Seeing the result of the runner-up, the plans proposed by the other schoolchildren must have been chilling.

The child had been helped by his parents, it was obvious from the perfect mastery of the use of a compass in the rose placed to the southeast and which represented no particular building at these coordinates and the use a square to measure the right angles, including the design of the ring road that the city did not have.

Also, the drawing was clean. Of course, a few strokes in the coloring betrayed the fact that the one who drew the plan had Parkinson's disease but it was a work of quality. It was just a shame that the parents of this child were not geographers, resulting in grave errors of scale, which proved the drawer never had the opportunity to set foot in this city and had just drawn a random map.

Ultimately, the plan was not of much interest to Moa.

Admittedly the region had formerly been coalesced lands until the annexation of a part of the hinterland, hence the weak feeling of expatriation he felt. As a native, Moa new that the city did not respond to a particular standard and finding symmetry or consistency was impossible. When lost in a coalesced city you did not know, the best thing to do was to ask your instinct what was the better way and to go in the exact opposite direction.

The Grenati family had started renovations in certain districts because of on the one hand they had the means to do so and on the other hand, far from their lands of origin, they wanted to give themselves and their army an air recalling their homeland. To tell the truth, in their homeland, there was nothing looking like the already achieved renovations. What they made looked more like the real estate business they were leading: a pompous exterior and a riot of luxury that hid a lot of defects.

In any event, Moa did not recognize the place he was now and his plan was obsolete even before its creation. He was lost.

Raising his head, he saw that he was standing in front of a building undergoing renovation.

From where he was standing, he did not have enough perspective to judge the renovation. Scaffolding hid the facade. The street was not very large but he anyhow took a few steps back and soon found himself stopped by the facade of the opposite building. At first glance, it was a business building and the architect must have been the same as the one who built the cultural center. He could recognize his hand in a few details.

Moa did not know the history of this building and had little interest in the subject.

It was a fairly new building, or not especially old, at any rate newer than the cultural center. What was old or new in architecture was a difficult debate. The building was barely eight years old.

At that time, the front was still moving and was moving further and further north. To support the war effort, it was decided to transform the area into a tax haven. Companies that moved their address to an area closer to the front were first offered a tax deduction, then advice from a lawyer specializing in financial arrangements for organized crime.

The building the was standing in front of was indeed a business building commissioned by the chamber of commerce to house the headquarters of companies that decided to embark on this adventure.

Finally, happy with the experience of the cultural center and as the project was urgent, the municipality decided to use the same architect. The politicians received their bribes and the work started. In fact, it was essentially an empty shell, intended to house non-existent corporate mailboxes.

If this building was worth a look, it was mainly for the architect's masterpiece, the coffee room located on the fifth floor. For the rest, the internal structure of the building was a simplified version of one of the cultural center. Basically the architect pressed for time had not sprained himself.

In the end, the building had not been used much. Indeed, after the installation of the mailboxes and the hiring of some of them, the dynamics on the front had changed and it gradually returned towards the south. A few months later, the city was ceded to the military to become the permanent jousting ground.

The war effort no longer required moving away from the capital and businesses were repatriated to places where it was easier to defraud the finance ministry, namely directly in the offices of the tax centers.

Nevertheless, the building remained imposing and it was a good idea to rehabilitate it. It would make a meeting point easily discernible from afar.

Without hindsight, what would give the work which was still only a draft was difficult to imagine. However, the level of detail suggested the superior quality of the craftsmen chosen for this facelift. On closer inspection, he had the impression of déjà-vu.

Thinking about it, he remembered an advertising campaign that had been running repeatedly a few months earlier. It was a campaign for handkerchiefs, made of pure fir-wood, produced by a company of the Grenati consortium. It was obvious that it was a snub, a provocation from the enemy to undermine the morale of their opponents. It was a common occurrence: paper consumables produced by the consortium were regularly the subject of such promotion. This was the case with paper towels, fries cones or a new paper money facilitating the falsification of the coalesced money and so many other examples.

It was as if to say, see, you can't even torch yourself any more with fleece triple-ply toilet paper in pure fir-wood, when we can't even find outlets for the sector.

Was there an impact onto the morale of the coalesced? not really… The promotional campaigns were good, for sure. Moa had really been tempted to buy these handkerchiefs in a limited edition because the designs were pretty. It was during spring and he had not even caught a cold. In the end, he was stopped by the fact that he didn't approve spoiling of pure fir-wood paper for handkerchiefs.

The fact remained that advertising campaigns were carried out by requisitioning celebrities. For these handkerchiefs, it was the four painters who were currently busy on the facade.

Anyone who had no particular aversion to contemporary art knew these four men. They were really celebrities that appeared on television and apart from living without media, it was impossible to ignore their identity and status.

When Moa realized it, he found it hard to believe his eyes. He rubbed them and apart from breaking a small blood vessel in his left eye, his vision didn't change. He slapped himself to be sure not to dream but with a rosy cheek and a slight pain, he did not come out of his torpor. The scene was real; four masters of painting were working before his eyes.

A Grenati soldier was passing by and Moa called to ask him to confirm his suspicions but the soldier continued on his way without caring about him, as if he did not exist. He didn't even look up at the work in progress, as if he was already bored of the show or had no regard for anything related to art.

Two of them, the two older ones, Traing Lalinje and Baal Hebross, were the fathers of the neo-emotivism movement. At the time, they were part of the emotive movement, a current that had its heyday. However, the two artists were starting to see sales of their works run out of steam and their ratings dropped in the auction houses. To revitalize the movement, Traing had the idea of the 'neo' prefix and created the neo-emotive movement while Baal had the idea of the suffix '-ism' and created the movement of emotivism.

It was a common practice in the world of art; it was thus that classicism had driven out the classic, that the neo-intrusive had driven out the intrusive and that neo-neo-fatalism had in turn driven out the fatal, neo-fatal and neo-fatalism.

The two artists soon became rivals, each spearheading a new artistic wave. However, the two men did not want to fuel media rivalry. They spent their holidays together and shared their wives on occasion. It was quite absurd and tiring to pretend on stage when in town everything went for the best. So when the neo-emotive and emotivism movements began to show signs of slowing down, the two men decided to create this neo-emotivism together, allowing them to sell paintings again and pay their taxes.

The youngest was certainly the best known of the quartet. His name was Avekef Raxion. He was barely twenty years old but he was a seasoned artist who had been exhibiting for fifteen years already. His art was peculiar, not to say divisive, but the pieces of paper towel he worked on adorned the walls of many collectors. Detractors said it was only 'snot on disposable handkerchief'. In the strict sense of the term, they were not wrong.

However, his parents, notorious mobsters, had cried out for the advent of absolute genius. A group of art critics confirmed their words after they received the knuckles from one of their colleague who posted a bad review in a specialist magazine. Since then, Avekef's works had been very popular when it came to laundering money from various forms of trafficking.

The last one, Arho Mintans was not the most famous. He did not belong to a specific movement or to the artistic seraglio. He was an artist from house painting. He was rather discreet but almost everyone had the opportunity to see his works for real, unlike the other three whose works were only accessible in the right galleries. An non-initiate could not access their production firsthand.

Among his contributions, one could recall the compliance upgrade of the toilets of the coalesced royal palace, the chemical stripping of the lead paint of the parliament, the repair of the trash cans of the villa that Gelkeur owned by the sea, the anti-rust treatments of urban furniture in so many cities. Years later, these works had not moved, which testified to the quality of the work accomplished by Arho.

Traing, Baal, Avekef, Arho, all four were big shots. They were all over one meter eighty-five tall, which allowed them to cover larger areas with simpler scaffolding.

Moa could have stayed a long time admiring them, abandoning himself in contemplation but even if he spent his entire day there, the work would still not be finished. He would have to come back another day for admiring the result. However, would this even be possible? Finally, his thoughts brought him back to the right path; he had a mission to accomplish. His timing was tight.

He glanced at his watch without even reading the time, he felt he was late. He was lost, the plan he was holding was useless.