Chapter 2 #2
“No. We are here to represent her interests,” Fran explained, her smile undiminished.
“Ahh,” Aida replied, feigning understanding while internally puzzling over the situation. Why extend an invitation under the
guise of a personal meeting if Lady Ozie had no intention of attending?
Disa seated herself on the other side of Aida. “Lady Ozie is a very eccentric individual. You will likely not meet her.”
Alarm bells went off in Aida’s mind.
“Now then. Let’s discuss why you’re here,” Fran said, her tone considerably warmer than her colleague’s.
Aida reached for her purse, intending to pull out a notepad and pen.
“No need for that,” Fran interjected, placing a gentle hand on Aida’s shoulder.
“So, no notes either?” Aida was growing increasingly perplexed about the nature of this meeting.
Fran shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
Aida hooked her purse on the back of the chair and folded her hands in her lap. She smiled, an attempt to ease the rising
anxiety in her chest. She remembered the stories from a friend of hers who lived in the North End about the way the mafia
worked in the city, primarily through secrecy and threats; this felt strangely similar. She contemplated these two women and
pushed the idea out of her head. There was no threat. Felix had given them her name.
“We’ve read your published papers,” Disa continued. “We’re quite impressed by your knowledge of Italian history and the depth
of historical detail in your work.”
A warm glow of pride spread through Aida. The irony wasn’t lost on her that strangers were validating her craft while so many
publishers had been reluctant to publish her book.
Fran patted her arm again, the gesture of a consoling friend. “We also understand you may be somewhat blocked in continuing
your success.”
Aida stiffened, but she kept her face neutral. “How could you possibly know that? You seem to know a lot about me and my life.”
“We do our own research,” Disa said. She was all business, sharp edges, whereas her counterpart was all kindness, soft and
reassuring. “We must be able to trust those we bring into our employ.”
“And what sort of employ would that be?” Aida asked. It came out more defensive than she intended, but she didn’t like the
idea that these people might know of her money situation. No one, save Erin, Yumi, and Graham, knew of her financial concerns.
Fran leaned forward slightly, her voice warm and inviting. “We need someone to craft a narrative around specific periods and items in Italian history.”
“What do you mean? For what purpose?” Aida pressed, her curiosity piqued yet mixed with a growing unease.
“Because Lady Ozie requests it,” Disa said. She did not expound upon her statement, letting the name hang in the air, as if
that explained everything.
Fran shot Disa a withering look before turning back to Aida with her dazzling smile. “I’ll elaborate on the position, then
we can address any questions you may have.”
Nodding, Aida began seriously contemplating grabbing Yumi and making a quick exit. Even if this was just for research, something
felt off about all of it.
“This position is based in Rome. Your travel, relocation, and accommodations have already been secured for you.”
Aida opened up her mouth to protest. She hadn’t agreed to this job. But Fran didn’t pause. “You’ll work from a palazzo in
the center of Rome, which will serve as your home base. Everything is taken care of: meals, laundry, housekeeping, and so
on.” Fran waved an elegant hand as if brushing away any concerns Aida might have. “You’ll have transportation at your disposal
for professional and personal use. Exceptional guides will assist you at every location where you work.”
Aida couldn’t believe her ears. All expenses paid living in Rome? This was surely too good to be true. Yes, definitely too
good to be true. For a fleeting moment, she thought Yumi must be playing an elaborate joke on her, but she discarded the idea;
her friend would never be so cruel as to tease her about her financial situation.
Fran continued. “We believe you would find the work as a scholar for MODA very fulfilling. You’ll be expected to thoroughly
catalog certain locations, events, and objects throughout the Italian peninsula. This research will be submitted partially
through the MODA database and partially in person, every three to four months.”
“MODA?” Aida echoed, trying to grasp the full scope.
“Lady Ozie’s organization,” Disa interjected sharply, her tone carrying a chill that seemed at odds with Fran’s warm presentation.
Aida hesitated, caught by Disa’s attitude. She gave a nod toward Disa’s outfit. “Moda means fashion . . . Is there a connection?”
“No,” Disa clipped out, her brisk dismissal adding an icy layer to the conversation.
Aida was unsettled—not just by the presumptuousness of the arrangements but also by Disa’s response. It was clear that working
together could be less than harmonious.
“There’s something I don’t understand,” Aida finally said. “If this is just a research job, why do you need to know everything
about my personal life, my family and friends? That seems . . . excessive for a historian role.”
Fran’s smile remained serene, almost maternal. “It’s a fair question, Aida. Our projects often require a deep understanding
of our team members, not just their professional skills but also their personal motivations and values. This helps us create
a cohesive and trusting environment. We want to ensure that those we bring on board are not only experts in their field but
also a good fit for the unique demands of our work. And I assure you, any personal information we gather is handled with the
utmost discretion.”
Something about Fran’s response still felt off, too rehearsed. “And this job . . . it’s all aboveboard, right? I wouldn’t
be doing anything illegal?” Aida asked.
Disa laughed, a rich peal of noise that rang through the vaulted room. “Only if you want to.”
“Don’t mind her,” Fran said, waving a dismissive hand in her colleague’s direction. “Nothing illegal, I assure you. It’s just
that our work sometimes involves accessing private collections or restricted locations, and we must be discreet. Hence the
thorough vetting process.”
Aida exhaled, still grappling with the nebulous outline of the job. “Could you describe what a typical day or week might look like?”
Fran shook her head. “There’s no typical in this line of work, but I can give you a sense of the projects.” She began to outline one such project that Felix had mentioned
Aida’s predecessor had focused on: documenting the private apartment of Isabelle Colonna in Rome’s illustrious Palazzo Colonna.
The historian’s assignment had been exhaustive, involving the cataloging of the art, objects, furnishings, and alterations
made over the years. There was also a great deal of modern information relating to the room, such as an estimate of how many
visitors had seen the room over the years it had been open to the public, what restorations had been made, and the number
of tours that had been given. A videographer and photographer accompanied the historian on occasion. There were also several
interviews with individuals who viewed the rooms, asking them about their impressions of the beautiful space. “Projects can
last from a few weeks to a few months, but once you complete the three-month trial period and become a full employee, you’ll
give quarterly reports in Lady Ozie’s offices in London.”
During Fran’s extended exposition, Disa had grown visibly bored. She got up to look out the window at the cold bay beyond,
returning to her seat just as Fran concluded her explanation.
Aida pondered the idiosyncratic nature of it all. “Is there a common thread among these projects? Some guiding principle?”
Disa chuckled and began to say something, but Fran cut her off. “Not really. Lady Ozie is just particularly curious about
some of the more obscure, unusual, and beautiful places, items, and events in Italy. Her objective is to compile a comprehensive
historical database on these, albeit an unconventional one.”
“What happened to the previous historian?” If the job was as great as they said it was, Aida couldn’t understand why someone
would voluntarily leave such a role.
Fran shook her head and pursed her lips. “Unfortunately, Mr. Khumalo died of a heart attack. He had worked for MODA for the last four years, and we were sad to lose him.”
Disa tsked. “Smoking will do that to you.” She lifted two fingers to her lips and mimicked the movement of a cigarette.
“Now, Disa, be kind to the dead.”
Her colleague rolled her eyes. “I’m going to check on Miss Tanaka.” She stood and headed toward the doors on the opposite
side of the vast suite.
“Remember our conversation,” Fran called after her. Disa didn’t look back.
“Forgive her,” Fran told Aida. “She loves to sow a bit of discord. Now then, where were we . . .” She drummed her fingers
on the table.
Aida’s thoughts briefly flitted to Graham, her soon-to-be husband. “And what about my partner?”
“Of course, he will be able to join you once the trial period is up. He’ll be subject to our NDAs around the nature of the
work you do. We will also employ our services to help him find suitable employment.”
“That’s generous,” Aida said cautiously, tucking away her real intention—accept the role for three months as a trial and then
gracefully exit.
“Lady Ozie has the means to be generous.”
“I have to say, this is an unusual interview. You haven’t asked me any questions,” Aida noted.
“This isn’t an interview. We’re offering you the position,” Fran clarified with a confident smile. “We’ve conducted an extensive
background check and are convinced you’re the ideal candidate for this role. Your work speaks for itself. We expect you to
prove us right during the next three months. Also, on the publishing front, we have some connections that might interest you.”
A subtle offer hung in the air. “And we hope this new role will inspire more books.”