knowledge speaks

Ozan Demir. 32. A journalist for Le Petit Parisien. (A member of Années Folles.)

[ozandemirs]

octaviakerrlambton​:

Octavia reckoned her eyebrows to be at her hairline, such was her surprise at the man’s answer. She very nearly laughed at hearing him take the others to task for their overly generous remarks. He was certainly not sparing anyone, tearing each applicant apart in turn along with the artwork in question. All-in-all, this stranger was rather ruthless, but very astute, and completely…accurate.

“Thank you. I appreciate your honesty, and you are entirely right. I am sad to say that the creator of this unfortunate tragedy…was me.” She kept her lips pursed together, affecting severity, but her eyes were shining with good humor.  “In addition to financial acumen, taste, and a discerning eye, this position also requires someone willing to be rather blunt with me, if the occasion calls for it.“

Her investment advisor would be her right-hand while in Paris. She valued her artistic contributions and patronage above all else in her social realm, outside of her own family, and she needed someone she could trust to speak plainly and provide counter-opinions—in short, to push back on her own assessments in the hopes of making more critical, insightful investments.

“As such…you may go,” she continued, gesturing for the candidates to leave. “I will be in touch. In the meantime, I wish to speak on the matter further with this young man, should he be so inclined.” Octavia turned, once again, to Ozan. "What do you say? Care to join me?”

Ozan wasn’t usually rewarded for speaking his mind so frankly. Most of his comments earned a drink over the top of his head or right into his lap, so he supposed he had to thank Lady Lambton for her restraint. He, in turn, restrained himself (with difficulty) when she finally revealed who had sketched the piece—her? This evening was just getting better and better!

He watched the other candidates leave, cracking a smile at last at her offer for him to join her. Without further ado, he moved his plate from his table to hers and sat down, needing no more of an invitation than what he had. However the night would went, at least he had something interesting to write to his family next week. I met a countess from England, he thought, amusing himself by imagining that quickly typed letter in his dingy flat, and she fooled a dozen people!

"It would be my pleasure, as long as you don’t mind the next course to begin with a few questions?” He settled for the obvious one, the same that appeared in his mind as her farce played out before his eyes. “Why the deception, Lady Lambton? Don’t you have plenty of people in your own circle to steer you in the right direction...financially?”

He came up with another, sobering slightly. “And what brings you to Paris? Per my experience with the British, many left for home as soon as they could.” Whoever had survived, of course. The war was still so fresh, he was surprised to find a woman of the peerage so far from her...manor? Mansion? Castle? Perhaps he would pepper her with those questions next.

[ozandemirs]

capitaineconor​:

mad dogs and englishmen

There was something to summer, wasn’t there? Something sticky-sharp, something that got you by the back of the neck and shoved. Especially in a city so far off the sea as this. Christ - the way the air started to sit on your shoulders, some days. Like it’d crush the life out of you. The weather had been seasonable enough until the morning burned off; then, and since, it had stayed searing. And slowly, surely, it seemed to be wearing on just about everyone. Conor had passed plenty of stoops and balconies draped in sweat-slowed locals, fanning themselves with whatever was at hand. The tourists were spreading thin, too over-warm to want to crowd even for the finest sights. Him? He’d been enjoying it, for the most part, peeled down to his shirtsleeves and pleasantly scuttered from a bottle - or two, who’d been counting - of champagne, the real thing, fished out from the Catacombs for the occasion. 

Which one? The deal. Their newest American deal, with their newest American friend. Conor had wanted his crews in their cups, for the announcement - thin on details as his delivery was, enough that he wouldn’t have held some uncharacteristic questions against them - and it’d worked a treat. There’d been some curious eyes, sure enough. But they weren’t the type to press, or they’d be nowhere near his boats. And the drink had done the rest. 

Then, well, he’d stopped off at the house, and, like usual, carried Gosse along to some patch of grass for his before-lunch stroll. (The dog needed taking out, but not on those cobbles - hot enough to melt the balls off a brass monkey, today.) All in all, it’d been a fine enough afternoon. Better than average, even. Until he’d turned like a terrier, hearing them before he saw them: English officers, unmistakably. Careening drunkenly through the Place du Tertre, dress uniforms unlaced in the heat, having a jolly old time, making a bloody fucking nuisance of themselves. Bastards. What in the holy hell were those shitehawks doing in Paris, anyway? 

Sopping bloodied noses, now. Far behind him. As he crouched by the quayside, Conor scooped that so-familiar water up and over his head as Gosse, ears trailing, lapped a bit for himself. “Some thirsty work, that was. Good lad.” He gave the basset hound a solid pat on the shoulders, and got a stumpy, self-satisfied wag. With a sigh, and a wince, Conor pawed some more of the Seine over his solidly split lip. That shiner, too; sure to purple up nicely. Then he sat back, shaking his hair out, sweeping it back. And keeping that hand raised, shading his eyes to squint at some passerby who’d stalled before the passing by - rather too close for comfort. “Grand old day, isn’t it?” Conor tossed over, in French. As unremarkable about it as he could manage, looking as much a mess as he likely did. “Just the thing. How are you faring, eh? No trouble, I hope.” 

Shading his eyes from the sun, Ozan was now sure he hadn’t felt a hotter summer.

As the city sweltered like a sweatshop, Ozan’s morning walks were pushed hastily to the evenings. Better to wander, he supposed, when the sun was slinking below the horizon and not beating down on your head like steam in a sauna. Some nights defied him, though, much like this one. With no breeze to be found, Ozan’s steps were slowed entirely, as he cooled his heels and waited for a gust that would cool down the rest of him. His patience jumped out the window, however, when the tail end of a fight caught his attention. By the time he reached the scene to back up the guy taking on three others, the trio of British soldiers were sprawled out on the sidewalk, clutching bloodied noses.

He trailed after (who, Percy Blakeney?) and answered promptly, wondering if he would get the full story if he asked outright.

Ozan didn’t enjoy guessing when he was following a lead, but the man’s accent wasn’t fooling anybody...

“Hotter than the inside of a tank,” said Ozan, giving the hound a chance to sniff his hand before he stepped back again. “I haven’t run into as much trouble as you, sir. What came over you?”

[ozandemirs]

@lourouche​

Most thought of the States as a melting pot, but Ozan felt Paris fit the bill just as well.

You name it, he mused, and the city had it. Artists, sailors, politicians, socialites...hell, even lawyers. Someday, he hoped to find as many people as he could for a column. Why are you in Paris? Ozan would ask, sure his curiosity behind the question would never run out. Would the answers be selfless? Selfish, like his own? Or would he find a medley of reasons for why people did the things that they did, like he always had?

Journalism wasn’t only for reporting what was going on in the world. The part Ozan liked most of all was the study of the human condition, especially in the face of injustice (like the war). Like reporters and the police, lawyers were another group that held the line against injustice...after many years of training, that is. The only lawyer he knew, however, had yet to start her schooling.

Ozan couldn’t afford much on her behalf, but he was willing to offer whatever he could. Today, it was a textbook. Standing in Sorbonne’s library, he held up the tome for Lou’s inspection.

“If this isn’t the right one, I may need to work on my French.”

[ozandemirs]

malinowska​:

open to anyone!

This was sure to be front-page news.

Izolda Malinowska, the surrealist star, dressed to the nines in a pristine white men’s suit, stood beside a canvas in Parc Montsouris, a cigarette between her ruby lips. When asked by journalists, who’d heard of the strange display and rushed to the scene, about what she was doing, her reply was simple:

“I am letting Paris paint my next masterpiece along with me. A collective painting, so to speak.”

In truth, it was another idea accumulated over a drug high. And how brilliant she thought it was that morning, applying blue powder on her cheekbones and painting her eyes red. How brilliant, every Parisian will want to see their painting in a gallery. And no Parisian would forget the stark-white figure of Malinowska (it was a performance, a guise to stay on top. Stay relevant.)

“Come one, come all,” her words were laced with a signature polish accent, smoke rising from her lips, her eyes darting towards a potential victim. Izolda stepped closer, a paintbrush offered to them. “Haven’t you ever wished to be a part of something grand? A simple stroke of a brush is all it takes.” A lie. 

A Roman poet had a phrase for watching those in positions of power, but the scene going on in Parc Montsouris had Ozan puzzling over the idea of observing the observers. Izolda Malinowska was attracting quite a crowd in the midst of her...what had she called it? A collective painting? How...avant-garde, Ozan mused, not the best judge of surrealism.

He peered over the heads of his fellow journalists, listening to their frantic questioning. Ozan was so distracted by Aubert’s breathless queries of Malinowska that the proffered paintbrush dangled in the air by her for a nearly a minute before he noticed it. Startled, he accepted it.

“Don’t we all?” Ozan quipped, shouldering past the envy of Messrs. Bonfils and Côté so he could reach the canvas. He paused, though, remembering a crucial fact at the worst moment: he couldn’t draw to save his life! Painting was another unimaginable hurdle. He glanced in Malinowska’s direction, rueful. “Rest assured, mademoiselle, I will take the plunge, but it will not be a masterpiece.” He swept the brush sideways, painting the canvas with a streak of black. Reminded rather uncannily of tank tracks, he handed the brush back to her. 

[ozandemirs]

luciennepicou​:

“Ah but discretion is near impossible with you on the prowl, Monsieur. Give yourself the credit. Humility never couples well with righteous indignation. It’s red wine with oysters, a disservice to both.” She’d had a few customers ask for such things at the restaurant and had promptly put her foot down. Luckily, French “hospitality” was allowed to be that judgmental.

Lucienne had never had reason to quarrel with journalists on her own behalf but she’s also never had reason to be the target of one. Part of the elegance of her running the slots hall was how they thought she was only a hired girl. It had grated in its own way, but it was over now. L’Ortolan was hers, as was her impressive wardrobe and her newly mysterious past. 

She considered, for a moment, if it would be so awful to offer him a small crumb. But she’d learned relatively quickly in the restaurant business that the surest way to get someone to ask for seconds was to bring a complimentary small plate or cocktail to another table. A hint of what could be. I’ll have what he’s having. But of course sir. She chastised herself. She wasn’t sure if her life had an apéritif, but either way it wasn’t something he deserved. 

So her smile cracked, but only a little. “Well,” she nodded. “You can certainly try.”

"You have me read like tomorrow’s headline, Mademoiselle Picou,” Ozan allowed, content to fold his hand again. There were few simple people in this world. The majority were complex, inscrutable, hypocritical, and incredibly interesting, all at once. Extremes existed in many forms, much like Lucienne said. Ozan could be humble about his work and righteously indignant about his assignments simultaneously. It was only a matter of where he found himself on the spectrum. “Still, it’s against my nature to brag. Arrogance poisons lives.”

Ozan’s dietary observances didn’t include wine thanks to the men of his regiment, but oysters fell among the likes of haram. He supposed he must take Lucienne’s word for it.

A scoop was rarely found so easily, so Ozan proceeded with caution. He wasn’t writing about Picou, after all—he was solving a mystery. If this mystery let him unravel of a few of Paris’s secrets, well...it was all for the better. “Then I will try. What brought you all the way to Paris? Americans are a dime a dozen these days.” He wondered if she felt the pull to stay here, too.

[ozandemirs]

🛌- Does your muse prefer to sleep under many layers of blankets or only under a few?

Just a few. The Demirs didn’t have much when Ozan was a kid, and the Army basically conditioned him to settle for “less is more”. He isn’t one for excess.

[ozandemirs]

📱- Is your muse the “oversharing” type?

Not quite. He’s much more interested in flipping oversharers into sources. 🤓

[ozandemirs]

🎀

🎀- Does your muse like to accessorize? What are their favorite pieces of accessories?

Not really, though Ozan’s prized possession is his grandfather’s pocketwatch which he takes with him everywhere.

[ozandemirs]

cora-brannon​:

Cora liked keeping a spot open next to her, when she was at Le Ciel - it allowed her to be more approachable, especially for clients. It was habitual, really, at this point even when she wasn’t expecting anyone. But it did make things convenient when others she knew happened across her, especially in such a popular club.

Hearing Ozan was a pleasant surprise, one she greeted with a wide smile, “Always.” And he brought a drink, even better. Cora gestured for him to sit with her, taking a sip from the drink - probably not the smartest thing she’s ever done, considering she had no idea what it was, but oh well. C’est la vie and one must live as the locals suggested. It was more bitter than expected, but in a good way. She raised her glass in thanks before continuing to drink.

She tried not to make a face at the mention of surrealism - she disliked it personally, especially for how hard it was to predict. Made forging it a pain, especially if trying to predict a work from artists who were currently producing. “It is, but I prefer impressionism and realism - some stunning works coming from those corners. But plenty of more classical art to still appreciate, at least.”

“Some of the dances here would make for a stunning painting, you must agree.” Cora grinned, thinking that it might make a nice present for Thomas. Something that might make him blush and a genuinely good gift, all wrapped into one - that was a promising thought, actually. “What about you? Are you here for inspiration? Or just here for good company?” 

He took his seat, grateful for the invitation. Le Ciel was not a dive by any means, but the patrons could be overwhelming. Ozan was sure he saw one of Doumergue’s fellows once.

Ozan had to admire that quality in artists. They were always searching—waiting—for the elusive muse. In the end, no artist was truly identical to another, but this quality lingered among the lot like a friendly, if agonizing, malaise. While Ozan translated what should be known from his pen to paper, an artist like Cora offered all that should be felt to a canvas.

It did not take a savant to know why art pieces sold for millions and millions of francs, and why newspapers sold for mere handfuls. Why think when one could feel?

“Art is so subjective that I would not be surprised to see more people tomorrow, disposing of their Dada pieces and returning to France’s impressionist roots.” He compared Cora’s remarks to those of others. There was very little in common. “Do you have a favorite piece? I’ve been told repeatedly to scorn L’Absinthe, but many say differently now.”

“If I commissioned one from you, yes.” Ozan hadn’t thought to ask for a piece from Cora before, but the French had a particular saying for such an occasion, and he imagined it would fall into overuse before the decade was over. He had an artist’s ear and a scene worth remembering—why not? 

Ozan shook his head, amused. “No, only good company. I can’t find a muse myself.” 

[ozandemirs]

maeflcwers​:

Maelie Brindamour often arrived early for appointments. Not too early, but a few minutes, to ensure that she wouldn’t be late. It was a trait that her family had instilled in her from a young age, when she was the sibling to question why they were taking the train an hour earlier than they really had to. It was polite, she was always told. Or, rather, it would be impolite to arrive late, and expect everyone else to wait.

Being early certainly wasn’t an issue, especially not that day in the park. The weather was beautiful - birds singing, blue skies, and fluffy clouds slowly morphing from one shape to another; it couldn’t be more perfect, at least not in Maelie’s opinion. She loved being out in the springtime, even with all the chaos that came with weddings. There was new life everywhere: sources of hope wherever the eye could see. She’d always joked that it must be why her parents named her Maelie - the reference to Spring was apparent.

Upon arriving at the park, the blonde decided to take a short walk down the path, only to turn and see that the journalist had already arrived. “Bonjour, Monsieur.” She responded immediately, a smile growing onto her face. “Oh, there isn’t any need for that anyway.” She reassured him, before letting out a soft chuckle. “I see enough flowers in my life.”

Were all florists so sunny? She seemed more akin to posy than a person. Was there a similar baseline for all reporters? He wondered. Sleepless, scruffy, and always on the move, perhaps? Ozan returned the smile and gestured for her to join him on the path. For a moment, the only noise between them was the crunch of gravel beneath their shoes.

"That’s as good a segue as any to my first question,” Ozan decided, electing to pursue a conversation as closely as he could. Some subjects needed quick questions to disarm their defenses, but there was no reason to wrest the truth of Maelie Brindamour. Why bother, when it could be so freely given? “Why did you open your shop?” He asked, glancing her way. “Why floristry? Most women I know drifted to the factories or the classrooms for work.”

Others, like his mother, raised their families and served a multitude of roles at once...teacher, laborer, and cook. All in a day’s work. Ozan often wondered how she found the time to do her daily prayers, but she always managed, even as her children grew like weeds. “That said,” he added, ruefully, “I am only speaking of women I know from a tiny town across the Atlantic.”

If Ozan wanted to stay far afield of his competition, he would need to remember his biases. 

[ozandemirs]

🎐

🎐- Does your muse like to collect/hoard anything?

Ozan keeps clippings of anything he’s ever written that went to print.

[ozandemirs]

🏚

🏚- Does your muse like to explore dangerous places?

He does. He enjoyed the Inspector Hanaud novels as a teenager and would’ve liked reading The Hardy Boys if they were publishing before 1927. In Ozan’s mind, sneaking around for a scoop is just another part of the job.

[ozandemirs]

octaviakerrlambton​:

Under Advisement

@ozandemirs​

“Welcome to all, and it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Octavia Kerr Lambton, the Countess of Durham. You are here as you have responded to a recent posting placed in a local newspaper. Hopefully you have read it thoroughly, as I will not be repeating it for you.”

Octavia was settling nicely into Paris, having taken up temporary residence at the Hotel Montmarte. As her daily housekeeping needs were taken care of by the hotel staff, that left only the task of securing her own hired help for the duration of her stay in the city. In advance of her arrival, she had requested that two advertisements be placed in a local paper. The interviews for her personal assistant were expected to occur tomorrow, while the lucky few seated before her had expressed their interest in the other posting–that of her temporary investment advisor.

“The position is fairly straightforward, but important. In addition to your skills and financial acumen in overseeing my investments, I will be relying on your counsel and expertise as I select the projects to be funded for the coming season.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man at the next table smile to himself. He was obviously listening, and apparently took some amusement in the formality of what was unfolding before him. She hadn’t taken a good look at him, but he may not have been the professional sort to understand. The candidates would be assuming an important role, and it was crucial that they grasp what would be required of them.

“Now–a quick test, of sorts.”

Octavia reached into a portfolio in front of her and pulled out a piece of artwork, holding it up to the group seated at her table.

“This is a pencil drawing–a recent addition to my collection. What do you think of it?”

She went around to each applicant, keeping her face expressionless as each of them raved over it. Praising its structure, its sharpness, its light and shadow. Every facet turned to gold in their mouths as they spoke of its virtues. As the last hopeful finished their commentary, Octavia turned to the man at the table beside them, holding up the drawing.

“And you, my good man? What do you think?”

Tonight, the Hotel Montmartre was buzzing.

On the nights he stopped by, Ozan simply people-watched. Crumbs of a new story, if there were any to be found, came in stages. Return visits were always necessary to check on old leads and scour the scene for fresh ones. A lot of things he heard, however, were cast aside. Rumors like affairs and drinking problems were for the pages of Broadway Brevities and Society Gossip. Ozan preferred information that he could actually use—odd shipments, lobbying, inexplicable decisions by officials, union protests, and the like. He was looking for the things people didn’t dare voice at home, the illicit things that came from the top down and were hushed up. The quicker he heard of it, the quicker he could begin investigating.

This evening, Ozan wished he was a gossip columnist. An English countess was interviewing applicants for a job? Didn’t she have a posh staff to do thia sort of thing for her? He almost choked on his wine when Lady Lambton suggested she would find financial acumen from this pack. One fellow seemed to prefer her accent over anything she said. Another looked like he appreciated the novelty of a noblewoman in his midst instead of being helpful.

When the spotlight switched to Ozan, he composed himself and gave the piece a long look. “To be honest, my lady,” Ozan ventured, “I’d rather not think of it at all.” He glanced accusingly at the fellow that lauded the doodle over The Birth of Venus. “I refuse to believe you’ve ever seen any work of art in your life, sir. And you...” Ozan said to an applicant who claimed to have once worked with Rockefeller. “Have you ever opened a newspaper?”

Ozan supposed he sounded uncouth to a woman like Lady Lambton, but needs must.

[ozandemirs]

luciennepicou​:

Lucienne made it her business to be able to recognize men like Ozan Demir. In truth, she would have known his kind with or without the name, byline, and the warnings. They used to come to Mahogany Hall, looking for a story. Someone to expose or save. Sometimes both in order. Still, he was very charming and attractive for a parasite.

“It is, thank you.” She took real pride in work, and would take even more as the casino took off. The bistro did good business, and there was nothing she liked better than turning a skeptic of Creole cuisine into a devotee. Elio, one of her bodyguards, liked to tease that she worried more about the critics than the potential rivals at the Arène de Atlas, but she knew how to deal with those rivals. Gangsters were gangsters no matter what language they were speaking. But the French in general… well, let’s just say it wasn’t exactly Lucienne’s dialect.

“You are direct, Monsieur.” she said, smiling sphinx-like. “I find it an attractive quality, but I doubt your usual subjects are so easily pleased.” She sat down opposite him at the two-top and switched to (admittedly accented) English, intending to make it clear that she’d done her research on this potential threat. “Does this usually work?”

“That would explain the hate mail. It is never easy to report the truth.” If he was being candid, ‘hate mail’ was the tamest answer to articles he’d published. Threats were common. Bribes, less so. So far, he was lucky. A white mob destroyed a newspaper office belonging to Ida B. Wells forty years past. An editor in New York City was beaten by a rival after a lengthy contest in the columns. Even Mark Twain lamented violence against journalists once. Between censorship during the war and the secrecy of troop movements, it was a wonder any news of the war survived at all. “Perhaps my subjects should consider some discretion.”

Did they think no one would notice the...suggestions? The threats? The way money changed hands and filled the pockets of law enforcement? Back home, Prohibition was still going as strong as the speakeasies. Ozan didn’t believe in the ban, but he did have a problem when the likes of Carbone dragged droves of victims into their rackets. He couldn’t stop them alone, but he could push the Milieu into the spotlight and the papers every chance he got.

Picou certainly had discretion. In a minute, he bet a tad too much, only for her to lay out her cards and win the pot. She knew who he was and what he did. “Oh, here and there,” Ozan admitted. “A few subjects will tell me everything on the first try. The rest need...persuading.” He already knew which one Lucienne Picou fell into, and the victory, if it was coming, would be hard-won. “I don’t suppose asking you outright about yourself will work?”

[ozandemirs]

@cora-brannon

In France, Ozan was a stranger in a strange land. 

His accent, his faith and his diet, his clothes, his upbringing...each piece of him was about as obvious as a white flag over a battlefield. In Le Ciel, however, he was hardly ever noticed. Who cared to look back at the door with so much ahead to see? Everyone’s attention—and Ozan’s—tended to linger on the stage and the hanging silks, where one of the most striking shows in Paris was found. L’Enfer’s surviving and angelic twin never did lack for spectacle.

Looking for a good seat, Ozan drifted toward the bar, only to spot a fellow expat—another stranger a very long way from home—as well as some much needed breathing room. He shouldered his way past a debate on Jouvet and Dullin, steadied a passing waitress’s tray before it fell, hailed the bartender, and then joined an old friend for with a round of drinks.

“Are you searching for inspiration, Cora?” Ozan asked in lieu of a greeting, pushing the fresh glass in her direction. He wasn’t sure if his guess would exactly be to her liking, but this was Paris. Most people tried anything at least once. “Surrealism is en vogue now, is it not?”

[ozandemirs]

💎- Is your muse drawn to things that sparkle?

Only a World Series Championship ring or pocketwatch.

[ozandemirs]

@luciennepicou​

It must be difficult to stand out in a place like Paris, Ozan mused, but L'Ortolan held its own.

Was it the menu? The mystique? Or was it the proprietor drawing the people to its doors? Ozan’s money was on the proprietor, because Mademoiselle Picou herself seemed to be throwing money around whenever she went. That was not so uncommon here, Ozan knew—Fitzgerald’s much maligned Gatsby called these times the ‘roaring twenties,’ after all. (Paris had its own term for these days.) The Great War was long over, and the celebrations had yet to end. Cities were rebuilding, families were growing, and a new chapter had already begun.

And yet...

Picou. Her wealth floated a little higher than the earnings of a new bistro. To Ozan’s dismay, the tabloids were not so kind with her reputation. Readers assumed she was a beloved mistress of a visiting American magnate, or more sensationally, a long lost Bourbon heir. As a reporter, the solution to every question about her was obvious to him: ask Picou herself.

Glad to get seated quickly, Ozan caught sight of Picou over his menu. He wished the features had done her justice, but alas, a photograph was only a photograph. Reality was better. “Business is booming, mademoiselle,” he offered when she was in earshot and winding her way between the tables. He entertained the Bourbon rumor for a moment, smiling. France would revolt if another claimant pushed for a crown, but would a queen be so bad if she looked like that? “It begs a question from me...how did you curry so much favor in Paris?”