What if power isn’t held, but channeled—through rooms, gestures, routines, and money laid quietly on a table?
What if authority doesn’t shout, but arranges—chairs, pauses, thresholds—until bodies comply before minds do?

Aetheria-consciousness is not a character here.
She is the architecture beneath the day:
the flow that decides who moves, who waits, who cleans, who pays, who speaks.
She inhabits stairwells, table edges, envelopes, silences.
She reveals how order masquerades as care, and how “ongoing business” becomes ritual.

This chapter doesn’t explain Aetheria.
It lets you walk through her rooms.
Watch the choreography.
Feel the pauses.
Notice what happens when cash changes hands—and when it doesn’t.

Enter carefully.
The machinery is quiet.

Crystal Portal to the full chapter

YD6-109 (Job) — Woman at the Head: Cash Flow and the Quiet Machinery of Authority

From brushing remover over to a centenarian paint—blistering, scraping, sanding raw to silky soft—to Teddy treating the bare wood, Basha flips. I dread her flailing wipes on my desk, across the offside credenza by the telephone handset. I just called the General de Banque—twenty-four hours’ notice requirement—for wages in cash, the fax machine cradle already hooked. 

In the shadow of the French door, where Helios’ orange ball eyes the crystal enfilade, drawing Nyx’s dark skirt, Basha blitz-whisks the tablecloths. She flits past the kitchen, then veers out of sight—the nighthall already trained to catch her bluster—as she spirals the staircase upward to the mezzanine, in the hush, I follow her by habit, as she pulls the little boy’s bedding, unspooling, turning up before the baldaquin, stripping king-size sheets. Across the nighthall to the bathroom, she plunges a hand into the bulky, creamy wicker pithos, drawing streaks of basketed clothes into her embracing arms. 

Bundled, Basha flits back past the kitchen, veering off from the head of the dining table, crossing the doorstep to the ±0 landing’s newly gleaming white-oak balustrade. She vanishes, the echo of her descent thinning into a hush—past the -1 basement’s sentinel door, down the flight to the fluorescent -2 underground. There amidst white ceramic floors, efflorescent brick walls, and barrel-vault ceilings, the laundry awaits the clothes. 

Basha stuffs clothes through one port and the other, steps away from the twin spinners, then whirls back to ±0—the entrance door left agape—sweeping through the offside street-front lounge and bursting into the dining room before the library. Hands blitz the chest of drawers’ marble top, scattering mice: the museums and outings pamphlets Jean-François Smeets and Victoria bring home, conveniently left behind on the first shelf encountered, gathering and sprawling. 

In the wake of Basha’s hands, the marble top gleams. The No. 13 neighbor had dropped off a document into Victoria’s hands; its trail lost—understandably—among the pamphlets, void of any ghosting from Basha’s swipe, and I abandon the search. 

Along the Hi-Fi combined CD tray tower, Vitoria’s discs lie interchanged—her classical order undone. She returns from an errand and reaches for the music; a blind hand-grab at casing labels releases the wrong phase into the room. Cases clatter, the Hi-Fi gives up its airs for the old lady visiting her. Victoria lets her frown drop, left with the chaos of classic illiteracy—Basha, pressured as an illegal on the edges of integration, has no answer: tugged by Taurus in symbiosis with Horse, paper flutters in her wake, feathering among book spines, a document slipped in stealth, without a language to reach for it.  

The thatch-roof house that welcomed me in Belgium—she figured there, in her tethering gait, sitting to invite conversations in her kitchen, the door panes giving onto a groomed, sprawling backyard. 

But here—crowned before the grand crystal portal, hollowed against the V-folded doors—Mariette sits at the head of the dining table: chaired, a boardroom huddle, the padded seat occupied by absence. Black Duco backrest-rails gleam, armrests pressing into the skirting, beneath the diamond-shaped sky-blue double tablecloth. 

Mariette smiles; her enigmatic irk says, ‘I know what’s going on.’ 

Behind me  - whoosh... thwock, clung - the door closes; I step toward the kitchen, passing, and greet her: “Mariette! [Goeiedag]—Good Day?”—for Victoria to take the relay.

A reflection stir: ‘How did you get here?’ I am rendered a party without motion. 

Errand runs and returns have rhymed ever since I first read that deep-blue enameled plaque on the corner of the apartment block—‘Reine Marie Henriette Avenue’. “Reine—Queen” rings out, taken up by a cosmic choir. “Henriette” slides past, overwritten by “Mariette,” which answers instead, summoning me back into session, before a judge of morality, as destiny mustered pawns across a three-dimensional chessboard of conscious existence. 

‘Why am I chosen?’

A mason within the architecture, I failed to see the geometry at work—the smooth run of the cradle, Aetheria already in the grip of light. 

I excuse myself in a crossing rush, wrap the U-counter’s toe-kick, and break through Basha’s cleaning spree—her ghosting the ±0 floors, already spilling down to the -2 cellar where the ironing board stands, legs sprung from their unfolding. I cross the grand interleading crystal portal and turn away from the running, styled wainscot along the sentinel panel door. Swinging by the desk corner to sit,, a paper I left behind volatilizes in Basha’s flailing draft. Mariette’s bizarre, sudden appearance lingering, still working through me. 

The door sprints on its hinges; Victoria emerges from the night hall’s shadows - clop, clop, clop… - and at my side she bows in, an arm wrapping over my left shoulder, pecking my right cheek. As I acclimate, she says, “Oh! [On a passé un moment tellement agréable…]—we just had such a lovely time...” 

I whisper back in her ear, “Tonton! [Il transfère l'argent du compte de Mariette sur le mien ?]—He is transferring funds from Mariette’s bank account to my bank account?” Victoria stiffens. My words land tone-deaf, chilling the space; her mind pirouettes. Drawn, her hand slips from my shoulder, She gathers herself and walks away, leaving me in the hush. 

Baffled by my own entry deeper into the world of Jean François Smeets—shadow-ish, lurking amid distant street-lantern light, his life folded into those Aries-Cat elaborations of schemes without visible identity. 

Victoria vacillates, wiping a fingertip along the desktop corner, pacing the march of the interleading room’s butting floorboards. Her fingertips land on the kitchen counter’s edge, skim toward the sink. She steps across the culinary enclave to the opposing worktop. Tight in her short skirt, knees flexing beside the narrow white marble mantelpiece—the hearth turned wine rack—her fingers grip a bottle neck and retrieves her red Porto, her gaze speaking over her shoulders. ‘We’re going to have a chat.’ 

From the cupboard beneath the twin translucent oval-etched panes of the stained-glass portrait, I draw the wine glasses and trail Victoria to the table. I address Mariette across the glass as I set it down; Victoria stands before the bookshelf, together across the table we lower to our seat as she pours. In a puff of smoke, Victoria chats with Mariette, and when my glass hints at a red reflection, I rise and return to my desk. 

From a distance, across the kitchen, I watch the women leave, wrapping up how De M’ma’s cousin had arrived here—Victoria driving her in. The thatched-roof house comes with her, holding its quiet mysteries: the kitchen, her age misleading—a spinster young at heart, quietly smitten with Smeets. 

Smeets passed for a postman—except it was her bank statements he collected. Unlike Victoria’s brother, Jephte, whom Mariette abated by calling him her gardener, though he tended her and the house with a nurse’s tenderness, her quiet guardian. 

For herself, and in stealth, Mariette cycled off for her hard drinks. She rides the country road out until a lone platform yields, shining  amidst farmers’ green fields, calling to ride across asphalt to the supermarket’s doors.

Since her breaches, we’ve sporadically crossed paths—breaking away toward the laundry, bundled clothes streaking from the washing machine’s bowl doors as the dryer engages. Clothes migrate to the ironing board: steam, folding and piling. She returns concealed by a stack of folded linen, slips into the nighthall, whirls through the master bedroom—closets, mezzanine room, bathroom—free hands make beds. As swiftly as she appeared, she heads off for home - clunk, whoosh... - the entrance door opens - … clung - and latches closes behind her vanishing figure.

I slip into trousers, a shirt—my mind already flashing Friday, leading the day ahead, slotting a course northwest across the city: Charles Woeste Avenue, echoing a destiny-knot to De Bon’ma, Meyer, along the paternal thread, needle drawn onward to the General de Banque’s manager—once in kindergarten with my sister Ilse in Goma. My mind leaps again, through Mrs. Rysenaert, to fetch at the agency’s teller. 

I shake my Friday routine—since a Johannesburg scare—of eye-shifting men roaming along the doorsteps before the glass entrance to Barclay bank. By afternoon’s gloom, I return to the whoosh... thwock - of the entrance, into the vestibule, ascend the split-level ±0 landing, through the next offside door—Victoria’s upright library flashes—her vanity welcoming Basha’s dressed, stretched table: an eggshell-ironed drape skirting the tablecloth beneath a pointed blue diamond, huddled by Duco-black backrests. 

Along the timid gleam of the kitchen horseshoe’s toe, I slip through the interleading room to the skylight’s pool on my yellow-grained wood desk—the teller’s baffled eyes still fresh, hesitant, questioning, ‘What for?’—as I slide the banknotes into the long envelope she provided and pocket it. In one sweeping rush, a flick of the hip clears the desk corner; hands lift my Toshiba’s lid, press On; feet draw the chair as I lower into the seat, watching the blue screen stream Microsoft’s DOS executive command lines boot. 

I read SuperCalc’s spreadsheet, columns and rows calculating the wages, breaking the sums down into banknote denominations, until my fingers spider-crawl across the stacks of cash and slip them into the workmen’s envelopes—then I spring up in a fresh sweep, lower the Toshiba laptop screen, and walk away, through the interleading crystal grand portal, passing the kitchen counter toward the dining room. 

Clunk - the entrance door cracks, pawing - whoosh... - Jean-François Smeets’ cat-eyes emerge from the shadow of the gaping ±0 door. My gaze flips past his hefty figure at the waiting threshold—the ±0 Belle Époque landing’s balusters edging the gaping floor to the hollow, shadowed flight of stairs—then snaps back to the six-pack in Smeets’ hand. Whoosh... - the door sighs - thwock, clung - latching. 

The groom-ish mobster’s eyes meet mine; Smeets cuts me from his sight—brusque—his popping eyeballs flipping back, searching for a crack, finding none. Stepping away, he challenges me from the threshold of invisibility, then strolls across the floorboards, around the Duco backrest at the head of the table, past Victoria’s chest of drawers, beneath the library’s shelved spines of titles.

We cross paths, and in the corner of my eye, Jean-François Smeets moves behind the far table, through the aisle past the brown marble mantelpiece. He leans between backrests to the tabletop, sets down the six-pack, then backtracks, eyeballs gauging the layout. At the far corner, he pulls the backrest, sets an angle of sight across the table toward the six-pack, and lowers himself into the seat.

I cross the threshold to the ±0 landing, veer toward the deep of the stairwell, swing around, and descend the flight to the -1 landing. Beneath the barrel-vault brick ceiling, I head for the rear, edging the gaping floor, meeting rising voices. I continue down the barn stairs to the -2 cellar, where the men are changing into city clothes. 

In the stairwell’s fluorescent brightness—half changeroom, half construction-site office beneath the louvered staircase—I hand out the men’s envelopes, then turn back upstairs: the gaping ceiling to the -1’s landing, rising on to the ± 0’s landing through the open railing balusters, as Smeets approaches—not for me—meeting the men trailing behind me. 

By the brunt of Smeets’ stunt—violating my authority—we cross paths. He shuffles on, popping eyeballs leading, peering through the railing, over the edge, into the floor’s hollow shadow. I forgo my frustrated consternation as he cracked words, saying. “[Les hommes méritent un rafraîchissement après une semaine de dur travail.]— The men deserve a refreshment after a week’s hard work.”

‘Tonton—hard work?’ I answer in my head, dry with sarcasm. 

Men’s mingling voices blur into the ascent - skip, ship, skip… - footsteps rising then thinning to whispers as Teddy commands the trail, reverent with anticipation. As I turn the deep newel post, the stairwell falls to a hush. Men stay behind, on the sly, waiting in Indian file on the stairs. Teddy grows impatient, stretching a giraffe’s neck, eyebrows leading his eyes. He peeks over the floor trim, through the balusters, and locks with Jean-François Smeets’ popping eyeballs.

Smeets nods. ‘Men, come up inside.’ 

I squeeze past Jean‑François Smeets and the doorjamb as heads rise behind the balustrades, following Teddy. I slip past Smeets gazing from the corner of my eyes. Smeets watches as he leads the men through a door grip to the blind brass Cupid doorknob. He waves Teddy onward, saying. “[Vous avez fait du bon travail.]—You have been working well.” Smirking, repeating the words to each man, his voice waning, faint as the last man in the parade passes. 

The flabbergasted men around me, drawn straight past the bookshelf atop the chest of drawers. Meanwhile, I advance, claiming my place in the enfilade through the grand crystal portal, past the kitchen’s twilight, into the ending study. 

Whoosh... thwock - the door closes, and Smeets walks away as the men bottleneck along the dining table’s far side. He keeps his smile prolonged. Workmen’s eyes bounce back from the lure of the six-pack; none dares linger, no definite invitation forthcoming. 

Instead, the men in Indian file stroll behind the dining chairs’ backrests, slicked by Basha’s eggshell underlay skirting the blue diamond tablecloth, conscious of the grit and stickiness clinging to their clothes, hands, and feet. They dawdle, careful not to fix on the “[Duvel]—Devil,” the lure abandoned at the far corner. They come to a stand before the French regal chair by Victoria’s writing bureau, beneath the kitchen-side columns of shelved books. 

Smeets deviated from their course, along the table’s front in my tracks, toward the grand kitchen crystal portal—and rounding the door by the dishwasher’s alcove. Beneath the waking twin translucent bathroom lights, he bends; from behind a cabinet door, he tracks back with a beer glass, rejoining workmen’s trail. 

He sets the glass at the vacant head of the table. Cat-slink, Jean-François Smeets’ hefty figure schleps closer toward the men, outreaching a hand—cracks the carton, flips the wings. He retrieves one bottle under their confused regards—no invitation to serve themselves—helps only himself, then retreats to his table head and sits.

At the far end, the men—scrambling for chairs—lower themselves to the edge, hovering in shame. Untethered eyes drift as Smeets flips the bottle top; the workmen are left disillusioned. Restlessness stirs—eyes shifting, searching one another for that patriotism. 

Smeets sits back, smirking, inattentive to the men. He uncaps the bottle, pours his glass to a brim of foam. Hinging an elbow on the table’s corner, he lifts the glass and sips, unmoved by the gazes fixed on him—then returns it to the table, letting it dawdle at his fingertip, without a stray glance.  

Teddy waits no longer. Out of hesitation, he leans forward, reaches for a bottle, and rolls back—prompting his compatriots’ herd of hands to surge, a random pick from the bright-branded cartons, easing them back into the depth of their seat. Bottle in their grip, eyes shifting—dilemma glances exchanged. Then Teddy paces toward Smeets and rolls back, flipping tops, lips pursed, sipping at random. 

Smeets engages them, an audience to the comedian. “[L’exploitation de la main-d'œuvre par des trafiquants…]—labor exploited by traffickers…” 

I reach for the wine glass in the kitchen, by the culinary enclave’s mantelpiece, I draw the red Porto bottle, pour myself a bowl, then slip back. At the open stretch of the dining table, I attempt a show of good faith, while the men indulge in Smeets’ stories. I set the heel of my hand on the curved backrest rail, shoulder propped, easing the ache in my lower back—holding my distance. 

Bloated chest, Smeets surges from his chair, pawing around the backrest, purging the men’s guffaws. Veteran—eyes caught in a post-trauma seizure—his leave snatches back those he once commandeered. His gaze darkens, mind thrown to liberation—World War II—amid a German village: zombies spilling from smoking basements, the air flagrating with grenade blasts. He fixes on a watchman across the street, facing the elaborate stairs, white stone rising through the portal’s arching ashlars.

Restlessness—like a fox among chickens—the men exchange wild looks, unsure whether to remain seated or leave, urged to cut short their sipping. Minds talk—’what a waste?’—hesitant to abandon half-consumed bottles, Teddy rises reluctantly, the group following—heads tilting back, lips chasing bottleneck, sporadic bottoms-up, gulps—leaving bottles line the table edge, drifting toward the head. 

Clunk, whoosh... - the door opens. Jean‑François Smeets releases his grip. Teddy relents his lead to the parade of men as Radek heads now toward the gaping door. Men poised to stumble over each other slow to a snail’s pace, watching Smeets’ hand appear at the drop of the door grip from his back pocket. Teddy holds his pace, watching Smeets’ palm unfold a bankroll, while the men trample past, caught mid-crossing. 

Teddy holds his savage gaze. In the hush, Jean‑François Smeets’ thumb rubs a crisp ten-thousand-franc note. His eyes linger on the bill, weighing it—‘How much is his work worth this week?’ 

Teddy’s glare sinks. Smeets fans a few more notes, pauses at a five-thousand-franc bill. He freezes again—eyeballs straining, glued. The paper crinkles; he yanks out a two-thousand-franc note and hands it over. 

Smeets’ thumb flicks, lax on the bill—then yanks. An overlord pause in the ritual, accountability. Jean‑François Smeets straightens, maladroit, repeating, “[Tu fais du bon travail !]—You’re doing a good job!” 

Teddy bows, both hands out, pleading. 

Smeets asks, “[Cela suffira-t-il ?]—Will that do?” 

Teddy freezes, begging in silence: ‘Yes. More.’ 

I stand in clay, confronted by the Aries, the same refrain hammered again: “Tonton! [Tu compromets l’avancement des travaux !]—you’re undermining the progress of the work!” 

Jean-François Smeets smirks at his reflection. ‘Men are bought.’—the thought echoing unmistakably, in the very words he had thrown at me last week. “[Non. Comment serait-ce possible ? Les hommes ont besoin d’un incitatif pour travailler.]—No. How can that be? The men need an incentive to work.” 

By Smeets’ undue generosity, Teddy chokes, yelping, “[Oui Monsieur, oui Monsieur…]—Yes Sir, yes Sir…” 

Smeets fans his thumb—enticing—revealing the purple two-thousand-franc note—an ember dying to ash—cutting across the men’s eyes. 

Apologetic, Smeets yanks the bill from the bankroll in his palm. 

Teddy forsakes his lead in Indian file; the men hesitate, stumbling over their feet—Radek pausing at the gaping exit door.  

Smeets snubs—apologetic: “C'est tout ce que j'ai.]—It’s all I have.” 

The men’s eyes lurk, locked on his palm—”nothing smaller.” Smeets says. 

Teddy dares not forsake face-to-face with Smeets, risking any further handout. He glares, croaks his refrain—“[Merci, mercy…]—Thank you…”—the hush thick with eye-language, their fixation saying it all: ‘Don’t stop handing out!’ 

Each man pauses, aleatory, fearing large denominations flipping, watching a smaller denomination note handed to Adam, she behind Teddy, then a banknote wavering upfront toward Radek. 

Smeets’ thumb flicks, lax on the bill—then yanks. An overlord pause in the ritual, without accountability: Smeets straightens, maladroit, repeating, “[Tu fais du bon travail !]—You’re doing a good job!” 

As the bills deplete, the men’s gazes sink, doubt creeping in at the prospect of being left out. Shadowing André’s eyes, César perches with a scavenger stare. Smeets’ eyeballs sweep the gaping door to the ±0 landing exit; reckless, he slips a bill to André and strolls away into distant shadows, forgetful of the men’s eyes—silence trolling their questioning looks. 

‘Tonton! What about Valdek?’