The streets old and new are sleek with this afternoon's and early evening's rain. A wet winter, a wet spring so far. But those of Poitiers are not dampened or discouraged by such. It is an evening full of lights and life, of old touches and a new spectacle. There is activity here, in Poitiers. Perhaps such as there has not been in a while.
And they do not even realize it...
But when the old finally falls away, something changes in the earth and in the space around it. Like when old earth is turned over. A tired vineyard may be reborn. An old city may have a chance at another renaissance. There is something of that brightness in the old city.
Though most do not realize it yet. It is just a feeling permeating everything subconscious...
A blonde-haired gentleman moves along the streets of old Poitiers, the old center of the city, now its historic hub. Edging it now, a financial centre, and radial streets of boutiques and cafes, some of which are still open. There is a lot of foot traffic tonight. It must be spring. The promise of Something New has drawn the people of Poitiers out, as if leeched by Promise itself. Perhaps you, too, Alire of Avignon were leeched like they.
He is dressed in a grey wool overcoat, for the nights are still cool, the rest of his garments is a mixture of greys and whites. And he fingers a paper as he pauses beneath an awning. A cafe with its patio tables set out beneath the awning and umbrellas, defiant to the rain. Others are gathered. Conversation is the chief meal. All the rest is afterthought. And Alire pauses here, taking up a table, claiming a little territory with his newspaper. Smiling warmly, affably to the young woman of the cafe who comes to get his order.
He is a regular here...
The waitress smiles, not offering him the menu. "Que aimez-vous, Alire? Votre habituel?"
He is already sitting, Alire, gloves coming off and his head tilting upward toward her. The smile is still there. "Oui, Marie-Alys, ainsi sorte a se rappeler." His hands rest upon the tabletop. "Mais ce soir, aussi, quelque chose manger, je pense. J'essayerai une petite patisserie."
So the conversation begins, like so many others around him. There is a swirl of such. This is what makes him happy...
There are dozens of feet walking along the wet streets tonight. Many wrapped in coats, dashing to the nearest convenient place. Men and women move boldly, and there are no children in sight. And why would any parent bring their child out on an evening like this? Much better to stay at home.
Light spills from the cafe onto the cobbled streets that glisten with rain. Bright streams of water carry illumination further into the middle of the road. For an instant, the gleaming pools of water near you, Alire, darken, then brighten again, signaling someone in the way of the light.
The man there peers inside, then looks at his watch. Still on the sidewalk, it is hard to see whether friends may be inside the cafe instead of on the patio. But he tries, bouncing a little, arms tight against his sides, keeping his peacoat closed.
How good is your memory? A face seen once; a voice once heard. "Hallo," he says, voice accented as he tries to get Marie-Alys' attention. "Est il bien si je prends un sige ici," he asks. A request for a seat outside.
Marie-Alys, a young woman of perhaps twenty-five years, is turning with a last smile to Alire, and with the residue of 'certainement' upon her lips when she is addressed by another young man. A glance to the patio -- there are a few spots available, as most have the good sense to eat inside -- but most notably there is a space open where a gentleman just sat alone. And it is better to conserve, just in case. "Certainement. Est-ce que cela vous derange le partage?" she says to him, a gesture toward the table occupied by Alire of Avignon.
How good is your own memory? A face seen once, voice only once heard...
Alire looks up, expression open. "Personne ne se repose avec moi. Vous etes bienvenu a," he offers. A look, he is trying to place. The face. He has seen it before. But where was that, exactly. In all your last year's travels, former Apostle now Prince. And then he smiles. Though it is slight, there is something about it. Warmth is conveyed. It seems broader than it is because, perhaps, it comes so purely.
The man, certainly Italian, grins at the waitress, then looks down at the generous man. "Merci," he nods, then, "...cafe..." requesting something simple.
"Merci," Cesare says again, pulling out the chair across from you. He tips it sideways, allowing any rain to fall away. Metal sounds upon the stone, and Cesare draws his coat closed, taking a seat.
"I just needed a quick coffee, to warm," he smiles, looking inside to drier climes. But this is alright. His French is well-studied, falling from his lips with ease. Someone who has spent time here.
He is good with accents, Italy is all over it. Eastern dialect. And when you come more into the light, when you are nearer, there is something of recognition in his eyes. "Of course," Alire says and his newspaper sits idly, unread. Not long at all, in fact, just long enough for her to go in and pour, there are two cups of black coffee. No cream. Marie-Alys leaves it with a smile and makes the circuit of the patio.
"You are welcome as long as you like," Alire continues in French, you seeming comfortable with it. "You are visiting Poitiers? The weather tonight is more like Prague. I am now having a hard time telling the difference..." His eyes, rich true blue that they are, brighten, as does his smile. He finally places you.
Prague. The young man in the cathedral. Waiting for a friend. We did not get to speak much. The crazy woman entered, tearing her hair and crying out for God. Or... someone. Her I do not remember so much, but you...
Blonde lashes lower as his gaze moves to the coffee in his cup as it is lifted. He wonders now if you will place him, or if you will think it only coincidental.
Prague. My goodness. Was that it?
Cesare smiles as the coffee is set down, then looks across to his seating companion. "I am visiting Poitiers," he confirms, hands coming out to cup the drink, "...I have a friend here I am hoping to find. I believe, from my last location of him, that this was the place."
Cesare sighs now, scooting towards the patio table. "It is much like Prague," he grins, looking around, non-sequitur seeming alright. "In fact, that was the last place I had communication with him." The friend, that is. He chuckles. No, this is not coincidence, and he's happy for you to know such.
This is a rarity. That we should meet twice now, and twice you have been waiting for The Other One I have never met. Alire smiles at the rim of the cup, he holds it for warmth, the warmth infuses him once he swallows. And the taste? Incomparable. The best coffee in Poitiers, if not France.
"Strange that we should have been there having this same conversation in similar weather. Now, whenever it rains, I will have to be on the lookout for you. Alire," he offers in a re-introduction, just in case. His hand comes out to clasp your own in greeting.
"Do you have a place to stay in Poitiers?" so sayeth the Medieval host. It is an obligation he cannot refuse to address.
"Giancarlo," he replies in kind, letting hand leave cup long enough to shake yours. "No, thank you for offering. I...just arrived here," Cesare explains. "So, I have not made accommodation. I would be grateful, for a night or two. It's better to stay with those you know."
And with the smile I agree. And it would be good to have some company, "Giancarlo," that is right, and it shall be remembered. The clasp is strong and warm and brief. It, too, returns to its own cup of coffee. "I would be honored, then, if you stayed with me. I have plenty of room." And will not take no for an answer now. He smiles. So let it be done.
"I should not pry," Alire begins, "but I never did get a chance to ask you last time... where it is you are from, I can note something of Italy on your voice. I am always curious about those who travel. How is it that you spend your time, Giancarlo, and that I have met with you in cities beginning with the letter 'P'? Shall it be Paris next?" Alire grins.
And for the first time in a long time, he actually... almost... well, for him... flirts. But it is not with overt sexuality. It is how curiosity and interest play upon him, color his questions.
"Well," Cesare grins, nothing hidden here, "...let me try to answer all of those." A sip. "First, thank you for the room. Then...Venice. It is my home now, though mia familia is...from more southern climes," he smiles.
"And how is that you have met me in cities with P? No, I do not think Paris is next," Cesare chuckles. "I think I have found the friend I was seeking." He came to Poitiers for you, Alire.
He has a quick mind for math. The numbers of your words have been added together. Strangetly enough, it is one plus one and now you two are sitting at a table. One... and one... make two. It is the simplest arithmatic, and yet they are the hardest numbers to come by.
So, when you say it, he sits surprised. Coffee at his mouth, ready to be sipped, but there it holds and then it is lowered. Was there a different friend in Prague, or was it me then, too? Alire's expression softens, the curiosity deepening. "I am from Provence, originally," he thinks to say. You are both from more southern, sunny climes. Though, in truth, he hasn't been to a sunny clime in centuries. Not sure what the sun looks like anymore. He only rarely wonders about it.
"I am flattered, Giancarlo." I don't know what to do. I sip my coffee to fill the space. It works for the moment. "If I had known you were looking for me, I would have stopped wandering around aimlessly." And then he smiles. Humor wins the day.
Cesare sees the calculations and smiles, turning away to give you space as he eyes the cars upon the street. You should not be embarrassed. "Provence is nice," he nods, "I have been there many times," pleasant conversation that. "But," to the point, he looking to you again, "...we did not get to speak in Prague, so I was bored..." and did a bit of diviniation and scrying....et voila.
How sad the world that must breed suspicion. That one man seeking another should be questioned. I know even as I speak, even as I smile -- you could be my undoing, Giancarlo. But... just so long as your name is not Leopold...
...but, as always, I will take what the Lord God places in front of me, His wisdom being so much greater than my own. So, I trust. Until I should not, it is the only thing to do.
The embarrassment -- you read him well -- does indeed pass, and with it the slight coloration. The prince of Poitiers chuckles a little. "Boredom... it is the great affliction. But, without it, would anything be discovered or invented, I wonder. Likely not." A sip of coffee. "I was not lingering long in Prague. I never do." I cannot. It is just not a place to stop and stare. "But... we have time now." The smile is slight but warm. Actually, nothing but.
"Provence," he mentions. "Have you been, perchance, to L'Eveche?" Wonderful views from a bishop's palace. And my true home. Many gardens. "I do not get there often anymore. Business keeps me in Poitiers these days." These nights, I should say.
And in your divining, Giancarlo, what have you seen of the Apostle Prince? What has the universe revealed to you?
"I believe that I have," Cesare nods, "...a long time ago, I think. I am afraid I don't recall much," words training as he twists around to find the waitress again. "Maybe I'll refresh my memory in my travels."
"And you? What do you do here in Poitiers?"
How long is long for you? As long as it is for me?
The waitress is not far, she is coming with the pastry as earlier requested and with a fresh pour of coffee. "I am sorry, friends," she addresses everyone with warm familiarity, "I had an indecisive old man, who could not make up his mind between my bottom and the menu." A roll of her eyes. "Is there anything else I can get for you two?"
Alire halts his answer with the arrival of Marie-Alys, but he does take the time to look at you. Does she notice? He does not stop to wonder. He looks at how you hold yourself. Your hair, your eyes. How dark you are. It is a reverie.
"Oh, no, thanks," Cesare murrs, looking up. "Just coffee for me," he clarifies. Hazel-brown eyes look to you for any additions to the order.
No, now he has everything he needs, with the addition of the pastry. Alire looks from you to Marie-Alys and smiles. A shake of his head. No, thank you. He sips at his refreshed coffee while she smiles and turns to leave. After she's away from the table, he settles in his chair. "I am in communications, it isn't exciting, but it pays the bills." Alire chuckles. "It does allow me to travel occasionally, which is what I would do on my own time anyway. Sometimes, even to Prague..."
Yes, you saw him there. In that church. On a mission.
"And... maybe sometime, if you go to Provence, you will let me know. I will recommend you to L'Eveche..."
He nods, quick to return to the conversation. "Sure," he nods, "I will let you know if I go that way again," a smile from Cesare. "Communications," he considers, looking into his cup absently, "...that is a good business, yes? I am still a student," he explains, "...well, forever a student. It..doesn't pay," he grins, "...but I can live."
And that makes the smile broaden, truly. Warmly. "It is a business. But being a scholar, this is a way of life. I commend you. It is the best, truest way to live. In constant learning." He sips his coffee, but with the talking, it is already cooling, "I have only...dabbled," most would like to be so lucky to dabble as Alire has, "... no degrees. But it is a passion of mine. Philosophy. Theology. Art." He does not mention history...
History, he could do without. It is rarely good reading.
Looking to his coffee, to his pastry and then to you again, Alire smiles. "Would you like to continue this at my home? You no longer have to wait for me. We might as well... get out of the cold and the rain, ne c'est pas?"
Cesare laughs, realizing that yes, it is still rainy and cold. "That would be nice," he murmurs, tilting to fish a few francs from his pocket. He looks to you and smiles, then retrieves a well worn wallet. "I don't know much about art. Or philosophy," he thinks, "...well, and maybe not theology either." A wince for his list. "I know about...some music?"
Alire waves off your francs with a murmured, non... allow me. And he will not accept no for an answer here either. He is stalwart in courtesy. Smiling, he takes his gloves. "Music... I like. What do you study?" he should have asked before.
There is a comical moment where the dignified Alire wonders what he should do with the pastry, before shrugging in surrender and slipping it into a coat pocket. Francs upon the table are enough for both cost and gratuity, and held in place by a coffee cup. The next moment finds him rising.
"Oh, well," Cesare exhales and nods, accepting the offer. He stands, putting wallet away. "Me? Just science somewhat. Old sciences, history of science..." and magic. But what is the sense in making a distinction. "As for music? I can play the piccolo and recorder," he grins, pushing his chair in.
"I envy you," he says, pulling gloves. Standing, the man is a golden tower. Over six feet in height, broadly built. A Provencal tank. "I can play nothing." A pause. "Well." And with a self-effacing grin, he gestures you to the north. "I do not live far, do you mind walking?"
"Although, once upon a time, I was once told that I did not sing badly. Perhaps that is something. But I love all music. What is your favorite, or your favorite period?"
The conversation comes so easily. From subject to subject, and no less enthused. It is a short walk to his townhouse, a former country house, when Poitiers was much, much smaller. Now, it is surrounded in a lovely historic district, full of secret gardens. The short walk will seem all the shorter with such conversation as this...
A walk? Cesare seems not to mind, spending much of his travelling life on foot. "It is no envy," he grins, "...both are easy. I can show you recorder in a few hours," he smiles, turning to exit the patio for what is left of sidewalk. "You mean for music period or science period?" he wonders idly, heading off in a random direction, unless you say otherwise. "For music...I like the choral music of the baroque. For science," he grins, "...a time a little earlier than that. I spend a lot of time thinking on the transitions from alchemy to chemistry," a philosophy in there somewhere. He shrugs, figuring you are already bored.
"You are a theologian?" Cesare wonders, recalling what you said earlier and your demeanor. "It is communications, of a sort," he teases.
There is a little red for that. "No, no theologian. But I do like Augustine. I merely read about theology. I am not a communicator of holy matters." Not anymore. He chuckles at that. "My communications has more to do with.... getting divergent groups to speak together. I am more... mediator than business man. I can debate ad infinitum, or until boredom sets in. It seems to work."
Hands slip into his coat pockets as he walks, and his eyes are on you more than the way. The way seems to be memorized. "Though, I can see how you would think such. We did, afterall, meet in a church. But back to music... choral of the baroque. Monteverdi, Vivaldi," he smiles, "... a fellow Venetian. Handel. Hayden. Bach. It is a favorite period of mine as well. The music had a nice balance of order and beauty. And then, along came Mozart and turned the world of music on its ear." And so it ended, the idea of orderly music.
Alchemy to Chemistry. You have his attention rapt in that. "Interesting. I do not know much about either of those, only in their relation to botany." Alire smiles a bit, a guilty pleasure nearly revealed. "Or I should say, their historical development..."
"Well, not so cultured," Cesare laughs. "Lotti...choirmasters of the churches. Leipzig, Vienna. Dresden. Venice, even," he grins. "St. Mark's, St. Johannes..." he waves a hand. "Six and eight voices, with or without organ." But he quirks a little. "Botany?" You have an interest in historical botany? "Do you have many gardens, then?"
"Actually," a little pride in this, "I do... I will show you... " He turns westward, upon a street that narrows. An old street. A historic section of towns. "It is a hobby of mine," he murmurs. "Botany... and gardens. It is one of the old arts, one that is slowly dying out. The modern world has its parks, but no true gardens. Not like there once were. I do my small part to keep it going..."
The houses are close together here, crowded like palazzi in your own Venice. But there is no water, only cobblestone paths. "There I am," he murmurs, and he gestures toward an amber painted stone house, likely built in the 1400s or so. Country French. The other houses were added after. It is four storeys high, with arched doorways and regularly placed, and shuttered, windows. "I will give you a little tour if you want... show you where the gardens are." They must be rather secretive. They cannot be seen from the street. At least not at night.
"That would be lovely," Cesare nods, seeming to have some interest in flowers. He stops to look at the house. "Ah, delightful," he smiles, "...old, it seems..."
Keys come out and Alire looks to you. A glance to the house and a quirk of a smile. "It is. 15th Century. A part of old Poitiers. I keep thinking I should move to the other side, get better heating, but..." A roll of broad shoulders. "It is hard to leave something this venerable for a few more creature comforts." The arched door is oaken, and closer to it, you can see how rich the golden yellow paint is. Recently refurbished, it seems.
When he unlatches the door, he holds it open for you, stepping aside. The walls of the interior are painted plaster, a richer gold than what is outside, giving it a warm resonance. The accenting is a mahogany wood. The floors are mosaic tiled in reds and blues. You can see a light from down the hall, a living room with earth-toned furnishings. Very Provence.
"Come in, make yourself at home. I will show you to your room, if you would like to get settled first or... I can give you the tour...?"
He has empty hands, and he turns, running one through his hair. "Ah...maybe a quick settling first," Cesare smiles, "...if you do not mind. Then the tour," he reassures. "Though," a glance at his watch, "...it is late and you're really nice to have me stay..."
For me, the night is still very young. What is it, ten o'clock? I have hours yet. I have only been up for a few. But I smile as if to agree with you, at least nominally. "Do not worry on that. But...let me show you the room first. Then... we will see from there."
He closes the door as he enters after you. He lowers the latch, other locking mechanisms only accessible on this side of the door. Not that Poitiers is so dangerous, but they are still locked. Alire removes his jacket and hangs it upon the hook in the foyer hall. He makes to reach for yours, if you like. Brows raised in question. In the warm light of his home, his hair is all the more gold. Blonde. Naturally so.
"Oh, thanks," Cesare murmurs, slipping from his heavy peacoat. Underneath. he wears an off-white cotton shirt with his brown corduroi pants and brown shoes.
Eyes look here and there as he waits for you to leave. Cesare steps back to make sure you can navigate. "There are some nice pieces here," he offers politely, "...Alire." Your name said. A grin. "Are you a collector of antiques?"
How can I tell him that I am an antique? And that we seem to gravitate to one other -- antiques that is...
He smiles, to hear his name used in the familiar and he does indeed have room to navigate. He moves through the mosaic tiled foyer passage, heading toward the living room. But before stepping into it, he turns to the right, and to a stairwell. "I have collected things along the way. Things that remind me of Provence and warmer weather." He flashes a grin to you, blue eyes sparkling. "Merci," he murmurs to your compliment.
The stairs are solid and broad, wood that covers stone. At the second floor, he leaves the stairwell, stepping into an upstairs hall. Another arched doorway is seen, with wall sconces on either side. It is to this door he goes, opening it for you. Smiling at your approach.
The chamber is nicely sized. Stone floored. The walls are a rust red and antiqued yellow. The bed is large -- two men could fit well enough -- and while it isn't a canopy, the posts are formidable. A modern take on an ancient design. There are several windows opposite the door, the drapes currently pulled. The light above is a Venetian chandelier -- multi-colored votive candleholders, held suspended by a design of wrought iron -- but there are two corner, electric lamps -- both with ambered shades. There is a mahogany wardrobe and it has its own bath.
"I have extra bedclothes. They might fit..." he offers. "If you like, you will find what you need in the closet and bath. But... do let me know if you need anything else..."
Wow, his eyes say. Luxury. Venetian. And not. Cesare passes you to enter the room, quieting as he stares left to right, right to left, listening to you speak. Hand reaches out eventually to touch the posters on the bed, using them as anchors as he spins about, trying to see all directions.
"No, no," Cesare returns, facing you, "...this is...too much as is, Alire. Thank you for your generosity...shown to a stranger." Such a wonderful place. "You're too kind," Cesare murmurs, bending to see into the bath area and what might be in store.
"Just...a minute or five, if you do not mind? Water...?" he wonders, pointing at the bath area.
His hand makes a gesture. It is nothing. The least I can do. "It would stand empty if not used by you. I should be thanking you. And... certainement," Alire smiles. "Take all the time you need. I will be downstairs."
There are four storeys too many for a man who lives alone. Chambers never used. Beds long cold. It is good to have life stirring around the house again. It is nice to have someone to talk to when it is not all business. When it is pleasure. When was the last time?
Scotland. With the lover of another man, a friend. Someone I coveted, whom I should not have coveted...
He smiles and lifts a hand. "Oui, the water... hot will take a few minutes, old pipes," he explains, as if he had to. "But you should have all you need. I will... see you shortly." And turning, he leaves, returning to the hallway. Softly shutting the door.
But there is something of him that seems to linger after. Presence? Curiosity?
Posted by Criseyde at May 29, 2003 07:01 PM
