The crowd thickened throughout the evening, and when the music started it was a press of flesh no matter where you turned. And some of the flesh was ...extraordinary. Refugees of the Hip or the Outcast, spilling over from the parking lots of other clubs -- including the Phantasmagoria. This, just one stop for the night for most. Most of these folks will watch the sun rise as they emerge from the unmarked doorways of London's hidden parties. Cloistered sin and music, sex and drugs, dancing and singing. Bacchanal like...
     But in this club, the music's ended. At least for a while. And the four members of the band that filled the bar have dispersed into the crowd. The shaven-headed bassist Erik Haarken, with his blue goatee. Jared Olsson, the drummer and the bassist's lover, along with him looking remarkably Normal. Sieg Vaard, the second guitarist, is making the 'friends' he'll be taking home tonight. There will be several of them. Male and female.
     But the singer...
     There's a billow of golden smoke with the backlit exhalation of what has to be the seventh cigarette, and he sits in the back with his guitar in the case along with him. Lavender hair, with its occasional streaks of magenta and blue, is pulled back. Away from the face that is suddenly beautiful. He's drinking scotch. He's by himself.
     And the music? Well, it was more and less what one might have expected from someone with lavender hair. There were the punk moments, there were the rock moment, but there was the ambient layers of deeper sounds, elements of eastern music, classical music. Most might have missed the descending fifth or the use of the minor keys, but a trained ear might have found an homage to Mozart. Subtle. But you would have had to move past the volume. Past the lyrics, incisive. Past the lavender and magenta to see it or hear it...

     "Buoa notte," comes the voice, a young man a distance away, careful not to intrude. He grins and clasps his hands together, still dressed in the same clothing from earlier at Pashmina's. "Hello..." Cesare offers instead, in case his Italian is too much, "nice show," he compliments, a politeness as much as a greeting.

     I was watching the world in miniature. The move and swell of this crowd. I am watching them as they think they love. I am watching them lust. I am watching them fulfilling a dream. I am watching them distract themselves from dreaming. I am seeing the lost and the found and the simply lingering. I am watching one reflection of Creation. It's like a two-way mirror. They look into it and only see their own faces back at them -- but I see them all.
     Slender fingers curl around the cigarette and stamp it out. "Thanks," I say, waking. "I'm glad you can make it. Have a seat -- it is only fair that I share my table with you. Turnabout, fair play."
     After scotch, his accent is more noticeable. Far far northern. One might guess Norway or Finland or Denmark, not knowing that Icelandic is a touch of all three. "The sound was just, you know it was a little funny, but I'm glad you liked it." Unless you're just being polite for the sake of being polite...

     Cesare nods, painfully aware that he knows little. "Grazi," he smiles, indeed taking up a seat a little away. He looks around at the people there...and sees people. Young people, but people. People like him. People like you.
     "You've been a musician a long time?" he asks, lifting his voice over the din. Hands come to rest in his lap and brown eyes look to you as if expecting real conversation. "Your group is very polished," he tries to observe. "So, it seems like you have been together for a while."

     "There is not much else to do in Iceland," Dei laughs back and he leans in toward you. "We live on a volcano, we have snow, we all know one another. It's ridiculous. Everyone has a band. It's how we pass the time. We write sagas, and yet we do nothing. Do you want a drink? They will be free as long as you are at this table. Oh, and if you smoke," you're European, this is a loaded question, "...feel free to ..." Dei lifts the pack and gestures to you with it. And then he sets it in between you both, along with his lighter.
     "I'm not very good at the... rock and roll lifestyle. Not like Vard," his chin lifts, directing in a nod toward the lead guitarist currently covered and surrounded. "But... yes... we have been together for a while. Many long winters. Maybe seven now." They all look around their late 20s, now that he mentions it...
     "Do you think your Venetian friends will like us?"

     "In some of the clubs," Cesare nods, eyes on the man mentioned. Ah. He seems to typify the 'rock star' magnet. You do too, his gaze returning to you. "Many people like the rock sound." He looks at the cigarettes and waves, "Grazi, no," he murmurs, "but thanks anyway." Back to the subject of Venice, "I guess Venezia isn't some place you'd make a lot of money at in a club though, not like this..." he looks to the room.
     Hand lifts to get someone's attention. Hmm. Cesare pauses to spy waitstaff, but none seem forthcoming.
     "Maybe Venezia would be a pleasant diversion for a while," Cesare smiles, lowering his hand. Maybe someone will come. "Just to leave London for a while." If you guys get bored. Do bands get bored?

     "Maybe I'll just go ... to just go, then..." he says, but I don't know. Venice. I would be so easy to find there...
     Since you're sitting with Dei, that hand-raising actually does get someone's attention. A girl with a short black bob dressed in vinyl and satin. "Hola," she says, not at all like the Spanish version, and she smiles, "What would you like, and I take it D's picking up the round?"
     "Ayep. Please," Dei says back, "And can I get a vodka tonic this time around? I've lost my scotch mood." Hard to mope in whiskey when there's a beautiful Italian sitting next to you.
     "Sure," she says, East London drawling hard, "and what would you like..." And she waits for a name and a request, her hand on your shoulder Cesare. And she smells like jasmine.
     "Si, a vodka tonic is fine, grazie," Cesare smiles, looking up at her. "With a whiskey chaser," he goes on, smirking faintly. He crosses his legs, hands coming to rest on the booth seat left and right of himself.
     "Make that two," Dei adds, face lighting up with a sudden change of mind.
     "Got it!" And she turns back to the bar.
     "But," getting back to our conversation, "... I think maybe I'll just go, you know and see what there is to see. I could use a little time. And space." He laughs. "Vard packs them in. We'll probably be travelling with a couple of the people on his lap for the next six months. One boy and one girl. I am making a bet now..." And he tosses down a pound note, making a bet with no one but himself. "So... you should still give me your number. I will want to know one person in Venice..."

     He was not expecting the request for his phone number. Cesare was listening to you and following your tale. Eyes went to Vard, then to the table where the pound dropped.
     Number?
     "Oh," Cesare nods, "...sure. I live near the Canale de Verona," he explains, looking for a napkin. There. It's caught and put under the table, out of your view. "Here, I have a pen," he says, reaching into a pants pocket to scribble on the napkin at his lap.
     "Cesare Perilli," Cesare whispers, distracted a moment as he gives you his full name and writes simultaneously. Just in case you lose the note. A lean, and he puts pen away.
     Somewhere, Prince, in the room, there was...a flash of something magical.
     "Here," he offers, pushing the napkin across the wood table. "If you come, just...say bongiorno..."

     How delightful...
     The air sparkles. There is a hum almost musical. That is the effect of magic -- the universe chuckles. That hum, that lift of magic. I lift my shell's sky eyes to look for it...
     "I will call...when I get lost," he says, and it is a when not an if. He has been to Venice once or twice before, you know. "We will have lunch, Cesare Perilli," he smiles, repeating the name and memorizing it. "Or do you prefer Giancarlo?" he whispers, having remembered that, too. "My name is Amadeus," he smirks, yes, the Mozart theme runs long with this one, "... Amadeus Vjolke. Dei is just.... easier..."
     Slender fingers light upon the napkin and draw it toward him, fingers that, curling, lift it. He reads it. He tucks it away. Safely, in a pocket. Andrealphus looks at you through his mortal shell. A mask that he does not move away, but do you know just how transparent it feels? O, what would it be like...
     What would it be like to Love again...
     To fall in love...
     To feel those... explosions... the warmth...
     The oneness and the rightness...
     To feel... Love. To be...loved. Is there anything more powerful? Nothing. No... there is nothing more powerful...
     It is a wistful look. "It has ...really been a pleasure," he says. You do not know how much. "You know... one of those things. Kismet. Viking Fate. You never know with whom you might share a table. Thanks for coming to the show... and for this," he gestures to himself, meaning the number he has stowed on his person. "I will use it."

     "Sure," Cesare nods, not confident that he ever mentioned his real first name. He grins, running out of things to say. No drink in sight. "I should...let you get back to your..." English word, "...fans." He smiles, "Next time we meet, it shall be in Venezia, si?"

     Well, it's been about what... fifteen minutes? But the vodka tonics and whiskey chasers are on their way. "Sorry, sorry, birdies...We're packed to the gills, you know. But, to make up for it, I'm guaranteeing that these are wicked strong and there's no charge...now, ain't Veronica a sweetie?" her East London drawl becomes affected as she plays it up, setting the drinks on the table but over Cesare's shoulders. That way, see, she can lean in and over him -- give him a free feel and a free look...
     Dei just... smirks...
     Another night without me and my Word is still served. Hell, they don't need me anymore...
     "Thanks, cheers," he says to her and then he looks to Cesare. "Heading out? Well, alright then. Venezia it will be..."

     Oh, drinks. "Almost forgot this," Cesare grins, sitting back again. "Well, I was going to, but forgot we'd ordered," he minces. He lifts his glass in his hand, giving you a tip. "Salut," he murmurs befor taking a swallow.

     "I need to be heading off soon too, actually," he quietly admits. And it is early -- well, in musician terms. It's only midnight-ish. "My being responsible allows my fellows to live the life they've thought they've always wanted," he says, he'd speak quietly only ...you'd never hear him then. "Don't worry about it. They were free. If you need to go..."
     The whiskey is downed. The vodka, however. He's going to leave that behind. Sieg will find it and finish it.

Posted by rowan at May 10, 2003 12:41 PM