By architectural design, the noon-time sun lands upon the marble in shafts of light, creating secondary columns, colonnades of illumination. The beauty of this structure will not be daunted by winter. It sparkles with renewed vigor, everlasting. And up the airy heights eyes of tourists wander as the move in from the canal entrances. Travelers pausing on the sweeping staircases like angels taking a break.
The marble reflects voices and steps likewise, a droning song with its rise and falling cadence. An opera, with aria of 'O look at that' and 'Isn't that lovely?'...
One such tourist stands in the very center of the grand entry of Ca'Pesaro, his eyes tending upward. His hair is blonde and curly, cut short-ish Caesarian, and he is dressed in a soft cinnamon woolen overcoat, overlying several other layers of earthtones, muted, slightly gilded. Probably Swiss or German, but there is something of Italy perhaps in the aquiline nose and structure of his face, it speaks of the shadows of the Alps. And he is rather alpine himself...
How sunlight loves him...
He stands in shafts of it, peering upward at the architectural marvel of Ca'Pesaro, it's columns and arches opening outward to seeming infinity. And like the other tourists, Michael is open-mouthed at it. It sings. So few can hear that.
Feeling himself a ...spectacle, he clears the cobwebs of amazement with a roll of great shoulders and a smile to one of the museum's attendants. Yes. Buon giorno...
There are tourists, and there are tourists. Valmiki is definitely in the latter class, a professional tourist, who has been given all the time in the world to see the sights but still must see as much as he (for ease of use) can, as much detail and he can, as quickly as he can, without yet rushing through and past.
Where there is sunlight, he stands in shadow, as fascinated by the people as by the architecture, by the art. For a moment, those wide aquamarine eyes - the sign of his bastardry, some might whisper - are caught and held intent upon a fall of golden motes in the spill of light, more even than the magnificent illusion. He wears the clothes of his apparent trade, the itinerant would-be student traveler clad in denim no longer stiff with newness, patched colourfully and brightly here and there, a cotton tunic open at the neck and falling in loose folds at the sleeves before gathering at the cuffs, paired off with dirty brown bomber jacket and rather worn rubber sneakers. His dark hair is straight, cut in a pageboy that brushes his eyebrows until pushed off his forehead.
Creeping forward, to that border between sunlight and shadow, he reaches a hand forward, not quite making contact with the marble - as if by feeling the air in front of it, he will the better know, and understand, its shape. At a reproof from one of the guards, he draws his hand back, with a boyish grin. In sanskrit, the poet speaks -
"There is music in all things, but not all things can listen with heart wide open enough."
A quirk of a golden eyebrow. Sanskrit. But hands go into his pockets and the golden head tips back, eyes scanning the rise of stairs, the rise of human beings on those stairs, floating upward toward the arcades and the museums tucked within its columns. How often does one just hear Sanskrit.
A moment later, Michael looks past a shoulder to the tourist, a casual glance -- sure. But one that also notes curiosity. Perhaps you may think he understood you -- you would be correct in that -- or perhaps it is a look given for a tongue unknown, as if trying to place it, to place you. The eyes. The eyes are tempered -- normally topaz gold, they are merely an amber here. A light brown, like tiger's eye jasper. A look to you, and Michael continues onward, heading toward the staircase.
There is music in all things, from it do all things come...
The look is returned, with a gallant-seeming bow - or maybe it's to the guard so offended by the almost touch. Certainly, there is more to Valmiki than meets the eye, and that is in itself a jest on so many levels that the traveling storyteller has never yet finished laughing at it, and even now brings a smile to the full lips, the corners of those languid eyes creasing up.
Perhaps it is curiosity. Perhaps it is coincidence. But after a pause, and jumbled apologies to the guard in a mix of sanskrit and english and italian, the dark-haired youth separates himself from the crowd, and heads towards the stairs, irrepressible energy in his gait.
You are being followed, it seems, by some ragtag mongrel pup out of India...
He moves not like the others around him. There is a bemused grace, something that feels itself separate from those around it, no matter how like Them he may seem. There is, to be sure, nothing specific per se that would set him apart, but rather the totality of how he moves, how he Is.
He may think he is sightseeing like anyone else, but the Archangel simply doesn't...
How could he?
A hand lights upon the rail of the staircase, fingertips brushing against the marble, touching but barely. He offers a smile to an elderly matron, making her first journey to Venice from Newport, Rhode Island, together with her sister, who moved some time ago to Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Why? Well, her sister could never figure that out -- so the story has gone on their slow procession up the stairs. English is spoken: Have a wonderful time, enjoy Venice. When he says it, there is such a glow on his face. Beautific. And as he proceeds, he murmurs a prayer, a blessing upon the ladies in Latin.
Yes, Latin...
The General of all generals rounds the bend in the staircase to the second arcade. This is where the Eastern Art may be found... I should go to China again sometime. It's been eons now....
He makes no pretense as to unnatural grace or beauty. Whatever lies within Valmiki, he is ... touched, by other worlds than this one, it is in the bend of his head, in his voice when he sings, or tells a tale, old or new, in his hands when he moves to Create, but when he is simply Valmiki (though that's no simple thing), and draws not on any item or artifice or older creation of his or any others... he is just human.
So he ducks his head with shy friendliness to the women, smiling to them as he passes in his pursuit. His glance is interested, but there is a larger Story here, for the gaining. Green and blue in his eyes mix, searching, locking... ah, there, there goes my quarry.
He lopes up the stairs further, sometimes one at a time, sometimes two, and sometimes three, hands to the straps of the backpack (ignoring bindings that are tight around the hidden chest, beneath the tunic), balance an easy thing. But he does not call out, not yet.
Columned interior. A play of Light and Dark. Of illumination and shadows...
The lower hall of Ca'Pesaro is tiled marble, leading inward to where the edifice of this first floor opens outward and upward. it leads the eyes as surely as a painting...
A dual sweep of marble stairs lead to columned arcades above. Two stories of columns and windows are visible past the railing of marble upon second and third floors.
It is through these windows, it past these columns, that the light of Venice, by day or by night, fills the interior of Ca'Pesaro. In shafts of illumination that do quite nearly thud audibly against its stone.
From the staircase, held midair by Baldassare's marble wings, you may view the entry hall below in greater expanse. From the shadows where the two great doors first led you, to the rivulets and canalways of the floor's marble. Now you may see how they lead inward, to a gilded circle at the hall's very center. Gilded, a dedication to Giovanni Pesaro, Doge of Venice in 1658...
Before you, the stairs curve and give a marble pause where stairs meet the second floor arcade. Upward still, the marble stairs continue, ending where the third floor arcade begins.
Its breadth could not have been imagined from the earth of marble tile below, nor even from the marble stairs. How slender it looked then, but as you stand within the space of the second floor arcade now comes the realization...
Earth, as Baldassare would agree, is only the beginning...
Columns line your way, on either side of you. Leading inward, to alcoves illuminated only by the windows that end each one. Leading inward from the arcade, to a passage otherwise hidden that leads to and fro between pockets of chambers filled with Eastern art.
Michael would, himself, not make any pretense to grace or beauty. But for those curious enough to notice, wise enough to look, there is a ...foreign quality. But then, I did note he was a tourist didn't I...
Michael pauses at the head of the staircase, standing now upon the second arcade. The quickening steps following. Are children running in the building? But he knows he's being followed. Michael looks over his shoulder as he stands still, a curious look knitting his eyebrows, quirking up his mouth, and he moves to the side, as if he thinks he was in your way. And you are obviously in a hurry. "Excuse me," he says in Italian as he goes.
There is a larger story here. As immense as the universe. Part of it is yours. The reason you bind your chest. The stories you pursue, as if you shall find your own metaphor among the others you collect. And there is the story of an angel on the head of a needle. And the story of a vampire coming to terms with love. And the story of a magician searching for the doge's gold...
Another gallant bow, and he comes to a halt. The backpack, of course, doesn't have as much control over its momentum, and it jerks as he comes to a halt, nearly sending him into the staircase railing. Lightweight. He regains his balance quickly, though, and scrambles to a proper position. In Italian, Valmiki says, "Isn't it terrible when the attempt of art is halted by reality getting in the way?"
A tea-coloured hand runs back through the bangs, tucking them into the loose ponytail, then drops to his belt. "I apologize if I intrude, sir, but you look like someone I ought to know." There is a wealth of ambiguity in it, as there is to the youth himself (herself). Contradiction - paradox - enigma, wrapped in quiet laughter and a warm smile. "I do not, though, wish to intrude if I am not wanted."
What will you do, supreme General? when a young bard stands in challenge, but yet will stand aside.
He chuckles, a look to you, a look around. "I... am only a ...casual observer of art, having no ability myself. But," a hand gestures to the surroundings, "I ... do marvel at the attempt." A look to you, journey yet paused, he smiles softly. "Reality is what you make of it. I suppose it is an art all its own. And ...no... no intrusion. I am just... wandering. I can wander in a duet. I do not have to play the solo," join me if you like. He drops back into his slow stroll.
Woman-Man. Both roles worn, though neither in command. A balance of the two. Which one is preferred, or is that the point? That there is no preference? Interesting. A mortal angel. "You are visiting Venice?" he wonders. "This is my first time here in a while... I am gawking like the tourist that I am..."
What will the Supreme General do? Be generally congenial, of course. And polite. And interested. For all those things are true, and Michael is nothing if not True.
"I am visiting, yes," Valmiki agrees, without dishonesty on his own part. Equal parts, yes, held in balance - past life and present, shared, fragmented memories of both that lurk behind the warm eyes. "I have been here ... once, before, I think." A fragment swims to the surface, turning the eyes blind with remembering. "Yes, once."
He follows, watchful without intrusion, the space between bodies kept carefully moderated - and he walks behind, so as not to block those coming down the other side. And that provokes a smile. Three paces behind...
"It is all very beautiful. Of course, there is very little which holds no beauty, if turned to the proper angle." Glass and crystal capture light, even if it is broken glass. Murder and madness capture darkness, but darkness can shine, in the retelling. "I ... travel, often. Valmiki Rama-Jambavan," a name is offered, with a laugh.
There is no expectation that the name will be recognized, here, and he does not wear the caste-mark upon that high, full brow, here. Rama, the God-King in mortal flesh, who married and allied with the Great Bear. The warrior, the poet, the sage, the K'shatriya caste's line. But in the West, walk as the West does walk...
He is not as great a study in the Eastern arts as some of his peers. One in particular. An old friend, now lost to him. He/She who carried the message to Mohammed. Jibril. It makes his heart ache. He does not like to think of it. He has been thinking of it... and Him/Her frequently these... days/nights/millennia. Not having a sense of time is tricky when it comes to memory...
A hand comes out, expecting to find you at his side, but you're behind him. He stops, letting you catch up, letting others move around you. A smile. "Michael," he says. "Pleasure to meet you." No last name given. No last name existing. "Valmiki Rama-Jambavan," he repeats. "Interesting name," he says after a few moments, and after his pace has picked up once more, stroll renewed. "May I ask... of its origin?"
Michael, Who is like God? That is what your name is, what it means. You, God's Judge. Once. Turned from mediator to general on a fate-filled moment, when your heel pressed upon a fallen angel's fallen throat...
The hand is accepted, briefly but firmly - a man's handshake, carefully cultivated in a world where to be a woman is to be hidden and protected from men's things. The nails are cut short, blunt, the fingers graceful. These hands have known work. "I am most pleased to meet you, Michael." And that is true, too. Valmiki is pleased to meet almost everyone, for everyone has a story, if they can be cajoled into telling it.
"The name? There are ... many stories, to go with the name." His humour is as irrepressible as his curiosity, and as intrinsic. "Which name is it you inquire after? Valmiki, or the Rama-Jambavan bit, or should I split it down even further?"
There are other names, which are left unsaid, which would to the knowing ear give away the disguise. But that is still unsaid, and only a faint flicker even of thought goes to them - the girl beneath the man is experienced at resisting self-betrayal.
Something of sunlight meets the amber-brown eyes and a smile comes when hands part. "The pleasure is mine. Hmm... let's start with Valmiki. It is the easiest to pronounce," he murmurs, part-conspiratorial. And along the arcade he continues... listening to you...his eyes lifting as the architecture wills, as it was designed.
And around you, tourists are most polite, parting to let you continue on. Not crowding you. Even their voices seem to have died down. As if they were consciously giving you some privacy. This, of course, cannot be -- for why would the mass of them do this? But perhaps such appeals to your poetic senses...
Michael ducks into one of the side passages, passing between columns to head into one of the many alcoves that end into a spectacular view of the city outside. Venice sparkles in the sunlight...
It reminds him of his own citadel in many ways...
It does appeal, and it makes him look around with renewed curiosity, aquamarine eyes sparkling with sudden intensity, and Valmiki folds his hands together, behind his back. "It is an .. old name, where I am from," he says finally, consideringly. How does one reveal, without revealing too much? The truth has always been flexible, but ... he does not lie, if he does not need.
"Valmiki the Poet is perhaps the most famous to have borne the name. He composed, or had told him - stories vary, depending on whether one is to give credence the existence of a multitude of gods and demons and other creations, as per the legends of my people." Hindu mythology is, and ever has been, filled with such, of course, and few are more firm in their belief than Valmiki, but it is impolitic to say so, aloud, in another's House. And there is room for many things.
He continues, voice lowering as he steps into the alcove, finding a patch of shadow out of habit from the noonday sun. "The Ramayana... an epic, filled with tales of love and betrayal, marriage, death, renewal, birth and rebirth, war and ... every condition which may exist between individuals, human or otherwise." A quick, fleeting smile. "Valmiki is, in and of itself, just a name. Its meaning is what the ages have given it, through connotation and use..."
"The Ramayana," he says, and his voice carries knowledge. Having at least heard of it, you may easily suppose, or perhaps he has even read a translation. But then, he may well have heard it in its original, having been close with the Angel of Inspiration, the Fire of Inspiration. The Muse of the Universe -- no matter the religion. East. West. These words only have meaning Here.
Michael nods, his countenance holding a pleasant look, a kind of curious, passing-the-time warmth. He takes a station to the side of the window, preferring the light and half-bathed in it he stands, back and shoulders given to a column of marble. "Some of the finest poems, the most sacred, and the most passionate, are born of India. The religion would have its followers Understand," in the highest sense, "...and love and bravery, life and death are all One. Though, they wear many faces," for the multiplicity of gods are but the senses, appetites, consciousnesses of One Creator. Even as I am. Even as you are, Valmiki.
But there is a self-effacing chuckle, a lift of golden eyebrows, a winning smile, and a lift of a finger. "I wax philosophical. Too much. Stop me. Let me see. Let us talk about the weather..."
"There is more truth and more of worth borne out of the vail when philosophy carries than most will allow," comes Valmiki's protest, the words insistent even if florid. He has the grace to blush, though, at his high-flung language, even if not to duck his head, chin raised. Daunted, but unbowed, and grinning with delight.
"I will not, of course, pursue such tack if the captain does not wish," Valmiki flings the words out with a joy taken in the sport, even if practice has made it natural, "though I beg, do not stay your words on my account. It would not be seemly of me, a casual stranger and fellow traveler, to put an end to a tide, of yours or any other."
He stems his own tide, however, steepling his fingers together in a brief motion that abandons pretense of higher motive, eyes gleaming again as he adds, "I attempt to live up to my namesake," as I am, indeed, my namesake, though few would credit it, "and I suspect you have stories of your own, which I would most willingly hear - an you be willing." How did a Hindu lad or lass gain such fluency in Italian?
That those who travel in Europe speak more than one tongue, this is not surprising. There is more openness, less... insular thinking than in America. Even Britain. Though, that one should know Sanskrit, dead as it has been these many years now and also know Italian. Well, it does make the eyebrows quirk somewhat. But who is he to question...
Captain. That makes him pause. Captain. Is it so obvious? It must be. How could it not be. He smirks at the notion, at the nickname, at its fitting him so rightly. "Every one does," he says simply. "Some are written, some are sung, some are whispered, some cannot be spoken but are borne in the eyes." Maybe his are like these. "Your story is of poetry, then? You wish to be the second coming of Valmiki?" Michael smiles broadly. "I believe in wishes," he says, a soft voice in half-sunlight, half-shadows. He, always illuminated.
There are some in Heaven who are fainting right now. Wishes. Dreams. Michael?
Long story...
But he has seen it, of late he has seen it. The impossible becoming possible and achieved. Those who none suspected could dream do dream. And dreams are answered. Sometimes at a cost, but they are answered. And it has given him hope. A long-missed, long-absent hope.
With Valmiki, there is a sight which is more than Sight - one of the errant and intermittent gifts of his heritage, of his line. Even a hero can be deceived, but a hero's eyes must nonetheless be perceptive and shrewd. His hands stay clasped, under his chin, and he speaks again, voice hushed.
"I do not know my own story, however, for that I have been blinded to." The voice is quiet, briefly introspective, though not particularly sad, or angry, or happy, for that matter - it Is, and that is all. "I discover my own story only by those I come into contact with. I am, in truth, that second coming, whether I wish it or not - and if I were to make wishes, that would not be my wish."
But he cannot long stay shadowed by the past, even if he sits or stands in shadow instead of sunlight, and he laughs, a cheerful sound. "Now it is I who grow too dull upon the rocks of philosophy - I fear in me, philosopher's stones find no gold, but only dross for the mining." If there is pain, it will be greeted with a laugh. If there is sorrow, a smile. If there is wrath, an open face and ready hand...
"So it is with Us all," meaning every being, human or otherwise. "You are not alone in this, Valmiki." Michael leans in, smiling. "I am not the keeper of my story, either. Nor can I claim authorship..." Though quietly borne, his voice reflects off of the marble here, there is a slight echo.
"It is bright and sunny for a Venetian winter," Michael abruptly cuts to talk of the weather, and then the smile is a great one. If he were not beautifully borne before, he is so now. "Though, I expect we will see snow." A half-moment. "You have not grown dull," he assures you, "...you have been pleasant company, and diversion from my too-much-introspection."
We all have our sorrow. We all have our joys. We have our reasons to smile and our reasons for tears. The Song of Solomon still rings so true. I was once a poet, too. I wrote psalms. But in the ash and in the fire of the birth and death of stars, I have not had a moment to do so since. Not since the time of David of Israel. Strange. Why did I let that go? To whom did I surrender it...
A smile, of sudden sympathy - not necessarily with emotion, but sympathy between individuals, perhaps. "So it is, though I am not very familiar with Venetian winters, to say. There are, they say, only three cures for introspection, but if I provide a worthy diversion, why, then I am glad."
He turns slightly, away, stepping into the sunlight and leaning against that window's sill, hair reflecting blue-black in the light. "What would you wish for, then, that you believe in them? Or have you not yet made one? Wishing is easy, it's the easiest thing ever done, and perhaps one of the most fearsome... they might come true, after all."
I know what my heart declares. I am a creature of simple desires, animal passions made complex by human form. I do not claim Haruman's wisdom, or any god's direct and overt favour... And I hold back my wishes, for that reason, if none other...
"I think there is some thing about speaking wishes aloud, is it not so? That they would not be answered?" Michael smiles. "I wish for what most wish. Love. Forgiveness. Peace on earth. Goodwill toward men." He blinks, the smile broadening. "Maybe I should start small... work my way up..."
Indeed...
I am out of practice with this, dreaming. Not proficient at it yet. But maybe one day. Until then, I muddle through it like everyone else. Aiming too high. Wanting too much...
"I think I will wish for snow. And then, I will wish for a nice warm fire. These are more easily given by the universe than universal peace. Still..." he winks, "...one can dream..."
A quiet laugh, though he doesn't turn, not immediately. "Things worth wishing for, and noble enough to make my own seem shameful and base indeed. Of course - they are." And he turns, smile wide and almost dazzling. He is expressive, as befits a storyteller.
Folding his hands in front of him, he bows. "Had I abode, I would invite you to share a meal with me, but as it is, I fear I make a very poor host. Still, perhaps we shall meet again." So seldom does he meet people often, yet it is an honest hope. "If so, perhaps you will allow me to host, or guest-host, a dinner which you would attend?"
Perhaps it is innocent, and perhaps not. But still, if not, what delicious irony - a man-woman child attempting to pick up the General of Heaven's Hosts? Valmiki rises, spreading his hands back down to his sides, delicately.
"I would be honored, Valmiki," hospitality is also an art. And it is quite nearly religious among the military. A god all its own. It is a revered duty. And one he appreciates and adheres to. He does not mention how you would find him. If you wish to see him, there will open a way. He will be found. Such is the way of heaven.
"That reminds me.. I should find lodging before it grows too late and too dark. Being on the water, in the cold, that is no place to be. You should as well, yes?" And he pushes off the marble column, turning from the window that has graced him with such light. "I will be in Venice for a bit," for a multitude of reasons, "... I should be easy enough to find. And I hope that you do."
That almost catches him by surprise, but he recovers quickly. Fortunately. "By all means," Valmiki assures, little giving thought to how hard it might be to find someone based solely on them being named Michael. He is acquainted with quirks of fate, and of Fate...
"I will look for you, then, when I have made such arrangements as would best befit so noble and gracious a guest." The words roll like wine and honey from the boy's lips - words, words, and more words. He is practiced with them, indeed, and once more he bows, salaaming, almost. "I bid you good eve, then, and good luck in your ... seeking? Your quest. Until then... your servant, sir."
And he rises, and with a lovely smile, turns to run down the stairs.
Posted by rowan at May 18, 2003 05:12 PM
