Long ago the Palacio villa's Roman atrium was paned floor to ceiling with glass. Broadened, arched. In the evening -- such as now -- the windows give an uninhibited view of evening in Tuscany. And no lights are on to spoil the view. The winter sky, with its hunter Orion and the constellations of Sagittarius and Capricorn, with its Andromeda and the dust of the Milky Way -- this is all that lights the atrium of glass, in the Palacio di Medici...
     Sprawled, naked as the day he was born to his noble mother -- ah, but so much the larger now -- Girault lies upon cushions of silk and velvet in the sunken center of this atrium. Cinnamon eyes... flickering. Wandering. From star to star. And all is still, but for the sound of a young man's breathing beside him. Girault does not bother to do so in private, but for speaking. And he is still.
     One needs not vampiric ears to catch the sound of tapping shoes upon the palazzo tile. It is a servant, certainly, used to the style of the Palacio and its Master. A sensitive modesty is not needed.

     The young man approaches, remaining at the archway to the atrium. You will know he is there, keeping a discreet distance. His voice is soft, not willing to break the stillness of the evening very much.
     "Sir, there is a phone call, requesting you. The lady says it is urgent..."

     Outward and upward comes his hand. A motion that is languorous to be ...normal to a mortal's vision. Fingers fan outward, and then the index finger crooks. Bring it... and you... here...
     Girault does not rise from his sprawl, nor does he remove his eyes from the view of stars. "Important enough for me to interrupt my nightly vigil at the throne of God, Vincenzo ... this must be... some phone call, yes? Come..." His finger crooks again...

     Where you want, so shall he be. Vincenzo's brown hair shuffles when he steps into the atrium proper, crossing the room in even strides. All things done with Grace. Perhaps one of the many unspoken rules around the palazzo.
     Once he is at your side, Vincenzo genuflects upon one knee, offering the phone above you. Little more than a lazy lift of your hand should be efficient to take the call...

     It is only then that the cinnamon eyes turn from the Face of God to the face of one of his angels. Slow, the smile that winds. Languorous adoration, Girault reaches for the phone with the slightest motion of his hand, and he couches it to himself. Grace is Beauty, and Beauty...Grace. Truth? Who in the world cares for that...
     "It is a beautiful night," comes the effluent low tenor, the Italian like a roll of silk across marble. Upon a breath, the words are carried into the phone as it is couched, held propped to his ear by a silken cushion. This leaves his hands free, one of which now motions to his Vincenzo. Join me. "The sky is filled with stars, my atrium bed with all the warmth and beauty of Florence, and you... have called me on the phone..." Whoever you are . Ah, such an expression of the Beautiful and the Mundane. "So..." An opening. It is your turn to speak. And as you do... ah, Vincenzo, come here my young man...

     The voice is that of a lady indeed, of Spanish and Moorish influences and little else. Time frozen, in her way. "Antonio," she begins in an older, more Roman Spanish, "...this is Angelique." Intimate names, not those used by the commonplace. Has she ever called you Girault or you to her Maria? "Forgive, Bello," she intones, "...it is such a night, and I am disturbing it. But you will understand when I explain what is happening." She sighs, "It is some time since we speak last, hmm?"
     For her part, there is also the sound of a breeze. She must be outdoors in her small palazzo south of Valencia, where the Jucon flows into the Mediterranean. New Castille. The wind whips through the tiny minarets that crown the palazzo's crinellations, a leftover from her own Moorish ancestry. Chimes tinkle, little pieces of glass cut and carved to dangle from doorways and trellises. You and Maria have much in common, perhaps, not only are you intimately twined with your havens, but also in the beautiful youths that fill the halls and colonnades.

     "Ah..." The grin is broad and it sits upon his voice so warmly. "An angel to go with my view of Heaven," The Roman Spanish flows from him. Easily. Effortlessly. As all seems to do with him. He, like the flow of honey. The slow roll of blood against the tongue. Everything done with languor, even more than the Angevin with whom he so close. And ...si... he does take credit for that in the Great Lion. "Angelique... my lovely... you are too long gone from Firenze. You must visit me..." Such hospitality. "It is a gentle breeze in Valencia tonight? Come... what is this matter? It sounds serious. Too serious for such a night as this. Unburden yourself... and I will blow it to the winds like dandelion seeds..." And all the while do slender fingers play with the dark strands of his Vincenzo's hair. Beside him, sleeping heavily, a blonde youth....

     Vincenzo's recline causes his white shirt to fall faintly open. With black slacks and black shoes, he is the very picture of a consiglione, a lead among your household staff. With you now, however, he is much like the others, pleased to have your attentions. It has been a while.

     "I will come to your Firenze," Maria laments,"...you must be the only friend Maria has," she sobs. "I fear my Eduardo has...he has been away too long, Antonio. He ... speaks to me with such churlish words..." disrespectful boy, "...and now, he will not tell me of his sudden disappearance. What if something has happened to him? I did not realize my nino was this way. You are his friend, you can tell me if he is alright, hmm? He wants me to worry, does he not, Antonio?" Ungrateful thing. Causing such torment. "If you say he is alright, I will believe you..." for you are such a wonderful boy!

     "Shh... now, Angelique... still your heart, my darling lady. I am certain as I am that the sun will rise and spoil my view that your Eduardo is well. He is as constant as the north star. The only thing I can say to his churlish words is he should stop associating so much with that Dragon," Davydd. "It does nothing for his manners, I am sure. You should bring him to Firenze with you, my lovely. We will show him what culture is like..."
     His soft voice is so smooth, is it not soothing? His fingers lightly trail along a young man's face. Hmm...Vincenzo... "If you would like," comes the slow roll of the tenor voice again, "... I can find him and... go see for myself hmm? You would trust these eyes with what I have to say?"

     What a darling man! "Si, bello Antonio, this would be most wonderful," Maria explains, "...I believe that he is not the same since he associates with those Men," the northern ones, not like you, "...they know little of what we do, hmm? Maybe you will remind him who loves him. When we come to Firenze, it will be a delight to see you and your Palacio, I shall make sure he accompanies me. It will be good for him to feel the waters of the Sea." And remember his education.
     "I am so grateful for you, bello Antonio..."

     Ah, if you could only see it, Angelique -- the dazzling smile. "The cold weather makes for a course soul, si? Mi bella dona, I will find him. You may set aside your care, hmm? As for My Brothers, they are good men... but they only recently learned to eat with utensils. My dear, we must be patient..." There is both soothing warmth and gentle humor in his voice. "I will do this..." A pause. "...because of my great love for you. I am a fool to never have asked for your hand in marriage. And now..." a sigh, "... I am far too profane. But my love, my beautiful Angelique, for you and your Eduardo, it is pure..." As much as anything can be when associated with Girault.
     He opens his arm, to enfold his young man. Closer, Vincenzo, I am cold. "You and Eduardo, you must come to Firenze for the beginning of spring. I will not have it any other way. Can you believe the Angevin chose not to winter here with me this year?" Incredulous. But then he remembers his task at hand. "I will speak with him, remind him of the love we bear him, and I will give him a kiss from his Mama... si?" Lord have mercy, the sight of Girault kissing your nino! God forbid!

     There is the sound of clasping hands. "You are an honor to a mother, Antonino," using the diminutive, "...grazi, bello. And si, we will certainly see you and enjoy your kind hospitality this spring...I shall hear no more of it. Eduardo and I accept." Nice of Edward, wasn't it? "As for those others, I cannot bear to think that any should dishonor you by not enjoying your kindnesses." Fie on them all . "Ze Angevin...well...you know my mind on Them." So speak the Borbon. "But when you do speak to my Eduardo, tell him of my eternal love...such a caro. And si, let him know he carries my heart with him...even if he is with his new friend ." Word spoken with a tad of distaste. "And a Frenchman too." The shaking of her head is audible -- and of course, she just had to tell you that part.

     Beside you, Vincenzo rolls over, still dressed. Leg and arm gently lie across your chest, his fingers at your bicep, stroking gently. He should hate for you to catch any sort of cold...the weather will not dare. And since he is so close, the young man dares a press of his lips to your shoulder and ear....

     Broad the smile, but closed, as the sudden warmth of Vincenzo is near. And all of his promise. Cinnamon eyes flicker with a sudden influx of amber. Embers of a fire being reborn. "Bella, my mother in her grave thanks you for noticing how delightful her son still manages to be. Ah, do not think on it. I will do this for you -- you will repay me by visiting me. We will sip the finest wine in all Italy," and he doesn't mean in a glass... necessarily, "...and roam the halls and gardens of the Palacio and feed the peacocks."
     But laughter, sparkling laughter like wine in a glass -- this sounds after. "I should not pick on them so much, it is too easy..." He knows the truth. The rest is all a game. "Your eternal love shall he know," he mentions as an afterthought -- it is already done. "...but... what about this friend? A Frenchman? Hmmm... you know, darling, they are not all unmannered and smell of goats. I do not think your Eduardo, with all the gifts upon him you have bestowed, the grace and the culture, such true civilization, would pick any less than what he truly deserved, hmm? But..." He chuckles. "...I will bring back word of this...friend to you. That you may be satisfied. You lay aside all worry, my Angelique... worry is wasteful for one so beautiful. I should grace you with a kiss." A sigh. "To do you full honor, technology does not allow for it. I will have the birds singing for your arrival..." You leave it up to me...

     "Grazi, bellissimo," Maria says softly, "...you are of God's heavenly host. Maybe you should call if you find him, hmm?" Please call. "And I know my Eduardo is a good boy...tell him this too." He would not do you both any dishonor. "Grazi...bene. I will talk to you soon, si?"

     Vincenzo could almost sleep again, how drowsy he has suddenly become. Halting in duties can do that to a young man. But you are the highest pleasure for any of the young men of the house, and he will keep awake, hoping you shall want him when you are done with your call...

     "You are most welcome, gentle and noble lady," he murmurs, such effluent and poetic language, and how his tongue plays upon it. "I will call you, si... and I will tell you all of what I found. And ...si... my sweet, you have done most excellent with Eduardo. He is a treasure to Our Cause," as is the Angevin and the others, no matter how he likes to pick on them with you, "...I do not know where we would be without him. And this you have done. So..." said, as if a hand is to his chest, "... it is my honor and my privilege to do this for you..."
     Your breathing has become far too regular, Vincenzo. Upon the phone you hear a breath, or is that silk? Or skin and silk? Holding the phone to his ear, Girault rolls over, taking his young man with him. Ah, and yes... waking the other. This is as it should be. "Now... Bellissima, I will talk to you once I have found him, yes? And again on the occasion of Our Lord Jesus' day of birth in praise for the heavenly babe. Now... rest," he murmurs, "... rest with a contented heart. Antonio will tend to it." A pause. "Antonio must now tend to his bed, forgive him, he cannot help it..." No, he would not, even if he could.

     Well, of course, that is where you are. She knows when it is time to go, as much as when it is time to arrive. "Ah, then, si, Antonio. I will talk to you manana." For her, it means another day. "Feliz Navidad, bellissimo." With that, the line disconnects, Maria seeming comforted by the talk.

     The groaning sigh is from a stirred Vincenzo. He was certainly drifting, and when you move, so does his consciousness. Ready to serve. And so his eyes open and a smile pulls at his lips, a hope that he might steal a bit of your time, as the others so easily enjoy. Maybe, you have not forgotten me...

     "Feliz Navidad," was whispered and upon the clicking end of the line, the cellular phone was tossed upon another gathering of pillows. Ring all you want, I will not answer.
     "Now," Girault says, brightening eyes and spreading smile, "... my darling Vincenzo... no more delay..." Hands, freed now to this task, spread open the white of your shirt like the parting of drapes, away and over your shoulders...

Posted by rowan at February 06, 2001 11:50 PM