There, again, the stretch of road that skims the edge of Provence. The sea was at our feet. When we followed its curves in the quickness of my car, we grew quiet. Not silent. Quiet in the heart. Quiet in the mind. We were on our way to... whatever this is going to be...
I pointed out the cliff, the places I would ride. Where I passed with my company on so many occasions. This place is steeped in me. Provence knows all the good in me, all that has happened that ever pleased me. Even though I am from Switzerland by birth, my family of a northern nobility, it was always Provence that was my home. It still is. Why I choose to live so far away from it, I do not know.
Now, Avignon I can do without...
We pull past a gated drive, climbing onto the ridge, the gate opened in expectation. "We are here, when we make the next corner, you will see the villa on the plateau..." Even as I said that, like magic -- my own magic -- the plateau and its villa appeared.
The villa is flush against the limestone. Who knows but that a part of the residence may be inside the plateau itself. The French and the Provencal are notorious for using their limestone as cavern palaces and storing houses for their wine and mushrooms. In the strategic lights, surely as much for aesthetic as for security (if not more so), one can see the gardens that surround it, the vines, olive trees and pomegranates.
You will have to remind me, Samuel. Why did I choose to leave?
The car pulls up into the drive. It is just after eleven. There is still the memory of the earlier day in a streak of light blue over the sea. The car pulls into the gravelled courtyard and stops.
They are here...
Cutting off the motor, Alire turns to look to Giancarlo. "Well, Caesar," a play upon Giancarlo's nickname. "Welcome to my former home." He looks past the front window shield to his surroundings. "I do not know why it is 'former'. I think I have been a great fool to leave it for Poitiers." His smile, though slight, is wayward with humor. Poitiers is not without its beauty but... this is simple grandeur. Immense beauty without pretense.
Cesare had been quiet during the last hour of the ride. His eyes were wide as he looked out of the car's windows, staring at the cliff and sea, orchards and fields. Occasionally, he'd blink, then look at Alire wondering, indeed, why he should ever have left.
There's a smile for the villa and the introduction. Cesare returned from his rapture, grinning to see the house. "It's wonderful," Cesare whispers, hand on the latch to open his door. He's almost giddy. "Amazing, bello. I can't believe I am at your earlier home!" Cesare leans over to give Alire a quick kiss, and the door's chime sounds as he pushes it open to step out.
A light shines ahead. The door to the villa opens, and a young man stands there, peering left and right to see. "Hallo!" Charles calls, the young apprentice, waving his hand.
The lights on the cliff ... if it could be seen from the sea, ships might once have been lured to the rocks. But that was never the intention of the villa's existence, the peace of its grounds - no trap, but a refuge, cut off from the world without. There is in all things an order, and God's order found within.
At the gravel spurting up from under the rims of tires, the light over the door turns on, the entryway illuminated long before vehicle doors open to disburse passengers or drivers. However, of Samuel, there is no sign - not yet.
It is not ego, but patience ... one waits, one observes, one orders one thoughts, and then one may be a proper host. And besides, why does one keep an apprentice in one's employ, if not to usher in that same hospitality to one's guests? There is much for Charles to learn from these guests, if he pays proper attention... In the study, Samuel stands, ears attuned to the front of the villa, even as his gaze is caught upon the open pages of a book.
When you find out, tesoro, tell me, will you?
"I cannot believe you are either," Alire says, matter-of-factly but warmly. Humor edges his words. His own giddiness, however mildly expressed. Alire stands there for a moment, breathing in Provence, the herbs, the flowers, the olive tree nearby, and he turns when light spills outward. "Bonsoir, Charles," he says, smile widening as he steps away from his side of the car, moving to Cesare. "Cesare Perilli... this is Charles... Charles, Cesare...Charles is a student of my master," he notes. Amiable the words, warm the tone.
"I think," Alire says, hand upon Cesare's back as he looks to Charles, "...that we are right on time. Did I say eleven in my message?" Is that a wink?
Alire is, as ever, impeccably dressed. A long overcoat, a suit beneath this, creamy yellows and light greys, a little blue here and there. Stately. But not rigid...
Charles comes out with quick steps, nodding as he takes Cesare's hand. "Monsieur Perilli..." he bobs, smiling. "Welcome to our Provence, oui? We are happy you're here," he offers, then smiles at Alire. "You look so well, sir! Please, please, go inside. Master Samuel is there. I will get your things..." The hand extends, expecting keys.
Cesare smiles in return, barely getting out a 'thank you' in French before Charles turns to think about the car. His brows wiggle as he smirks at the young man's greeting and enthusiasm. "Monsieur?" Cesare whispers, not sure whether he deserves such title. "Hmph." A shrug and Cesare looks between Alire and Charles, waiting on instruction.
"It was eleven," Charles chimes, smiling at Alire. "We said we'd be ready, yes?" Of course. And they are.
And that is his cue. Moving forward from the back, now, Samuel makes his way towards the foyer, to properly greet his guests. He has dressed for the occasion...
Nothing outre. Nothing to catch the eye, though the materials are chosen for their quality. Simplicity, as ever, is his preference, the trousers of dark brown serge, the shirt woven linen of a colour that a designer would give some name based either upon food or upon brilliance, but which the magister refers to only as 'my blue shirt, please'. His salt and pepper hair is pulled back from his face, and as he is indoors, his head is uncovered, beard neatly trimmed for the occasion.
We will put on a brave face for this occasion, shall we not? And his silhouette falls across the doorway.
"We are ready," he agrees cordially, voice quiet but carrying. "Be welcome to my home, and let us be friends beneath this roof." Almost a benediction, in its own way.
Cesare turns, having been watching Charles. He smiles and runs a hand through his hair, fingers massaging his temple for an instant. He could not help but turn, the master of the villa arriving in due course. The smile widens as he puts on his best face.
Gloved hands dangle the keys and he smiles. "There are only two bags... you will find them in the back seat. We will see you inside," he calls out, twisting.
There is a look that passes between Alire and Cesare. Amusement. Affection. "Vene," he says, his voice as quiet as their mood before. He leads him into the villa.
The villa is amazing. Ancient. But warm with life and living. It is, you might notice Cesare, much like the interior of Alire's home. A greater understanding of Alire may be found here. He is everywhere.
"Magister," your lover calls him 'teacher', Cesare. Within the foyer, he looks from his master -- there is obvious affection there as well -- and then to you. "Cesare, I would like you to meet Samuel, my teacher and my constant friend. Samuel, this is Giancarlo Perilli, the man about whom I cannot stop speaking."
Samuel and Giancarlo can share in the humor of that.
"Sir," Giancarlo nods, extending his hand even as his head dips. "A pleasure and an honor," he says softly. It is much like meeting a bethrothed's parent. Dressed neatly in brown loafers, dark brown slacks, and cream shirt, Giancarlo appears to come from a family of limited means...these are likely his best clothing.
Brown hair curls at the ends. It's long, and from the way his eyes blink beneath his gleaming strands, he's not used to his hair being of such length. Italian he is...from his unusually full lips and nose. Southern, more than likely. Giancarlo's complexion is a bit darker than those of more northerly climes.
And he stands, like familiar Roman statues, with his hand out in a respectful greeting. Magician? The sparkles seem explosive around him.
There are reasons why one might not wish to shake a wizard's hand. Skin meeting skin, it is an intimacy which might provide too much information - give more away than one might intend. Samuel is cautious of such gestures, as a rule...
Thus it is perhaps surprising to Alire when he simply smiles through his beard, stepping forward to take the offered hand, dark eyes regarding the Italian carefully but not coldly as he does so. Has any blushing virgin daughter's suitor been subjected to a more thorough appraisal? Perhaps. "Welcome. I have heard good things of you, M'sieur Perilli. Though I assure you, the flow of words has not been so tremendous as to require embarassment. Come in, if you like."
And there is that pause ... barely perceptible. What will be the result? Can it be that a handshake is only a handshake? Will he say aye or nay? There is that scale held up, and Samuel's eye to keep the merchant honest.
It's only a line. A wrinkle. The movement of a face. Perfectly normal. But, a wince is still a wince, even as Cesare bobs his head in thanks. "Thank you," Cesare murmurs, blinking as he lowers his hand from the shake and glances at Alire beside him. "Your home is...beautiful," he adds. "Thank you for having me here."
"Alire speaks highest of you, sir," Giancarlo says softly, his breath uneven through the pulse of words.
"Nothing terribly embarrassing," Alire softly counters. He gestures for Cesare to go ahead of him. "Not about you anyway. Though, Samuel did witness me stumbling through this villa... at a loss." When I was without you. He has seen worse of course.
Alire turned, he began to remove his coat. He missed the wrinkle, the slight wince. "I have been telling him the stories," so that you know, magister, "... well, some of them. The highlights," to use modern vernacular. "I learned everything I know of books and botany, the appreciation of life and living things from this man," he notes to Cesare. "His libraries are extensive... and his gardens are the healthiest and the happiest in all of Provence."
He looks to Samuel as he removes his overcoat, he holds it as he waits for Cesare to move ahead and further into the villa. "And Giancarlo has a library you could appreciate," he notes to Samuel. "Alchemy, astronomy, maps..." He catches himself going on and he smiles. "But enough of the scholarly bragging... " he makes a wave of his hand. Small talk. I will be quiet.
"It is a small library," Cesare smirks, the blush genuine. "But I do look forward to seeing your gardens, sir. Alire has spoken of them all week," Cesare twists to see him, "...and the olives and the cliff and the sea..." well, you get the idea.
With no coat of his own, Cesare simply moves further inside to get out of the way. "In truth, I wish I had come here earlier. I think I have only passed through here once, some time ago."
"To tell all would be difficult. To relive a world is almost as difficult as to dream it." Samuel gestures loosely, turning to precede the two men. He has missed nothing, but he says nothing of it, drawing no attention. It is a footnote, stored away for later examination, to be meditated upon at his leisure.
A smile over his shoulder. "Perhaps you would like tea? I imagine your travels have been wearisome, yes, and it would do well to unwind, in pleasant company." He does not offer the shelter of his own library. Not now. Not yet. Perhaps later, when there is more seen, or more to be seen, but ... not yet. To tempt an unknown wizard with forgotten lore...
"You have been here before, then?" One greying-dark eyebrow goes up in the olive-complexioned face, and Samuel swings round for a moment, easily, casual still. "A pity you did not stop by."
"Well," Cesare says, twisting again to glance at Alire, "...it was years ago. I mean, I was in another part of Provence. Not here. And, well, sir," he adds nervously, "I didn't really know anyone." Cesare coughs softly, hand again near his hair and face.
He glances at Alire again, as he remains behind Samuel's back. The look: Did I do that right?
Outside, there is noise. The sound of the car moving, being parked under cover. The thud of trunk and doors. Preternatural hearing may catch the sound of a locking system engaged and footfalls on stone as Charles comes in with the two bags. The front door is closed and locked for the evening, and he heads on to take care of chamber duties.
The smile is an easy one. Yes, everything is fine. Bene, says the look. From the foyer, everyone moves to a living room. Unlike the staid fortresses and manors of France and England, every room in this villa has the warmth of family in it, the comfort and the ease in the walls and the stones and the floors. It is Mediterranean, through and through.
"You should keep your doors open in the summers, magister," Alire quietly teases. "Perhaps hang honeycomb over the threshold to lure the wandering tourist." He pauses. It's an idea with merit. As he passes a chair, Alire sets his overcoat aside. "I still find it... interesting that we crossed the same land who many times," he looks to Cesare, "...only to meet in that Templar church in one of the more dreary of Europe's cities." Lovely though Prague is, it is not exactly sunny and warm. Or exceedingly friendly. Alire takes a moment to marvel at this. He shakes his head and moves to take a seat. "Tea would be lovely. Are you hungry," he says to Cesare. Hunger in the traditional sense, of course. He stands near him. The question, the consideration. Both bespeak an intimacy.
"Oh, tea, yes, thank you," Cesare says, angling to see both of the men present. "And yeah," he agrees, trying not to be so stolid and nervous, "...Prague, of all places. Our...Lady of the Chain, right?" Cesare's French is fluid. His second language, it seems.
"Our Lady Beneath the Chain," Alire murmurs, "Yes... that is right. Just across the Charles Bridge, lined with saints. The fortress is gone of course..." And all those of my Order, save me.
A slight smile is offered in Alire's direction. "I am more ... discriminating, about who I invite in over my threshold. However, my doors often are open - should the prophet return, it would be remiss of me to fail to invite him in, be it in the flesh or merely in the spirit."
For is it not said that Moses shall return? Though it would be an interesting meeting, with the alchemist turned undead ... "Speak in what language pleases you best," he adds with a small, patient smile. "My Italian is in danger of drying up, if I fail to use it, and I am unlikely to be coaxed far from my books, despite our friend's warm invitations." A white lie, that, of the sort to ease social transitions. Though it is true he seldom leaves his home, these days, the walls around him ones he is comfortable behind.
"Come ... we will go to the sitting room, and Charles will find us when he has the tea prepared. I imagine, as well, that you will wish to see the mural." An artist's work? Or something else...
It's hard not to be formal at a time like this. Words are spoken of the prophet and Cesare looks to Alire again. Jewish? He hadn't recalled that coming up. A swallow, and Cesare obediently follows to the sitting room.
"If...acceptable," Cesare says in Italian, prefering to find comfort in his native tongue. He smiles having said the words and taking the offer. "Thank you."
"A mural?" Was the question to him? "I'm sorry..." Cesare says, not quite knowing what the topic is now.
I did forget to mention that. It simply doesn't occur to me. "I will serve as translator if need be," Alire remarks quietly, his Italian is fluent. French dissolves, no trace of accenting found once the Italian of Venice leaves his lips. "Giancarlo had the great misfortune of hearing my Czech," golden eyebrows lift and the smile is broad.
Blue eyes, cobalt at the rims, dissolving into light blue around his pupils, turn to Giancarlo. His attention always returning there, never able to leave for long stretches of time. "Mural?" Alire seconds, peering.
He looks to you, Giancarlo, and slightly lifts a shoulder. I do not know. "What mural is this? Have you been setting Charles free with decorating?"
"A mural, yes," Samuel is amused, in a quiet way, leading the way forth down the corridor, footsteps cat-quiet and without echo save points of light and shadow as he goes. "Something which I ... acquired recently. No," he chuckles, "I have not been turning Charles loose with brush and paints. He is a young man of talents, but I have no wish to splash his works across my walls just yet."
And these tiles ... perhaps they will show something ... or perhaps the view will show me something else.
"They came into my possession," the magister resumes, hand on the knob of the door, "through an auction - items long lost, recently found and brought once more to light - a friend of a friend of a friend saw them, and thought to contact me, and I had an agent act upon my behalf." Isn't that how it's always done? "The tiles were brought here, and I placed them in order myself, all but the final section, which is out of order, and I must unriddle to properly place. Perhaps you will not be as interested in the puzzle as I am, but I am an old man." And again, he smiles behind his beard, a quirking of lips and hairs.
"A good puzzle or mystery is occasionally better than a book. Just occasionally," Cesare smiles, continuing to follow. He grins at Alire too, though quickly returns his attention to the leader.
"Is this a fresco then? Broken? If so, you will have the patience of Assisi, yes? The fresco of Almatre that is now in the Ufizzi..." Cesare lets out a low whistle. "It was nothing but flecks and shards, when they began..."
Alire pauses as Samuel puts his hand upon the door. "Such painstaking passion. I admire that work and those who can do it. The patience... but moreso the fortitude of saints," he looks to Giancarlo, corners of his mouth lifting. "And the best books are those with puzzles embedded within them..."
The idea of frescoes intrigues him. A golden eyebrow lifts. So many questions. Whose work? From what age? In what condition? But these hover on the air around him, unspoken. He waits. He waits to see it revealed.
And in the intervening moments of quiet, revelation pendulous, Alire's hand brushes Giancarlo. A moment of physicality, of closeness, of familiarity.
The door is swung open, questions allowed the emptiness of time to answer themselves, or be reminded of their own presence. And ...
It is cunningly wrought. The wall opposite the door has been remade for this very sight, so that when the portal is opened, it is the first thing to greet the eye - no furniture between that stretch, that expanse of wall, and the line of sight, nothing to detract, the room almost seeming empty at first. White tiles border the outer edges, and the inner...
It is old, and there is an almost eastern flavour to the work, but what is depicted is something a Caravaggio could have come up with. A woman wanders along a pebbled path to one side, an urn on her shoulder, the gay colours of her robe draped in folds as she looks back over her shoulder, towards the centre, where a carnival seems in process. No - not a carnival, save the carnival of daily life in an era now gone by, forever relegated to the pages of books save for those handfuls, those few, who ... Remember.
An enclosure's toothy walls bound in merchants who squabble, several knights on horseback studiously and steadfastly ignoring the hawking cries. A small boy seems in danger of running in front of the lead horse's hooves, his nurse forever paused in reaching for him in alarm, to hold him back. A young woman traces her fingers over a bowl of water, her much younger sister's plump hand held in hers as she goes through the motions, gentle patience in her features. But, the middle-right third is still empty ... awaiting completion amidst the colours and life.
"Enter as you wish," Samuel says calmly. "I am curious as to what you might think of my find."
A rare fresco, perhaps. Cesare smiles as he enters the room, angling to slip within the walls. He smiles, fingers leaving Alire's. A momentary parting.
Cesare exhales as he steps inside. His brow arches and he begins to survey the scene presented. "Amazing," he breathes -- it seems his favorite word. "It is...massive. From a home? Or a public-setting piece?" He steps forward to investigate further, beginning with the scenes lowest and to the right. "The colors...are brilliant," he notices, starting with the woman and her urn, eyes to the path, and to the scene growing at the middle.
He, too, mistook the color and brilliant life for something gay. Cesare's head tilts slightly as he sees the man, the boy in danger. Something slightly ominous about this depiction of life gone by. Things not as they first seemed.
For Alire, such a work in such a display allows the modern world to peel away. The people depicted there, the animals. He can smell them. He remembers that scene. Not literally, but he has seen and moved through such. There is order and there is chaos. There is civility and there is inhumanity. The distraction of color when such distractions were desperately needed.
Alire's eyes drift upward to the knights on horseback. His attention lingers there. That was once my view. I would pass out bread from my horse, rations... when I could give them, whenever I could give them. It was my time. It comes with a taste of honey and salt, sweet and bitter...
"It is a magnificent piece," Alire murmurs. If he has other thoughts about it, he does not voice them. He looks to Giancarlo, he looks between you both. Content, it seems, to listen.
"The pieces were found in the bottom of a well, I am told - a dry one, of course, or never would they have survived so well as they have." As it is, they have been repaired - using both mundane science and ancient arts, of the arcane and less esoteric sorts - restored to vibrance before being affixed to their present place.
Samuel makes his way slowly forward into the room, then turns to face his guests. "Please," he invites, "come closer. Examine it as closely as you wish. You are both men of Science," and the S is capitalized, "and appreciate art, after all." The corners of his eyes crease as he smiles. "Perhaps ... you might even find the images noteworthy. Some do, I am told."
Cesare's eyes narrow at the knights. They sit there, upon their high horses. The more he stares, the more Cesare seems to become uncomfortable. The man, the nearly-trampled boy. The old and young woman. Although an invitation's been given, Cesare does not move closer. He angles slightly from the work and looks down at his feet.
"It is," he agrees with Alire. Hand massages his brow. "The...the form of the figures...they are well-structured. The images though, they are...standard...for the period, yes?"
What period is this?
"The older woman, the boy." The knights...are odd. "Even the shopkeeper."
"Do you know...a provenance?" For the work.
A sharp inhale is followed by a clearing exhale. Cesare's hand drops from the bridge of his nose, and he looks tired. But he braves on. He must. He must make the best impression.
Cesare stands more upright, summoning more energy from weariness. He takes a step forward, but remains in the middle of the room. A polite step, an attempt to be accepting of the request of a host. "I worry about being too close," he twists to you both, mustering a smile. "Breath, oils." Instead, he peers at the work again, trying to see its detail.
"They do not see him," Alire murmurs. He takes a step or two closer, he comes up to share Cesare's space, remaining just behind him. "The knights do not see the boy. Their eyes are on the merchants and on the way ahead. The boy... he has perhaps left something in the street, a coin, something..." He does not know what.
He rests a hand upon Cesare's shoulder. It drifts down to his side. Alire looks to him, blue eyes fixing on Cesare's own reaction, his thoughts, what he says. "The bodies seem to be at odd cants. Not natural," Alire thinks. He glances to Samuel, his attention returning to Cesare.
His hand, his closeness. These are for support, for them both.
"A very long time ago," Samuel comments, voice quiet, gaze intent. "Hundreds of years - a passage out of history, one might say." He moves forward, footsteps suddenly quick, and holds a hand out over the figure of the boy, hovering between him and the knights. "Shall I change it?" An odd thing to ask...
He's confused now. Cesare closes his eyes a long moment, not sure of the question. "What?" he tumbles, caught off guard. "Change it?" You can't. The question doesn't make sense. "It's...the painting..." he reminds, hand returning to the bridge of his nose.
"Alire..." he whispers, glancing behind himself. Cesare admits it in the name. He does not feel well.
"A long...time ago...isn't a provenance." Pro-ven-nance. That is the word. It's a real word. A technical term. Yes, technical. Things to remember. "...sir." He suddenly adds. Be respectful.
"Maybe we should have some tea..." Alire notes softly. Concern comes upon his face. He glances to Samuel. "It was a long journey. You know how I travel." Hard. Fast. Determined. Planned. "Perhaps we can see this...change...? After?"
Change it. What do you mean, Samuel. How...can this be changed? Alire turns to look at his teacher, wondering, curious, mystified. What do you mean?
A large hand pats his lover on the side. It will be alright. And Alire turns back, returning to the first idea of tea and food...
Not for himself, of course...
The magister's expression is benign, the prominence of his eyes hooded. He keeps his mysteries and his answers to himself, for now. "Of course," Samuel acquiesces, apparently contrite. "I am a poor host, do forgive me."
And he turns, knowing to trust Charles' timing, even as he beckons away. "I am an old man, and perhaps sometimes, too thoughtless... though not a sparrow falls, as I believe your scriptures say."
"Not at all," Alire is quick to respond. He brooks no apology for there has been no offense. "We will see it after the tea. I admit my mind... needs to be more open to receive it. I am noticing only the surface..."
A nice way of putting. Cesare twists, soon facing Alire. He nods. "I apologize. I think...I am tired from the travelling." Strange, that. "Please forgive me...the wall...it is truly remarkable. Perhaps I will better appreciate it in the morning." After a sleep.
Cesare brings up a smile again, looking to his host. "A spectacular find, indeed, sir."
Keen ears pick up Charles' presence back down the hallway. He has been busy in the last ten to fifteen minutes.
"It is. I will have to tell d'Angevin. He will want to come to Provence to see it. I understand that Medieval and Renaissance art is his special passion. To hear it was rescued from the bottom of an old dry well..." Amazing. Amazing that it survives.
"I would like to take a second -- and probably a third -- look at it... later. Tomorrow evening," he notes. A reminder and a soft smile to Cesare. You're the only one (well, besides Charles) who would be up during the day.
"No need to apologize, tesoro," treasure, he calls him, "... we had a long journey from Venice," words softly spoken as if meant for him alone. Of course they are heard. Of course he does not mind.
Posted by rowan at June 02, 2003 01:27 AM
