"Thanks," was all he said when he leapt from the gondola to the small ledge of sidewalk. It used to be larger, but no one's surprised at the rate of change anymore. You just live with it.
     The gondolier smiled at Cesare, a cheesy grin suggesting awareness. Knowing something. Cesare looked back and flicked something at the man on the craft, tucking a book under his cloak and stepping gingerly to avoid falling into the canal. The gondolier goes on, pushing off into the center of the murky water and continuing on his way.
     Brown hair is covered by a hood, the rains still falling after three days. He sighs, turning a corner, a few chips falling from bricks older than he. The walls are cold these days, and the sun seems to shine less and less on the internal waterways. Maybe it just seems that way. Cesare sighs as he rounds another corner, light dimmed by the brownstones that line this tiny canal cutoff. Few come this way, and if they do, they are servants taking back entrances to places with more glorious fronts on the larger wateways.
     He fiddles with the keys a moment, but after the frustration, Cesare glances about. No one there. The jingle falls away from him, keys lifting of their own volition to the upper lock.
     *click*
     The door suddenly swings open and if anyone saw, the keys disappear. Cesare sighs again, twisting to get himself and his bundle into the skinny door and out of the pouring rain. Behind him, the door silently closes.

     "It is exactly four minutes to the hour of eight..."
     The clock does not ring the time. It pronounces it like a herald with a voice any Shakespearean actor would envy. And it speaks, not upon the quarter hours but... whenever it feels the need to call attention to itself and its master. Time, that is...
     "I trust your day has been a good one..."
     The clock also considers itself something of a host...
     "Shall I call for a drink for you?"
     The clock hangs upon the wall, a mixture of wood and brass, with sun and moon dials. One of the owners of an old palazzo died, the story goes, and the clock was left behind. Broken, you see. Well, that is until you came upon it...

     "Only if it's tea, amice," Cesare murmurs, twisting in torturous poses to get his cloak off without damaging his goods. "Grazi," he says heavily again, finally realizing his mistake.
     And the cloak vanishes.
     It leaves Cesare in rustic clothing, a pair of brown pants and a long canvas shirt that's seen better days. A brown sash wraps around his waist. It covers what's underneath quite well, one could imagine. That's perhaps the point.
     With the cloak gone, the packages are clear. A book and a large roll. He moves across the rug-covered wood floor, stepping over a few leftover projects along the way. Walls covered in texts and documents teeter, but through some force, they remain upright. Chairs and a tattered pattered sofa are filled, but then again, who visits?
     "Anything exciting happen?" Cesare asks generally, expecting some response. Conversation to the air. Beings around, somewhere. Any who pass the skinny door must think the resident mad and solitary.

     Those who are most beautiful and most talented are often at least a little mad. It is a great burden to be anything other than ordinary. And, mage, there is nothing ordinary about you...
     "You heard the master," rolls the voice of the old clock, lifting with dramatic cadence, "... tea..."
     And there is clinking in the kitchen. No, of couse, the clock has not the power. Ah, but the power of your own wish and suggestion...
     "The ... wandering spirit passed by again. Dour young man, really. A veritable festival of sour fruit. He was especially melancholic to have missed you. I suggested he return half past never..."
     A cart wheels itself from the kitchen toward you. Upon it, a cup and a pot of Venetian porcelian, swirls of mad colors blue and green, purple and yellow and orange and white. There is also a bowl of cream and sugar and a spoon.
     "...I do not mean to be impertinent, maestro... watch that book!" Even his chimes resounded at that one, as the tea cart nearly clips the corner of the sofa and the books piled there. "... if my hands could only reach you," mutters the timepiece.
     The cart seems rather oblivious and rolls to a soft halt at your side. Obedient as a pup. Happy to please.
     A sigh from above stirs some of the books from their slumber. It is the tome on Celestial Maps that speaks: "Niccolo wandered half an hour or so, then dragged his lute away. Disconsolate troubadour..."

     "He's not awful," I say softly. Who else would visit. The packages are set down on the clearing table, things in motion as I am. Piles become higher, and the roll is tossed into the new space, opening immediately. New maps of the underwater contours of the lagoons.
     "Water's hot?" I wonder, twisting to look upon the cart. Interesting how things take a life of their own. "What did Niccolo say," if anything. I twist and hook a finger into the cup, pulling it closer.

     "Quite hot actually," so says the pot...
     The clock is silent on the topic of Niccolo. For all of five seconds, all of which it marked. "A talented musician. When he was alive, it is said only one could outplay him in all Europe. But ..." The clock groans a chime. "...Maestro... he is the most -sullen- creature. Have you no way to show him the road to Heaven or to Hell, as it please God?"
     "Venezia," follows a soft tenored whisper, "... is all I need to know of heaven and hell. It is at once both." Ahhh, the voice of Niccolo. And he allows himself to be seen, the image of how he last was. Tendrils of dark brown curls framing his face. He sits upon your sofa, crowded by books. Dressed as he was on his last day as a wandering troubadour. Oddly enough, not so differently from how you are now clothed. And he cradles a lute on his lap, held against his chest. A beautiful image, shimmering slightly in the to and fro of reflected light. "Good evening, Cesare. How is my city tonight?"

     He smiles. Think it, and it is so. Cesare smirks and watches his cup be filled a moment. It's easier than looking at such a beautiful face. "I think it's fine," Cesare says softly, giving a smile, "...but wet. Rainy." Nothing new. A glance is tossed to the filling cup and the caught clock before Cesare finally angles to see the visitor.
     "And you? Your wanderings bring you here again, Niccolo?" The cup rises when done and floats to my hand expectantly. "I am sorry I was out," I smile.

     What once where soft but dark brows lift in the memory of an arch. The soul making pantomime of the flesh. "I tire of the Elysian Fields," and Niccolo smiles. A full smile that makes him seem almost living. But then it deepens, as if the smile were borne of some other cause. "You were not here, so... I took the opportunity to sing." The soft sound holds there a moment. "You have a house of critics, Cesare. I have not had such a night since I played the Doge's Palace during plague..." Images of hands wrap around the image of the lute's neck. "I had no idea I would miss the rain, but I do. And so... here we are. What have you there, Cesare?" Tendrils that both Are and Are Not shift as Niccolo nods toward you, and the unrolled... map, is it?
     "We each have our own opinions on what constitutes -art-," the clock begins. You know you are entering a debate previously in progress...
     "That is what those who have no taste always say," and the tome that spoke falls, leaning against its neighbor.

     "Alright," Cesare calls, cup in hand now. Stop. And this is why he sometimes hides in Prague, Vienna, or Cote d'Ivoire. Silence. He turns his back to the table to face the young man, ankles crossing.
     "Lagoon structures from...sixteenth century." Getting a feel for...what I'm looking for. "Nothing extravagant, I promise," he smiles, tipping cup to his lips. "You miss the rain?" I ask, getting comfortable as I have little choice.

     Remarkable. There is sudden quiet. From the clock, only ticking. From the books, only dust. From the teapot only steam and water. And from your cup? Only the rise of the tea's flavor.
     "Grazie, signore..." comes the whisper. The image of Niccolo shimmers and then he seems to settle in. "I miss feeling. Mostly, I miss the flavor of wine. The glory of the inconsequential." Maybe he is a little dour. The troubadour rises. "You are going to work on remodeling this old structure?" Inquisitive. But you know, he can only travel from the Elysian Fields to this house. He is... part of its structure. A part of him remains here, and shall until he is content he will not be forgotten. "You are not going to move away, are you, Cesare?" Who would I speak to?
     Niccolo shimmers again, and you see him sitting with his back to a wall, surrounded by books. Fingers begin to glide over the frets. But no music sounds. Not yet. "Amice, what then should I do for pleasant conversation?" If you call this pleasant...

     "I am not going anywhere," Cesare says softly, fingers releasing the cup so that it floats. He bends to untie his boots, trying to find comfort. No, I am not going anywhere. Everyone needs my companionship. And I? What I need, is rarely important.
     The sigh is audible again when the boot thuds. "I am not remodeling, just....continuing on some work. My searches, topography of the area. All that, Niccolo. I am going nowhere." Do not worry.

     There is a lightening of the air. A spirit's relief...
     There rises up after it something of sound. Only you, by virtue of your own power and skills, can hear it. The soft sound that so well compliments the troubadour's tenor. Soulful, the lute's low sound. Fingers wandering aimlessly, plucking from the sky some creation in midverse. Song, midstream. It makes a nice accompaniment to conversation. "Ah, si. You will tell me if you ever find the lost gold of the Doge, si? Not that it will do me any good now, but it is like finding out an old legend is true." The image smiles, looking up past tendrils of dark hair that are not truly there. Not in this realm. "I like when you travel and when you return. It reminds me..." Of my own travels. "Where have you gone of late, Cesare? Have you seen or experienced anything thrilling?"

     I shake my head negatively. "Not especially," I breathe, hoping to be soothed by the sounds you make. The sound of the dead. The sound of the non-living. Turning about, I pull up a seat to the new map, dropping into it. Cup floats over, settling on top of a nearby pile.
     "And you? How are the fields?" A question less of interest and more for making conversation. Is there any more for you? "How is Achilles?" I ask softly, leaning over the map for a magnifying glass.

     "Playing dice when I last checked. He likes to gamble. We are short of wars in the Fields... and it is best, I have learned, to keep Achilles... busy... but, I was never a warrior and he has his own poet." A sigh for that. "Bernart has his Eleanor and all seven Homers attend Achilles. I suppose I should be grateful that my patron is yet a living man," that would be you. "And my other... never made it to the Fields. Just as well," Niccolo smirks, "... I would be stuck playing the same three tunes in perpetuity. I should not be so dour..."
     "Finally..." The clock couldn't help himself.
     But the spirit is unphased. Remembrance of fingers move upon the memories of strings. Such a lovely tune. Plucked sweet and soft. "The rest is just gossip. You can't take those people anywhere..."

     A smile. "I guess not," I say softly, peering through the glass.
     "What do you mean by patron?"

     "You allow me to stay in the house," the ghost murmurs, "... and you allow me to play for you. This makes you patron, Cesare. It is the reason I return..." To have someone for whom to play. Without it, what sort of afterlife would it be for a troubadour?
     A very sad one indeed...
     "What is this project again, signore... if I may be so bold?" And the tune dances beneath his fingers, no louder than the air your breathe. And yet, you hear it. Lilting, rolling. Tripping like water.

     "I hadn't thought of it that way," Cesare says softly. Indeed, the financial element is what always comes to mind. Not that you needed that either.
     "Finding the Doge's Gold," the one across from you says in all seriousness. "Maybe..." he smirks, turning around to see you, "...I can become wealthy and you can haunt me in better surroundings," a smile growing.

     What would have once been very rich laughter comes only with a breeze, a sigh that carries the soft words, "Ah...me..." after it. And the song is paused, the lute cradled against him again. "I should like that. I could have my own room..."
     "With no clocks..." he adds a half moment after. And the clock only chimes the quarter hour.
     "I could wander the hallways of a grand palazzo. Si, si... those in the Fields would envy me." There is a pause. "I did not think you wanted for anything in the world... apart from more space to put your books. You need another round of cases, amice..."

     "I know," I lament softly, returning to the map in front of me. But to what? Sometimes, I crave companionship I can touch, that can touch me. Want me. But those are fleeting moments these days. "I am thinking of hanging shelves..."

     The spirit shimmers. It is nearly time to depart for the Fields again. He recharges there and he always returns. Seeking companionship, the same as you.
     But you at least can touch and feel, si? You just have to allow it...
     "I will play you a song to ease your heart, magician..." And so he does, Niccolo di Venezia, play you such a song. Fingers upon the frets, pressing a song from the throat of the lute. Just a whisper of its renowned voice, and yet... you hear it so clearly.
     "I think hanging shelves will be nice..."

Posted by rowan at May 20, 2003 11:10 PM