Winter in Venice is not like Winter in Paris, or Winter anywhere in Germany. He didn't particularly want to come to Venice; but then, Hansl rarely has much desire to go anywhere, unless pushed, by forces outside of himself. 'Go to Paris.' He went. Now it's 'Go to Venice', and here he is. What is he doing here?
What am I doing here...
Keeping my ears and eyes open... Looking for Art in all its forms...
His Eye is trusted. He is young, younger than many, perhaps even most - the European Courts are dens of age, and he is a mere youth. Today's Youth is garbed in bAdam's you could cut yourself on those seams - and those in turn tuck into black riding boots, highly polished. A long greatcoat is left to hang open. It fits together with the ice-blue eyes, the fair, Aryan features that would have given Hitler a hard on - cheekbones almost too sharp, mouth almost too full, nose prominent but not overbalancing, the thin white scar that draws attention to German beauty.
Venice is too warm for Germans... perhaps in more ways than mere temperature alone.
He stands, in front of the display, frowning at a suit of brass armor as if trying to discern what conceivable mix of oils would best match that colour, that shade, what shape it would take on canvas... or perhaps just trying to decide what sort of bad taste it takes to put it in proximity to the kimono near it.
Victoria comes into the next display segment of the gallery, hands easily at her sides, apparently relaxed enough as she views all the art on the walls and in the cases. Except, perhaps for her pace. Normally, she's one to spend long moments or even an hour at one particular painting or object d'arte. However, this time, she's browsing. It's an easy pace for browsing, one that is frequently seen in the uncultured or People Who Don't Like Museums. But, for her, it's a quicker round.
And then there's her companion.
She glances back to see if he's still along for the ride. Though she tries to be subtle about it. Stopping at the armor in its display, she pulls her hands behind her back, clasping them quietly, reading the tag from the very beginning to the very end.
Yes. Well. Nothing makes a better first impression than a pratfall. They teach you that at clown school. Which would be great, if Mick were a clown. He's not. He's a speechwriter. Or puppet-master. Or is that master spy? I suppose that depends on who one talks to, now doesn't it?
And for purposes of our gathering here, it really doesn't matter much at all. Because he's face down in the marble, and something hard and plastic has skittered its way all the way across the room like some terrified mouse. Except it's a cellular phone. And to make matters worse, the fall seems to have awoken it. It starts chirping. One of those bright, obnoxious, electronic chirps. Teedle-deeedle-deedle teeee!
Would someone get that? Who the fuck has such an obnoxious phone?
That'd be Mick. He would be trying to shut the damn thing up. Just give him a second to get up. Sorry, Victoria. So these are your friends?
The way marble works, every breath is audible and every sound echoes. No doubt, the teedle-deeedle-deedle-teee of the cell phone is ringing like the bells of San Simeon Grande just now, from museum to arcade, from arcade to staircase, followed quickly by a flurry of tourists checking their handbags to see if they are the Offenders of this...great cacophony of annoyance.
It would make for a great movie scene and Life is the best sort of comedy...
The indigo curtain at the end of the room opens, and a large man with eyes roughly the same color as the drape, peers out at the sound, eyebrows arching to watch the man fumble for his cell phone and, perhaps, his dignity. The face is iconic, either the paragon of Italy or of France, depending. The olive is there, it could speak to both nations.
So distracted by the sound and the pratfall, William does not yet notice that there are two other people in the room that he would recognize. One, better than the other. The curtain lowers behind him and he enters the Eastern armory. He smiles a little, that mouth of his most Italianate. Like a long lost prince of this nation, perhaps. Tall in physicality as Caesar was in aspect. "Are you alright, signore?" he offers, and his quiet words bounce off the marble in echo.
Startled from Contemplation, Hansl doesn't quite jump, but he does turn, limbs unfolding, unspindling as he does so, fair eyebrows knitting together in consternation. He is one of the few who makes no move to check his hips, no brush of fingers in search of plastic hell-devices. He has no cellphone...
He must be thoroughly unimportant.
"Sehr nicht," Hansl murmurs, the gutturals rolling, and then faintly, momentarily, humour warms the ice to summer skies, gaze holding a hint of near-sympathy as well as amusement. The lips quirk.
A step forward, a bend at the waist, and the device is scooped up. One one finger hovers indecisively over the buttons, trying to figure out which button will turn the thing OFF, shut it up without bringing a bootheel down to smash it into the electronic oblivion beyond the veil, where all devices must eventually go.
Hansl looks up again, and says, quietly, German flavoring the syllables, "I believe that this is yours, herr?"
Then he notices William, and slightly, he stiffens, posture going erect, heels coming together. It would be an almost military pose, if he did not still have his palm out, the infernal phone still teedling on.
Dear Lord in Heaven.
She stops reading the display tag, instead turning to pick up the phone that lands near enough to her feet that she feels obligated. Or, perhaps it's just that she's a nice person. There's also the chance that she'd rather cut it off than draw any more attention than... William of course.
But one of the other patrons beats her to it. She smiles, moving over to reach a finger out and hits the button to silence the ringer. Then she offers it out a hand to help him stand up off the floor, "Good evening, William."
It's not unlike those moments in school when you were caught 'talking' in class to the person next to you who wouldn't quit asking when the test was.
"Everything okay, Michael?" So, apparently, she knows him. And has announced it. At least she doesn't try and pretend to be alone, for his sake.
"Yeah yeah," A speedy, crisp New York accent picks it self up, dusts itself off and gets back in the race. It shifts, self-consciously, to the local Italian, "Si. Si. Si."
But what horror should he spy, as he looks to the whereabouts of his phone, but the insufferable fact that the phone has been turned off. You imbecile! Have you no idea who you've just hung up on? What are you? From the 18th century or something? "No, no. Please don't
"... shut ..."
"... that ..." his voice slows.
He heaves a heavy sigh of long suffering. And murmurs to no one. "Off." "Thank you," you asshole is quite congenially left off of the sentence, out of the tone, and even entirely out of the field of the conversation.
An American. That stands to reason. William first looks to Hansl, the smile is easy -- relax! -- a simple non-politik greeting. He is not here in any official capacity. Who is he to Venice but the Saviour in the form of an Engineer. It is what the city seems to need most of late. They have Doges and princes plenty. What they need is a man who knows something about structures -- and saving them. And frescoes -- and saving them. It is the only reason he is here from Scotland, the reason he dragged his spouse out of the castle and to ...once floating city of wonders.
"Hansl," William says, "...and Victoria..." he looks to her and his expression is one of warm surprise. "I know Venice is a small city..." He leaves the rest of that unsaid. Michael, hmm? He gives the New Yorker a nod, but waits for a true introduction.
While he waits, he is turning back to the German. "It's good to see you. I did not know if you would be here or not, but do know," William smiles, "...how persuasive Antonio can be...."
Convincing a German to relax might well be a full-time job in and of itself. However, Hansl does unbend, far enough to offer William a slight suggestion of a bow - slight only, conveyed more in the nod than in any actual alteration of posture. "Sir," he offers, then turns to the other two, palm still outstretched, phone still resting there.
"I believe that this," he extends his palm to the previously floored American, "is yours. I apologize for not managing to make it cease its noise, but the lady seems to have gotten its voice under control." He holds it a bit uncomfortably, stiffly. While he knows what it is, he has never had a need or use for one, and he does not feel much desire for one now, after having his ears assaulted. "If of course," he adds politely, "it was not meant to be turned off... my apologies."
He nods then to Victoria as well, cautious curiosity as well as a greeting. Who is this? She knows William. Should I know her? Should I know this fellow with his toys and trips? Saarbrucken, I miss your tranquility.
"He is," Hansl then agrees, returning his attention to William, albeit however cautiously. "Though I admit to confusion. I imagine he will dispel the clouds in due course, and I will discover ... why I was sent for." As an Artist? Or as something else? Time will tell. "It is good to see you, sir," he adds politely, gaze returning to Mick and Victoria.
"You're welcome." Does she know what he was thinking at her? From the congenial smile on her face most would probably think no. He, on the other hand, would probably think yes. "If you need to go call him back, it's all right. I can manage."
Him, apparently, is someone she knows. Or, expects she knows if nothing else. Did she do it on purpose? Certainly not. She is innocence personified. Mostly.
She turns to the German and nods politely, apparently it's someone William knows, also. Which affords him a friendly and polite smile, which is accompanied by another American accent. Though this one less harsh than her companion's, "Evening."
Which leaves us for introductions, it seems. "William, this is Michael Torrance. He's visiting from New York." It's possible she stresses the word visiting. It's possible it just sounds that way. "Michael, William Plantaganet." Who, she at least thinks, doesn't need any more explanation than that. Everybody knows who William is.
Mick retrieves his telephone and makes it disappear into a pocket inside his jacket. Whoever it was, this certainly is neither the time nor the place to compound the mistakes of the Ugly American Abroad by taunting the silly Europeans a second time.
"A pleasure to meet you, sir," Torrance manages to pull off the necessary deference and eagerness befitting his lowly station.
Indigo eyes lift as the word bounces from column to column nearby and, hopefully, dissipates on the air outside. It's not a name he frequently uses in public but... what can one do. It is as it is. It was as it was. William goes to shake his hand. "Michael Torrance, pleasure..." He repeats the man's name and that, with the pratfall, shall record it for all time, most likely.
William pivots toward Hansl. "And I don't believe you, Victoria, have met Hansl. Hansl Arnaul of Saarbrucken. A very fine artist and likely here under the same pretense I was invited." He smiles to Hansl, an answer to that question perhaps? "Lured to Venice to work while the rest of the city parties."
It is no secret that Venice is seeking help from all corners, mortal and immortal alike. And that immortal artists of some renown or ability are starting to show up is hardly coincidental.
"Hansl, this is Doctor Victoria Gifford, formerly of America, but now of Switzerland," that mouth of his pulls into a full grin. "And her... friend... Michael Torrance of New York, here I take it," William asks Michael, "... in lieu of Max?" A pause and William grins, "Or should I say: pro Maximiliano?" Yes, Latin. A joke. And one William finds funny. Indigo is warm with laughter.
"How do you do?" Mick's greeting comes quick and bright, like so much of the Big Apple. He despises the joke, but never lets them see him sweat. He had one of the most embarrassing entrances one could possibly imagine, given the circumstances, but he's going to shrug that off.
Why? Because he's a good little boy that does what he's told. That's why. And he was told to come here, have a few drinks. Shake a few hands. Make nice-nice with the Hansl Addams or whatever the hell his name is, over there. He was the photographer, right? No no no. Addams is an American. This guy's from Sauerbraten or some-such.
He has a quiet, firm handshake for the kraut. -- Like he was taught: he never lets them see him sweat.
Polished heels come together with a Teutonic click, and Hansl bows sharply, first to Victoria, then to Mick, thumbs pressed to the side-seams of his trousers. He straightens again, but relaxes no further than before. "Fraulein Doktor Gifford. Herr Torrance. A pleasure." Does he have a key which does into the small of his back and twists?
"It is possible," he agrees with William, voice lengthening from the Germanic, back into Italianate, tinged still with the more guttural pronouncements. "It is very possible. I have only just arrived from Paris," and Villon's halls, "and have yet to see my gracious host."
One hand sketches vaguely at the air, as if reaching for an invisible paintbrush, then subsides again. "I seldom go to parties save when I must," he says simply, one corner of his mouth pulling upwards. "My father had little use for such, and raised me accordingly." Perhaps that is why he sent me to Paris. Or perhaps he had some premonition...
The Latin, the joke, gets a blank stare, and no direct response, his hand coming up and out to give Mick's a firm shake in response. Shaking hands? How unusual. He retreats back into German for a moment. "I am well. Thank you. And you, sir?"
"I'm fine, thanks," the words are clipped off, like the unneeded ends of cigars after they've been through the trimmer. Excess sounds, excess time. Torrance does not need them. He clasps his hands behind his back after the introductions have been made and stands at the left-hand side of Victoria, back just a half pace.
"Lovely to meet you." Victoria replies to Hansl with a polite bob of her head, still smiling in her ever polite fashion, hands returned to her side now that Mick has rited himself without her help. She continues a moment as though she's trying to help Hansl feel at ease, "We've only been here for a short while ourselves, I only moved to the continent a few weeks ago entirely actually. Sometimes in a press it can get rather overwhelming."
William's joke gets an amused grin. Latin jokes and Victoria going together like ducks and water, "Yes, exactly." More than you know, my friend. "He's worried that I was going to have trouble settling in." That'd be her sire in New York, "So he wanted to send me some company." At least she doesn't let it be implied that he was supposed to help her move around boxes and unpack.
"It's lovely to run into you, we were just taking a glance through everything." She turns from one man to the other, including everyone in her glance at this point since the conversation isn't directed specifically, "Though it's an unexpected pleasure to get to meet up with people."
The mention of Villon brings another smile to William's face. For a Frenchman, he seems to smile to excess. Archaic, in its way -- not in age but as on the bust of some Grecian figure, smiling in a secretive way, a slight upturn of the corners of his mouth but no farther than this.
The eyes, however, would seem to grin...
"I was just in the theater of heaven," he half-turns again and gestures to the next room, the indigo curtain, "... looking at the puppet theater from Thailand, and thinking of getting him something new for his collection," Villon having the most extensive collection of Punch and Judy and specially handcrafted puppets and fingerpuppets in all of Europe. Unintentionally. After William gave him the Punch and Judy in the form of Christian and Messereich, the collection simply blossomed. Now it's a tradition as much as it ever was a running joke.
As Victoria answer the joke and the question, William's archaic smile spreads into something of smooth grin. A chaperone? But who is looking after whom? "Maximilian should have more faith in you by now. You have been living away from home now for years. But," William slants that grin, looking to Victoria specifically, "...fathers and daughters... it is a complex story...it is hard not to be protective..."
Reclaiming his hand, Hansl smiles slightly, a faint, puzzled quirk at the edges of his mouth before returning to semi-solemnity. His hands go behind his back, posture attentive and disciplined. Does his spine bend at all?
"I have been in Paris since shortly before my father died," Hansl explains, simply. The smile is gone before he finishes speaking. "Apart from brief departures upon business, I have not left since." He turns, then, to the two Americans.
"It is well that you have a companion. Unfamiliar waters may be uncomfortable, without ... something familiar to ease the way." As he well knows. "Having only arrived myself just recently, the city is unfamiliar to me. Perhaps a tour ought be arranged."
The errant telephone rings a second time. This time, it is muffled by Mick's tailored jacket, and he is able to stifle it before it echoes dramatically across the marble flooring. He nods his excuses to the trio and steps several paces away to an out-of-the-way corner. "No, sir." -- "Yes." -- "Yes, sir. Shall I ask her for you, sir?" -- "Yes, sir." -- "Right away, sir."
He puts on a brave face as he returns to the trio. "It was a pleasure to meet you. I must be going." His final wishes he delivers in Italian, "Good day."
When the phone rings again, Mick gets a bit of a look from Victoria. And when it's answered, she watches him for a moment. Long enough to arch both eyebrows at the question about asking 'her'. Since, chances are, she's the only 'her' that he knows in the area, she has the curious expression of one who wonders what they're about to be asked.
But, then, he's gone. "I'll see you later, Michael." Which is, of course, inevitable. "Have a good rest of the evening."
Unless there's a question that she's supposed to answer.
Et tu, Maximiliane?
A low chuckle sounds in William's throat and he calls out, "Buon giorno," though it is clearly evening. Oh well, a 'day' to some is a night to others and vice versa. "Your ... father," William continues to Victoria, "... is a man who revels in tradition," the slow pull of his voice, the elongation upon the language that his native tongue, and his humor, create couples the slow pull of his mouth into a smile. He is amused by the strings that are pulled from across an ocean. And by the differences in his sire as compared to those of both of the remaining companions. Both Gifford and Arnaul have experienced something very different from Dunross.
Though, perhaps Victoria has found a Maximilian in Dunross that William managed to avoid...
"My mind has been on art, admittedly," William says again, "...not parties. I have been touring the city, refamiliarizing myself with it. It's been many years since I have been in Italy... on a consistent basis. It seems I may be returning to Venice for a time... in the next year or two. I have heard Antonio whispering about the Doge, something about a commission." He looks to Hansl. "That might have your name on it. There is a huge...surge among them here to save what can be saved and to invite in the new, which might help with their ultimate rebirth..."
Again, the stiff suggestion of a bow, as Mick takes his departure, as Hansl bids the American a farewell. He leaves his hands behind his back, though the shoulders rise in the elegant silk shirt, beneath the thick greatcoat that swings open.
Venice is too warm...
"If my skills are able to be added," Hansl answers William lugubriously, "to save that which must otherwise be lost, I can do little but answer that call. There are wars enough. I will fight this war."
There are battlefields upon which he is unwilling to tread - but for the sake of Art ...
He looks to Victoria, chin lifting in her direction, as he inquires politely, "Are you fond of Art, herr doktor?"
Apparently, it wasn't a question for her. Or, if it was, then it apparently wasn't important. Turning back to the others now that her friend is gone, she seems to be rather unconcerned all things considered.
"Yes, that's certainly the case. Tradition." At the moment, she's not convinced that her sire is at the top of the list of her favorite people. Nor, it would seem, is Michael. "I'm sure there's a way that it's a kindness."
"Yes, actually. Though only as an observer. I don't have any talent in it at all myself, but I enjoy it." This, of course, is to Hansl. Her eyebrows arch slightly at the mentions from William, "You are an artist yourself, I take it?"
"A very talented painter," William intercedes, but he does not elaborate on that point, not wishing to send the young man back into his Aryan shell. Though, a certain amount of stiffness is not a bad thing, he supposes.
Shame on me...
"The artists and masons, the engineers and sculptors," all of which to some degree William himself is, "... are being called upon in earnest," William explains to them both, "... to lend hands to perhaps the greatest aesthetic challenge of Time. Saving Venice from the Adriatic and the subsidence of Age." It's been going on for some time now, but is starting to reach more frantic proportions. "The great flood is expected in less than twenty years now, so they are frantic to solve the problem, to save the city. I expect that much of my time here for that period will be ...here. The need it too great and we can't blame our delay on World Wars anymore... it's past time, in truth."
All depending on where that stiffness is located? Hansl would be shocked - shocked! by the very notion of where William's thoughts lead.
He's been under Saarbrucken's wing too long, under Villon's not long enough...
"You flatter me, mein herr," Hansl mutters, one hand encircling the other wrist behind his back, shoulders back, spine ramrod straight. "Ja," he then tells Victoria, with a terse nod. "I ... dabble with paint."
If his blood is not comprised by now of oils and acrylics, then he dabbles. The cerulean gaze returns to William intently as he speaks, and there is another curt nod.
"Age will claim many things," he proclaims, in the voice of fervor, the voice of the zealot, "but we who can withstand it, must." As vampires. As artists. As Toreador. It remains unspoken, but it is not unsaid.
"Oh, really?" That piques her curiosity. "I've actually got a project for a painter. I'd ask William, but his calendar's generally full. And it's probably not nearly challenging enough for him."
She looks back to the other Ventrue, "If, of course, there's not something more important that you need him on." She wouldn't want to presume. Or pull Hansl away from a chance to work with masters on a project. And there was mention of Girault needing him in some capacity.
She looks back towards where her American 'friend' went off, and turns to the others again, eyebrows up slightly, "I brought some of the project notes with me to Venice, I could show them to you if you like?"
If Toreador had been mentioned, he would not have denied that it is so. But he is a most uncommon Ventrue. Once, it would have bothered him to be known as the Toreador Ventrue. Now, William merely pauses his scalpel or his brush and smiles.
The world is not so narrowly defined, nor art. Nor he.
William looks to Victoria, an expression of Grand Offense starting and then he grins, "You are right. I am booked. I am going to have to schedule time with my husband as it is, and he will not like it. You know the trouble I am going to have," eyebrows go up and he peers at Victoria along the length of his nose -- very Ian-like in fact. Maybe they are spending too much time together. "...convincing him to come to Italy to see me as I work?" His lips quirk fully at the idea, at the truth, and at the joke. "Otherwise, I would have let you faint over my pricetag," indigo flickers in a wink.
William is quiet as Victoria begins speaking about business. Far be it from him to interrupt a possible commission. He strolls idly to look at the geisha.
"I do not know why I have been called here, beyond what is most likely evident," Hansl answers Victoria seriously (and really, is it possible for him to be other than serious?). The hands come forward, joining together in front, at about the join of his thighs.
William earns a glance as he speaks, the Toreador's attention briefly sharp, alert as the man grins and speaks. The Grand Offense in particular had had the German wary, until it passed...
Back, then, to Victoria. "What is your need, frau doktor?" Hansl regards her steadily, leaning slightly forward. "I may promise nothing, you understand, until I have heard more."
Looking over to William she grins a little, perhaps catching the insult or perhaps just expecting some kind of response from her friend. When he seems to be interested in the other parts of the exhibit, she turns to the German once more.
"It's a mural restoration." Victoria says easily, "Early thirteenth century most likely, though I'm not an expert." She's at least familiar enough to hazard a solid guess though, it seems. "And it's not in horrid shape. Just damaged."
"Nothing spectacular. I'd just like to preserve its integrity." She shrugs slightly, "The colors are fairly true, it was actually covered in a room with no windows at the chateau."
What medieval general wouldn't be an admirer of the geisha? He is listening, his body language speaks to such, even though he no longer actively involves himself in the conversation. William reaches into his jacket and -- no, it is not a cell phone -- pulls out a programme. For a moment he looks like any other beautiful touriste from some part of Europe pausing along his way through an exhibit.
Of course, as Victoria knows, he may be communing with said spouse in those... quiet, unvoiced ways they have, even when they are both not in the same room. Beings so joined for so long have little need for common conversation, it would seem.
Hansl nods slowly, the blue gaze affixed to Victoria's face as she speaks. One hand parts from the other, sketching a very faint gesture.
"The scene depicts...? Is the artist known? Unknown? The region, frau doktor, of origin? These things, you understand, I do not ask to be an annoyance. I know a bit about the period, thanks to my father..."
There's the barest pause, a hint of emotion in the boyish face, and the tension in his shoulders turns him into a creature of lines and angles. He resumes after that pause, again seemingly no more than any other German - stiff, formal, but involved increasingly in his topic.
"The materials, they must be just so. The understanding - the rapport, with the original, it must be present - one must sublimate oneself, bind oneself into submission to that Art, dissolve as nothing, as immaterial and irrelevant before that presence..." Hansl regards Victoria resolutely, eyes widening for a moment; then he stiffens again, bowing slightly. "I should be delighted to examine it if I may, but I can, I fear, promise nothing."
"The subject I know, it's the martyrdom of the Theban Legion, if you're familiar with it." Catholics and their saints. "The artist is unknown, it's original to the chateau, which is located on Lake Geneva between Lausanne and Geneva itself. I'm not sure of the medium, if it's stable or unstable, or any of those things."
She begins to move her hands slightly as she talks, getting more into the subject and becoming more animated than her earlier somewhat reserved body language, "My belief is that it was actually covered sometime in the mid fifteenth century, due to the history of the family who resided at the chateau at the time. But, it's had some damage due to the paneling trapping moisture I suspect. And simply age." As all things are effected. Well, nearly all things.
"I'd love to have you see it if you're interested. It's not moving, of course, but when you're available to look at in person you're welcome to. I've also got photographs with me, though not here."
Whether or not he was Catholic, Johann made sure that he knew Art. And so much of western civilization has relied, historically, upon the Church and its Art...
"The history of the family? That may well be needed information, frau doktor. It may well tie into the mural. I will - if I take your request, if I am able, of course - need to know as much as I might." Hansl begins holding forth, and with speech comes movement. Tension makes the movements more restless than fluid, but he begins to pace back and forth, six paces forward, six paces back - measuring the confines of his invisible cage.
"I would be most willing to see the photographs," Hansl says finally, turning in the middle of a line of steps, swinging round to regard Victoria. He straightens, one arm folding over his midriff, the other elbow on that, two knuckles placed under his chin. "However, I may not commit myself until I have spoken with Il Signor." Girault.
"Oh, of course." Victoria says easily, nodding in agreement, "As I said, I wouldn't wish to take you from the opportunity to work with any of the masters here." William, of course, included. "Or other obligations."
"If you like, we can arrange some time to view the file here, however? I'm more than happy to have you see it in person, of course, but I'd hate to waste your time if it turns out to be something you aren't interested in. As I said, it's not challenging in most respects."
"Is there a way I can reach you to make arrangements to meet some time here in Venice?"
William looks up after a moment, some conversation interrupted it seems, as he glances to the other two nearby. He listens, but he doesn't jump in, particularly at the mention of 'masters'. The programme is stowed for now, and he looks more like he is prepping to leave rather than to continue his tour.
It receives an abrupt nod. "Of course, frau doktor. I am at present remaining at the hotel," Hansl fumbles for a moment in a coat pocket, until he comes up with a card, "and may be reached there."
The overly full lips quirk into a faint grimace, and he adds, "Under the name of Arnaul, of course." Johann's legacy lives on. In its way. The card is held out, offered, the greatcoat hovering almost undisturbed.
A graceful hand reaches out to take the card, briefly glancing at the name before putting it in a tailored pocket. At the same time, she withdraws a calling card of her own, name and Euro cell phone number printed on it in heavy ink.
"I have my phone with me here, of course, and it's also available in Switzerland. So if for some reason our schedules don't match and you're still interested, we can make other arrangements." She smiles, pleased with the coincidence of running into someone who can help her with her problem. "I'd intended to ask William about a recommendation when we had a chance to get together next, but this is very convenient."
"Hansl," William offers, suddenly returning to the sphere of their conversation though his stride is languid-slow. "... if you are still looking for a tour guide of the city, be sure to call me. We are at the Excelsior," the grand Moorish palace hotel on Lido, naturally, "... under d'Angevin."
He pauses, turning to Victoria, "Convenient? Perhaps," he murmurs ominously -- as if he set it all up. William smiles to chase the second wink. "I have to go..." perhaps he is being summoned by his lover-sire? A lift of her hand, a kiss upon it placed and then he to Hansl, a hand upon the shoulder, briefly. "It is good to see you here," he tells the young man.
Accepting the card from Victoria, Hansl's nod may be heavy, but it is not insincere, nor is it without its own grace. "Of course, frau doktor." The card is slid into his coat pocket with a small nod of assent.
There's a beginning of a turn, and then William speaks, and the gaze returns to alertness, turning directly onto William. "It is very kind of you, mein herr," he begins, not stammering, but clearly surprised. "I would not wish to impose, but if you are determined in your hospitality, I could not refuse." How do Germans talk themselves into anything fun?
In response to the touch to his shoulder, Hansl bows. His heels do not click; it is only an auditory illusion caused by the movement of his bow. "You honour me with your praise, mein herr. Go in grace." God's, or someone else's.
Victoria smiles with not a little amusement as William takes her hand for the kiss, perhaps suspicious. Perhaps not. "And, as ever, it was a lovely surprise to run into you here, William. We still have to do presents." Left overs from business taking too long again. The other Ventrue curse.
"Give Ian my love." Which seems a genuine sentiment, rather than a humorous comment. Though there is, of course, the irony. "If it makes things easier while you're working here, he's welcome to stay at the chateau." It was his after all for so long. And, she knows how much he hates crowds and business. And one of the things she adores about the castle is the lack of court held there any longer. "But, it's whatever he likes." She also knows how very much he probably wants to go home. His home.
She sighs, looking back to the exit of the room again, "I should go check on Michael." He might have fallen into one of the canals. Or worse. He might still be on the phone with Maximilian. "And I expect that I have to make one if not more phone calls." She's not going to let him twist in the wind for the hang-up. She'll take her punishment like a good daughter. "I'll look forward to seeing both of you though."
"Are Plantagenets as determined in their hospitality as they are in... the other things that they do?" William posits to The Air, History, and those nearby. Glancing to the ceiling, it is as if he were expecting God... or someone else, perhaps... to answer. But at length he looks to Hansl and Victoria. He leaves the question unanswered. "I will look forward to your call, Hansl."
The smile that crosses that mouth of his does so in a smooth and...lazing way. "I will definitely give him your love," and likely a lot of his own. He's considerate enough of Hansl to keep that to himself. "And ...maybe we will take you up on that offer... we will see." With that William continues on his way through columns and back to the arcade, his steps echoing in an ever-increasingly empty Ca'Pesaro.
It is late after all...
Posted by rowan at February 24, 2004 09:27 PM
