Of these buildings, we must make the most of Time...
     What time is afforded to us, that is...
      There is an unconscious glance at his watch, an accessory seldom worn by one who lives comfortably outside the fabric of Time, but in terms of this building, and of this City -- and particularly tonight, of a waiting spouse who is expecting dinner at some point tonight on the veranda of their palazzo hotel -- he must pay it some attention...
     It is a monumental task. The cleaning alone will take years, but beyond that some of the structural work that must be accomplished. It both exhilarates him and gives him a massive headache. William stands outside the Basilica Santa Maria della Salute, Longhena's masterpiece and his next project.
     The Basilica is a focal point of the city. Bathed in pure white light, she is one of the most recognizable features on the face of this City. And he stands in that light, looking up the height and around the breadth of the exterior, seeing at once the art and the edifice.
     Built in 1630, when he was back in Scotland, reunited with his lover after many years apart. Years he spent in Leonardo's studio and watching Michelangelo work with marble, and the men who came before them. And now, it comes time at last to repay those who gave him so much. William Plantagenet is here to answer Italy's boon on him.
     He pauses beneath the grandeur of it all. A pair of grand old things we are. With the slight twist of his mouth he looks away, bundled against winter and against the breeze blowing along the twists and turn of the Canale.
     "And to think," William drolls, turning to look to his companion, "...this is just the entrance." A blonde, but not his blonde. The exterior is octagonal, with two great domes. Indigo eyes sweep over those. "What am I getting myself into, Hansl..." His eyes widen a touch and he pivots to look at you.

     Time...
     Time was, Time is, Time has passed.
     He is old, as human men count time, and yet, by the standards of those in whose company he is found, he is not yet a youth, barely a stripling.
     Fortunately, he's used to it by now.
     The breeze ruffles his hair, his hands still shoved into the pockets of the greatcoat he wears, and it's an effort of will that he doesn't draw one hand out to smooth the short blonde locks back. "Getting yourself into, mein herr?" The question makes him blink, eyes the unchanging blue of early summer morning. An opinion? He wants an opinion? How strange...
     "It is work," Hansl answers after a moment, mouth pursed slightly in an unconscious boyish grimace. "It is pain," he adds after a moment, expression serious. "But ultimately it is pain to the greatest and noblest good that there is - perhaps the only good."
     Ah, yes... propaganda. Germans do love it so, don't they? He seems unconscious of anything strange about what he says, however, shifting for a moment uncomfortably, coming almost to attention. "Art outlasts life," he says simply, "and even long existences."

     William lifts a brow as he looks back to the building, giving it his smile. Germans. It is work -- work, mein herr! -- to keep from laughing outright. But he does not wish to cause the young man embarrassment, for he does not mean it at him specifically but to the great Fatherhood of his nation and its mentality.
     The scarf he wears is artfully wrapped and tucked, indigo against the shades of cocoa that he wears. His hair is cut very short, shorter than it was in his natural life, a natural black -- but in the light an undercurrent of brown would be revealed by the attire -- and mussed in style, mussed further by the wind. His expression is open, congenial, perhaps even blithe.
     "I am going to do it, naturally," he speaks French, his German is atrocious he won't even attempt what little he can remember, his words are accented by gestures of his hands, "... but then... I am from France, I am expected to be a little..." he pauses and grins. "...crazy, yes? You, though... how are you finding France? Paris..." William corrects himself, for they are very different creatures, Paris and France. They always have been. "You are working, painting?"
     Though the tour seems to be pausing for now, he is very interested in hearing of your other tours -- you in Paris, painting he hopes, adjusting he sincerely wishes.

     "Paris is ..." Hansl doesn't even know how to explain what Paris is. He frowns for a moment; he's been listening to what you say intently, but some of the questions are just not what he is used to being asked.
     He pauses, gazing to the building, finding it perhaps easier to comprehend. Here, there is solidity. "Paris is filled with cracks and crevices. That the foundation appears to be secure, mein herr, does not alter the fact that the sound echos throughout and escapes. It is often like trying to empty a well with a teaspoon, I think."
     The earnest expression has not altered; for all of what he says, he's quite serious about it. But then, considering his sire, considering his nationality, it's probable that his sense of humour has been well buried. "I am painting," he agrees, somewhat mutedly.
     In a way, he does not want to paint - has not wanted to paint, since Johann died. But he has been commanded - paint! And he is obedient to his task. Whatever that task is, it shall be completed, with all of him behind it, whether he wills it or no. Obedience... a rare trait. But has he ambition?
     "It is very different from Saarbrucken," Hansl adds, quietly. The blue gaze lowers from the top of the arch to the sides, then glance to you briefly, as if scanning for something he's not sure of. "I knew that it would be. I did not know that I would remain. It is ..." The lips purse again.
     "It is alien."

     "It is alien," William says, and for a moment, and for at least one cigarette, he sits upon the marble steps, on just a handful of the twenty that lead one to and away from the Della Salute, his hand reaching into the inside pocket of his wool overcoat.
     With upraised brows, he offers the pack to you even as his mouth holds the body of an unlit cigarette. Regular cloves, these. Not his usual hashish, cinnamon and opium-laced variety. Dark brown, they match the rest of him tonight. He's nothing if not coordinated. "It is hard, I know," he murmurs. And harder still because of the way in which you Germans handle things in general. "But," he pauses to ignite his own, blowing away the first breathful of scented smoke, "...I can tell you... painting was my salvation once. Still is..."

     There's the briefest of hesitations : does he accept or refuse? Will refusal be taken as an insult - will acceptance be taken as presumption? After that barest of pauses, he nods, accepting the cigarette offered. "Danke schon," Hansl murmurs, fishing loose a slim silver lighter, tending to the flame to his own.
     "Painting is all I know." That is Hansl's belief, expression resolute. "It is all there is, in the end. One may appreciate the works of others, but it is only through one's own work that there is freedom." Arbeit macht frei?
     He remains standing, though he steps back, then cautiously shifts to hunch down, cigarette in one ungloved hand, forearm draped loosely over the other knee. There is the suggestion of the soldier in him, beneath the lines of the painter - the suggestion still of the young man, the youth, taken before his mortal span had elapsed.
     "Salvation, mein herr? We make our own, I think." Hansl's gaze is still serious, and his free hand comes up, absently exploring the thin white line over his left cheek, gaze blank and inwards-drawn. "If there is any - but it is forged one link at a time. Forgive me," he apologizes abruptly, rising and bringing his heels together. "I am too talkative. I speak too much. I philosophize."

     Now, does he laugh. Quietly, warmly, and there seems to be some...can it be affection? Sympathy and empathy. He was once as young and tense as you -- though, likely a good deal more violent. "If I did not want to hear you speak, Hansl, I would talk to my own reflection in a mirror and keep all of my cigarettes to myself. I want your philosophy, Horatio," who's the mad prince now? William smiles at the correlation and at you. "You are quite right. I...merely mean to say that I think you should let the painting lead your way. Maybe it will be back to Saarbrucken, maybe it will be to Cologne. Or... maybe you will be joining the efforts here in Italy. It doesn't matter so much the Where or the What, Time will reveal those at its leisure, not ours." Yes, he is empathetic and sympathetic to your story, and to where you are in it.
     "Trust it," William continues quietly. "...regardless of whether it is all you know or shall ever know. Few things to be trusted in Life, but the art that compels you will likely never steer you wrong." William grins suddenly. "And I should know. I have taken a lot of wrong turns in eight-hundred years. But with painting? With sculpture? With art? Never..."

     "Saarbrucken is closed to me," Hansl's voice is leaden, heavy as the stones comprising the basilica, and briefly, the blue gaze flicks away. "It is as it shall be."
     Things are never easily done by the young, are they? The stiff shoulders lift, stiffly, then settle again, without relaxation, though a reluctant smile briefly appears, transferring the face into boyish beauty. There is beauty in him, beyond what he creates... The comparisons he elicits are most often touched by the bloodthirsty rampage one madman led others on - with much help - during the middle of the 20th century.
     Bucolic and pastoral delights aside...
     "I paint wherever I am," Hansl says simply. "Before Paris, I had Saarbrucken and I had my painting, and I had a hope of something else. Now I have my painting, mein herr. She will not desert me."
     Stained glass gaze - so clear and so empty, and yet hiding whatever is behind the blue panes of glass.

     Pastoral delights, indeed. Why, sir, do you mean 'country matters'? Why now, all of the sudden, Shakespeare? You are too much like the Dane, perhaps. Yes, sad over the loss of a father. That's it. And no uncle, not even Villon, can pull you from your mourning.
     You shall have to do that on your own...
     With a great breath of smoke, William stands, the smile still lingering on his expression, if only in his eyes. "Come, I will show you to Cafe Quadri and the finest Turkish coffee in all of Europe." Plantagenet apparently doesn't know how to take 'No' for an answer, but he does know a segue when segue is needed. He's the master of redirection, just ask his husband.
     He extinguishes his cigarette on the sole of his shoe then tucks it harmlessly away. Indigo holds you a moment and then he lifts that great voice of his: "Gondola, qui... al Piazza...ah, Pietro, voi, ancora?" he says to the gondolier waiting nearby. The gondolier grins: "Si, signore, nessun resto per scarso Pietro!"
     And you, like so many before you, are swept up into the Plantagenet hurricane. Your fate sealed for the night it seems, Hansl. You are going to have coffee.

Posted by rowan at February 25, 2004 09:56 PM