It is amazing, yes, the passing of sixty minutes. How sixty minutes can seem infinite. How sixty minutes can become, very quickly, one-hundred-and-twenty. And suddenly, like magic, an always punctual person can become tardy. And not just a little tardy but a full sixty minutes off schedule.
Sixty minutes and one...
In such quiet as Venice, certainly now at this hour, one can hear the lapping sounds of water moving against the building of the Teatre l'Doges, against the stairs. One quite possibly could even detect the sounds of feet down the brick-lined calle, the narrow passage, for it is more passage than street, to the Via Grimani and the small churches of San Polo.
This quiet, this anticipation of a lover's return. In Venice, everything takes on a magical quality, a quality out of small, yellow-paged books, the kind that tell of romance and death. For in this city, one cannot have one without the other...
It is two hours after an early evening, where early evening has become mid-evening stretching on toward late evening. Certainly the hour of supper has passed. Most others in this quarter are having their after supper drinks, the conversations with the wife, reading to the children, making love. But not here, not in this corner of the Teatre l'Doges. Here, supper has not yet begun. Not begun, the ingredients have yet to arrive.
But that is the sound of them now, at the door. The turning of the latch while balancing bags, no doubt.
He is perched on the edge of the counter, bare feet pressed against the cupboard doors. His smile is like laughter, as he continues idle chatter with Cesare.
The serious conversation faded some time ago. The topics exhausted. They have fallen into old patterns as they fill the space and the Time.
At some point, Nathaniel had acquired a glass of wine from -- well -- somewhere. Who knows really, except perhaps him.
The smile falls only briefly, at the sound of the latch. He had been hoping that Alire was just a bad dream. Still, he pulls the smile back up, and puts on a strong show just for Cesare.
Only for Cesare, would he do this.
"Hm," Cesare says, turning about from his impromptu research. The book, the golden wedge, cup and spoon, once floating, suddenly drop as he makes his sudden move. "Ah," Cesare laments, seeing the results of his lack of focus.
But no matter. It's Alire, and Cesare smiles as he walks towards the door to greet his companion. "Alire's back," he says with delight, winking at his friend in the passing.
The opening door is caught and pulled wider, allowing free entrance. "Alire," he greets, "...here, let me help, bello..."
There are not many bags, just two, but two bags balanced as a man walks the narrow pathways? It is like balancing on a wire. It is a good thing he was walking -- he could not see trying to get in and out of a gondola just now. The door is let go, it opens widely, and for Cesare there is a quiet, but slight smile. It is warm, but it is ...what is it? He is never late, and it has a surface appearance of regret. "I am sorry, tesoro," the Venetian dialect is a staccato compared to other dialects of Italian, metered differently, accented differently. Alire exhales, and as he comes in, his attention lifts to the room at large.
Is he still here?
"I do not normally lose track of time," he murmurs. "I have stuffed monkfish, we will let Gianna do the work tonight, and wine from Tucci's..." Bags surrendered, Alire closes the door and he removes the navy coat, his eyes going to the kitchen.
Nathaniel has slipped from the counter, as Cesare went to the door. Walking slowly to where Cesare was researching, he retrieves the gold and green shard and places it neatly in the middle of the book that was last being perused.
"Do you need any help with anything?" The voice is calm, steady. It is a carefully crafted olive branch, totally different from Alire's last conversation with this man.
Alire lost track of time? What a pity. It happens to everyone, doesn't it? Yeah, just coincidence. Hopefully Cesare will see it that way.
"It is alright, bello Alire," Cesare smiles, sharing the grin with Nate. But soon his arms have bags, and he turns his back to head to the small kitchenette. The bags rustle as he sets them on the table and begins the work of emptying the bags' contents.
"No, no, I am good," Cesare smiles, twisting around to continue to smile. And why not? Two most central to him are both present and a dinner is in process. This is perhaps as bright as he's been in...well.
"Here, bello, let me open wine first," Cesare says, pausing to look for bottles and corkscrew. He'll serve a sous chef this evening. "Nathaniel, you will join us in a glass, si?"
He had prepared on his way home to ask the gentleman, if he were foolish enough to yet be here, to leave. Simply, politely. But his own manners have him caught, for how can he possibly refuse wine to a friend of his bello, when his bello appears so...happy...
"No," Alire says, "... everything is handled. The two of you, have your wine. I hope you have not talked much about my work in the kitchen," he continues as he moves to the kitchen, "...for this will be very simple, I hope very good, but maybe not the stuff of legend." That sounds as though it is an attempt at humor.
There is a glance to Nathaniel. There is a half perplexed look. As if to say: How did you get here so quickly? Ah, yes... magicians. There is a reason your kind and my kind do not mix. We do not like to be threatened and we do not like things popping out of the dark at us. Otherwise, live and let live, ne c'est pas?
Alire moves into the kitchen and begins to get ready, he reaches for the bags with another small smile to his lover. "Do not let me interrupt..." His hand makes a motion. Continue, go on, relax, talk, he waves...
He has misplaced his wineglass, leaving only the faintest hint of hashish in the air. Almost imperceptible, but he notices it and the warning it represents. "Of course I will join the two of you." Nathaniel smiles, letting Cesare's mood infect him for the time being. His every motion has relaxed, carefree. He is doing a very good job of ignoring the conversation he had with Alire -- but, then, perhaps he hasn't had it yet.
"If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. Anything for Cesare's friends."
To Cesare, "I used to be a good cook, you know. But that was years -- my time -- ago." Only Nate would need such qualifiers "I don't think I've actually cooked anything in a decade or more."
"I can talk here," Cesare laughs, "...helping you. It is not such a large flat," he grins, looking to Nathaniel for agreement. "I will pour," Cesare offers in compromise. "You may do the real work," he teases, nudging his new lover.
"I didn't know you could cook...or did I?" Cesare murmurs, looking to his friend. "I can understand that you are too busy to cook. We mere mortals," he teases, "...are still attached to such things as...eating," he smiles.
"Okay," that sounds the same in every language, an interruption of English, very rarely heard from this one. He seems to ponder something as he stands still in the kitchen. He pauses, rolling up his sleeves. "Wine first, tesoro," Alire murmurs. He turns, looking at the cabinets, taking out the usual suspects of spices.
He does not have much to say, it seems. He unwraps the fish, he goes about getting things ready. It is a small kitchen. All the better to have everything ready to go. "In the bag, there is garlic, if you do not mind pressing it..."
Yes, Alire, perhaps you should not bludgeon anything, or handle knives for a while. He smirks at this thought to himself and seems content to listen to the conversation carry on without him. Sky blue eyes, rimmed with cobalt, lift to check on the status of the drinks.
"Mere mortals?" Nathaniel laughs at that, eyes shining with his amusement. It is true that he isn't particularly mortal these days. "I'm not that far from mortal, myself, Cesare."
"I'm no god." Yet. Best not to voice that last part. "But, in all honesty, you are right. I tend not to eat." Fingers move to the necklace of bone beads which hides under his shirt. "Busy, or not, I could always just make Time for eating."
His fingers have found that shard he gave to Cesare, turning it over and over in his hands idly. Fidgeting as usual. It is when he stops fidgeting that people should worry. He's relaxed when he plays with things.
"Ah, Alire," Cesare murmurs, opening the bottle and moving towards Nate, "...see this?" he motioning to the shard. "From Nathaniel. It is....a copy of a tablet, yes? Amazing. I was flipping through a book to see where I should begin to investigate."
Bottle open, Cesare twists to return and seek glasses. "Nate always finds the most stunning things. And Alire...I have learned so much about botany of late. I..." he stops and thinks on it, "...had not realized how much I have learned."
You are being rude, you know this. Is it not your path to be penitent, d'Avignon? And in so doing, to seek forgiveness for yourself and for others. And who in this room could not use a little of that? Alire takes a break from the fish and from his thoughts, though not quite from the anger that lurks beneath even that, to look toward the shard. That means he has to look at the one invading his space so unpleasantly. Alire's expression seems to soften a touch. "A copy of a tablet?" he wonders, looking back to the fish, separating the pieces of it, stuffed further with a prawn paste base. "Egyptian, Babylonian, Etruscan or Mayan?" a sudden curiosity.
At least, Alire, they cannot say you didn't try...
"Well... I like gardens," Alire goes on to explain in that non-aggrandizing way of his, minimizing in modesty. "And the study of plants to try to grow better gardens." Light blue eyes shift to Nathaniel. We are not all consumed with thoughts of death, destruction, control and enslavement.
Some of us also read and like to garden...
"I'm not entirely sure of its exact provenance. I didn't jump back and check, in all honesty." two-toned glance goes to Cesare "It would ruin the surprise if I just went and asked."
"That said, I'm told it is a first generation copy of part of the Tablets of Destiny which feature in Babylonian myth." Fingers hold the shard steady a moment, so Alire can see it. A triangular wedge of gold and green enamel. "The enameling speaks Egyptian to me, as I don't think it was invented earlier than them."
Guarded, his eyes, as he looks to Alire, but entirely lacking in the unmitigated hate shown earlier. Oblivious. It is a trait Nate has practiced to an art.
"And so," Cesare smiles, walking over to hand Alire a glass firstly, then spinning to take the other to Nathaniel, "...a puzzle. At least the ending is known," he grins as he offers the glass to Nate. Even in poverty, there is a way to share multiple glasses of wine. "I would hate never to know." He'll give in after sometime. Later. And beg to know the truth of it.
For himself, a ceramic cup is poured last. "I had not thought so much about gardens," Cesare confesses, "...until Alire. But he has such a nice library on plants and medicines. As if I need more activities. But, as with all things, one must think they are related somehow. And so..." he smiles and lifts his cup, "...to studies, all."
Alire takes the glass, lifts it a moment, letting it remain in a salute and then he drinks. "Ah," an exhale, "... ombre bello," the dark red wine that the locals drink, it is rich, hearty. "I did not originally set out to study botany, but over the years," the more than the thirty he appears to be, "...I collected books, kept gardens, and there you have it, a botanist. I... have always ... treasured sanctuaries. In Venice, in Europe there are all manners of secret gardens..." He does not blush now when he speaks of these things. Taking another swallow of wine, Alire turns back to the fish and begins to make a basting mixture. Olive oil, orange rind, tomatoes.
Alire looks to Cesare for a long moment, and the smile then is both warm and openly affectionate. The distance, the solemnity that has hung over him since his arrival dissipates like fog when it is struck by sunlight. "I am sure that you will figure it out one day. You are tenacious," Alire notes, pausing and reaching for his wine. "And that is the secret to solving riddles and living a long life..."
The shard is put down, so both hands can cradle the glass. So very Nate, to hold a glass so gently, so carefully, like a precious object. His long fingers splay around the glass; a grasp like air.
"I should take you guys to meet Kali sometime. When she wasn't so absorbed in -- " uh, how do you describe that? "-- her work, she was quite interesting to talk with. Very in tune with the living world."
This is beyond him. Science and categorical knowledge just doesn't fit with how he thinks. He could never have been a true academic. Ever the dilettante.
"Who is this?" Cesare asks, moving back to Alire. He cannot help him, but Cesare takes up a spot against the counter to lean as he watches. "Is she a scientist?" Or does he know the name. Cesare quirks a moment, thinking.
"I am afraid that I am not able to travel much," Alire notes, brushing the mixture over the fish. It has the air of finality about it, that response, though polite. Horribly, horribly polite. He looks to Cesare and smiles a little, reaching for his wine again. A glass gone, waiting for another to be poured. But the answer is the answer. "This stove. I can figure out the puzzle to that tablet easier than I can figure out this stove, amice. I think it only works by magic," he smiles.
"The world is a fascinating place," living or not, "...I never tire of moving in it and looking at it. At least, not yet." A general small-talk comment, meaning nothing, signifying nothing, offering nothing.
"So, this will take twenty minutes, I have fresh bread and salad as well... I hope that will be enough for you both. I apologize at the hour." But I was too busy being chastised in the middle of the street by a shade.
"Don't worry about the delays. Time can wait." Another whiff of hashish drifts past him, and he immediately pulls back from the whim that was going to drive him forward. Care, Nate, Care must be taken.
He really is having trouble with these conversations. Nate isn't the best conversationalist in the world. "Kali? She is, well, uh. I guess the best word would be -- uh -- sister?" Frowning, he isn't happy with that word. "She, like Rachel and Nod, are my -- uh -- family?" Oh! He almost forgot (how typical of Heshan, to be forgotten) "And Heshan."
"She studies things that live, things that grow, things that think, and so forth. I really don't grasp it myself."
"She doesn't leave the sanctuary much, now"
Ah. Another in the arrangement. Cesare nods and dutifully picks up the bottle to refill Alire's glass. "It's alright, bello. It will be so well worth it," Cesare assures, giving a kiss upon the tall blonde's cheek. "And yes, I know my...stove...is not so much," he smiles sheepishly. "Once we are back in Poitiers, your kitchen will be at hand." And life will be perfect again.
Cesare quiets as he down most of his wine, then moves to tilt the bottle at Nate for a refill as well.
"Non," Alire smiles to Cesare, pivoting toward him, to accept the kiss and then to return it. His hand wants to grasp, but his hands are in the process of being wiped by a cloth that will now need to be washed. "It is a magician's stove," he grins. "There is a trick to it. It is a good stove, serviceable. It knows fish. If I could turn it on. Do you mind?" A kiss for the magician and he's washing his hands.
"I can understand," he says at-large, likely in response to something Nathaniel said. "A sanctuary is, by its nature, difficult to leave," lips upturn just slightly. "And while Time may wait, I do not think your stomachs shall, yes? So, it will be alright," he assures himself. "My family... my family consists of Giancarlo now..." Alire smiles to Cesare, pausing to pour himself another glass of wine.
"So, to friends, yes?" He lifts the glass again and turns back to the kitchen. Who would know the enmity that exists beneath the pleasant smiles and genial conversation? Who would know indeed.
"Si," Cesare grins, rather delighted at the evening. "To friends and familie," the stove lighting of its own accord, "...and fish and puzzles...and wine," he smiles, drinking from his ever-modest cup.
Posted by rowan at March 23, 2004 01:42 PM
