The Boy with the Pear...
     It has been copied, remembered, recalled, recounted, sought after but never seen. It has weathered centuries in hidden places, bearing storms and weather, ill fortune and downright bad luck in equal measures to grace, bon chance and compassion. It has lived very much like its master, on the edge of destruction. It is the most Caravaggio of all Caravaggios.
     (It shall be returned with all the absence of fanfare that attended its departure. No trucks, no guards, no corporate stamp nor royal seal. Not even with its own face, held in its own frame, but like a cuckoo it is tucked securely in another painting's nest, protected by cloth too expensive for the gowns of queens, held still and secreted behind a rather unimportant portrait by a modern American painter, neither the painting nor the artist aware of the grander treasure for which it serves as decoy and shield.)
     An unremarkable, personal visit. No more, no less. Unremarkable in its now constant, rhythmic measures, like a well-practiced dance are William Plantagenet's arrivals and departures. Those who do not Know may start to Speak if this continues. And so he stands upon your threshold, a work of art himself in a collage of navy, layers of deep blue ocean, from shirt to jacket to trousers, the shoes themselves taking on a kind of midnight color different from black. A sturdy canister in his left hand, his short black hair thick and tousled in that way only the 21st Century could achieve with any skill.
     The Boy with the Pear...

     The gallery may be closed, but the lights remain on. Not so unusual that, as any storefront must have its maintenance. Within, a few late workers remain around, getting in the last bits of activity that was not handled during the day. But they will depart soon, and close the gallery behind them.
     Normally, she does not spend so much time in the gallery itself. The rarely-seen owner, Miss McMaster, only shows up on the most special of event nights and maybe when there is something terribly problematic.
     Maybe this is one of those nights.
     Downstairs already, she does not expect to linger so long. Instead of having her arrival greeted, she's there herself, knowing that she may need to keep this meeting quick.
     "And here I thought I'd ne'er see you," Jezebel smirks, closing the door behind you. Dressed smartly in a green suit, she grins as she offers kisses on cheeks, four to be precise.

     A hand comes around to hold you to it, the cheeks you grace moving beneath your mouth with his smile. When you are done, William takes one back for himself. "You know how I like to be seen," he murmurs, Gaelic riding smoothly upon the French tongue. "I had to turn up sooner or later..." The hand moves away, the indigo eyes (far more blue tonight with all the support of the navy he wears) flicker in a wink, and the embrace parted but there is little space between. His left arm holds the substantial canister tucked easily beneath (it's not going anywhere without his permission), and his other is offered to you.
     "I am going to Chinon tomorrow night, after then... perhaps I will be hard to see. But I hope I will not become a total figment of your imagination. You should come to France to see us. This time, I will keep my clothes on," unlike the festival. "Perhaps even to Chenonceau. It was always better with women around," the quintessential Ladies Castle that it is.

     "Hmm," Jezebel nods, marking it somewhere in the mind's eye. "I will consider it. I will to Paris," her Gaelic comes, far more than her English, "...maybe then. But I am to Venice again soon as well," since that is where she last saw you, "...so perhaps I can make time for places in between."
     "I did not know that you holiday at Chenonceau," Jezebel observes, walking lightly towards an office. She thinks as if she's reviewing something. "I did not know it was available for such."

     "It is if you pay the rent," William says with the start of a grin. "I keep the lights on, I get to play in the galleries, that is the arrangement. I was told that I cannot buy anymore of the chateaux on the Loire," how Scotland falls away from him when he is speaking of his own river and of French places. "I think Ian is going to put me on a strict no-more castles diet. But, it is nice to have a place in the country. My ville," Chinon, "...has grown right up to my eyeballs. The only open land is taken up by the wineries," the land for which he owns and leases out. "You should come," William murmurs, "...and make the gardens better."
     "If you miss me in France, you will likely run into me in Venice. I have meetings already on the docket. I will be there quite a bit, I think, for the next two years. Not so much that I'm ready to pay so much money for an apartment that I have to renovate just to live in," he smirks at that, "...but we will see. What in Venice is calling you? Is Antonio soliciting you, too?" eyebrows lift upward and the face shows actual curiosity.

     Jezebel's brow lifts on the ownership of Chenonceau, but she says nothing.
     "Antonio?" Jezebel stops and blinks, then realizes the implication. "Ah, no," she smiles, motioning you to a seat, "...I...scout the world for artists for my galleries?" she says with sarcasm. "But no. I have not spoken with Antonio since Carnivale. I trust he is well?" she smiles, looking over her shoulder to you as she takes a stand near seating and a service that smells of black tea.

     He chuckles at the implication. It is not one he was making, then shoulders roll a little. "He is a busy man on a personal crusade. The great Toreador city, the city that is itself a work of art, he is a little obsessed but... he seems to be, from our conversations, happy to be out of Germany. But, that is if you believe half of what he says," William continues as he takes a seat, following you as you move for tea, "...and I personally aim for about forty-percent. So... who knows with that man. He seems well. I will know more when I am in Italy," eyebrows lift again and the expression goes suddenly placid.
     With Italians, nothing can ever be so simple to explain...
     He holds the canister for a moment more, letting it rest upon his lap. He looks to it for a time. You have seen that look before. The look of someone who is an artist first and a collector second. It is a precious thing, one's work. He has become a Christ of art -- and only William Plantagenet would make such an analogy -- and this was a miracle of resurrection.
     But he does not speak of it. The easy smile returns, if only as a hint of grander grins to come, as he watches you with the tea. He wonders to himself, for he would never ask you such a cliched question, how many men have wanted to capture your image, the half turn for a cup of tea and all that it has the possibility to imply.

     Siddhane Gael's owner goes on preparing cups of tea as she listens. But something gets her attention - perhaps its the staring in the silence - and Jezebel stops and looks over, halting her motions.
     "What's wrong?" she wonders.

     "Nothing," William says quietly, it is a simple answer borne easily. Truth is at times a simple matter. "You are going to have me believe that I am the only man who stares at you?" He says this, peering at you as if you take him for a fool and then he grins and leaning in he relinquishes the canister. "Neither I nor M," meaning Caravaggio, "...would be so easily fooled." There, I have done it. I have given it up.
     The painting is not discussed, not called by name, not referenced, seems to not even be regarded. There is more attention placed upon the tea in this moment than on the priceless work of art. He waits for you to lead the way on that. His work, after all, is done.
     "I don't get to stare at, flirt and praise women much these days, you should take it as a compliment," William chuckles, "...not a sign that I am ill."

     Jezebel blinks, staring at the canister.
     She then looks at you.
     After an exhale, Jezebel turns about and picks up one of the two cups of tea, returning after a moment to offer it to you.
     "No, you are not the only man who stares," Jezebel affirms, "...but you're one of the few men I expect not to. And not for the reason you think. Here," she says softly, extending her arm.
     "As a compliment, thank you. And thank you..." she looks at the canister on the table, "...for that as well," Jezebel says scantly. Perhaps she did not expect to see it again, not for a long time. "Time has flown," she observes, picking up her cup and moving to sit in a seat near yours. "Maybe I wished to forget it," she explains. "Who knows," she laughs softly. "A bit anticlimactic, isn't it? Such a thing, simply in a canister now." Such is the effervence of art.
     "Poor M," she murmurs, her voice sympathy-filled.

     "He was a mess," William notes, taking the cup. "And the stare was out of professional interest," a quirk of a smile, a sip of the tea and then he looks to the work. "Nearly three years, I think," he ponders the passing of time. "Apart from a few brief interruptions, he and I spent that time together. We were both fortunate. I had my own golden youth walking around the house. A clasp of hands here, the lifting of a glass there, the casual grasp on a piece of fruit, and," indigo eyes lift and William smirks, "I do not mean myself," gay humor from the heretofore playboy. "It was easy to be in that space. To understand what moved him to do what he did with it and why others wish to have it. I think he would be more surprised than anyone that anything of his survived..."
     I have the real thing, the boy with the pear, the golden one that others, including Antonio, would wish to have. He does not know how he is coveted. "I appreciate it," William says quietly, simply. The time to spend with such a work, the ability to rescue and revive it. Inasmuch he can say thing same thing to Ian. And it is William who is the fortunate one. This, he knows.
     "I thought it best to carry him in the style to which he has become accustomed. Only without the mold, moisture, spilled wine and abuse. It is also less conspicuous than a large frame. Thank you," William insists.
     So, say the indigo eyes, when are you going to mention the price to be paid. Shall you let me hold it in my memory for at least the cup of tea? William lifts the cup and sips it, and he watches you watch the canister. He waits to see if you will look at it. If you will accept it. And in the meantime, every moment of it is recounted, recalled, remembered.

     Jezebel smiles, turning her cup about. "Is he with you?" she wonders. "Or did you come alone? I should send him a letter," she chides herself.

     "He's at the townhouse," the one the pilot and officer shared, not far, not far. William does not like him far. He wears it so evidently, so plainly. So unashamedly. He makes no apology for it, no reddening of his olive complexion. "He does not like to intrude in the art, no matter how much I insist," he chuckles quietly. "He prefers to read and have his scotch and wait for me. It is a good image," black eyebrows lift a little, a sort of wiggle, and the grin slants at the cup's edge. "And you should write him, he would like that. He complains that no one likes to write letters anymore. I, being pretty dreadful on paper unless it's in colors, don't write. I am insisting he come with me to Italy, just to save me the embarrassment of having to write awful letters that do not convey what I mean..."
     I love him, says the look. Yes, this was a Caravaggio that was meant for William to repair. No one could bear more longing for a golden youth than he does his own. Settling back, William relaxes into the chair, cupping the tea to him, drinking it now before it grows tepid.

     "I shall send him a card," Jezebel nods, affirming her next activity. "It is understandable that he would prefer the sidelines instead of the limelight. Not all are meant for it, Gwilym. It is the way of things and the burden of those of art, yes? The light seeks you out. It is there, instantly, when you are gifted." Not a new concept, the sip of her tea suggests.
     Silence comes, broken only with the clink of china. She's hesitant to follow on about the large pink elephant in the corner, but the conversation must head that direction soon enough.
     "I am sorry, Gwilym," Jezebel smiles gently. "About...the requirements attached to this project."

     He waves it off as if you just apologized for being five minutes late to a cricket match. "I'm sick to death of it by now," he lies smoothly, so smoothly it may as well be the truth -- ah, gift of the Florentine, not unlike the gift of the magi. "It has been held securely," he says seriously, setting the empty cup aside, his gaze moving to you, a man at peace with his decisions. "And now it is given to those who have the honor of holding it. The collector in me," now comes the truth, "...winces a little. But the artist knows better, Genevieve. We all merely ...borrow such things for a time. No one... every truly owns art. If one is lucky, one is graced by it. So, do not apologize. We became very well acquainted," he gestures toward the canister. "We had our time. My husband will be happy to see me again."
     He doesn't speak of gifts, particularly his own. He recognizes them. Soon, he will be heading to Venice, to the grand dame herself, the Maria Della Salute. One treasure lost, but another gained. There is only peace. "As long as I can remember where I parked my car," he dryly notes, "... I am here... we should tend to the completion of business. All accounts must be paid, oui?"

     "They should be. A reckoning," Jezebel says to herself, standing up. She sets her cup down and looks around the office for a moment gathering herself. She did not expect this moment now. "Ah, yes," Jezebel murmurs, moving to a wall. No secret there. In her pocket, her right hand moves, and her left hand touches the safe, which pops open.
     "In dealing with men...others...over the years, I have prided myself on my ability to negotiate in the sale, service, and safety of the creative arts, Gwilym." Jezebel reaches in and returns with a small packet. "When...I told you of all this, I gave my word that I should try and to have my clients think better of their position...for lovers of such things, as they are...to reconsider. To understand what...crime...to a fellow Artiste, their proscription is. To destroy the experience of a work, to devalue the very thing they need and ask, to remove the joy of the spark that has given them the exact thing they desired..."
     "Well," Jezebel says, turning around to see you. The safe is empty, and as she returns, the small square black leather in her hand gleams. No larger than a playing card, it is offered to you. "They have seen the wisdom of my words. They ask your eternal discretion, and give you reason to give such discretion. A simple exchange is asked, and it is hoped," Jezebel speaking the words of another, "...you shall understand these things, which can never...ever...be given a price. Of any kind. They ask a shared Faith, William Plantagenet, upon the very spark with which we believe." Those who believe.

     He had decided himself not to ask. He accepted the job for all of its risks and for all of the rewards. He had prepared, studied, noted his path, trailed the Theseus Thread. He, as a proper Crusader had, as he put it, 'Made His Peace With God'. Should he have died in the exchange, it would have been accepted.
     And now...
     Dark eyebrows lift just slightly, the only registration of surprise, an acknowledgment of a shift in the deal. He allows a momentary wash of Gratitude to show itself before it dissolves in gossamer fashion to the continuance of further business. You hold out the offer, the card, and his hand is there to take it.
     "They will have my discretion," William says, "...as you have my ...deep gratitude, Genevieve." And the exchange? The shared Faith? Indigo eyes shift their attention from you to the small square in his hands, dwarfed by such hands.

     The small leather is a flip folder. Inside, a card with a number on it in a chancery script, friend of contracts. Ravenna, it is sometimes now called, not used since in such a way since the twelfth century, scrawls with tildes and macrons. Yet, it's clearly in Langue d'Oc.
     A spark the fires the sublimity of that which may never be destroyed. In this, we believe.
     Beneath the scrawl, a series of numbers and letters.

     She turns about, picking up the pot to pour again. "I am sure you will know where to find it," she explains. Switzerland, where else? "Escrow," she confirms, not willing to say much in this space.

     "I am familiar with the ways," he murmurs. The small leather folder is placed in the interior breast pocket, left side. "I hope they are happy with what they see," the artist's hope. And the matter is closed. It will not be mentioned. The information is held in his brain, vouchsafe. It is only a moment more before the warmth moves across his iconic features and the smile returns.
     "So, you did not tell me, Genevieve, what you will be doing in Venice. You will have to come visit me, yes? At the Della Salute..."

     "I did tell you," Jezebel says, she offers another tea, "...that I was scouting for my galleries." The spaces must be filled somehow. "As for visiting," she grins, "I may, if we are there and we have the time. Let me know your schedule and I shall scribble you in," she smirks.

     "Ah," he chuckles now, "I thought you were being sarcastic. We will meet," it is decided. "I'll call you from Chinon, I'll have a better idea after the next meeting." He takes the second cup and exhales into the settling in the seat. William pauses, cocking up an eyebrow. "Have any starch for the tea...?"
     There is only one way to drink tea...
     Ian's way...

Posted by rowan at July 22, 2004 05:40 PM