The Court of Love. That has been its name for over a thousand years. Created from the vestiges of the Charlemagne's illustrious crown jewel, The Court was soon infused with the politic of vampirism and the politic of Familie: both kin and kine. Frank and Norman, Toreador and Ventrue, artists against magician against businessman. Alliances were forged and broken under the gossping eye of The Court, and sire and childer were gained and lost.
And that was just last week.
But indeed, soon enough, everyone yielded to the Toreador claim as the masters of the Court of Love, and since then their Clan and the City have been twined together, a twisted, unbreakable vine.
The central chamber of The Court in the subspaces of the Louvre looks like something from Hieronymous Bosch. Filled from corner to corner, the grand room speaks of spaces within spaces. An area begins as a seating area, but dissolves into what looks more like a carnival, surrounded by other gaming tables and mini-salons, adorned in a wash of reds, blacks, greens, and golds. Each portion touches another: a chess table and seats, upon second look, morphs into a larger area filled with pillows and silks from Samarkand tossed on the floor. From there? A rise towards Africa, with large palms and trees with fruit. Rugs move from gilt to rough-hewn berber, with chairs made from tusks and hardened animal pelts. Hanging from corners? Cages of birds and flowers. Musical instruments and half-finish sculpting, writing, and color projects are strewn about each region, their owners perhaps now walking other parts of the building.
A veritable kunstraum, it is.
At the anchor of it all, from a central back wall extending to the middle of a room, remains the Western influences. Thrones and a massive table, orchestrated for a Court Elaborate. The main dais seems to project energy across the great room, while also offering an arrangement for intimate conferencing. The circular table curving from the dais is imprinted with the seals and marks of the greatest houses and clan sub-families. Capet. Medici. Hapsburg. D'Arbanville. Velasquez. D'Anjou. Al-Fahd. Frank and Norman alike. East and West. Some are familiar. Some, much older. Families rarely seen now, subsumed into another name. They all remain here, marked for as long as Toreador stands.
D'Anjou...
A name yet borne by at least one: Guillaume d'Angevin, last son of the House of D'Anjou at its height, the very visage of his mother turned upon the glass of ever-increasing history. Himself, a part of it. A rose plucked from the fingers of other Roses, and Thorns too -- a theft that would make most forgers such as he blush. But so it is, and so he is.
But not out of place as some of his Clan would be, intentionally and unintentionally. No, he is more to this than to anything else. He always has been, but then he ever insists upon carving his own way, regardless of stereotype. There is one way: William's.
It has been a good respite, a valuable visit, and something past due. Buildings can be given new life, legacies can be lifted and reformed, and William Plantagenet, who once stared down upon this...ville... from the fields of Normandy with eyes of war, now exists within its own fabric. Easily, so easily his beauty is at home with the strange surroundings. The cocoa suit, with its layers upon layers of threaded decadence -- sweater, suit jacket, trousers, shoes -- becoming the cocoa of South America, the coffee of Africa, Arabian dates, Indian spices. It is not simply because he as Eleanor's heir, her most like-cast face, is heir to the Court of Love. But it is inextricably linked to it. You cannot have such a tapestry without such a thread as Guillaume XI of Poitou, the Troubador's namesake.
He is there, already, as he has been a good portion of time this evening, surrounded and surrounding, conversations beginning, ending, pausing and returning. Not smoking (not yet, not now), but his hand is never empty of a drink. It is not allowed to be. Someone is always waiting to fill it. And he is of a mind to be indulgent. Some conversation on the works of Venice, others on America, others on collections and art. It is heady. Who needs brandy. Indigo eyes make a sweep of the chamber as he turns from the ending of one conversation and the moments of blessed silence that issues around him in anticipation of the next...
The Hapsburg influence, perhaps - perhaps that is where Hansl ought stand in this court. He is as out of place as ever, here - as out of place as he makes himself. There is an aloofness to him as he stands, the military precision of his bearing back in his spine, hands tucked to his sides or behind his back as he walks here.
There are few of his works here; he is not one for the bustle of court, the glamour of it. He is not immune to glamour, but he finds the Court of Love to be ... too abundant ...
He was called. And so he has arrived. Time for another appearance, Hansl. You mustn't stay away too long. "Very well, but I will not stay long; I have work to do." Those were his words on the phone to the unseen voice that summoned him. He intends to live by his words. But he has found that Villon's Court can be very bad for having him stay true to his words.
It is those thoughts, and others, which quirk up one corner of his mouth just the faintest amount. His hair is combed back but not slicked back, looking as slightly ruffled as Hansl's feathers are already, uncomfortable in the skin of the movement and whispers that follow courtly politics. He is clad impeccably but simply - black trousers, white shirt, with a high-necked, cobalt blue jacket trimmed with gold. (Someone else's choice. He prefers his own simplicities, as he once told - someone, he prefers to hold himself to glitter and shine in his artwork alone.)
He is wishing he had brought a sketchpad. Something to play with, something to do, to occupy his hands so as to ward off the noise in motion. "Hm? Danke." Hansl accepts a drink as a substitute, lingering to one side. How very like the bespectacled girl at the dance, it occurs to him, and - despite his Discipline - there is a short, stifled laugh. How very like, indeed.
The rumor mill has already started churning -- it does not take long for such well-oiled machinery as the courtiers of the Court of Paris to begin turning -- especially not with the machine has such fuel as William. He is a one-man refactory.
And Hansl does rather ...stick out... as much as William becomes a part of the bacchanalian surroundings, Hansl becomes all the more foreign. And so the gears begin turning, cogs in other cogs working, as the Angevin elder appears at the young, far younger, German's side.
"It is not so bad, hmm?" It is an amused whisper. "Here... take this..." He hands a passerby a glass -- of course she holds it for him, with a smile such as that why would she refuse him -- and he reaches into his jacket, pulling from it a small pad of paper and a few stray napkins, some of which are already adorned with his own work, original portraits of some of the attendant angels here, angels such as Leonardo's, Raphael's or Michelangelo's hands might capture, living there on the scraps.
"It helps to keep the hands busy. How are you?"
There is a blink, a turn, pale eyebrows lifting sharply and then lowering. He is easily surprised tonight - not so highstrung as to jump, but surprised nonetheless. "Ja? Oh. Good evening." It is followed by the almost audible click of heels and a slight bow in the other's direction, followed by a wry quirk of smile. Self-aware, bordering on self-conscious.
The hands lift to take papers from William in mild surprise, ice blue eyes cast down at them and then back up with an abbreviated nod, slight question in his expression. "Thank you. I am - well," such a guarded answer, and yet correct on multiple levels. He is physically fine; emotionally, he is passably good but also cast down into a watery place, rounded by bricks. "And you, mein herr? You look ... in place."
Hansl's gaze strays for a moment to the taker of the drink, back to the origin point, eyebrows up in polite question layered as a mixture. What does one say when one is so in the eye? There is no panic, just a mild confusion, and then the twitch of lips as his sense of humour, so long left slumbering, occurs to him again.
The bespectacled girl at the dance, being chatted up by the captain of the rugby team...
My phone will not stop ringing this week, I sense it...
"Merci," the soft and modern thanks for the holder of the drink. But you may go for now. There is some smile, some passing promise that will most likely not be fulfilled. But sometimes the sweetest promises, and most remembered, are those that were broken or never realized.
The smoothening smile is one that is both amused at your expressions and at his own amusement at them. And likely at what this will cause. There is no such thing as bad publicity, some say. "Hmmm, yes... I can see that," the smile spreads. Olive oil moves less smoothly. "But you would be better elsewhere...?" An eyebrow lifts.
He sees much, Plantagenet...
At the mention of his own ...place in things, he chuckles, a brief, soft sound held in his throat. "I am tempted to break out into a chorus of I Feel Pretty from West Side Story." Indigo eyes flicker, a dark shine as he looks to his companion. Do you dare me?
A slight lift of shoulders - a shrug. "Perhaps somewhere else," Hansl admits. "I would be working if I were not here." He cuts it off there, but you can likely hear the continuation of the words, thought but unsaid - these things, they must be dealt with as they arise, nein?
Politics. Courts. Appearances. All of the above and a few other things thrown in - a trail mix of vampiric life and unlife.
The pad, the napkins are held, eyes glancing down to sort through them with long-fingered fineness, precision of his preferred tools; more words come, and abruptly the fair head lifts, a breath choked as he momentarily forgets how. No, Hansl, air goes in, then circulates out, for speech rather than for need.
Clearing his throat, Hansl answers in a murmur. "It would explain why I feel as if I am a Shark in Jets' territory, ja? But I imagine that if you did, you would find backup singers and musicians falling into it with - indecent haste." Perhaps literally. His gaze flickers to the direction of the departed drink coaster in fleshly form, then back to William. "I am afraid I do not remember the words, myself."
There's a small commotion from one of the side salons, but not that of rising din. Instead, it is the sound of footsteps as court denizens move out of the way. Parting the crowd, Ian appears, still dressed in his topcoat from earlier events in the evening. Somehow he got past the house staff.
Like an arrow, Ian's dark shoes take him across the room, towards William, as if he was already aware of his presence there. Behind him, standing near the salon, a pair of sharp-cheeked women stand with accusing stares, watching him leave their side.
The laughter is warm, "Indecent haste..." Indeed. His eyes do not have to tell him who is entering. The eyes are the last to know, but they find him. "Here comes a Shark now," William murmurs. "Someone else to meet, or perhaps you already have. I believe you were at the show in Scotland."
"I have at least been to America," he enunciates for effect, with a wink in Hansl's direction, and then he turns his attention to The Arrival. "Bonsoir," the amusement is a deeper sort. Clearly, the approaching blond has been Up To Something. He offers his glass out of habit to the one crossing the distance.
Rapidly.
An eyebrow lifts. "Should I get my hat and coat?" comes the languid drawl upon a far more ancient French. It holds fire in its syllables.
There is the pivot again, on that invisible, imaginary axis that runs through his spine, into the floor and the ceiling, in Ian's direction. It is followed by a nod, and the click-heeled bow. "Ja. We were introduced. A pleasure, mein herr."
The eyebrows add an 'er?' - a questioning blink. Should I be doing something which I am not? "I have not been to America," he adds in agreement, "though I have been told I should. That it is to be experienced."
"No, no, we are not run out just yet," Ian says in like French, modifying it mid-sentence when he realizes that William is occupied. The blonde comes to William's side, a Shark, in truth, if there was one. There's a lift of his pale brows as he sees Hansl - perhaps the rolodex behind those grey eyes flips too quickly. But then, he says, "Ah...a youth of Saarbrucken," Ian's arm slipping into William's. "Hansl," he reminds, nodding his white-blonde head approvingly. "A surprise to see you here." Apparently, Dunross does not keep up with the latest gossip.
But's not likely. What's more likely, is that such information is taken and stored, and left in a crusty corner to collect dust until it's needed.
"I would not recommend," Ian's French certainly now more recent and clear, "...going to the Hotel De Ville tonight, if you had such plans," his voice lowering and followed by a cough. "You too," Ian tosses at Hansl.
But only Ventrue are in Le Hotel, so no one visits there anyway.
Yes, the husband is here. There is the ring, worn clearly upon the married finger of the married hand, not hidden. In fact, it is the only adornment he wears. He considers asking, but he will likely hear plenty about it later. And maybe a little about the gossip, too.
Good, no need for introductions. The grin appears again. "I do my best to avoid it whenever I am here. I am sure it is noticed." Yes, when William is in Paris he is rarely in Ventrue quarters. He pays respects, and then he heads to the museum. This trip, he has yet to do so, seeing Ventrue as they pass within these halls -- or in the Gilded Lily -- but that's as far as he goes.
"America would be safer than the Hotel De Ville tonight," William says, pivoting his attention to Hansl suddenly, his arm still in Ian's. He makes no move to do anything other than maintain such connections. "New York, Chicago, San Francisco. Worth the trip. Nice place to visit. I did not like living there. You might..." William tacks on, and then he grins. "You're young. There's nothing Americans love so well as youth..." And beauty.
"I make a good ornament, do I not? Was I not born for this?" the quiet tease to Ian. He gives his glass away, his hand landing upon the arms that are linked. "It is what I am good at...mais oui. So... a lively night?" He can't help but ask.
Blank incomprehension, first - something has happened...? Then dawning comprehension - of a sort. Something has happened, ja. "I will do my best to avoid Le Hotel, mein herr. And I thank you for the caution." Hansl cannot, however, so easily suppress curiosity. Du ist?
Now he has the look of a man who has the sneaking suspicion of fireants in his trousers, glancing distractedly past Ian to the direction he's come. Trouble? Only a suspicion; not enough to go racing for the nearest private room in which to divest himself of ant-infested briefs. "The women, they do not look pleased. Hm? I have heard something of New York. I do not know - I find Europe busies me enough, but perhaps eventually."
There is a hint of a grin, his arms fold with papers still held, Hansl's attention returning in full to William and Ian. If there is trouble, it is unlikely to trouble directly - right?
The women? Oh. Ian shakes his head in a slight shudder, utterly dismissive. "They want me to present a few arguments at Le Hotel tonight and I have graciously declined - I suggested to them that right now is not the best time for me to argue on conclave changes..." Said as if reasons should be obvious. If someone declines, then something must compel them to. "There is a meeting and they hope to escort me back. It's not likely. Really," Ian looks to William, "I think they are to watch me for the evening." A sigh follows, and Ian slides his arm from William's and begins to remove his topcoat.
"Ignore them," he murmurs in flawless German with a Thuringian flush, "...they'll go away eventually. Someone here will get their attention." Ah. The Court as the ultimate maze of distraction.
"So, what is this of New York?" Ian offers, changing to the more interesting and present topic.
"You should go for the museums," William picks up the thread of the conversation, moving it along. Indigo eyes slide over to the women. One of them holds his attention for a moment. But he doesn't remark on it. "If you go at all. America is very big, very loud. It is like a drunken uncle," he grins as he looks from Ian to Hansl, "...falling face first into dinner. Somehow the world finds it all so endearing. But I will say, its museums, and Chicago's, are quite excellent. Fitting of a country that does so much just to be loved."
He is curious about the ... conclave issues... but he can ask those questions later. In bed. Where they are best asked and more enjoyed in answering. "We arrived at the topic of America due to my urge to sing something from 'West Side Story' when I am here. I Feel Pretty," William grins, viper-edges sharpening the smile, deadly as it is dashing. "I feel pretty and witty and gay." He chuckles, "Ah... merci," as another drink arrives borne by a beautiful hand. "Who knew the bar would be so obliging tonight. So, yes... New York. Ian has contacts there. If you wish to go, he would be the one to ask on such. I think in New York I was mostly...where... in the bars... painting. I was very busy in New York painting." For the brief time we were there.
Ah. Hansl nods, several times although slowly enough that he's no drinking bird toy. He feels a bit like one; poised on the edge of a glass, staring into liquids that are very clear and very deep and quite likely entirely non-teetotal, perhaps even poisoned. Who knows? Not he.
"I enjoyed the museum in Italy, though the Americans were," a spectacle; amusing; confusing, "perhaps not enjoying it quite so much. Perhaps I will go when I have finished my current rounds." Hansl makes a slight gesture as if to shake hands with Ian, and is recollected to the presence of pad, papers. He pats himself down absentmindedly until he finds a pocket - he knew there had to be one in here somewhere - and puts the smaller items in. "I have some work to attend to, and then I will be going to Venice for a short stay. However, I will take your recommendations."
He is suddenly embarassed, the flush of it moving to his eyes, the flicker of eyelashes, and again, Hansl bows towards Ian, towards William. "I would not wish to impose. I have heard things of New York," he continues, a little more at ease for the mention, "which interest me. Music and poetry, mostly; I strangely have seen only a little art of out there. What have you found of it, mein herr?" The question is aimed at Ian, Ian of the contacts - curiosity, perhaps, what this business-borne young/old man might make of such a place.
"Two out of three isn't bad," Ian teases William. But to Hansl, he goes on immediately, "I will say that I do not care for New York so much. However," he does nod, "I do know a few in New York that would be happy to host an enterprising young artiste..." borrowing the technical Toreador term. "Ah, including Maximilian," he notes to William as if that is known associate. "If you are a poet, writer, actor, musician, I can see New York. But I cannot say so much for painting. Perhaps it shows my bias...I should think a painter would do better in Paris to start? Then to New York once established?" He shrugs slightly, in truth, not really so sure.
"If you have Paris, you do not need New York. But... still, another place to be seen. I should tell you," he says to Ian, conspiratorily, "...he is quite good. I will say no more in the confines of the court," a slanting smile, "...I do not want anyone to get the wrong ideas..."
Which would be...what... exactly? That he was half-naked with the Youth of Saarbrucken in the name of art? In the name of William being William it would be said.
"It is a good place for tourism, but... Europe is open to you. You are in the grandest City in the world, at least in its own estimation," a quiet aside with a grin, "... and then of course Venice, the rest. You have a busy enough agenda. So many parties for Hansl, hmm? You will have to make sure you have time for painting. All of this," his free hand makes a wave, his other at Ian's side, "... can be a distraction..."
"Maximilian has no head for art," a dry statement, half-humorous. Or at least a third. "Two of three?" William suddenly remarks. "Which two? I'm witty enough..." he chuckles, a glance to Hansl. "If a Ventrue broke out in song here, it would be the event of the season...but I will not embarrass myself. I am no singer. Just like I am no poet..."
"I am a painter," Hansl admits stolidly, "and not a poet or ... any of the rest that you mention, mein herr." He is not being as stiff as perhaps he would have, not so long ago. He is not relaxed - but that may be attributed to the surroundings. To him, to lose his head here would be disaster...
His hands, now empty of materials, they fold behind his back, at the base of his spine. "You honour me, herr," to William, "but danke. I will hope that the finished product will be worth the showing. And I have begun work on that portfolio of which we spoke." If the ears of the Court are indeed listening...
"Oh, no - I do not attend parties much," he demurs instantly, a hand held up as if refusing a drink. No, no thank you, I don't party - bad for my throat. "But ja - from here, Venice. From there, I do not yet know - back to here, I think, and then I will see. Und song? I imagine if you were to break into song," Hansl says seriously, "there will be many voices' accompaniment. Even if it makes a story. It would be something to do, ja? And many of those here, is that not why they are here?"
In this space, Ian is hiding. His coat off, he tosses it aside onto a nearby chaise, deciding to follow for a seat while the two of you discuss art. For his part, he finishes, "Do let William know if you wish a host and guide to New York," his hand waving after he pulls off a glove.
Discussion of portfolios. Something is afoot. Ian sighs as he sits down, glad for the momentary rest while he looks up and listens.
Moi? Swoop in and sign a talent under the nose and auspices of the Toreador Court? Make sure his work is shown in a Ventrue gallery before anyone else's? Moi? C'est moi...
William glances down where Ian sits, arm candy no more. "You know I can't help myself," a small smile. "When I meet young artists, my doors are not so surprisingly opened. Especially where there is talent," he takes Hansl into his attention then, before it returns to Ian.
As it always does...
You are my center of gravity. Wherever you are, my eyes are pulled there with no less a force than Gravity itself. Is it obvious? He lifts his newly plucked glass for a sip, handing it to Ian. "Tell me when you are ready," he offers his mate. And we will go to our rooms.
"I have to admit, I'm curious as to why I cannot go to the Hotel De Ville. What war have you started?" That mouth pulls into a curving slant. "You have been a little wicked... it is... " Something I have missed seeing. You, being wicked. "You playing a bit of the gremlin with the cogs of this ... French music box?" Meaning the Court and the old, classical Ventrue court to go with it.
He turns, looking to Hansl. "I am not nearly drunk enough. I would have to have several bottles of that brandy from the Gilded Lily before I were to make such a ...spectacle of myself. I do try to save that for Festivale."
The heels do not click, but there is that sketched bow, sketched salute to Ian. "You are very kind," Hansl says, gravity to his countenance and voice. It is not a funereal amount of gravity, but it is heavy, and falls to the floor with an audible thunk. Yes, he is embarassed. No, he is perhaps not the most political creature, for all his sincerity is visible.
"I admit," he begins, hesitantly, as if making the most shameful confession, "that I, too, am curious. If I am permitted to inquire - though I had no intention to go to De Ville." If it were only that speeches were refused, after all, there would be no need to warn the lowly Toreador neonate away, would there? Well, perhaps. They are yet Ventrue.
"That brandy was," Hansl begins, a hand lifting in sketch upon the air. Magnificent. Beyond words. He is not a poet - he proves it. Repeatedly. "Excellent, mein herr," he finishes, and the gravity draws his hand back down to his side. "Festivale? In Venice?" "It is a long story," Ian waves off, not wishing to get into it. More than likely, it's far too political to share in Toreador environments with a young Toreador. Lift of brows to William indicates 'I'll tell you later.' "Suffice to say," Ian explains, "...politic is politic. And apparently...I am currently of a mind for it. How silly of me," Ian chides himself.
The drink looks compelling now. He smiles and lifts his hand to receive a glass that William shall surely provide.
"And so, I keep hearing, young Hansl, that you have some talent. It is not the first time. Perhaps I should find this out myself?" Is it worthwhile?
He figured, so the look says and the quick smile. He gives the glass with the spreading of that smile. Oh, that look. Who here could mistake it? It is... simply...what it is. A look between lovers. William surrenders the glass easily, pivoting as Ian speaks to Hansl.
He must find another glass...
"It is very unlike what I see so much of, no disjointed forms... a return to something... I won't burden it with purity but a ... rejoicing, we shall say, in the human form." Some forms perhaps more than others. "Ah, merci," he says to another of the roaming goddesses, a nymph among nymphs wrapped in gauzy chiffon with a decanter of brandy. She gives him the glass, she pours it for him with a dimple and a blush. Just like old times.
The look on the German's face is distinctly nonplussed at Ian's words - not that politic being politic is any great surprise, but it is his automatic, innate reaction to accusations of talent. It is gone quickly; most would take it to be cupidity, though it is in fact no put-upon display.
"Some say so, mein herr," Hansl agrees cautiously, "but I do not feel that I am fit to pass judgment. If I were, I would burn all my works." As he has done so in the past, and been interrupted, and in the interruption, forbidden. "If you wish, of course, to pass such judgment yourself," such German words, really, unsurprising for the childe of a Teutonic knight, but almost unusual in decorum, "I should be pleased for you to see my works."
William receives a glance, the faint sketch of a smile, the turn on the heel back towards Ian then. "I am preparing a portfolio to be sent to London," to the Abbey. "If you wish, I could arrange a second, if that will not pass through your hands," as uncertain as he is as to how such business is handled; it would be indelicate to ask, worse to assume, worst yet to declare, "or I could arrange a courier to bring some piece around."
William's words receive another hinted smile and a slow nod of agreement. "We discussed modernism and post-modernism," Hansl assents. "I ... prefer to work with the form. The human figure, the arrangement and rearrangement of individuals in various settings."
Ian simply adds, despite talk of modernism, "No, no, I can see whatever is sent to London in a portfolio. Where's it going? I'll make arrangements to borrow it for a few nights. Really, I think you do not want me to pass judgement. My comments are on general aesthetic and its potential commodious nature." Ian blinks, thinks a moment, then smirks. "Commercial. How is that?"
"So, any judgement that I pass is not the basis upon which you should judge your own works. And...you should. Judge your own works, that is. Fairly so. If you cannot, then do not expect anyone else may either. And if you cannot, then, in truth, what is the point?"
Ian grins suddenly, turning his attention to William. He accepts the glass and his smile broadens before returning to Hansl.
"It is coming to me by way of The Abbey," William notes. New glass in hand, he turns, exhaling as he takes a seat upon the sofa beside Ian. How tempted he is to call one of the beauties of the court to hold his glass while he lights his cigarette. It makes him smile a little, sipping at the brandy before setting it aside on the small column acting as a tabletop.
Hands reach inside his suit's jacket, taking out his cigarette, his lighter. "Mais oui," he seconds. "The critical eye of another is only one view, you should have your own. It will be hard to improve without being able to see... things you do well, things you should improve, things you do not do well. You have to be the student and the teacher, ultimately..."
The grin is returned, and a look given. Upsweep, downsweep of lashes as the look...travels. My. "I have another glass when you empty that one," William remarks quietly. "It is ... a skill much as any other, Hansl. The critical eye... when to pull back and study your own work and when to ignore that study. It is a rhythm with yourself that you will have to find over time. I admit... I still struggle with it myself..."
"Ja. I have the address at my studio," Hansl agrees, "and will be sending it within ... perhaps the next fortnight." Speed is not of the essence, but promptness is a courtesy. He is more concerned that it be an ... accurate reflection of his work. He is such that it can only be accurate, never adequate in his own eyes.
"I will take your words to heart," Hansl offers, looking between Ian and William, "as you seem firmly in agreement, and attempt to become a - better judge, of my work. It is, I confess, not my strongest skill; I see what I meant to do and not what I do, when I look." Not the work, but the ideal. A frustrated optimist. He folds his hands behind his back, nodding soberly. "I hope you will like what you see," he tells Ian, then falls silent. As if out of words - he is over his quota for the quarter.
"It does not matter," Ian smiles, though it is an odd statement to make with a pleasant look. He must mean something else by the observation. "What matters is what you see and if you care, what the market will bear."
"I know, I know," Ian's hand waves, gloves gone, "...it is not the Toreador way."
Does not matter? Which? Hansl is confused, and confusion tends to make him lose speech - but this is a poor time to lose speech. He is being addressed. "I ... do not know what the market will bear, mein herr," he answers, the uncertainty making him stiffer, the more polite. "I do not follow it. I work, and," he shrugs; he does not sell his pieces, or has not, thus far. He has been discouraged from doing so - focus on the art, Hansl, not on mere finance.
"The Toreador way? I - suppose." There is the faint furrow of his eyebrows, the faint crease of his forehead. "I do not, you understand, think of it as such. I just - look; and I try to create. I am not very original," Hansl says candidly. "I interpret, reinterpret. I do not know if that truly counts as creation. A satirist of human conditions, rather. Is there a market for such?"
"It doesn't matter if I like what I see. That is...not what's important to you, or should not be," Ian smiles. Ah, but he is confusing. Ian shakes his head, "Nevermind. There is a market for all sorts of things, Hansl. Everything has a price, if you wish to know it. But a price, as I understand it," Ian grins at William, "...is not the whole of Value."
The cigarette is lit in the meantime. "The market is in constant flux. Caravaggio is a perfect example. Very controversial. Loved one century, reviled the next. The only thing you can do is hold on, like riding a camel on rollerskates." A plume of smoke leaves behind a smiling exhale.
"The market more is for the manager or agent to worry about, the gallery owner. That determines whether he...or she... will buy your work. You... paint, create, interpret, satirize, mock. Whatever you decide to do. There is a market for everything."
His eyebrows draw together in thought as he reaches out with his free hand, his other tending to the cigarette as he takes up his glass again. "I do not know if one clan has a ...way ...really. I am a Ventrue..." he smirks, leaning forward, "...or so the rumor goes, and yet my ways are not the supposed ways of my fellows." William shrugs. "It doesn't matter really. It's all about desire and drive in the end, Hansl. The rest..." Fuck it.
"I see." Hansl nods slowly, hands still behind his back as he listens to one, then the other. Halfway, he closes his eyes; then nods again. "Then all I might do is as I have done, nein? Create, and see. I have time." Little else, perhaps, but time. "I do not tend," he says simply, "to know of the ways of the clans. That is part of why I am here," Paris, "instead of elsewhere, perhaps. To pay attention." And learn. Hopefully.
"Create and examine," Ian offers. "I guess you leave the rest to those who care about the rest," he suggests. "But, in showing your work to William, then, I think you are in the best of hands."
William turns to Ian with a smile, offering his glass to him. "We should go soon, hmm? Have you had enough?" The cigarette is held in his mouth, balanced upon those lips. "I will be sure to show you the portfolio when it arrives."
Indigo eyes shift attention then to Hansl. "Do not rush, hmm? We are not on a schedule
William turns to Ian with a smile, offering his glass to him. "Merci... and...they are knowledgeable hands." He leans toward him. "We should go soon, hmm? Have you had enough?" The cigarette is held in his mouth, balanced upon those lips. "I will be sure to show you the portfolio when it arrives."
Indigo eyes shift attention then to Hansl. "Do not rush, hmm? We are not on a schedule. I should rather you not rush your process. There is no deadline," the smile is there also for the artist. "I am looking forward to it."
William looks to Ian. Ready?
"Ja, of course." Hansl nods, ice blue glance flicking to one and then the other. It is difficult, this; difficult to know what to say - he has exhausted his supply, it seems, and further words are more and more difficult to wring out of him. "I will do my best."
These words sound trite and meaningless, even to my own ears. I can only imagine how much moreso they must sound to them, who have been forced to hear them over and over again over the long centuries. I tire myself...
"I will not rush," Hansl turns to William, lowering his head in a long single nod, looking up and then lifting his head. "And I hope that it will be worth the anticipating. I fear though I have occupied you two good sirs long. Others will be irritated with me," his mouth quirks slightly; he doesn't really care entirely if they're irritated, he can always point out the - significance of the company, "and I should circulate before I return to my work."
It is true - it is not entirely ungraceful for all of its stiffness, even. And how uncomfortable he may be is nothing compared to how he will respond to the grilling he is bound to receive...
Ian nods at William, finishing the glass quickly, like nothing more than water. Ian exhales and stands suddenly, setting glass aside and replacing it with his coat and gloves. "Go ahead and attend to your duties," he says evenly. He can understand obligation, for certes.
"Give Villon our best this evening," Ian says, slapping gloves in his hand. A nice tidbit to bring. "We shall see him before we depart." If you wish to convey such. But perhaps you are not so opportunistic.
"Certainement," William says, glancing around then looking to Hansl. There is a sudden grin, and a flicker of a wink. "You should ...mingle...hmmm? God only knows what the gossip du jour shall be..."
He says nothing of Villon. He stands, looking to Ian as he does so. Yes, he is ready to go. He finishes his own glass and sets it aside. "Hansl, it was a pleasure," he offers his hand. "I look forward to hearing from you ...soon." That smile, it is trademark now, no? "Enjoy Paris..."
Mingle. Gossip. Villon. These concepts make his stoic expression go the blanker. Ah, yes, Hansl, and would you like a nice hot poker to the buttocks while you're at it? An inwards sigh, held at bay, for Duty. "Of course." Very Germanic. Very steady. That's a good fellow. "I will convey your regards to the Prince."
There is that forward jerk of a bow, the heels almost clicking - you can, if you listen closely, hear the whisper of shoe leather - and up again. First to Ian, then to William, then to the two together. The offered hand is taken with some mild shocked surprise, shaken and relinquished all with the same military firmness and precision - not because it is a farewell, but because he is almost audibly girding his loins.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends...
"You will hear from me," Hansl agrees, "and I shall send the photographs when they have developed. It is my hope you will both enjoy, hein? Gut nicht - bon soir."
Hansl turns away. He has a Prince to find and bring word to, courtiers who swarm like butterflies to decaying things to fend off, vultures as well to feast on carrion of gossip to ward away. How very German he feels among all this. Another evening among the night creatures of Paris.
Posted by rowan at February 10, 2005 09:33 PM
