It is only out in the clear air of night that a man can truly think. And with so many voices speaking so much...nothing... who can think within? Who can truly contemplate the wonders that Villon surrounds himself with when the nothingness is ... so heavy.
And so I have come to the gardens to... as St. Francis would say... liberate my soul...
So fine, the features of his face, are lifted to the night. And the dark hair has been left to its own devices, ringlets of such dark curls left hanging free. And the gravel of the garden sounds beneath his feet. And trailing behind him, the sound of his voice. Seraphim in heaven weep for the sound of it...
Clothed he is in no less than elegance. Something of Venice. A silk shirt, draped over by a silk suit jacket, tailored... sewn... specifically for him. The black trousers are likewise of this silk. How it drapes him. Michelangelic form. Though he predates Michelangelo by a ... few years...
And fluttering, draped around his neck, a velvet scarf, black and red.
And the humming becomes the song of which it was a shadow. "Rex tremendae majestatis... qui salvandos salvas gratis... salva me... fons pietatis..."
A choral piece... most befitting to his tenor without compare. And as he sings, he smiles. And as he smiles, he strides. Mozart dripping from his lips with such ease.
You are better than any tenor than I can recall, comes the Latin in your head, said with the lulling tone of a practiced priest. Native tongue, they say, but few can confirm such Truth.
Most would never see him. But you do. It is not such a surprise, seeing him standing within a hedge. Christian puts a finger up to his lips, then motions over his shoulder.
Familiar sounds that. A pair behind him.
Is he eavesdropping? Obfuscate will let you do that. But for you...well...you are one of the few who can see Christian Lausanne's moving form.
His heeled boots are silent. Absolutely. A vein of absent sound encases him. It only serves to make his obfuscation even more deadly. He smirks and motions you to join him, the black PVC corset also dulled to nothingness when he moves.
And the PVC pants, painted on. From them, negative noise.
But silence is the key. Finger lowers from his lips, and he twists to hear the sounds from within the hedge. A master of Telepathy, Lausanne is. Not the one-way bits learned by younger members of your shared clan, the lifting of thoughts. This is true telepathic skill. He breaks not his Sphere of Silence, beckoning you to join him.
And so he turns, and so he sees you. And there the smile. And the steady softening of his voice...
To a whisper...
Then a breath...
Then not even an echo upon the air. And night enfolds him. And steps upon the gravel die to nothingness. His stride, so graceful, is as floating upon the air. There is no sound. And though there is for you a smile, nothing passes his lips.
Girault Lifts two amused brows, dark arches of wonder. And now your Sphere of Silence has another occupant. Past the vision you make, invisible though you are to everyone else, his dark eyes shift to the bushes...
A true compliment. You are going to make me blush, my dear Christian...
Girault at your shoulder. The smile upon his lips. What have you to show me? A present, for me? Is it Baby Jesus' Birthday already?
The couple inside would faint to know that they are being watched. They would have an apoplectic fit to know their watchers were elders. They'd simply die realizing it is the Elder of Elders and the head of the Fashion Gestapo himself.
The only thing worse would be if Toreador itself appeared.
Okay. That won't happen. So some relief can be accepted.
Christian smiles at your comment, peering through the bushes again. The state of our Justicars. Do you think they even realize how foolish they look? Or that they're providing fine humor? The Latin is imperfect. Imprecise. The mark of a native. What think you of vampires, of any age, who engages in such twisting of bodies? As if....something may come of it all? Christian's hands move to his hips, and a foot sticks out. Oh, look at that as one of the pair, a young man, fondles the girl's breast he might as well just rip it off. Shameful. The decline of the Toreador forte. Bad sex.
Softer than the touch of Air Itself. The touch of Girault's hand -- invisible to all save you -- lands upon your shoulder. A skim of his fingers, a tilt of his head. His dark curls, they are like curls of Night Itself. The smile, blithe and curving. The eyes, smoldering. Something of coals on fire. Embers. A gleam of cinnamon now and again, like fire.
You cannot hear, but you can feel his amusement. I enjoy the twisting of bodies... but they... my dear Christian... are missing the point. Such grasping and clinging... this is true, it will come to nothing. But if they were studious, they would find hidden delights that the frail mortal body simply could not endure... His Latin is more precise, studied, and later than your own, but his modulates, blending. Girault tips his head back, inclining with a grin.
There is no arguing, however, my dear Christian, that it is bad form. It will take centuries to correct this... A hand moves immaterial to the world. Someone should open a college. It is sad, that one must be taught to do that which is most natural...
Not that he does not enjoy the twisting, but the point is them, not him. Christian glances at the touch, then smirks as he looks back at the pair. Someone should volunteer to teach them. They'd never sit straight again. Bad form? Bah. It's worse than bad form. It's ignoring all that you were created in. But yes, someone should have a college... Hmm.
Ah well. Christian sighs and comes upright again, angling himself to face you. And how are you, Most Gracious Dignitary? green eyes dropping as he fishes into a pocket for something. The mind keeps talking. It has been a while? Let's see.. eyes come up and rolled item exposed in his fingers ...oh..right...I have not seen you since...that small incident in...no wait... green eyes look up to recall ...was it in Belgrade? No, that was someone else. Algiers?
You can see it. Wavering in his gaze. I should say something. This is outrageous! Outrageously funny. I am bored, Christian. You know... it happens... whenever I come to Villon's parties. I always end up in a garden, or finding someone for the night to hopefully entertain me. An inaudible sigh. I swear to you in this garden beneath the stars that for the next party of his I attend I am coming in a dress. I cannot stand the routine of it all...
And you know he will...
But finally he turns from the comedy of errors before him and looks to you. The humor softens into something at least somewhat more genuine. Has it been as long as Algiers... Curls drape backward from his face. That beautiful face. And then he grins. You are going to make me wistful, Christian. So... amice, what brings you here? Just a chance to watch fools fumble and think themselves students of Casanova, or ...
Of course, he could know it for himself if he bothered to look, but... there are some things better asked.
Green eyes are still turned up until you ask questions. Oh, where was it? I have no idea. I try not to remember things Christian smirks, moving along the edge of the hedge. Soon he will find an opening, and voila!, he'll have an unobstructed view of the pair.
Fingers mingle and pull a slip of paper off the tiny roll. PVC extends to the backs of his hands, loops around the fingers to keep the PVC fixed up the line to his shoulders. Villon's parties are not so bad, hmm? Where else can you laugh hysterically for hours on end? But that is not his main thought. A passing observation. What brings me here, that is your query Christian nods, opening his fanged mouth and slipping the paper between bottom lip and gums. Passing through...Villon was not expecting me. I think he was surprised when I glided through the doors between beings. That gets a smirk. The tiny roll is offered to you...certainly something chemicaled covers the squared slips.
As I was saying, he sighs, ...in the neighborhood. I think I am to give a lesson at Merinde's party tomorrow, Christian's lips slyly curl. If it's a party at Merinde's, then someone will die. That...is the event. As if he cares so much. But he works hard to ensure that he fits a role, and it's a role that's comfortable. And funny. I gather you will miss the affair? I will not be there so long, in truth. No, something else is happening.
A tilt of his head to the side. Is he trying to mount her or is that some strange French interpretive dance... amice... help me understand this...ah, I cannot stay silent, amice. This is an affront to every working penis! Fingers slip out, gliding ethereal as chemicaled paper is taken. A flick of his tongue and it is curled. Held to dissolve. Such ... eloquent grace. Such as the wrangling pair will never know.
I will miss it, but please... amice, give my respects... Laughter dances in his eyes. Oh yes, do give that. I am going to return to the palazzo, I think. Or perhaps I shall surprise Plantagenet. I never know...it will depend upon the direction of the wind and my humor in the Moment... A shrug. It is always the way with Girault. There is something that calls me to Italy. Much is happening in Rome. But... you will have to visit me... come to Florence, Christian Lausanne. Better her by your presence...
Dionysus had nothing on you, Christian smirks, eyes narrowing as he looks across the clearing. What the hell is that? He sighs and shakes his brown hair, bobbing his head at your acceptance of the party favor. That, he deposits back into a skintight pocket.
What's going on in Rome? he thinks idly, head tilting to the side to watch the pair, as if that would explain everything.
That brings a smile. Ah, my darling. Flattery. You know it is the surest way into this Florentine heart. It amuses and pleases. And the beautific face turns toward you. The smile is spreading smoothness. Silken.
And what breeze there is toys with the tendrils of his hair. Moving them with invisible fingertips. Adoring. Softly adoring. A meeting to discuss the calamity in Africa. A mess made long ago that needs righting. Like so much else. Girault suddenly smiles and turns his attention back to the wrangling pair.
I should start with the bad technique...
That's perhaps the best for now...
No need to take on too much. Africa's woes have gone on for two millenia....these kids need help.
Hands suddenly clap, and the maestro is visible. Stepping out and 'tsking'. "Deus meus... children, what do you think you are doing? You call that copulation? It's not even fucking. Move your hips for Christ's sake, use your back and shoulders. Be like the roll of the ocean," and now his hands are gesticulating in his usual style and he is pacing a semi circle around them. "Not like a children's paddleball game... who taught you how to do this?" Hands wave in the air, "Nevermind, it does not matter. You are now in my tutelage. And due to the seriousness of the case, I shall do it pro bono..."
And then comes the grin -- and who can deny him? "Mademoiselle... bona sera..."
Bah, you are wasting your time, Girault. Christian thinks, the lament obvious. You are a better being than I am...and tell them to put some energy into it, hmm? I have seen spawning trout with more passion.
Glancing up at the doors to the Tuilieries portico, Christian pauses for an instant. I'm being called he notes. Perhaps there are others...who may indeed be out of view. I will come to Rome, he says softly, Latin more mellifluous than any modern understanding of it, just let me know a convenient time. And I will give your regards to the degenerates tomorrow eve. At Merinde's.
Blow them a kiss, my Christian. And, si, come to me in Rome. There is much to do...
A leather sole lands upon the rump of the young man and presses downward. Rhythmically. "Put a little 'ooomph!' in it. Mademoiselle... you will agree with me, si?"
"Listen to her, finally a moan!"
Ah, I do so love being me, Lausanne...and you, so good to Girault-Antonio to show him the way to his night's amusement!
So glad I could help..? Christian smirks in his full PVC glory, unseen to the world. Save you. Unsure of what he's done, he quirks his head at the pair, then shakes it dismissively. Such hands on work, he'll leave to you.
Ah, but you are the Maestro, he thinks, giving you a faint half-salute. A wink and he turns about, invisibly walking to the world. Seen by none, save One.
Posted by rowan at February 19, 2005 10:41 AM
