Last December, it was a very soggy affair. There were seven small floods and one great acqua alta event that ushered in Christmas festivities and the new year. New years in Venice, they are noted in watermarks that have been steadily rising. Last year, such changes were in the inches.
But this December, where water was expected (and by one particular visitor, actually anticipated) there is instead snow. And not just a dusting of snow. Several inches of snow hide the stones of the Piazza San Marco and icicles hang from the open mouths of St. Mark's golden lions. The gondola are nowhere to be seen, and in fact few tourists at this hour.
But the coffee is still being poured, warmth exudes from the Cafe Quadri, turning the snow to slush at the archways. Its windows are frosted over, the lights within making it seemed like stained glass. And as long as there is coffee being poured, there are a few hearty souls in the Campo San Marco.
He cuts an impressive figure out there in the middle of all that whiteness. Dressed in a black suit with a black overcoat, his neck and nose shielded from the Adriatic breeze by a cashmere scarf, William d'Angevin brushes snow from his ermined hands. Snowflakes caught in black hair, he looks like the spirit of winter night himself. Though olived cheeks are ruddied with the temperature, he doesn't even feel it.
Scotland has Venice beat for cold any night of the year...
A table remains in the square -- in fact, all of the usual tables are yet there, though all of them are empty, those few enough insane to venture forth are far more sanely inside. With his gloved hands, he dusts off the tabletop. As if he's preparing to have his coffee al fresco.
He moves through the streets like the expectation of war - not war itself, but its forerunning shadow. His footsteps are the solid steps of a march - remembered by muscle even if not intentionally summoned up. How else does one walk without slipping, through such wilderness?
His booted feet land, not ringingly but solidly. One foot in front of the other. His long coat is not black but dark grey that's a little lighter than charcoal, solid and warm. It isn't so bad, really. Germany is colder. But he isn't thinking of Germany, tonight.
He's run off and forgotten his hat, wandering through the streets as he is. Snow dusts the blonde locks that have been allowed to grow, no longer cropped to military standards. His hair falls forward into his eyes now, eyes as glacial in colour as the winter he finds himself in.
Hansl, where are you going? There are fireplaces waiting for you, and pen and ink, or paint, or warm blood. Why do you end up here? And I do not know. I have something ticking in the back of my brain - and I want to learn what it is before the alarm goes off. But, I do not know. I do not know...
It is he, of course. He has by now gotten himself lost - his footprints behind him filling up rapidly with falling snow, the street signs offering him a perfect blank. St. Mark's? Good enough. Hansl realigns his feet in a new pattern - preparing a new direction. Winter is all around.
Snow crystals seem to catch on fire with the opening of the door to the old Quadri. Out of it, a waiter is bundled against the elements, cursing under his breath at the one insane patron who seems determined to be outside. "Signore, signore... non sareste parte interna piu comoda? E parte interna calda," he says aloud to a man who, upon nearing him, he can clearly see is no tourist.
Ah, it is even worse than I thought, the expression of the waiter says, he is a crazy Venetian. The waiter gestures inside, then hugs his arms around himself.
William glances up, indigo eyes resting on the mortal who, unfortunately, still feels the nip in the air with all his nerves lain bare and open to the chill. He sends the snow scattering to his feet and off of the seat of the chair. "No, sono ritrovamento qui. Portimi il carafe del vostro arabo," William says, giving his scarf a slight tug.
With such a look, the waiter stops chattering his teeth and he nods. "Si, signore. Sara giusto un momento." Like Christmas lights, the hanging icicles glow with the illumination that appears when the waiter opens the door and returns inside.
Frosty breath leaves him in a sigh, lingering and frosting before dissolving altogether. His gloved hand slips inside his overcoat of wool, removing a flask. There is method, apparently, in such madness. And a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. William takes a swig from the container, sets it upon the table and turns to look over the white world. It is begging for a battle, all of this snow, he thinks. His full mouth makes much of the slight smile that follows.
If Ian were here, the battle would already be in progress...
For him, it is not about battle. He stops part-way across the square, and he looks. It is material. It is canvas. It is beautiful. And suddenly, he forgets about the cold. He moves purposefully forward, gaze suddenly turned inwards and upwards.
He scoops snow with both hands, ignoring the tingling cold where flakes touch exposed skin between gloves and coat cuffs. Gradually, it begins to take form - shapeless lumps gradually being tuned like a harp, becoming graceful lines and forms. An angel - no, a guardian. Legs delineated and moving into the trunk, headless for now. Quickly, an oblong block is formed at its side; gradually, it is given definition. Not a sword, then, but a crutch. Hansl looks back and forth from his material to his work.
More - it needs more. He has to reach up to place snow onto the shoulders, on tiptoe to create the details of face, of hair, of clothing. Water - water would be useful. Better for sculpting, better for fine details - but he has none, and to stop would be to interrupt inspiration. Into a pocket, a hand goes, withdraws a sable brush. He uses the pointed tip to draw, the fibers to dust snow gently from carved surfaces. It is Venice, isn't it? A mural - al fresco.
The door opens again and a far more prepared waiter returns, bundled up and bearing a carafe of Turkish coffee -- Cafe Quadri's hallmark -- and a cup with him. Now there are two lunatics playing in the snow. One at least has alcohol. "Signore," he says to the man in black.
Several bills (large bills) pass from William's hand to the waiter's pressed there in a brief grasp. "Grazie, qui... per essere paziente con me," he smiles. The waiter bobs his head as if to say: It is no problem, sir, I bring coffee to men sitting in the snow every day.
He pours a cup for himself, adds a bit of brandy, and lifts it to his mouth. An eyebrow arches upward to see another figure walking forward. Then stopping. Then scooping up snow. And suddenly there is sculpture taking place.
Well, the Square had an audience. And now it appears that it has a show.
Cradling his cup, William takes a seat on the tabletop, his coat warmed by the presence of the carafe, his feet on the chair. "Se ci fosse piu neve, farei una copia del basilica. Forse domani sera," he offers to the person out there. He chuckles at his own boast, and then takes another healthy swallow of the brandied coffee.
Hansl starts slightly, looking up towards the speaker. Recognition sprints into his gaze, though his gaze is rapidly taken over again by that guiding muse. He begins forming more figures, around the first.
"Ja," he agrees as he drops to one knee. "There would be a need for much more. Me, I will make do with this, and probably regret it later, using up my energy this way." Like de Balzac - if one has only so much creative energy, then one must choose upon what to use it.
The crippled, the wounded, the maimed, the infirm - they begin to take recognizable form around the central figure. Hansl is working quickly, though not so quickly as to cause unnatural results. "It is a pleasure to see you again, mein herr. Have you been long in Venice?" He looks, though, at his hands as he speaks, for all that his interest is genuine.
"Only since last night," William answers, his smile hidden by his lifted cup. It is already time for a refill. He pours more Turkish, then laces it with brandy. "I came for the rain, hoping to see a flood or two. Yes, it is an odd thing to say, I realize."
Inclining his head, William watches Hansl continue. Such figures he makes. An eyebrow lifts inquisitive. For a moment, that is the only voice his question is given. "It is good to see you again as well. I received your works, by the way. We should talk sometime about this. I am here for a week. And the painting of myself..." He smiles at the rim of the cup. "It was interesting, what you saw."
"So why are they limping, Hansl," William wonders suddenly. "What is it you are seeing out there in the snow. The ghosts of the prisoners marching from the Bridge of Sighs?"
Snow rarely makes him think of the infirm and the maimed. It only comes with warm thoughts, such cold weather. It makes him happy. Yes, and sentimental.
"Floods," Hansl remarks, voice distracted, "are remarkable things. Such destruction comes with them. Suffering," he kneels, working on the figure of a woman with one arm, "with the passing of man's works. But in their wake, the earth is renewed. People rebuild, and find the earth has become richer for the passage. As if," he smoothes the woman's hair gently into being, "God relents."
He rises to his feet, dusting snow off his knees, then turns to glance again to William. "I am glad," he says simply. "I feared they might not reach you." He moves back to the central figure in all this suffering, frowning in Teutonic perturbation. It needs something. Something. But what? "I do not know what I saw," he answers, distraction still pulling him back to his work with Toreador weakness. "But if as you say it was interesting, I only hope that it was done well. Though it could not do well enough, I am certain."
He moves around the central figure, then abruptly reaches in and breaks off its hand. Taking up more snow, he rebuilds the hand by degrees, so that its palm now faces upwards, cradled in towards its stomach. "They are limping," Hansl says absently, "because they are lame. All souls are wounded. It is when we learn to - treat our wounds or ignore them - that we can stand on our own feet." He drops again, quickly sketching the suggestion of another crutch in the snow, fallen, discarded, then rises. "Triumph in adversity. Success - even if only partial, lends wings to humanity."
"I fear you are too deep for me tonight, Hansl." William sips at his coffee. "Perhaps it is because my bottom has gone numb. But... I know what you mean. A very worthy subject for Venice in particular. I will remember that when I am working on the foundations next year."
He would offer you coffee but you would not hear that perhaps. Toreador distraction is singular in its focus and powerful. Ventrue chit-chat aside.
William rises, coffee cup in his hand. He makes his way toward your work, careful not to disturb any of the images or sculptures. The Adriatic wind moves through his short, inky hair and toys with the ends of his scarf.
"I could see you with a chainsaw, blocks of ice, making sculptures in the square." He smiles at the brim of his cup, tipping it for another sip. "I see the marks and right now can only think of mathematics."
When he is busy being an engineer, art turns to artifice, to exact lines, to perspective of a different sort. William tilts his head, indigo eyes on your work, and he strolls around the perimeter of it. "How long have you been in Venice? Enjoying it more this time than last?"
"I have never used a chainsaw, but I have used one of those buzzing blades - the kind that plugs into the wall," Hansl admits, paintbrush again in hand. "Ice is excellent for sculpting - reusable, renewable, inexpensive, and once may get accustomed to frustration. And if anger overrides all else - you do little harm by taking a sledge to the blocks."
He uses his mouth to pull off his glove, slapping it onto his shoulder. Rubbing the back of his wrist against his forehead, he stares up at the lame man central to his impromptu work. "I have been in Venice for five nights," Hansl answers automatically. "It is enjoyable - ja. I have been busy. I have been told to slow down, but," a wide shrug, "I cannot. I find myself somewhere, and I must work. Like this. You see?"
Abruptly, he jams his index finger in his mouth, tearing the skin on a fang behind his lips. He lifts his finger, and gently, carefully he tips blood drops into the shell of one snow-crafted eye. The blood runnels and trickles down, first fast, then slow, frozen in a halt. A small amount of blood. A faint scarlet teardrop. And then, at the corner of the mouth - deepening and turning one corner up. A slight smile - bloodied, but unbowed.
Hansl steps back, exhaling a breath he didn't need to have taken. "It is as finished as I will be able to make it," he says mournfully. "It will snow again, and I have done what I can. A waste. It is not good enough, and I have no camera besides."
"Not a waste," William corrects quietly. "I am here to see it. And enjoy it. Snow is no more temporary than most canvas." The blood on the snow makes him think of snowcones for vampires suddenly and his mouth makes another humored smile, warmer than his coffee now. Turning, he tosses the rest of the liquid onto a patch of snow.
"How long will you be here? We should make arrangements to meet again. Ian and I are staying on Lido," the resort island across the bay from the Campo San Marco. Its new hotels a splendor in the snow, their lights creating the ideal of Christmas.
"Yes, I see," the corners of William's mouth upturn. "I do the same when I am inspired. But ... I have not been so compelled lately. I am focused that building there." He gestures to the illuminated dome of the Santa Maria Della Salute, visible from this square. It is not so far. "I do not know when I'll paint again. Or even if."
"As long as someone has seen it," Hansl is slightly mollified, "then I suppose it is not waste. Ja. And I am here for two weeks further. I have a room a few blocks away from where I am working." He still lives simply. Not out of a need for self-punishment, but out of a wariness of gifts and their attached strings - and perhaps a dubiousness of his own ability to repay.
He turns, slowly pulling his glove back on. He has stopped bleeding already. Some small amount of blood will stain the lining and he will need to dispose of the gloves, if only out of mistrust of clan Tremere. "Is the work going well? And you have left a mark, mein herr." Hansl answers seriously. "But it would still be a pity if you never did paint again."
"I have begun to ask myself the question," William replies as seriously. "What does one paint, when one has painted everything?" He smiles both at himself and at the thought that he is, after all, quite ancient.
"It is still in the planning stages, but I am hopeful. We will see. It is very challenging. But I fully expect it will be better once I am done. While it does not melt in the sun," William smiles, "...it is not that much more permanent than your snow."
Indigo eyes return to you. "I do not think the dry spell is permanent either. One night, I will paint something. Who knows. Maybe I will have you sit for me one night and I can return the favor. Would you care for a Turkish coffee before it goes completely cold?"
A blink. He is unaccustomed to being the subject and not the painter, and so you have confused him. Hansl retreats into the silence that is for a German, sputtering incomprehension. "Danke," he manages awkwardly after the silence, "if you wish, I will make myself available for your pleasure."
Someone has got to teach him about these nuances, but for now - he remains unaware of any misspeaking. "Coffee? Ah. Ja, ja, I am cold," he says in some surprise, as if he had not been subjecting himself to frozen water for the past while. "But have you painted everything?" That is a question more interesting to him than even coffee's warmth.
He'd have taken the car if he'd thought of it.
But sometimes, now-nights, thought happens after motion. Motion happens, and for an instant, it seems as if it generates itself. A spontaneous action borne ex nihilo.
But he knows it is not true. The universe that allows him to exist knows the truth. Thoughts are but fleeting. A flick of a spark somewhere ahead of time. It calls backwards to move the engine forward. No longer is it fair to complain of the mortal coil - such dross cannot hear its future self reaching back in Time to make itself reach the present. To walk towards the future.
The car is unnecessary. Before the noise made itself known, Ian had put on his camel-colored coat and walked out of the sumptuous apartments. Winter in Venice was the conversation and agreement. This time, he did not mind. A change of pace, for certain, and far damper than the stone of Strathfayr.
Stephen had only heard the closing of the door.
The snow crushes underfoot, and the sound of it fills Ian's ears. One step in front of the other, hands in his pockets, his stride carries him across a canal and down a street. He is barely acknowledged by the others also out in this weather, yet they keep a distance from who-knows-what.
It is only when he hears a set of voices with meaning that he looks up. Somewhere, he can feel what he seeks. There. Ian smiles to himself, that infamous pace slowing, and he turns towards the square a block over, letting the universe lead him where he wishes.
William quirks at something on the wind as a gloved hand takes the yet steaming carafe of coffee and refills his own cup. "I suppose I should amend that," the door to the Cafe Quadri opens again and the waiter, no less agreeable now than before, comes out again. "Another cup please," William asks him. The man stops in his tracks and then, nodding, heads back inside.
"I have not painted every single thing, but ... most motifs. Most archetypes. Sunsets, sunrises, mountains, valleys and cities. Inner turmoil," he goes on with a grin, "outer turmoil." When the waiter returns, he brings another cup and the tugs on his own scarf so he can speak clearly:
"Ci saranno niente altro, signore? Pane?"
"No, quello e benissimo. Un altro carafe sarebbe buono, tuttavia. Grazie molto."
The waiter nods, then makes a Venetian wave. Yes, yes, you are grateful I am freezing, I know. He disappears into the cafe again.
"Here," William offers a cup to Hansl with the outstretch of his hand. "I have been painting for..." he pauses for the math. "... let us say, over five-hundred years. So, after so long, so much time... I do not know what there is left to do. But you," his mouth spreads in a smile as he sips at the coffee. "Ah, scuzzi," he apologizes, lifting the flask and adding a dollop of brandy to yours and then to his. "There, that is better."
His lips twist at something, and he sips at the coffee as he thinks on it. You are near. I can feel you. You have come out to find me? Playing in the snow. "You," William continues, pivoting toward Hansl, "... are at the beginning. While I'm not saying I'm at the end, I'm... at least half way through." And at that he laughs, and then he shrugs.
He has the obliviousness of youth. Youth, even in undeath - it affords certain carelessness, or so they say. Hansl accepts the cup with a brief flare-up of that silent confusion, then nods. Do not show uncertainty.
"Ja, of course. It is a large time difference." Hansl swipes his hand against the back of his neck where the collar falls away, then lifts the cup to his lips with his other. A swallow. "I do not know where I will end up. But right now, I am driven." His gaze skews towards the snow sculptures - triumph over tragedy. "I should," he says critically, "knock them down before I go."
"Why?" comes the voice at Hansl's back. The tails of a coat swing forward at knee length, around the knees of the young man he stands behind.
"They're not so bad," Ian observes, looking at each of them at length - in much the same way as the sculptor skews at them.
Laughter sounds in the color of his eyes. It fell short of his throat at the arrival of His Other. "That's a nice way of putting it," he murmurs. A large time difference indeed.
The waiter returns with another carafe. Ah, the lunatics are starting to multiply. There is another one. This time he leaves the coffee without further commentary.
Taking the refresher pot, William heats the liquid in his own cup with steaming reinforcements. "It might be more interesting to let Nature take care of it herself. Buona sera, il mio amore," he says aloud to the other one there. He offers his cup with the upraising of eyebrows. Coffee?
There's a negative shake of Ian's head as he touches Hansl's back and moves around him into general view. "Too cold," he notes for the record on coffee. Besides - it makes him sick.
"You should leave your sculptures for others," Ian recommends, making sure his coat is closed before he takes his seat. "A generous, overnight benefactor, creating temporary works of art from the most available tool set before him." You should think he sells the stuff.
"A charity and gift so much of Venice, from one who walks its streets. Creating from what is before him." Ian grins as his gaze passes his lap, a comment made to himself in his head.
Hansl turns, caught by surprise. He offers a slightly awkward, stiff-legged bow and straightens. "They are temporary. But perhaps, ja - for the elements to decide." Generous? The thought makes his brow furrow, and he falls silent again. Public relations didn't lose a brilliant inventor in the German.
"There is also brandy," William notes for the record, his head nodding to his flask after he whispers. The table and chairs have been swept clean of their snow. There is a pack of cigarettes and a lighter for anyone to help themselves to. He has not yet had one.
He seems content with the coffee and conversation for now...
"You could become this year's winter attraction. A new night, a new snow sculpture. At least until it starts to rain." Which should happen. Eventually. Yes? William glances up to the clouds and smirks. Eventually.
He takes the other seat, eyebrows quirking at the chill for only a moment. He will let Ian thaw him out later. William grins at the thought, turning that smile to his partner. "So why are you not my manager?" he wonders aloud with a chuckle.
You could sell ice to the eskimos.
Ian grins at the notion of being William's manager, his grin always accompanied by the boyish downturn of his face. "It would be a fun gift to the city, yes?" Ian lifts to Hansl. "But," gloved hand lifts and waves, "I apologize for interrupting." Perhaps such a public thing is not in nature. "You were conversing about something," not that he really paid much attention, "and I have brought up something odd and new," he observes.
"You were not interrupting, mein herr." Another sketched suggestion of Teutonic bow. "But ja, I will leave them here, and if any do appreciate it, then, they may enjoy." Hansl folds his hands behind his back, posture erect. "If it is enjoyed, then that is enough." He closes his mouth on that statement, at parade rest.
There is a look shared as the grins go back and forth. "We were talking about my having painted everything. And his enjoying Venice," William quietly summarizes.
An idea suddenly occurs to him. Why are we sitting outside in the cold when we could be having really fine brandy in our suite?
He looks to Hansl, an invitation on his lips. But at seeing how stiff the boy is at the moment, such an invitation might make him snap in two.
"Are you doing any more sculpting tonight? Perhaps you would like to join the Earl here and I for a drink on the island. I should like to thank you for the portrait..."
Posted by rowan at December 03, 2005 07:36 PM
