The world has altogether changed and become different. This is not the world that I have known since childhood; this is some other world. Though the sky is blue and the sea is grey and a different blue and sometimes green, though there is only one sun and one moon as unalterably fixed in the sky as if these worlds were one and the same, there is nothing the same about them.
     And you know, I'm alright with that...
     Tiernan Toy-Maker, Prince Tiernan of Winter Diamond, Terry Winter. He is who he is. He stands in the square outside the cathedral, hands in the pockets of his coat. The look of him is is undeniably British; the dark hair, slightly ruffled, the blue eyes, the light complexion and British 'business casual' for his dress - dark trousers, dark coat, white dress shirt, dark tie. His blue gaze is turned upwards to the top of the cathedral, contemplation quiet in his face.
     Is he a religious man? But he is facing the cathedral; not coming out of it, and making no movement to enter. When a woman brushes past him, he murmurs a 'perdone' and checks his wallet in the same reflexive motion. Tiernan is sometimes an innocent, but he is no fool...

     The Santa Maria Della Salute is now six months into her ten year restoration period. Though the Catholic authorities have demanded the cathedral be opened for services, her girdle is completely surrounded by a chainlink fence held up by cement blocks. Between the chainlink fencing and the building itself are coring equipment, men in hard-hats (even at this hour of the early evening) and spotlights around areas of activity. The foundation reinforcements, running two full shifts, will still take over a year to complete. It is a large structure and a big job, to be sure.
     The heaviest equipment and greatest portion of personnel appear to be congregating at a particular side of the basilica, the area of the building experiencing the greatest amount of sagging. Yes, marble sags, particularly if it is sitting on pilings set into what amounts to a marsh. Such is the true challenge of Venice.
     Just prior to that area where workmen are converging and carrying materials, face masks protecting their noses and mouths from the marble dust and other material, a tall, dark-haired and olive-skinned man stands as a giant among smaller Venetian counterparts. Like the others, he is dressed all in white, a white workshirt and sturdy work-trousers, black shoes with reinforced toes and soles. He wears a blue hardhat, two wear white and the rest yellow; he, the lead engineer. "Realmente desidero rifinire questo angolo prima che le pioggie cominci," this figure speaks as he approaches where you stand, the others following him. "...Sono interessato circa questa incurvatura. Ci e sforzo aumentato sul marmo, spezzarsi e accelerare durante i venti anni scorsi." He pauses, turning toward them. "Saro presto indietro aiutare. Fate prego il mio denominare numero... se avete bisogno di. Grazie che tutto... rendiamo questo accadere per Venezia."
     William puts a hand to the shoulder of one as softer words are exchanged. This man, whomever he is: he is beautiful. There is a presence about him, one that demands that eyes turn his way. It is impossible to ignore him. Even more so when he smiles. Removing his hard hat, his hand raking through short black hair, he approaches where you stand. He moves past the chainlink barrier by picking up a section of the metal fencing and physically (but easily) lifting and shoving it slightly ajar.
     A forearm swipes away the sweat from his forehead, and he glances at you. Behind you, the Venetian sun is setting. There is not much of it visible now. Enough to see him clearly. There is violet in his eyes -- a trick of the spotlighting?

     He tilts his head, though says nothing. There's something of the raven to him, a bird-like, avian quality to him, as if he is but resting here and might at any moment, be startled into taking flight. Measuring by eye, he follows the line of the fence where it cuts across the marble structure - and so his gaze falls upon you.
     Curiouser and curiouser, said Alice...
     Tiernan rubs the back of his head, absently smoothing his hair back down again as he steps forward to get a better look. He is looking at you, but, really, he is just as much looking at what is being done; at what is going on. He keeps moving until he has one hand loosely tucked up against the fence, fingers hooking into the mesh while his other hand is in his pocket.
     "Spiacente se sto interrompendo. Posso chiedere che cosa e quello sta accadendo qui?"
     He has a quiet voice, but one capable of making itself known when he has to. There is something in his eyes, perhaps, when he speaks thus. Something in his face. He steps back after he's spoken, hand falling again, tucking into the other pocket. Ma se ora e un tempo difettoso... Spero che possa essere perdonato. Sono interessato appena."

     "Buona sera," William says, his voice a rich baritone, its greeting tone is warm. There is nothing about him that does not scream Italy. Only his height and breadth (for he is not by any means a small man) give his strangeness away. "Naturalmente non. Siete benvenuti osservare e, naturalmente, chiedere. Stiamo lavorando al refitting i fondamenti del basilica ed a ristabilire sia l'esterno che l'interiore."
     He pauses for a moment and then reaches out with his free hand (his hard hat in his other). "...il mio nome e Guillaume. Siete interessati nel ripristino, costruente... il signore...?" His indigo eyes -- they are a dark blue-violet, becoming darker with the setting of the sun. It is becoming evening as you are standing here.
     His name is Guillaume. That is not of Italy and as he says it, France begins to color his words. Having lived with Italians now for some time, can you hear how his accenting of the language is different? Slower. Guillaume glances back to the fencing and the men getting back to work. There are more men than can be seen from here.

     "Terry. I'm sorry - er, spiacente. Terry Winter." Tiernan smiles slightly, a hand pulled out of his pocket and offered across to you. "Come fate? Attualmente lavoro per una ditta di ingegneria navale. E forse il non mio lavoro di vita - ma sono interessato. Ci e un lavoro molto grande essere fatto qui."
     His grip is solid, sure, but without the competition of someone trying to prove himself. His hand is reclaimed, put away again, out of the way. Though now he has a new challenge; trying to figure out how to do engineering talk in a language he has only recently been learning. "Stiamo provando ad attrezzare una pompa della reattanza che pui undo un certo numero di inondazione, usando i metodi simili a quelli usati per l'innalzamento del Titanic."
     His eyes again go where yours go, to the men and the work. "Come siete che riuscite a puntellare," Tiernan asks, frowning a little as if his head hurts; his pronunciation is certainly not that of a native, though his accent is oddly flavoured British as it is, "il deterioramento sotto?"

     At the English name and the more British sound of your speech, William grins. "Is English better, Terry?" His English is fluent, if heavily accented by both the French of his birth and the Italian of his current labor. "It is a big job. It is a multi-year project. And, yes, there is quite a bit of deterioration, but that is our first and most crucial phase. We will finish just in time for the flood of 2030," the great flood. The flood that has been referred to as some in the world community as the doomsday flood.
     "We are actually raising it, very carefully," he grins. "Very very gently. This marble is ancient and has been sitting in mud and water... so there is much to do. We are working in shifts... twenty hours a day, every day but Sunday. We are in Catholic country, so we have to schedule some rest. I would work straight through if it were up to me."
     William turns his head, nodding and smiling to an older woman as she heads into the basilica. "She comes every night for mass," he murmurs to you. "I hate that we will have to close it soon. We need to minimize the number of people accessing the structure. But, it will be, I hope, a testament to the hope of Venice. If no other buildings survive the flood, this one must. And I am sure it will not be alone. It was built as thanks to the Virgin Mary when the plagues ended, and so I want it to be here to remind them that all is not lost. The Venetian mind is... quick to despair."

     "Thanks. I haven't been here long; it's a bit of a struggle, though I make do." He isn't apologetic; there's a grin to you in return, aware of his ignorance but not ashamed of it. He listens to you, then nods. "That makes sense. I was wondering how you have been supporting it. Placing blocks underneath, or?"
     This would seem a good place for more of my marbles. But - they are magic, not science. Churches frown on magic, don't they? Blasphemy as well. What fools we all are; we reject answers which don't fit within a narrow world view, turning instead to other answers. I'm no different, though, am I?
     He turns his dark head to regard the building, the progress of the woman entering the cathedral. "I have never been to Venice before this trip. Hopefully some day - once I leave - I'll get to come back, but I'm not that familiar with the city's mind. That's an interesting notion, actually." Tiernan looks thoughtful for a moment, then shakes his head. "Sorry, wool-gathering. How many buildings do you think reasonably can be saved?"

     "That is more a question of economics than engineering. Unfortunately, Venice has become a city of relics," William exhales. "Most of her population is over the age of sixty-five. The young have left for Mestre and the mainland, following the jobs. Venice is a victim of her own grandeur. It costs more now to maintain even the basics, which is why so much is in disrepair. The main buildings, Saint Mark's Square, the campos. This project has been several years in the planning... some five years, and before that, they were after me for several more. But the wheels of Italian government turn slowly," William cants a smile, his full mouth (it could be called art, that mouth) slanting. "And my schedule quickly fills."
     He pauses a moment, glancing at his watch. "I was just about to get some coffee. Would you like to join me? There is a little cafe right around the corner, practically. The day shift is finishing. The night shift will not begin until after dinner, so I have a little time." And conversation over coffee is always preferred to coffee itself, at least from his purview.
     "Ah, well," William grins, starting to turn toward the fondamenta that leads to smaller streets and canals, "...the Venetian mind is... surprisingly easily discouraged for a place as old as it is. They believe that Fate is written, and that the City cannot be saved. I am not so willing to give up, to surrender her to the sea like a second Atlantis."

     Your smile is echoed, and Tiernan dips his head downwards. "Coffee would be pleasant, thanks." A hand lifts, pats against his thigh and settles as he looks again to the basilica, shaking his head. "They're going about it wrong, in my book - but I'm young and pompous and sold rather well on my own intelligence. I'm certainly no great mover and shaker or one whose voice would echo in the Italian parliament - or whatever they have in lieu of a parliament."
     He does not keep track of different world governments. He has all he can do keeping up with the courts back home. He moves to follow you, content to let you choose where - you work here every day, after all, so in all probability you know where the best coffee is to be had.
     "I know what I would do if I were in charge of things," Tiernan comments, "but who's to say I know anything? But no, I don't think it's written in stone. Even if it is, water erodes stone, which is half the problem - and if a fate can be washed away, well, haven't they got the water for it?"

     He wears his amusement openly, if warmly. It is so much more complicated, naturalement. But youthful exuberance, even in hubris, is to be admired, enjoyed for what it is. "They are working ardently on the water problem. There is hope that the MOSES project will be sufficient. There is concern from the World Heritage Committee that it may not be enough. Ultimately, it will be up to God and the Adriatic to decide, not the Italian parliament."
     William's stride is languid, there is power in it extending from his self and pressing against the air around him. He leads you north of the basilica. It its very shadow, old palazzi long since converted to apartments, now half vacant, and a small cafe. You can smell the coffee even above the waters of Venice in early autumn.
     The cafe is small, only six tables and only one of those six is empty. There is little in the way of decor, but the coffee smells rich. William inclines his head, a nod of greeting, and he gestures you to the table. "Just an espresso, or a cappuccino? It is my treat, please." The billionaire always pays.

     "No," Tiernan says judiciously, "but the best way to get the situation sorted would be to get people in here. More people means more money; even working at day laborer's wages. More money means the place becomes determined more viable, and so it goes. That is the nature of finance, economy, and ultimately, politics."
     He moves in your wake easily; he is accustomed to walking with those who are considered powerful. His lover is only one such. It is easy for him. "Thank you." There is mild surprise in the thanks given, and Tiernan turns his head. "Cappuccino, please. No espresso; I'd be up all night." His smile is quick, surprising perhaps in its sweetness, and then his attention is returned to you.
     "There is the perpetual migrant problem. Bring some of them in. Document everything - especially the history and the culture. The only way to preserve a culture is through its documentation, and what they fear losing, here, will be lost the more if they do not have people here to preserve it. It isn't just money but care that's needed, and noone cares for a place half so much as when it is their home." He speaks quietly, but with authority. The voice of a man who has formed opinions, and strong ones at that, unafraid to voice them. "Bring in people, concentrate on the ones, of course, who have the training for the job, but bring them in. And from there wheels can turn."
     He moves to the empty table, drawing out a chair for you politely before he moves to seat himself. "The rest is a matter of mathematics and engineering. But I do believe it is entirely possible; they just at present are leaving it half-undone. And you cannot solve for x without filling in both halves of the equation."
     If only we poor human creatures could be guided by Logic and Reason.

     "Bella Maria," William says to the barista. She looks at him with both pleasure and recognition. "Espresso... cappuccino..." He is then taking a seat and, as a good many other Europeans do, he reaches into his pockets and removes a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Dark eyebrows lift a little to make sure you do not mind, though the question is never vocalized and his fingers continue to pluck the cigarette from the pack.
     The espresso machine is steaming and whirring into action as his one who calls himself Guillaume begins to speak. "If only we poor human creatures could be guided by the Logic and Reason we crave. Your solutions are not new, they are simply not acted upon. Not so quickly. They say things are changing, more children heard playing in Venice these days. I hope it is so. At night, late," that mouth of his spreads in a smile as he lights up his cigarette, "...you can almost hear the collective breath of the city being held. If We," and by his emphasis as he lights the cigarette he means the Greater We of Humankind (or whatever), "... are successful here and twenty-thirty comes and goes and Venice remains, then... I believe... we will begin to see better progress."
     He smiles as he looks at you, inclining his head. In the warmth of the cafe, and in its lighting, he is angelic of features. His eyes are a deep blue-violet, fathoms deep as the seas you have come to know. There is fire in them, visibly violet, that creates a sheen as he speaks, even as he smiles at your youthful exuberance, your passion. "You should run for office, Terry," comes the languid baritone, its tug upon English coming with an elongated cadence. "Change your name to something ... Italian, and remain to see her," the city, "...into the future. That is what this city needs, people like you who care about it. My business will eventually carry me back to France, but someone must be left behind, oui? A guardian to this grand enterprise."
     Guillaume looks to you and he measures you, studies you. The eye of an engineer, you can understand. And sometimes engineers make powerful artists. Leonardo was one. He is another. And what of you, he wonders. The coffee arrives as he taps the ashes of his cigarette into the marble tray. A foamy cappuccino for you. A small espresso for him.

     There is a slight shake of his head to indicate that he doesn't mind, and he leans back a little, an elbow to the arm of his chair. "If only logic held reason in this poor sphere of mine," Tiernan murmurs, "then my world would be altogether changed; made different, inseparable from trouble and care - that's the plaint of the scientist, isn't it? I don't believe it for a minute. But neither do I believe that a life which tries to play by logic's rules is necessarily cold and dispassionate, for all that people tend to think so. - That's the argument I run into most often," he explains with a brief laugh. "When I try to talk sense to people."
     He reaches into his jacket, pulling out a tube of chocolate candies. The plastic seal's tugged out and he spills a few onto the table, popping one into his mouth and gesturing in offering - help yourself. "I think all cities hold their breath for one reason or another. Every city has its own language, its own music," Tiernan answers you once his mouth is no longer full. "It takes a careful ear to make sense of it. The difficulty with Venice, I think," he smiles, "I'm being opinionated tonight - is that pride goes before a fall."
     He leans back, offering the girl with the coffee a quick, brilliant smile. As she puts down the coffee, he scoops up several of the chocolates and slips them onto her tray with a bob of his head in thanks; and then turns his attention back to you, and the conversation. "I have other commitments myself, I'm afraid, which will take me far from here," farther than you could ever know, "and which can't be broken, even if I wanted to. Besides, I ... don't think that it would be a good idea for me to get directly involved in politics," Tiernan acknowledges with a half-smile. "My mother was, and ... the experience did not leave me unchanged. I'm not sure I'd like myself, ten or fifteen years from now, if I got into that particular bed. But who knows? We'll see what happens while I'm here."

     "I can understand your hesitance," William says, a smile making it across his lips in slow fashion. "My mother was also... involved in politics," he thinks to say. Yes. She was a bit involved in politics, wasn't she. He seems to laugh at his own understatement, one that you could not know, his laughter quiet, more seen than heard. He takes a sip of the espresso.
     "Hmm... you are younger than I," William continues as he sits back, cigarette in his hand, he is poised to sip from its fire. It is a safe assumption for him -- for you? He appears to be between twenty-five and thirty. He could be older, with a well-lived life. "You still try to talk sense into people?" He grins, making a gesture which could be easily translated: better you than me. "But I suppose you are right about pride. Sometimes... one can get so caught up into what one used to be, that one forgets to move forward. That is a problem shared by all of the oldest cities. London, perhaps less than Paris, Paris less than here. There are cities that time has seemed to pass by altogether. But Europe is changing again, awakening after a long, long rest. So... we will see, yes?"
     This man all in white, this man who appears to be a working man from his clothing, what does he know about politics? Ah, appearances. Always deceiving. "It is a difficult bed to sleep in, I will say that. Of course, most political beds are not really for ...sleeping as they are for other things." He chuckles quietly at that, tapping away more ash and lifting his short cup of espresso to his mouth.

     He taps the edge of his cup, an absent gesture that seems from habit; one tap, two taps, three, as if testing the cup or the contents for anything impure. He seems unaware of having done it; one of those little gestures made in absent thought. "Only sometimes. It depends on who the people happen to be." Tiernan grins a little, lifting his cup but not yet swallowing from it. "In general, though, I like to explore my options. And I can't do that if I don't know what they are."
     He takes a sip, letting it sit on his tongue for a moment as he closes his eyes, waiting patiently for the bitterness of the cappuccino to filter through his senses, testing for nuance. When he's satisfied he's learned what there is to learn from the taste, he sets his cup down again, opening his eyes. "I think," he says slowly, "and I may well be wrong; I am very new here, and it's not a world I've explored all that much of, but I think that it has been lying fallow. Not consciously; more an unconscious urge, perhaps the subconscious urge given to those living here after sustaining grave injuries. When such happens, there's a period of enforced rest, yes? To give things time to recover. Not an understanding so much as an instinct."
     Tiernan chuckles, turning his cup around, looking down at the foam on his drink. "I sound like I know what I'm talking about, or at least like I think I do, don't I? Don't put too much weight in this. I'm going with instinct as much as anyone on this." Another chocolate is picked up, weighed experimentally on his palm, and then dropped into the hot liquid. He smiles faintly, settling back in his seat. "It isn't what happens in the bed that I mind, it's the lack of control over who with."

     That last statement causes an eyebrow to arch upward just slightly. William smokes a moment in quiet, his expression one of contemplation. "That is the only part, I think, that anyone has control of. Well," he exhales smoke and taps away more ash, "...that is the one thing I have realized, over time. That you may not control much, but you can control who you get in bed with." He pauses a moment, "Literally or figuratively. For self-preservation, you must control that."
     He watches you put the chocolate in your cappuccino and he smiles again. "I could have ordered you a mocha. Do you wish a mocha? They do not use the powders here. They use real chocolate shavings. It is ... quite good. I have to admit to something of a sweet tooth. I have them for breakfast." Mocha and blood -- the Aztecs had that right.
     William slowly rolls the cigarette against the rim of the marble that holds the ash, more of the grey matter falling into emberred clumps there. He is close to finished with it. "What else do you do, Terry, an Englishman in Italy? You said something about naval work before? I think when you were speaking of lifting the city like The Titanic..."
     There is an interest. You can surely feel it across the table. He is asking of you, buying you coffee. He is settled in his chair and in no hurry to get up. His gaze is direct, attentive, and palpable. They are darkly bright, piercing through the slight mist that the cigarette smoke creates.

     "You may be right." Tiernan is willing enough to concede the point; he just avoids politics, after all. There is that hinted-at smile, again, and he glances then down at his coffee a bit blankly for a moment before he looks up. "It just didn't occur to me, to be honest," he says simply. "The coffee was here, and the chocolate was here, and ... well ... it seemed a natural combination, I suppose. It's alright, though - no need to spend more on my account." You are a working man, after all.
     For a moment, colour leaps into his face; he is not so naive as to mistake that interest for mere politeness. Hesitate, perhaps, to read more into it than what he knows for certain; but there is always a reaction when he is the sudden subject of scrutiny, unexpected.
     "I'm presently working a maritime engineering contract," Tiernan says carefully. "Examining existing structures and figuring out the best ways to keep them aloft, so to speak - the methods used in raising the Titanic involved making the vessel airtight again, and then pumping out the water while pumping in air, but by degrees. The reasoning for this is multi-fold."
     He leans forward; this is a topic which interests him and which he can concentrate on, his eyes lively and alert with intelligence. "Firstly, air has to be pumped in as the water is pumped out so that the pressure of the ocean doesn't just tear it apart; that far down, it's a very real risk. Then, secondly, it has to be gradual because you want it to lift gradually; if you've ever pushed a sealed empty bottle under the water, you know what happens to it, right? It pops back up at astounding speed. That speed means you can't control its ascent, and not only might it get damaged by debris on the way up, it might also pop up right under your vessel. In which case you end up with two wrecks instead of one, and a multi-million dollar salvage operation gone to waste."
     Ah, business talk; the engineer is showing now. "It's a time-consuming business; debris has to be cleared away from the wreck before any pumping and ballast-work can be done, since otherwise you might end up with fresh holes when it tears loose from the ocean floor. But - sorry, this sounds like a digression, doesn't it? But some of the same principles can be put to use here in Venice, you see; the buildings which have sunk can be used to shore up the ones whose integrity remains, even if it's a shaky sort of integrity like a bank after a scandal."
     Tiernan picks up his cup, grinning a little as he glances out at the water. "Essentially, rather than just using wedges to lift buildings, you use long tubes filled with compressed air that are themselves anchored in place. Less worry about what might happen if a wedge slips; it's the same methods used to construct floating bridges, you see. I still think though that there isn't enough thought being given," he adds contemplatively, "to the effects of degradation. Water wears away stone, after all. I really wish they'd consider limestone traps."

     He was lifting his cup as you began to speak and so it remained lifted during the whole of your lecture. He sips only at the end, a smile playing at his features again -- not merely at his mouth, but in his eyes, in his coloring and the temperament of his skin. "Degradation, believe it or not, is first and foremost in everyone's mind. It is partly to do with the subsidence and water concerns. The water has been, and always will be, a concern. But until recently, the floods were pretty consistent. Venice not only now has to contend with higher sea levels due to the effects of global warming but old age, overbuilding, and the decisions made after the second world war to dredge the Lagoon. The problem with Venice isn't the degradation itself, or the water itself, or the overbuilding on its own. It is, in fact, an ecosystem, and it is being impacted on all levels, not just the structural or even merely the geophysical or hydrological. So the challenge, therefore, is: how do we address not one problem but seven interrelated problems? And what is the priority? And what poses the greatest risk if not addressed by twenty-thirty? The greatest risk, currently, is the matrix that involves the rising of the sea waters, which causes not the one period of flooding in a year but flooding throughout the year and to higher levels, and the subsidence that has been accelerated by Man's interfering with the delicate balance of the Lagoon's very structure and ecosystem, caused by the dredging after the second world war."
     There is a pause as he stamps out his cigarette, the last whisps of smoke curling upward like the remnants of a campfire. "The dredging was done after the end of the war to allow bigger ships to access the Lagoon, the industrialization that happened, yes? They did not realize that the decision would impact Venice itself. Now, the Lagoon is in every bit as much danger as the city itself, ergo the World Heritage Commission's listing of both on its registry. So, the problems are enormous. Not irreparable," he waves off such a notion, "I do not believe that. But it is a delicate system and has to be treated accordingly. Unfortunately, marble is not very flexible, and the building techniques used to construct them, while extremely functional, does not necessarily make today's techniques viable, always, in their restoration. I could not use standard business practices for seismic restructuring, for example, in this climate, with that type of building. It would break apart. Though now, all new buildings are built to those controls. That is where fine art and engineering come together, which is what I do. But your work sounds very interesting. I will have to find some white papers on it. I find sea recovery fascinating. With or without treasure," he grins.
     He finishes his espresso, canting his head to the side and holding up a finger -- another is ordered. "Would you like to try the mocha? I promise, you will not be disappointed."

     It is his turn to listen, and he does so the way he always does; in complete stillness, all his attention given to you. He does not move, scarcely seems to breathe until you end your dissertation. "One might think to reverse the widening," he murmurs, "or at least - well, preaching to the choir, right?" Tiernan grins a little, shaking his head and setting aside his emptied cup. "Sorry, I hope I'm not coming across as arrogant. I know there's much I don't know about all of this, and I tend to keep my mouth closed in the office so the people I work for don't think I'm trying for their jobs."
     He links his fingers together loosely; watch-maker's hands, these. There's a fineness to his nuances of motion, careful of what he does. "Well, if you're sure it wouldn't put you out," he says mildly. "I don't want to be a bother or put you to any trouble." It's on the tip of his tongue to add, I can pay for myself, but the words are recalled as potentially insulting. The hospitable guest to the hospitable host. "You'll let me get something in return, I hope."

     "I do not think you are arrogant. But then... who am I to talk? My friends say I am the most arrogant man they have ever met. And that from people who love me." There is a brief wink of humor and William looks to the barista as she brings the espresso. "And a mocha ... grazie, Maria." She smiles to you and him both and returns to her station to make the next drink. "You are passionate about the subject, it is understandable. C'est normal."
     There is a chuckle for you're not wanting to put him out. "Rein," he shakes his head a little, his hand gesticulating dismissal, "...it is nothing. I am generous... it helps to balance out my arrogance." William grins, sipping the espresso. "So...when even my friends say: What an arrogant ass, at least they will finish with: But he is so generous."
     The whole thing is rather funny to him. He is chuckling again as he sets his cup down. "If you want to get me something, that is completely unnecessary but... I thank you. If something... occurs to me, I will let you know, mais oui?" The man is an incurable flirt. He cannot help himself. Not with you, not with the barista Maria, not with the very air that surrounds him. "I am excited about my work as well. It is a huge undertaking, the Della Salute. It will be my masterpiece. There are times, even so, when I get tired of washing the marble dust from my hair or swimming in sewage when we have a sudden overflow. So, I understand, Terry," he murmurs, taking his pack of cigarettes and fishing another one out. "Keep your exuberance. It will astound those around you."
     He pauses to light the next smoke, the flame making his beauty all the more so with the incandescent glow. Everything is done so smoothly; it is as if he has been lighting cigarettes for a hundred years. "When you are not working, what do you do in Venice? It is a quiet place. All the clubs, everything like that is on Lido," the island with the resort hotels, where the film festival is held and Hollywood descends.

     "Someone once told me when a Frenchman says something's normal, that's never a good thing," Tiernan murmurs; but he says it with a slight grin. The tube of chocolates is put away. With a mocha on the way, he doesn't need to 'double up'. "But yes, let me know. I don't like to take advantage of other people's generosity more than I must."
     He never has. It has been a point of contention with him with anyone he has ever known - and the few to whom he has gotten close in particular. To be beholden, to be burdened, to be a burden...
     "I don't think most would describe me as exuberant." The notion amuses him. He will have to remember it, when he next sees Iowerth, and ask him suddenly, in the middle of something - Would you say I am exuberant? Tiernan tips his chin down and then glances back up, offering you a small smile. "I've been there - Lido, I mean - once or twice. It's there, that's all. I don't have that much need for noise to drown myself out. But I go; I like looking at the shiny lights and pretty things as much as the next man. Most of the time, though, when I'm not at work, I stay in my rooms and read. Study. Or fiddle with my own projects."

     There is a chuckle -- the laughter that usually comes with the phrase C'est normal -- when you mention that old adage. He won't disagree. His fire is put away and he breathes the smoke to the side, so it does not drift directly to you. "If you ask me to take you to a boutique and buy you a Hermes tie, then you would be taking advantage of my generosity. My buying you coffee drinks because this caffe is a home away from home lately, that is ...just a matter of course, yes? Besides, it keeps the conversation going."
     He buys drinks, you talk and entertain him. William would say he is getting his money's worth.
     "I am staying on Lido. It is not like being in Venice proper, but it has its own charm. The hotel is nice, I won't complain. And there are at least a few clubs where you can go and have a drink and watch tourists dance. In Paris, I am fond of the spontaneous tango and salsa dancing. All of a sudden, people will just ... start. It is different here, quieter. But Lido... Lido is not quiet."
     William settles into his chair, his long legs stretching a bit. It is a relaxed sprawl that lords over his side of the table. "What do you like to fiddle with? Actual fiddles?" His smile slants a touch, his eyes fixed to you as he leans in slightly, tapping away the ash from the end of his cigarette. Your mocha arrives, chocolate suddenly surrounding you, wafting up from the slightly larger cup. Dark chocolate and milk chocolate shavings sit melting on the foam. William mouths a 'grazie' to Maria but does not order anything else for himself.

     "I'm no musician." Not actual fiddles, then. He nods his thanks to Maria and then to you, drawing the cup closer in front of him as he glances down at the melting chocolate. "Not that I don't like music. But I don't play it. I did work on learning the basics of composition and so on, but that was for a project I haven't picked back up yet."
     He always has ideas. When he is empty of ideas is when he despairs - or perhaps it is that when he despairs, he becomes empty of ideas. Philosophy, however, is not his muse. He moves on. "I make ... toys, I suppose you could say. Mechanical and clockwork animals. Statuary, of a sort, but with the possibility of motion. Where I can, I combine my work into it; right now I'm looking at limestone traps," he mentioned those earlier, didn't he?, "to see if there's a way they can be adapted to the city's long-term benefit."
     Tiernan leans forward a trifle, picking up his cup in both hands, the animation returning vividly to his face. "Limestone traps work as a sort of water purifier in areas where the water isn't so good but it's not on a major metropolitan water reclamation partition. It's simple, really; works the same way as activated charcoal, the water's run through the limestone and while some of the limestone leaches into the water, the impurities are trapped in the limestone proper. Now, imagine that on a grander scale; the salts, minerals, deposits, the pollution and waste, the sand, silt, and sediment of every flood, every wave, every current being deliberately filtered as it washes through Venice, attracted to form bedrock beneath the city. Rather than the floods bringing destruction..."

     "It sounds like an interesting idea." He nods in thought to that. He would have to know more, to know whether or not it was truly viable. For some buildings, he could imagine, more than others. "You may be able to speak with representatives with the MOSES project. The MOSES gates are a water-redirection system. They are literally seeking to 'part the waters' like Moses in the Bible. I have met with several of the engineers. I could point you in their direction, as well as the project's website. It is a huge undertaking; engineers from all over the world have been taking part in it. The United Nations, I believe, through World Heritage have had a hand in it as well...."
     It is an offer he is happy to make, especially to an intelligent, if exuberant, young man. William is studying you again as he smokes for a moment in silence. "You work with robotics as well, interesting. Well, a mind like yours, you should offer up some of your ideas to them. Who knows, I could be sitting here, buying coffee for the saviour of Venice." That mouth of his spreads in a smooth smile, smoother than the chocolate melting in your drink. "That would make a nice capstone, mais oui, to saving the cathedral dedicated to the first savior's mother."
     There is a glance to his watch, a subtle one. He is not meaning to rush you or to signal anything other than him needing to return to work. "Terry Winter, I am afraid I am going to have to end my coffee break soon. It is amazing, yes? How fast time can go when one has good conversation. Here," he stamps out his cigarette and reaches for his wallet. From it, he takes a card and a pen from one of his other pockets (there are several). "This is the name and the number for one of the MOSES design engineers. Tell him that you spoke with Guillaume d'Angevin at the Della Salute and I suggested you contact him. I am sure he would appreciate your point-of-view."
     The pen capped, William pushes the card to you with a finger. "The number that is printed there is the number to my corporate office. If you would like to meet again for coffee, call Juliana; she will put you through. Or... you can show up to the Della Salute. I am usually there for the end of the first shift, around six o'clock."

     "Not robotics. Or, well - not as such. I'm no expert and can barely use a computer, I'm afraid." Tiernan smiles apologetically. "More of a toy-maker than that. But thank you." He accepts the card. "I don't know that I'll be here that much longer and I doubt I'm anyone's saviour, but certainly, if I can help..."
     The card is tucked away in his pocket, and he rises automatically. One rises for the departure of royalty, doesn't one? "It has been a pleasure talking with you, sir. If you're sure it wouldn't be an imposition, then I'd enjoy talking with you again, certainly." He's a little flustered; trying not to let it show. "Good luck."

     "Merci," he says quietly, euros left upon the table to pay for the drinks and the usual healthy tip for Bella Maria. "And ... certainement... no imposition at all. Good company is never an imposition, yes?" William smiles, his hand coming out to shake your own. He won't make you faint with the more typical continental farewells.
     You are British, after all...
     "Oui... a pleasure... call him... and me, yes? Have a good night, Terry. Bon chance..." He frees your hand, having felt its honest pulse. He can hear the flurry of your fluster; hear it far better than he can see it. At the doorway, William turns, a last smile given to you.
     It is a smile, it is a look, that suggests you should call him. You wouldn't be disappointed.

     He is of multiple minds on it, but none of that is broadcast. Your eyes are met squarely; his gaze slides away. There is a temptation, to be sure, one which could be dealt with any number of ways.
     Drowned in work...
     Fled from, in whichever direction...
     Or willingly run to...
     He will have to wrestle with it. For now, Tiernan just shakes your hand and watches you go, giving a very courtly bow as you depart. Old habits die hard, it seems.
     Will he or won't he... with his lover rather far away...

Posted by rowan at September 07, 2006 08:36 PM