Our Father, who art in Heaven...
(You have not abandoned me, I trust, Father...)
Hallowed be thy name...
(How long I have served you. How hard faith can be...)
Thy kingdom come, thy Will be done...
(If only your servants on earth could justly do your Will, my Father. How many have heard Your Will Be Done upon the lips of liars...)
On earth, as it is in Heaven...
(Forgive me, Father, for the ad libbing... and for my daily bread, which must come from those you have chosen, or those who have chosen you...)
...I have repeated this prayer, this benediction for at least seven-hundred years. Sometimes, I wish I were not so monastic. I wish I could be wretched. I close my eyes, I even desire wretchedness. Sometimes Justice is so heavy, but that is when I know I must be the most just of all, that I must fight harder, do more, even sometimes suffer... more. When it feels wrong, I know it is right.
Hands have tended to his clothing since three in the afternoon. The sun was still high when Alire d'Avignon rose from bed, bathed in the usual 'morning' consecration, and dressed. The same rhythm of the same familiar buttons. The comfort found in Routine, routine so oft practiced it is now something sacred. But it is also a pantomime. Things done to fill the space. To take up time.
Some days his heart aches to know it. Some days, it is such a comfort. Some times a relief.
It was four o'clock when he emerged, from where or whence is not clear. There were sounds all day, here and there -- he is well-practiced, a well-seasoned immortal. He plans ahead. And he is clothed in a suit, though not formal, as he often is. No tie, but appearing the gentleman. Rather large as well. A few inches over six feet, two maybe. Broad. For a monk, exceptionally well-built. The tank of God.
There are butterflies in his stomach today. A nervous excitement. A buzzing anxiety. For Alire d'Avignon has a guest...
Music plays softly downstairs. Strings and piano playing softly. Do you normally hear such noises in your home? Certainly not, for today is different. There is warmth at the bottom of the stairs. Not heat, but life. Someone present, humming with the music. Ah, yes. Mendelssohn's 3rd. An old performance from the Old Vic. Srebelonki it is, when he came to London before the war. There is faint popping from the old recording, new equipment ever more sensitive than before.
Peep around the doorframe, and you will see your guest. Giancarlo...that was his name. He sits upon one of the upholstered sofas, at the near edge, book in his hand. Something from a nearby shelf. Sporting new beige slacks and a white shirt, it seems he has been out today, making purchases. But he has returned, and seems content to wait for you, his host.
When was the last time, Alire, that you came down stairs, any stairs... these or at your provencal villa... and knew that there was someone waiting to see you? When was the last time that ... just simple living, sharing the space of another being... was part of your life? Can you, old knight, even remember such a thing?
Such a thing stops me...a hand upon the rail and for a moment, I just linger, knowing the guest is there. Humming. That is his voice, the voice of the living. Drinking my wine, I hope. His presence upon the sofa, in the room, just... here. So simple. So profound.
His steps must sound again upon the stairs, and you must hear him approaching. Perhaps even feel him approaching. Something like a finger placed upon the mouth -- in thought, maybe, in secrets, maybe. It is subtle, and then he is there...at the door...
"I hope for all this waiting, you have made yourself at home," Alire says, smile slight but warm -- speaking volumes, if not width. His eyes lift from you, looking for evidence of this. You have a book, food? He comes in, his suit of spring -- the pants and jacket are a khaki-ivory, the shirt is white. It is good to offset his blonde hair.
The guest immediately stands, closing the book and flipping it under his arm. "Ah," he smiles so broadly, he cannot help it, "...I have, I hope you don't mind," his voice certainly Venetian. "I...just found this on the shelf..." he motions, "...and I turned the radio on," Cesare motions to that as well, not letting his eyes leave you for too long.
"I hope I didn't wake you, I - I...didn't quite know what to do with myself," he smiles, hand at his forehead. "I hope it's not a bother...." he finishes, shifting his weight left and then right.
"No... no not at all," his Italian comes easily, fluent, his Provence showing only then. And as you broadly smile, his own tugs with it. Unconsciously. "I am glad," he softly adds. "That is what the home is for...please," he waves for you to sit again as he moves toward you. "I am sorry I kept you waiting," I wish you had been upstairs with me, "... it took me longer to get going," he gestures the vernacular with his hand and then he takes a seat upon the chair that sits adjacent to the sofa.
"I hope you haven't been bored," a little laugh. And then he stands. "Wine? I have pear," he tempts. And it is a temptation. With Chinon's vineyards nearby, and her specialty creations -- never sold upon the common markets. "And I was thinking I would cook supper. It has been a long time since I have been able to do so for anyone other than me. Unless...you had plans or... were planning to go out? Or would like to go out..."
I need to do something with my hands, I am shaking. Jittery. Nervous. Rambling...
Alire moves to the cabinet, opening it to reveal several odd shaped bottles and a few glasses. He makes sure they are dust free, and then he unstops a bulbous bottle full of golden liquid. "You found something interesting on the shelf, I hope at least?" Blue eyes look at you -- they seldom leave you, but for when he looks to his hands. And he smiles.
Giancarlo turns a shade of crimson as he watches you. "Wine is good, thanks, and yes, if you want to make a home-cooked meal, I will not turn it down," he grins cheerfully. "Thanks," he adds, biting his lip as he looks to the spine of the book.
"Yes, this book...it is a discussion of medical practices from early last century. I am mostly flipping through it. You have a wonderful collection of things," brown eyes look around the room, returning to you, "...you seem experienced with antiques." Head tilts to see you pull out the wine that looks so wonderful.
Experienced with antiques? I am one. I suppose.
The idea makes him chuckle, being an antique. Hopefully, it is not so noticeable. Blue eyes, bright they are with a touch of cobalt, look to the glasses as he pours. Perhaps you cannot notice the sudden scent of pears on the air, but it is heady, light, with something behind it of honey. "Thank you," he says of his collection, eyes lifting as he stops the bottle again. "Oh yes... the books. I am glad you found them -- though, admittedly," a slight flush, "...it is not hard to do. I have more books than the Pope, my friends like to tease me." A shrug, a smile, what can I do?
Alire steps from the bar cabinet, quite a lovely piece of furniture, and returns to you. This time, closer, standing next to you and offering you your glass of pear and honey wine.
"I am glad you are here, Giancarlo. There is little better than good books, good wine, good food and new friends." He touches the stem of his glass to the bowl of yours, and out flies a musical chime to the key of A. "I will cook us something of Provence." Something of me.
He stands to take the glass, nodding at your comment. "Salut," he replies, tipping the glass to his lips. Eyes watch you across the crystal rim, drinking you in as much as the wine.
He laughs a little, looking at the glass. "Wow," he smiles, "...this is wonderful." A nod with that. "And good taste. To new friends," Giancarlo whispers, taking another taste of you and the sweet wine.
"I have a friend, he is a closet alchemist," he murmurs. "He can turn grapes into gold," he grins. "He can do such things with wine. He finds them to be a trifle. I find I drink very little else." He raises his glass to you, warm grin. "Salut, al mio nuovo amico," he whispers back.
He settles down upon the sofa, leaving you room of course, but now... with your eyes on him, your smiling, he cannot help but want to be a little closer than in the chair. The chair may as well be in the next room! Oh, sure, he exaggerates....
"I have a little Medieval library," he says. No kidding. "Remind me... after supper I will show it to you. I do not get to delve into that passion often." Or any other for that matter. There is a slight coloration, but he smiles through it. He sips the wine, and he smiles at it. "Pear and honey wine from the Loire Valley." You will likely leave with a bottle, when you leave.
But he doesn't want to think of that...
Alire leans against the arm and body of the sofa, turning so that he may look at you without crowding you. And for a moment, he just has to look. It is not that he does not have much to say. On the contrary, he has to work to shut up and give you a moment. Sitting next to you, his size is the more apparent. An active life he surely must have...
Cesare watches you sit, then moves to take a seat mirroring you. Not so far away, but not so near to be in your space. "Your friend must do well with beautiful nectar like this," he chuckles. "I have tried my own hand at alchemical work, but it is...beyond me. Maybe." He chuckles, taking a bit more.
"I'd like to see the library," he confesses, but, grin there, "...I'd like to hear more about this dinner of Provence." Already, he likes to tease you. "I am not the best chef, really, but what are your specialties?"
"Oh, he does not sell it so much as he drinks it, gives it as gifts to friends. It is a hobby, I think. But he is a painter....maybe it has something to do with that. I do not know how he does it," an honest chuckle there, no teasing. I do not know how Guillaume does anything. How things happen for him. You tease, and he looks to his wine. Knowing it. Enjoying it.
Strange, you are already falling into a kind of...banter with one another...
"Seafood is my specialty, as it would be," he explains wth a grin. "You are Venetian. You understand this, yes? So, I was thinking maybe some of the large prawns and apricots, mullet with orange. In Provencal cooking, there is always some combination of fish and fruit. The rest, I will have to see what Marylis left for me today." The young woman who came by earlier from the market, delivering the daily fresh fish, bread, cheese and fruit...
"Fish or prawns would go nicely with the wine," Alire notes, "...and the fruit always mixes well. How does this sound?" he finishes quietly, wondering with lifted blonde eyebrows and a wondering smile.
"Dei!" Cesare laughs, falling back against the sofa. One arm rests in his lap with the wine, the other holds against the back of the sofa, cradling him. "Oh...I am already excited," he offers, rather surprised at the extravagance. "But that sounds like a lot," he sits up and adds, "...not that I'm complaining, mind you," his chin tipping to see you through lashes...
"Oh, I can't wait now," he chuckles, terribly thrilled. He drinks more of his wine. "Prawns, apricots. Orange and mullet," Cesare repeats, closing his eyes. "So..." those eyes pop open, "...can I help somehow?" The glass is turned up and drained, and Cesare is now leaning into your space. "Come, come, what can I do to help out?" He laughs again, dimple forming at his right cheek. "I may not cook well, but I'm always glad to eat! I get that from my father..."
And when you exclaim to God and when you fall back in laughter, Alire grins broadly -- a grand smile, which is rare, and when he laughs it comes from the gut. There is something... sunny about the whole thing. Like a Venetian afternoon, the reflection on the water. There is something of that here...
Or maybe it is something of Provence too...
There is a moment -- and he catches himself in it -- a moment after you sit up that he thinks of standing, agreeing, and kissing you...
It is too soon, maybe it will never be time, Alire. If you throw yourself at the man... ou est votre dignite?!
"Well, it is good you cannot wait," he adds, his smile calming to its usual slender pull, but with you... with you it is constant, Giancarlo. "...because with such a meal, hmm? I should get started now. And ...yes, yes... you can help me. Come into the kitchen, make me laugh and drink my wine, Giancarlo. Perhaps I will make you in charge of spices." Blue eyes narrow and again Alire grins. Yes, he likes that idea.
Tilting the glass, he finishes his wine in a swallow, and as the glass is lowered, Alire is rising. "Bring the bottle...oh, and beside the stereo, there are discs... choose whatever you like..."
His musical tastes are varied. Of course there's the expected opera and classical music. But there is also Spanish music from a performer named Albita. There are the songs of composer Kurt Weil. There is music from the Baroque. There is even a little pop music -- most of it is French or Italian, but there is some from America and Britain as well.
He nods eagerly, rising gracefully from his seat. With glass now empty, he carries it with less care, pressing it against his chest as he moves around the low table to see the music offerings. "Should I bring the disc into the kitchen?" he wonders, not sure if you meant to play it here or there. Fingers move through the collection, quickly choosing the Spanish music on top.
The disc is stuck under his arm and Cesare turns about, presuming you meant to bring said disc. He moves back to the table, picking up the wine and waiting for you to tell him next orders.
He does not correct you, though the music can be piped in from den to kitchen. It appears old, this house, but there are modern creature comforts. The only command he gives is in his smile, in his warm look, and in his murmur, "Come with me..." And he knows, and therefore assumes, that you will bring the wine...
In this old home, the various rooms are arranged so orderly. It has a grid pattern, with each room leading to each room via archways and small halls, with the one hall running down the center, and of course the stairway leading up. The main hall is floored with oak and its walls are painted stucco, a warm golden, with wood trim. It exudes almost physical warmth. There is an instant intimacy. The kitchen is in the southeast corner of the house, and is filled, yet, with the lingering light of the now setting sun.
The kitchen is pretty roomy -- at least for two to move around in -- with countertops and an island in the very center of the kitchen. The room has been recently remodeled you would guess. There is a small, portable stereo, with detached speakers set here and there for listening pleasure.
"First, another glass of wine," Alire says, smiling to you and holding out his glass.
"Mm," Cesare starts, grinning as he's brought back to attention. "I should get a house," he wonders, looking up and around, as if the thought's never occurred to him before. "Be a real person," he smiles, setting his glass and the disk down so he can pour you another drink. The disk taps the counter, and his glass chimes upon settling. "How long have you had this home?" he wonders above the burbles of pouring wine.
Glass left behind, Alire begins to move about the kitchen. First stop upon this tour of Provence is the refrigerator. Crouching, he begins to rummage, to pull out ingredients. A box full of fresh fish from the market. There are prawns, mullets -- they are large, fresh. A Mediterranean favorite. He stretches up to place it on the island. "I have had it about five years or so," how old is he anyway? Well, the number changes, depending upon the context of the question, to be sure. He is forever somewhere after thirty but before forty. "I was travelling around a lot, but I purchased it when I decided to make Poitiers my base..." Alire smiles, rising from his crouch, eyes twinkling.
"Tell me of where you live... you have a studio, an apartment? But in Venice, how nice it must be. I have always liked that city. I do not get there much. But, I think I shall now have to correct that oversight..."
Oranges, lemons and limes are one by one removed and then, for now, the refrigerator is closed. Now the island is crowded. "... I really do not need a place this grand," Alire notes quietly, with a self-effacing grin. "I am usually only in two rooms..." A knowing chuckle.
"Just two rooms?" Cesare asks, fingers moving across the seafood. He draws a chilled prawn upwards, holding it delicately between two fingers. It's held tenderly before him, a man used to examining things in detail. "Let's see," he whispers, twisting the prawn around, "...the kitchen and your..." bedroom, "...study, yes?"
"In Venice," he goes on, lowering the creature, "...I have a little flat, I guess it is called. One room," he grins, not wishing to get into his impoverished state. "It has a little stove in a corner and my books are on shelves," he whispers, suddenly seeming uncomfortable about the whole subject. His eyes do flicker around the kitchen a moment, then look down to the crate of fresh food. Here, he would insert somethig, but it does not come.
"I am seldom in the kitchen," he admits, "I am usually in the study with the books...how dull I must sound suddenly!" he interjects, though his voice is quiet, and Alire looks up to you. "And then where I sleep. When I am up, if I am at the house, I am reading..." Dull dull dull, Templar. No tales of daring-do or any of that. You, Avignon, have nothing like that to tell. No lovers. No life.
He pauses at the knives, as if considering which would do the better job at-hand, but his eyes lower in that half-moment. You used to wish for quiet moments, Templar. Now, they are all you have. His hands draw two knives, one large, one small. Both fine quality. "And now, you are here," he starts up, his voice lifting more warmly, more surely, and blue eyes look to you, "...and I am not only in my kitchen, I am actually doing something in it. Grazie."
Large hand takes one of the mullets -- yes, it is time for the gutting. But before he does that, he looks up, finds his wine and reaches for it. A taste first, as I said.
"But what a view," he goes on to say, and to smile. To look at you. To say with his eyes -- do not worry. There is no judgement in his look, but only interest. And of interest... there is much. "The water, the markets, the colors. And that is not even counting festivale..."
You bring him back to here, instead of his own, now suddenly, inadequate state. Cesare looks down at his clothing, then to you at words of festivale. "It is beautiful," he says softly. It brings warm memories of home, this is true, but the excitement once on him has become subdued. "The costumes, the people..." he smiles. "It goes back to an old time. Maybe, you will come one year." That is genuine.
"I do not have a view," he explains, "...no windows." Nor a kitchen, nor is it really a place to share with anyone. "Maybe I will move," he says sheepishly, looking back at your hands.
"And...you don't sound dull," Cesare adds, quickly hiding his lips behind his wine glass.
"How about next year... it is in February. A long time to ... make a date, I realize," a little flush in his face at that, maybe it is the wine. "But," not lingering on that, "I would like to come next time. And if you feel crowded in Venice, you know... I always have room," he chuckles. He hears himself say it. He sighs. "Though Poitiers is no Venice, it is true." And he doesn't seem to be teasing, but he must.
"You are kind," he says after a moment. And then he looks to you as his hands effortlessly gut the fish. The hand upon the knife is expert -- he knows his way around knives, anyway. Cook or no. He makes quick work of the first mullet, spreading it. Lowering his head, his gaze from you just long enough to do what he must with the first fish, set it aside, and move to the next. His blonde hair is shorn short, but his bangs are long, cut to lie to either side of his forehead. They drape a bit as he bends his head.
"My friend," for that is what you are becoming, in his mind, "... where you sleep and how you sleep does not matter. It is as they say: it is how you live. But..." more fish guts, and Alire glances up smiling, "... so much for philosophy. You may have to cut me off of the wine if I start to preach..."
"Not at all," Cesare grins, reaching out to pick up the wine and pour again for you both. He is quiet for a moment, trying to dispel thoughts of his own existence. "So, you are sure that you do not cook often?" he murmurs, setting the bottle down after serving. "Your hands..." I mean, "...you are experienced with your knives, chef."
Your hair is blonde. I knew that, but...now I can see it. Take my time to look. And you are older than I recall. Wiser. Cesare takes a long drink of his pear wine, then gazes into the golden fluid.
Cutting flesh is cutting flesh, he starts to say. And maybe if he did, you would find another kinship with him. But it is not mentioned. Nor does he speak of swords or knives or Templar visits that began with prayers and ended with deaths.
Alire lifts his gaze from his hands, making quick work of the second large mullet. The rest will be wrapped and frozen, shame though it be to do so, there is only you two. He smiles, "Well... some things you do not forget," he thinks to murmur in answer to the knives. He doesn't linger on it. He grins, he reaches for a prawn. "In that cabinet over there," he lifts his chin, in direction behind and to your left. "There is a baking dish. Blue. Do you mind?"
His hair is blonde, more flaxen than golden. And he looks, oh... if you had to put a year on it you might say thirty-two... three. Youth seasoning into maturity. Tall, broad. He commands a room just by standing in it. But then, so do you. And as he splits open the prawns, leaving the shells on -- it is traditional among Mediterranean people, there is flavor captured there -- you have the time to stare. A glance to you -- his eyes always seem to find you. Maybe even you catch him looking a time or two.
Such times... they are becoming more frequent...
"Sure," Cesare murmurs, almost done with his third glass of wine. He turns and pauses, glancing over his options, then reaches to open a cabinet. The shirt he wears is a little oversized at his neck, and sags a little, in casual flair. The pants seem a good fit -- certainly bought from a local merchant that you might know.
"One blue baking dish," he whispers, pulling something out that seems to match the request. The cabinet creaks as it closes, tapping softly and releasing a push of air. Cesare returns, setting dish on the island out of the way of things. Hands return to cradle wine glass upon the wood island top.
"You haven't asked me," he says softly, eyes upon your face and hands in equal turns, "...why I came to find you."
Cesare sighs and grins, knowing he's crossed a boundary. "I'm sorry," he says, swallowing. "I shouldn't have said that. I guess, what I should have asked...was...why didn't we talk...in Prague..."
I haven't wanted to ask...
Is that not sad?
I just wanted to enjoy it for how I found it. Most of my bretheren would never have done this. Maybe, as a prince now, it was the most foolhardy thing Even and Steady Alire d'Avignon has ever done. Maybe... that is not so bad a thing...
There are several prawns laid out for you both, soon numbering four. Shells on, they are laid, spread. They will be stuffed eventually. But not just yet. And rather than shield himself behind the fruit, the cooking, he stops for a moment. Well, first... to the sink. Hands are washed and then dried, glass of wine taken up after. And he is smiling. "No, no... it is a good question. I haven't known how to ask. I am, I suppose, not so brave," afterall. His eyes soften in their gaze and he leans against the counter. "Prague. My mind was just..." he chuckles shortly, "I do not know what I was thinking. I was in a church. Oh yes, well... I was distracted by the crazy woman," he remembers. "And then... we parted ways... I have often wondered about the interesting young man waiting on a friend. And then... to find him at my table in a Poitiers cafe." And then the smile warms, he lifts the glass to you, then finishes it.
Not what he was expecting. Cesare nods politely, brows rising, then falling as he absently takes another drink from his glass. The last one. He exhales over it and quickly reaches for the emptying bottle, pouring himself another.
"Do you want me to do something with the prawns?" he asks, leaning to offer you another refill of wine once you lower your glass.
You do not have anything to say to that. I am no good at this. It is easy to understand why I have spent most of my time alone. I have to chuckle at this, at the picture I must make as I struggle to handle a simple conversation with a man in whom I'm interested.
"So, why did you come to find me," he teases. "And ... non... not yet... I have to work with the fruit next. They are fine as they are for now," he says softly, tacking that onto the end.
He holds his glass out to you, blonde eyebrows lifting, smile wandering at the pendulous and unanswered question. And the promise of a refill. "And why was I so... tunnel-visioned in Prague, so much so that I missed my own appointment." To speak with one looking for a friend...
Your humor brings a small smile to an anxious guest. He pours for you, holding the bottle up once the burbling ceases. Ah well. Cesare sets the empty bottle down on the island, curling his own glass to his chest for a moment. He exhales and realizing he must answer his own question, finally offers, "Because I thought..." his eyes seeking your face, "...that you...were very handsome. And...maybe," and this comes harder, "...we might...need each other."
The exhale before is nothing like the loud, visible exhale that comes now. Cesare swallows and closes his eyes, pouring the remainder of the sweet wine down his throat. Hand curls the glass against his chest again, and he cowers faintly, looking to see how you respond.
"Okay," he bursts, "I-I don't know really...I...thought..." We knew each other. We needed someone like each other. We were familiar. We were alone. I had nothing else to do...
This moment in time has crystallized, turned from insubstantial physics and geometry to something that rests, hanging between you both. And there is no sound, he is not even certain his glass has made a sound upon the island as it is set aside. There is nothing, and then that crystalline time shatters, and then you feel his hand on your arm.
Like a benediction...
"I am happy with the first reason," Alire says, his hand lingering on your arm a moment longer. When it falls away, it falls away naturally. The second touch is with his eyes. There he is open. You easily see the color -- his blue eyes are quite crystalline, a touch of cobalt at the edges, lighter in the interior, and though the color is cool, they are filled with warmth. And intensity. But this is not what opens out to you, like the pages of a book. It is a soul who would like companionship.
Who needs companionship...
"We are alone, but in that, we are together," a little smile at that. A little paradox. What would life be without it. Alire blinks, then smiles broadly. "I can't do this surrounded by fish," he whispers, a lean in toward you, he in your space. "How can I tell you that I find you handsome, interesting, funny... how relieved I am that there is someone like you in my house, making me laugh and just... filling the space with his presence. How can I say this, surrounded by mullets..."
Brown eyes widen, then smile in relief. "You just did," Cesare whispers, grinning from ear to ear now and warming to a shade of red. You ceased touching him, but his free hand sinks below the level of the island and curls gently around your fingers. "You'd better do something about your mullets," he whispers, gaze sliding to the island beside you both. "They look worried."
There are still the echoes of calluses there. Toughened skin, but the touch is gentle. Do you know this is from the pommel of swords, the reins of horses? Can you tell by where they are placed? His hands are strong, powerful, but when they hold your they do so warmly. Almost warmly. Not as warm as you. He can only do so much about that...
Slide and grasp and then hands are joined. "They should be worried," Alire whispers, still smiling, still broadly as he leans in, "...I tossed their insides into the garbage." Deadpan, and then he grins. "Alright... I will... finish them..." he says softly. Even though now the fish does not so much interest me. But... then... making them for you does.
"I will keep cooking, but... maybe you can help me... it will make it go faster..." And then we can go sit on the sofa. And maybe he should have chosen his words more carefully. That sounded a bit... rude...no, naughty. And he blushes.
lifts your hand, he kisses the center of your palm. He closes his eyes. It strikes him suddenly as familiar, this endearment...
"Sure," Cesare agrees, hardly able to contain his excitement and relief. He stifles a laugh when you kiss his palm, fingers nervously shaking beneath your lips. "What...do I need to do?" he asks, comfortable with the present situation. His eyes glance to the island to find a task suitable for his skills, other hand coming to his forehead for a moment, as if to clear the cobwebs.
"I will leave the oranges in your care. I need the zest, and then... the flesh."
And so it goes, the making of the meal. The ingredients, from different places, with different flavors. They will bring different experiences forward, like alchemy, pulling the components to the forefront. When they come together, there will follow something amazing...
Organically...
Naturally...
What better magic than this?
Posted by Criseyde at May 29, 2003 07:01 PM
