For the first night in several nights, it is not misting, it is not snowing and the sky is clear. The lights of the old city mask most of the stars, but the moon... the moon can be seen quite clearly. Brightly, reflecting off the decoration of snow that remains from the last storm. La Luna. She begs words from the mouths of poets, sighs from the hearts of lovers, songs from wayward troubadours...
As you snake through the smaller canalways, perhaps you are lost? You hear a voice, solo, singularly beautiful. The voice of a young man, a sweet tenor. And if your ears are sharp, you may even hear the guitar being played in accompaniment. The words, the words are Italian. A slow and drifting love song, the rhythm of which is like the motion of the gondola that carries you...
You pass beneath three arching bridges -- The Three Sisters -- where canals intersect. There's a landing or two, and now you may see amid the tangle of perspectives a footpath in the lingering frost...
And the voice is nearby. You can hear the fingers on the guitar. Such a song, so heartrending...
Always lost and never lost - one of the little side effects not mentioned in the contract of being Valmiki, is that the route from point A to point B is rarely the straightest, and usually one of the more adventurous. But, well, at least it is interesting, containing the potential to distract the poet from his (her) own turmoil.
Music, that which soothes the savage breast? Oh, that is as milk and honey. He turns, looking closely at his surroundings, trying to find the source of the song as he creeps forward on booted soles, expression unconsciously wistful.
The narrow footpath -- it could barely hold two people shoulder to shoulder -- meanders over each of the Three Sisters, skirting along old palazzi, most now turned to apartments or hotels for renting, for tourists. Tourism is Venice's bread-and-butter, having surprassed fishing and shipbuilding long ago. And on its twisting journey, it leads past a red-painted gate. Past it, one may see a courtyard between two palazzi, shared most likely by the residents of both old buildings, the former estates of the wealthy. It is hear where the music is loudest. This courtyard, the source...
If you were to open the gate, press the latch and slip past it, you would find the courtyard empty, but lit by little hanging lanterns, red and yellow. Decorations for Christmas are beginning to appear, but here... only touches yet. Soon the whole courtyard will be lit up like a roman candle. The red and yellow lanterns only the beginning. But there is no musician visible. Not in the courtyard...
Sitting out upon his third-balcony landing is the one known to his neighbors as Kit -- but also sometimes Kit Marlowe, sometimes Christopher, and sometimes Christoph and Christo. Nestled in a chair almost as large as the small balcony itself, a rattan thing, a little out of place in the rest of the environs, but incredibly comfortable, he cradles the guitar to him. His fingers blushed with the cold, and his face too. His curly brown hair is as twisting and labyrinthine as Venice itself, unruly and nearly to his shoulders now. He is dressed in layers, colors that before he came along had no relationship with one another, but they all seem to ... agree on him.
He isn't dressed quite for the cold night air, not really - India is always so much warmer, except in the mountains, it always catches him a little by surprise, and night is colder than day by so much. Worn denim's been paired with soft, stained leather boots that surely must be almost as old as the wearer, a long-sleeved tunic the colour of toasted cream showing rust-coloured embroidery at the cuffs and neck and hem, where they're visible. They're only slightly seen, though, as he's shrugged into a brown leather bomber jacket that he refuses to wear zipped, hanging open instead, silky blue-black pageboy pulled back into a short ponytail that shows off the dark star on his brow of the castemark. There are so few here who would recognize it, to know what it means...
He wanders where the path takes him, over the Sisters, around corners, avoiding tourists and their haunts alike as much as he might - some would claim he is a tourist, but if so, Valmiki would decry it, saying only in the most accidental of ways. The courtyard, thus, ends up being his goal, to discover the source of the music. Clever fingers lift up the latch, and he - walks in.
Riot of colour in its beginning - oh, lovely. He beams his approval, then frowns in his puzzlement, aquamarine gaze finally looking up, seeking the source of sound. Ahh - there. Folding his arms, he becomes lost for a long moment, in music and in image alike, in the center of the little courtyard. No vision and no transfixion, but he is caught as ever hard on the horns of an art, a wide grin slowly spreading over his delicate features.
The folksong has given way to something without form, a tune caught midstream or maybe half-remembered. And then it stops altogether when the musician cups his hands to his mouth and blows. Heat from within, on fingers and nose. He blows again, and then looks to play again.
But instead... he goes about tuning...
Everyone else is at dinner. You can smell it all around you. The scent of fresh bread. Of tomatoes. Of basil, rosemary, oregano. You can even hear laughter, perhaps -- Kit can. He looks behind him, head turning over his shoulder and he waves to a neighbor. "Ciao, Christopher," the neighbor says. "Ciao," the musician replies. "You are going to catch your death of cold out there! Not that I am complaining... dinner is a festival when you play, my friend," the neighbor says, and there is genuine warmth there. "Thank you, thank you, my friend. Give my best to your family, hey, and so long as I have coffee? Who can feel the cold?"
Laughter lifts and then laughter dies down as the neighbor returns to his own apartment, his family, his dinner. Kit sighs, trilling another few notes and then he sets his guitar aside, bending -- probably putting it in his apartment... for his door is open.
It is a disappointment, that the music stops - but all which is good ends, does it it not, sooner or later? Valmiki sighs, kicking a pebble so that it goes flying along tiled stone and bushes alike. And then - well. Then he gets an idea, perhaps not brilliant, but an idea, one he has done often enough in times past, after all, and it's with mischievous expression that he pulls his flute from inside his jacket, lifting it to his lips.
It's a tune that has not been played on Earth for almost four thousand years, but Valmiki plays it well, and from some portion of memory which yet lives on in him. The notes trill, a mellow sound rather than shrill, and he leans back against the cold breeze as if it were solid, arching his shoulders. Music to music, speaks, an answering call.
Hand stills upon the guitar's neck, and for a moment Kit makes no motion, no breath. Nothing. Music? He sits up quickly, leaning toward his balcony -- which overlooks the garden courtyard. And while he doesn't necessarily recognize the song -- he knows the source of all music. Kit smiles a little, wrapping a blanket around himself -- one of several he has piled around and over him at the moment...
He listens. He closes his eyes, leans back into the comfort of the chair and he listens. It is so simple, so sweet. It is what Existence should be, and is... for God. Kit does not wish to be God Himself/Herself/Itself -- he is satisfied being one piece of it, one tiny shard. For howeverso long as it shall last.
"It is a cold night for music," he says, "...for the serenade... I should offer you a cup of coffee, charity of a warm fire..." he says to the unknown musician.
The melody's ended, and a low laugh comes from below, and then, Valmiki speaks in accentless Italian. He knows, you see. Languages are his, all locked away in memory - the few he does not know, he intends to learn. The traveler's burden and boon.
"I would appreciate that very much," comes the husky voice. "I find these lands have less sun than I am accustomed to, and the cold has caught me unwary in its snare, devouring me from the skin on down. Shall you come down to me, then, to show me the way, or shall I blunder up to you?"
He's tempted, really, to put fingers to stone and find a way up to the balcony by act of skill and agility - but he is tired of always taking the hard way. If there is a shorter route, he will take it. The flute, he stows away once again in his jacket, face turned up with a smile towards the balcony.
Covered in blankets, draped like some Eastern mystic, Kit rises and waves, and then gestures to the trellis. "That is the quickest way, amice. But... if you do not climb, let me know... I will come out there..." There is a smile. For the first time in a full day and a full night there is a smile. And for the first time in a full day and a full night there is ...sociability. And laughter. "And ...yes... sometimes the lions of the city do not keep out the foul weather. Surrounded by water as we are, I guess it can happen."
He halt-turns, giving you his profile. And he is bathed in warm light, and flickers of green and red, blue, yellow and violet. He unwraps himself and tosses the blankets in, one at a time. Carefully...
Along the corner of the old house, there is a wooden trellis covered in flowering vines. In spring, they blossom purple and blue. Leading upward with flowered trumpets to the balcony of a third floor loft.
This appeals to him greatly - the chance to be flamboyant, and daring, to show off just a bit. He has not been himself lately, and it has bothered him. This is a chance to redeem himself, obscurely. Valmiki laughs again. "Then, I shall arise to you, as if Haruman himself were at my side!"
Fingers grip the trellis, and he begins pulling himself up with wiry resilience that speaks of long practice and tensile strength. And rather more quickly than not, a dark-topped head with dotted brow appears, bright blue-green eyes and an almost impish grin, as Valmiki leans his elbows on the edge of the balcony. "Good evening," he offers, with a casual air. Why yes - I do this every day, doesn't everyone?
After that momentary pause, he pulls himself over the edge of the balcony, long legs lifting and then settling until he's on terra firma, so to speak, and he sweeps into a low bow. "Valmiki Rama-Jambavan, wanderer, traveler, musician, poet and fool, at your service, sir. For this hospitality, many thanks."
He appears Italianate. Even as, in India, he morphed to fit the land. His vessel here on earth is such malleable stuff, and he... being of the Dreams of God... is prone to malleability anyway. As you rise from your bow, Kit bows likewise, and then gestures you in past the open French doors. You can see his room quite clearly. He is quite lucky -- he has a loft! The upstairs is his bedroom, or as he likes to call it, his crow's nest.
"Valmiki Rama-Jambavan," he pronounces that well, very well indeed, with correct inflection and everything, "...Kit Marlowe," by way of introduction to himself. "And you are more than welcome to warm by my fire. It is too much warmth for just one person, it would be wasted if not shared..."
The grand hospitality of Italians. And angels. It is dramatic...
"Watch your step over the sill..." The French doors -- the two windows which serve for portals -- have a sill, which is normally crowded with candles. The candles have been moved to other locales in the bedroom, which is crowded with shining rocks and stones and candles and votives of every color of the rainbow. The bed is a mess, there is a little clutter around. He clears his throat a bit as he steps in. "Isn't that always the way. You do not clean your room and mysterious guests show up... come in, come in..." Kit waves you in, a hand on the window-door. He will close it behind you.
The bedroom is an altar...
Multi-colored votive glass with myriad-flavored candles, which typically crowd the window ledges, rest throughout the room and upon the small dresser that sits beside the bed. Red. Yellow. Blue and green. Vanilla. Myrrh. Cinnamon and sandlewood.
The bedchamber is small, with an adjoining bathroom that is simply serviceable. But the windows -- from floor to near the ceiling they arch, providing view over the courtyard and neighboring gardens. The three sisters -- the three bridges -- are visible from here. And the windows themselves lead to a small, wrought-iron balcony. Enough for two to sit.
His smile broadens as he straightens, eyebrows quirking up. "Not the immortal Bacon?", he asks, then immediately, apologizes. "I am sorry - you must hear that far too often." One hand lifts to brush back a wing of raven-dark hair that's fallen across one eye, and his gaze twinkles. "Fire's warmth is a lesser sun and thus, requires fewer to be warmed by it - I thank you."
He steps forward, lifting his feet as he pads over the edge of the sill, tiptoeing through the clutter of colour with a bemused smile. "It is nothing," he assures you. "People come to India in the hopes of learning to walk on coals - I may thus say when I return that when in Venice, I myself walked over flames..."
He doesn't even seem to notice the mess, though. Valmiki steps into the center of the room, looking around with a pleased little smile. Here, indeed, is rich distraction, for the moment - and nothing which as yet prods uncertain Memory into flare of life.
He leads you through the bedroom, and its obstacle course labyrinth-like layout at the moment, to a narrow set of stairs. You can already feel the warmth. The stairs twist and turn and end into a conglomeration of Eastern and Western delights. Furnished mostly with rugs and pillows -- and a few of these from your India. There is a small fireplace around which the cushions and rugs are placed, and he gestures you toward it with a smile. "Coffee? Ahhhhh... India. You know... I was there for a while a year or so ago... longer maybe." He shrugs. "I was never good with linear time. But... I spent a lovely time in Chennai. I would like to return sometime..."
There is also bread and pasta, cooked fairly recently. There is a basket of fruit and figs on the oval table. Pears, apples and grapes mostly. "Help yourself to the fruit as well...and no apologies," Kit chuckles. "I do not mind it, having the name of a poet..."
The name of a poet. Almost, for a moment, the smile falters, flickering like a breeze running through a candleflame, but it springs back so quickly, perhaps there never was any pause.
Valmiki leans forward, taking a fig. "I remember a garden of a hotel I was in - near Puri, I think, waiting for a boat to take me to Port Blair - you know, the Andaman Islands?" He gestures with the fruit, smiling. "I do not recall for certain. But ... There was such a scent from the fig trees there, like unto mana. One could drown in that fragrance. So I thank you. Did Chennai agree with you, then? And coffee, coffee would be very pleasant."
He is already mid-pour of one cup, he is soon to pour another. And in the light, he may be better viewed. Clearly Italianate, his coloring retaining an olive and a soft brown to it. His hair is a very dark brown, walnut. He has the build of someone who would play soccer, pretty solid for a poet. He's neither beautiful nor lacking beauty. But strange, the color of his eyes. They are grey.
"Sugar? Fresh cream?" he offers, and then continues, "Chennai agreed with me, and I with it. Very much so. The sea, the city, its gardens. The temples of Mahabalipuram. The spices. I fell in love with India. I also fell in love with Turkey. Istanbul. Urgup. Venice, I also am coming to love. I moved here, and it has grown on me. And you? You said you were a wanderer, a poet, a traveller..." Kit smiles, eyes widening a touch at that. "You hail from India..." Not really a question, apparently he could tell, "... You are passing through Venice?"
"Yes, please!" Valmiki is enthusiastic about sweets, it seems, and he laughs quietly, settling onto the floor with his fig, pausing to take a bite from it neatly, to keep the seeds from spurting out under the pressure. White, even teeth - he clearly did not grow up poor, a particular contrast for India. He listens with a bright alertness, though, grinning.
His head ducks into a nod, limbs slightly gangly, and lacking that solidness - while there is some padding, under the jacket, under the tunic, the figure there is, remains, boyish, that edge of 'something to be grown into' in the frame, in the gait. By necessity...
"I am, yes. I pass through all places, sooner or later, as I am able. It is my ... heritage, I suppose you might say." A better word than destiny, which has a soured taste for him, at present. "It sounds though that you are as I am, in such matters, though I doubt I will ever settle, in the time allotted me. There are always places I must see, and people I must meet." And he laughs.
If you were to speak of your distaste for Destiny, you might find a companion in that. Destiny. Fate. He has been dealt the cards, so to speak. He has done what he was destined to do. And sometimes that comes with great suffering. But one must not think of it as suffering. One must not, or one will suffer.
Kit brings the coffee over, sugar and cream added to both, and it smells of hazelnut, this coffee. He sets your cup upon the oval table. He cups his own to himself as he pulls up a cushion. Kit smiles a little and he nods. "Yes, I understand this... and you and I... I think we share this. I do not know how long I will be in Venice. I suppose as long as I am supposed to be in Venice." He sips at the coffee. "As it is, I find I like it. I teach music at an orphanage, to the little children. I think it is only for them that I have remained this long. So, surely you must have stories from all the places you have been..."
A brief gesture, a sort of sitting bow as he accepts the coffee. "I ... have stories, yes. I collect them - that is my lot in life, you see." To hear others' dreams, and experiences, and make sense of them and retell, it seems. He smiles again, popping the rest of the fig into his mouth and chewing, then swallowing, quickly.
"Children are a gift, they say. A blessing... because in them, we see the hope for the future, and its unmarred potential." Valmiki takes a sip of his coffee, washing down the remains of the fig, then speaks again. "Though I disagree with those who say that their actions show the purity humans are capable of - I see them more as ... unformed stories. But yes, when I am not - caught up in my own philosophical ramblings, I have and do tell stories, for pleasure or for payment, as the situation seems to declare itself."
"Hope and dreams. They are the stuff of children," Kit says quietly, sipping his coffee. "That is why we must cherish them. In them is unformed future. The potential of... the best that We can be. For them, I try to teach them music. It is the dream I can answer." It is what I do. Who and what I am. He is quiet for a moment. Is that a passing shadow?
That is who and what I am. What a silly creature I am to think of anything else. I owe God such an apology. If I begin now, in a few eternities, I may be finished...
Kit lifts his cup in a little salute to you. "Purity... that is something we can aspire toward, hmm? Some choose purity, others truth, others honor. We all have an ideal that we chase, like birds chasing after a comet. But it is the effort, I think, that is rewarded. Not the capture..."
"Do we all?" Valmiki's smile turns wry. "Well, perhaps that is so." A swallow more of coffee, and he glances towards the window, face going remote, like some Hindu statue - there is beauty in it, of a sort, but without the fire of animation which makes up 'Valmiki', it is easily overlooked.
It is a part of the dichotomy that I am, to wonder... what it would be like, if I could put it aside. And now, that I suspect my life will not be very long, I find I am angry - cheated of life, cheated of the chance to have those things which as a child, even I did dream of. And there are no answers for me. Were there ever? How can I presume to question the gods? They will not listen to me...
The aquamarine eyes blink, once, and turn away, as Valmiki pinches the bridge of his nose with eyes wide open, then closed for a moment. When he speaks, he returns to his normal self, turning an almost reckless smile to you. "There are many things which one might enjoy the chase of - the thrill of it. And you, then, Signor Marlowe? What melody do you chase, outside the confines of the classroom?"
"I will make you tired with my answer. My answer is that of a simple man," he shrugs. "I am a stereotype. An Italian guitar player who seeks to answer the dreams of others, in any way that he can, and whose only other occupation is that of love. It is... so stereotypical, so cliche, that I dare not say anymore about it." Kit smirks a little, taking another swallow of coffee. "I spend most of my time at the orphanage. Free time is spent on music and on... thinking about the one I love. It is a simple existence."
And I have been ungrateful. I see it so clearly now. God forgive me...
Am I even worthy of serving You?
Kit blushes a touch, half-shrugs. "As I said, I am a simple man. I do not want for more than I have. I am lucky to have even this much..."
"You say that as though there is anything wrong with simplicity." Valmiki's chuckle is unforced - as a wanderer, his own lifestyle tends to be very simple, existing in that which he can easily carry with him. "It is the simple things which remind us of what is important - when we move, it is simple fabrics that do not bind us. When we eat, the simplest flavours are often the ones which sustain us the most, and the simple things we remember, long after expensive ties and bonds have fallen away."
And then - "Ah, love." Valmiki smiles and sighs, at the same time. "I envy you. I do not know what it is, to love." Familial love - yes, he understands that, though for him and his, it is a wary dutifulness shared between father and child and grandparents, and nothing more, little even in common to be spoken of. To be in love, and receive that - it is a fascinating, frustrating puzzle, and one he has never been quite sure if he should wish for or not. "All hours' passion have been spent, I fear, in other directions. There is nothing wrong, with aspiration, though - please, do not mistake me."
I just do not know ... what, or how, or if I should ... even if it were possible - would it be fair?
Aspiration sits cross-legged from you, sipping coffee. And he smiles. "No...there is nothing wrong with aspiration. No matter how simple or how grand." No, there is nothing wrong with Aspiration. I need to listen to it more carefully.
I need to aspire to something...
That is precisely what I need...
"Valmiki, love is love. You love music, that is love. Warm coffee on a cold night. That too is love. It doesn't have merely one face, one way to know It. Love, unlike me, is not so simple." Kit chuckles and lifts his mug.
A quizzical tilt of the head, a smile. "Unlike you?", he echos, not really understanding. "And ... perhaps that is so, but ... that isn't quite what I mean. There is a place for lonely content, I agree, but occasionally I wonder if it is enough." And Valmiki laughs, again, quietly, the husky voice still for a moment.
"Ah, ignore me. The cold outside clearly is bringing impure thoughts to my mind, that meditation alone is insufficient to exorcise..." And to place my problems on some kind stranger giving me coffee in the middle of the evening in a strange land is hardly fair return on hospitality. "I apologize. How might I repay you, then, for these gifts you've given?"
"You may stay the night here, make this your shelter unless you already have arrangements otherwise. You should stay and drink my coffee, eat my food. For you remind me what this is supposed to be for." And I needed a reminder. I needed to remember.
You, my wandering friend, have rescued an angel tonight. For until you arrived, I had lost my footing and my way. I was playing songs, I was crying in the cold, I was afraid, sore afraid, that I had Fallen. But I do not have to Fall...
A pause. Valmiki desperately, for one brief moment, desires to stay, to turn his back on the path he walks, even if only for a night, to have it all be all right. But there is a tug inside of him which tells him that he will not be allowed - one way or another, the wilderness of city streets is calling him out, and he cannot remain, no matter how rebelliously he may wish it otherwise...
"I wish that I could, but I have taken unfair advantage of your hospitality already," he says lightly, rising to his feet. "It would be a poor return for me to abuse it further, and would shame my ancestors. So, instead, I will take my leave of you, and find my shelter elsewhere, for there are people waiting for me, I think." Somewhere.
He bows, palms together, that errant lock of hair drifting in front of his face again. "It was a pleasure to have known you, Kit Marlowe. I pray your tale's ending is better in fortune than your namesake, and only as peaceful as you desire."
He doesn't hide his disappointment well, it shows clearly -- if briefly. But then he smiles, he stands. And then he bows. "Of course, Valmiki the Troubadour," Kit softly says. "I am so grateful that you were here to accept the hospitality. You have been the best of guests."
He would shake your hand but it doesn't seem polite. His hands slip into his pockets and he turns toward the door, a hand then coming out to gesture toward it. "I will leave my tale in your hands," he says softly. "You're a better poet than I am, I am certain. And in your care, perhaps you will give this second Kit Marlowe a better fortune than his namesake." I could use a little fortune to go with my double-helping of destiny...
Another burden, in its way, but Valmiki doesn't let it show, shoulders not even sagging as he rises. "Who knows? Perhaps we'll meet again. The world is very old." It is a favourite line of his, and he has used it often for ... well, a very long time.
And he steps towards the balcony, intent on leaving the way he came in. "Good fortune to you, in love and in aspiration, then, and may whichever gods are yours be kind to you." A brief curl of bitterness almost prompts him to add, and kinder than they have been to me - it's bitten back relentlessly, the cheer remaining the prevalent expression on his face. Only a ripple to those lucid eyes to betray him.
He opens the window, chuckling. "I shall trust you to close up behind me. If ever you have particular need of me? Well, the wind, they say, is a fierce and fearsome hunter. Who knows? Trust a message upon it - I might even get it." If the gods will, I will be summoned.
And he's gone, disappearing over the edge of the trellis and sliding down it rapidly into the semi-darkness.
Posted by rowan at May 18, 2003 07:23 PM
