Alaric in Mirabeau part 2: Alaric & Paolo
In The Doom that Came to
Amber
A New Day – Alaric and Paolo Talk
You awake to find the afternoon sunlight slanting across your room
and the sound of knocking on your door. “Richard? Richard, are you in? How about
a bite to eat and then I’ll show you my new painting? Can you hear me,
Richard?” You’re aware of a ravenous hunger.
Alaric needs to eat but he also needs to look again at what he did
last night. They are both needs not desires and he is drawn by his work over
the needs of his body. He is not unaware of his offer to Paolo so he asks Paolo
to wait a minute whilst he dresses. Alaric starts to adjust his wig but instead
puts the wig back down and starts looking through his current work. He is
looking to apply solutions.
As you stand, you feel a wave of dizziness and have to sit down
again. You pick up one of your sketches from last night but when you look at
it, you feel sick.
Having had some medical training, you realise that your brain is
probably starved of blood sugar. Your mother has lectured you on the past about
healthy eating; you can hear her voice now. “It’s especially important for an Amberite because we burn calories so fast. Those of us who
are physically active are known for their appetites; Corwin, for example. But
mental work can be just as taxing.” You’ve just done the mental equivalent of
fencing for 24 hours on a crumb of digestive and a sip of wine; you need
sustenance.
“Richard? Are you all right?” Paolo begins to sound a little desperate.
“We’ve been a little worried about you, you know.”
Alaric thinks, “food. Food now!”
“Paolo. Please come in – I’ll just
finish dressing.” Alaric sits on his bed to pull his boots on.
Paolo enters and looks you over anxiously. What he sees must assuage
his concerns because he quickly relaxes and looks about the room instead.
Alaric stands up again, carefully this time and throws some water
on his face
You feel able to function, washing freshens you. All you need is
brunch and you’ll be as right as rain.
Paolo notices the ashes in the hearth. “I burn my so-so stuff,
too. I burnt a few things after we last spoke.” He smiles. “It really makes you
feel good, doesn’t it? Like you’re purging the dross through
fire.”
[I don’t know if Alaric needs to shave – he is clean.]
[If you want to stay that way, you will need to shave. Especially
as you have a red beard. ;-) ]
As Alaric wets his stubble and wields his razor, Paolo observes,
“You know, you look very different without your wig; harder, less of a fop,
more ‘you’. Why do you wear it?”
Alaric replies “I wear my wig because it is an intrinsic part of
me Paolo, and has been for many years. It reflects some of my best years in
terms of endeavour and a time when my life was more structured and formal – or
uptight, as Salli would doubtless comment. Being a
fop, as you so delicately termed it, [he is a little narked
by that comment] is also a part of my nature. It is, if you like, a statement
of my own identity and my certainty within it. I do not choose to wear the
uniform of a want-to-be-Iconer. And nor,
coincidentally, do I choose to be recognised as being a member of my family
simply because of my colouring. I choose to be myself. I do need to look hard.
I may or may not be hard mentally, or physically, but that is entirely up to myself whether I choose to either claim it, or demonstrate
it.”
“So your identity is that of a redhead who’d rather be a
brunette?” In common with a lot of people who find a sore spot in someone
they’d previously thought impervious, Paolo can’t help digging a little. “You
sound just like the girl I was with last night.”
“I sincerely hope not Paolo” Alaric interrupts.
“I asked her why she bleached her hair and she said, ‘Well, at
heart I’m naturally a blond.’ Naturally artificial, more like.” Paolo’s clearly
not thinking about how his words sound to Alaric.
Alaric is trying to distract Paolo a little. “Paolo, your
obsession with hair colour is becoming tiresome. Was your ‘not blonde’ a good
conversationalist, or did you get on to other matters in life?”
“I wasn’t really interested in her conversation. I’ve just been
painting her and it seems a little off to just kick your model out on her ear.
She’s a good subject, very paintable, I might want her
back. A knockout lay, too!”
“Hmm. It’s good to see that you take
your task of ‘knowing’ your subject so seriously Paolo,” Alaric smiles the
smile of another artist.
“I’ll introduce you, if you like.” He smiles. “As long as you
remember I saw her first.”
“You seem full of beans this day Paolo – what are you plotting to
hatch, eh?” Alaric looks straight into his eyes.
“Hatch?” Paolo seems surprised at the
word. “I don’t know what you mean, you do sound paranoid, Richard. No, I just
had a great night and my work’s going better than it has in months. You know
what it’s like when you’ve found your muse. I feel good! But you say you don’t
wear your natural hair because it reminds you of your family. I guess I can
relate to that.”
He muses as you shave beneath your nose. “Mmm! Alars? Don’t think
I’ve heard of the name, but you sound like you’re posh. Are you in disguise
because of your family?” He goes on without waiting for a reply. “On the other
hand, it sounds much more like ‘you’. You don’t feel like a ‘Richard’, ‘Rick’,
‘Rickie’ or ‘Dick’. I think I shall always think of you as ‘Alars’,
whatever your real name. I like you! I can talk to you.”
Alaric keeps his composure and tries hard not to slit his nose
open. “It’s painting that I relate to Paolo and avoiding
the distractions of families is merely a bold stratagem to improve my
painting.”
Paolo nods understandingly. “My family are singers. When I left to
try painting, my father told me I had a fair voice but I’d never be a great
painter. So I know how you feel.”
“So you chose painting over singing. Do you still sing though
Paolo?”
Oh sure, when I’m happy! A couple of times I’ve thought of
chucking in my palette and going back to it but maybe now I’ll just sing in the
bath like everyone else. You sound like your mother would disapprove, Richard;
surely she’d be proud? My old man would be tickled pink to find me an Iconer or even a noble; he just didn’t think I could.”
“My mother is a gifted proud woman, a very proud woman Paolo –
she’s just not generally proud of me. Around me she wears a layer of
impenetrable business and an air of disapproval – still, ultimately it’s what I
prefer. At least I am left to paint.”
Paolo looks quizzical; he’s clearly having trouble equating your
character sketch of Fiona with any noble matriarch he’s heard of. “Your
family’s weird, Al... Richard.” He looks right back in your eyes. Either he’s
telling the truth or he’s a phenomenal liar – and you’ve not seen him lie much
to date.
“I regret my poor display of hospitality this err, afternoon. I
was working until quite late last night Paolo and I have only just woken.”
“So I see.” Observes Paolo, examining the new
painting.
Alaric starts to adjust his wig properly onto his head. “Have you
completed your painting to your satisfaction?” Paolo nods distractedly. “I
would like to see it very much? But the desire of my body for food defeats my
intellectual curiosity, Sir. Have you eaten yet? Would you care to join me?”
“Mmm? Oh, sure!”
Paolo gestures to the canvas. “So you’re going for a representational religious
work? It looks pretty straightforward, to me. But the perspective’s weird;
makes you feel like you actually are the Goddess.” He looks over with a grin.
“I guess your epiphany did you some good, eh? If this doesn’t make you an Iconer, I don’t know what will. Salli
will be really pleased.”
Alaric replies “I’m very discerning when it comes to deciding what
art I will live with. I was a little distracted yesterday by Salli’s assumptions and over enthusiasm and was subsequently
unhappy with some of my work.”
Paolo nods agreement. “I know what you mean; she can make you
doubt yourself. I don’t think she means to but she’s very passionate about her
ideas and she can come over as if she thinks there’s only one way.” [Evidently
Paolo isn’t thinking along quite the same lines as Alaric.] “But you will be an
iconer – within days, I’d say, looking at that.” He
gestures at the easel. “Why do you deny your obvious destiny?”
There’s a momentary pause while Paolo’s thoughts catch up with his
tongue. “…You don’t really want to be an iconer, do
you? You’re like me! Mmm!”
“What me, Mira’s prophet! Hmmm. Wouldn’t my relatives be pleased? I can just imagine the joy in their eyes and the
respect in their voices. ‘Ahhhh, young Richard’, my mother
would say and then she would say so much more.” Alaric can’t control himself
from smiling at the prospect.
As Alaric says Mira’s name, he hears her voice in his head. “I
will take you places you have never been. I will show you things you have never
seen!”
“Give me the knowledge your brothers held Mira? At what cost?
To a son of Amber – you are my Aunt after all” Alaric thinks pointedly.
Again, you feel your words come after the link is broken. You’re
talking to yourself again.
“You’re kidding!” Paolo seems genuinely surprised. “I can feel the
icon quality in this now and it’s barely started. You’ll be an Iconer within the week...if you’re not careful.”
Alaric quickly puts his sketches in to a portfolio so that they
are with him when he leaves his room.
The painting is still wet so it must remain on the easel but
everything else winds up on your person, albeit in a bulky package.
Alaric stops just inside the room and looks hard at Paolo and
says, “I’d sooner be a painter. Any day. Have a closer
look at just who’s on the throne in that painting Paolo.”
Paolo does just that. He looks hard. In fact he seems captivated
by the picture.
“Come on. Let’s dine now. I could eat a horse.”
“Mmm? Oh, sure!”
He tries to break away but gets drawn back. “Yeah, yeah!...
“Coming!...
“Right away!...”
Finally he follows you out the door but it’s the better part of a
minute before he seems to return to the real world.
“Take me somewhere where the food is good – and there’s lots of it
Paolo. Take me where the wine flows gently from the jug to the palate of my
mouth. Take me somewhere where the music is magical. Then take me to see your
new work and we shall celebrate the continuing development of your genius. And
then I will get back to my own work – and the destiny of my own making” he says
under his breath.
“Huh? What? Oh, sure, this way!”
“And for the great prize of the first bottle of wine Paolo, the
figure on the throne is...?”
Paolo is staring about him as if he’s never seen the street before.
“Eh?” He swallows hard. “Um! Well...I don’t know,
really... No! That’s a lie... I know exactly.” He leans close as the two of you
walk in the afternoon sun. “I felt...” He pauses as two Iconers
pass in the street and only continues when he can see they’re well past. “I
felt I was the Goddess. I felt incredible. My eyes... I can see – I
can’t believe what I can see.” His voice slides into panic. “But it’s passing,
going, I’m losing it. Even as we speak, here on the street.”
He rubs his eyes. “What have you done to me, Al...Richard?”
And, for the grand prize what, by my broken sword, what have I
done, Alaric thinks to himself? Alaric goes quiet again.
Paolo looks up, his eyes watering. “I heard her voice. She said,
‘You are not the one! You will not serve, will you? So I shall give you my
greatest gift.” His face is haggard. “I know, Alars,
I know! I know I can paint Icons.”
He stumbles into an upmarket bistro, you’ve seen it before and
thought you’d try it but you’ve not had the time and Salli’s
school can’t quite afford it. Evidently, Paolo now thinks he can, if he’s
thinking at all, that is.
Alaric doesn’t know that Paolo can afford it – but Alaric will
pay.
Paolo sits dejectedly at a table, not touching the menu. “Do you
know what you’ve done, Alars?”
“Richard, Paolo, my name is Richard” Alaric says “No Paolo, not
entirely.”
Angry now, he looks into your eyes. “You knew what would happen
when I looked at it, didn’t you? Why? Richard, why? Were you that pissed off at
a little ribbing? I’ve never wanted to be an Iconer.
Everybody else aspires to it but the life’s too
austere for me. All I’ve ever done is paint as well as
I can and hope to become one of the great lay artists. I’d never thought I’d
have to do anything else than paint my best; give my utmost.” He looks
desolately at you. “But now I can’t. Now I know my best is too good. I’ll never
be able to give of my best again because I’ll condemn myself to a life of
austere celibacy if I do.” He covers his face with his hands. “I can never
simply enjoy painting again.”
“Are you ready to order, gentlemen?” asks the waitress at your
elbow.
“We would like some food to take with us. Enough for four adults
and whilst we wait for it we would like a good bottle of red wine and a platter
of bread” says Richard.
“Food? Of course,
Sir. Any particular kind? A little guidance
helps the chef, he is an artiste, you know.”
Alaric looks up and says “what?” Blinks and says “fresh tomato and
mozzarella salad; with some fresh olives; some stuffed squid, maybe some cured
meats. Lamb shanks cooked in a Merlot with a red onion
marmalade and a rocket salad – lots of tomatoes with that salad – and bruschetta for preference;
“…4 red, 1 Port... coffee later... check!
And all to go. I’m afraid we don’t have that pudding,
Sir, but today’s special is kumquat mousse, would that be suitable?”
No. Not the mousse – just add some more fruit.”
“Very good, sir! About twenty minutes, then, as
it’s all cold.”
“I’d hope that lamb isn’t cold.” Alaric comments.
“You want it hot, Sir? No problem but that will be forty minutes
to an hour. How do you wish to pay?”
I’d like the bread and wine as a matter of urgency thank you.”
Alaric reaches in the pocket of his breeches and hauls out some money. “How
much will this be?”
“Oh?” She sounds like she trod in ‘exhaust de chien’.
“Sir wishes to pay with ‘currency’?” She takes the money reluctantly, as if it smells.
Richard waits for the wine to arrive. He then sits next to Paolo,
prises his hands away from face, grips him tightly on the forearms and speaks
very quietly but directly to him. “Look at me Paolo. Now! You do not have to be
an Iconer unless you want to be an Iconer. You might have heard a call but you do not have to
acknowledge it. Yes, my painting holds power…”
“Oh, so now you admit it...”
“…BUT I am not an Iconer, and nor am I
ever likely to be one.”
“What are you talking about?” Paolo shakes his hand in disbelief.
“You know as well as I do, if you paint an Icon, you’re an Iconer.
It’s what it means. You can’t refuse.” Something occurs to him. “But you
painted it. You are an Iconer, aren’t you?”
“Shut up and listen Paolo. I am not an Iconer
I am a painter. I live for art not for some other supercilious daughter of a
misbegotten King. THERE
It occurs to you that perhaps in Mirabeau
there are no ‘other options’.
Paolo sits back and chuckles sardonically. “Of
course! Now I understand. I’ve heard the really good Iconers
go underground to bring the image of the Goddess to us weaker believers.”
“Paolo, I am not an underground Iconer.”
He looks down at his hands. “I suppose I deserve it. Bless me
father, for I have sinned. I have kept from the Goddess her just dues and
created only for myself. I have done this for a very long time; all my adult
life. I ask you now to absolve me and let me make my peace with the Goddess
before going to my allotted destiny.”
“I will absolve you of nothing Paolo because you have done
nothing. Look at me you idiot!”
Paolo looks up, shocked. “You won’t even grant me absolution? Is
my blasphemy that heinous? Give me a penance, then.” He looks desperate. “There
must be something.”
“Very well, there is something I will give you. Your penance is to
shut up and listen to what I am going to say to you.”
Paolo’s jaws close with a snap.
“I mean it Paolo. There are other options but if you choose to whitter at me in panic and not listen then I will not be
able to help you. If you want to paint – I will help you paint. If you wish to
sleep with your muse...”
About now Alaric realises everything’s gone quiet and everyone’s
looking at him ranting at Paolo and says more quietly “…then sleep with the
woman – after all, where are the next generation of gifted artists going to
come other than from your loins.”
Somewhere out of sight comes the titter of female laughter. A
couple of smirks, you’re not absolutely sure they’re at you.
Alaric stretches lazily and stares back at their audience and
yawns. If he can work out the source of the tittering he will deliver them his
best smile.
It’s somewhere over the other side of the bistro, in an alcove
hidden from you by a screen.
“Where’s this wine then?
She’ll get no sketch in the spilt salt from me. Stay here – Let me summon the
wine waiter.” He opens his bundle of papers and will select one of his standard
[not awesome – or even above average] sketches – beckons over the wine waiter
Alaric says “please accept this sketch in exchange for a decent
bottle of red wine – and keep them coming.”
“Sir wants another bottle of the same? Very good, Sir!” he takes
the sketch. “That will do nicely, Sir.”
“So Paolo, what’s her name – have you got a sketch of her with
you.”
He still seems a little discomfited but Alaric’s calming
attentions seem to be having effect. He’s a long way from recovering his
previous bonhomie, though. He shakes his head. “Not on me, no, but you’ll see
her picture at my place, it’s almost dry. Her name’s Laura!”
The wine arrives. [This is your second bottle,
you originally waited until after the first arrived before haranguing Paolo.]
Alaric pours out more wine for Paolo and says “So, other than the fact
Laura’s not a natural blonde – but doesn’t wear a wig, and therefore looks
hard, tell me something more about her Paolo”.
He shrugs. “Not much to tell. She’s a noble born wench of little
talent but great looks. Though she can’t paint herself she creates passively by
inspiring others. She gets the attention, I get the inspiration. She’s a little
dumb but that’s an asset when you want her to stay put and do as she’s told.
You know the type. Right now, she’s my muse and I’m painting well.” You hear a
crumb of confidence return but then vanish into the abyss again. “Next month?
Who knows? I’ll probably be in a church and that sort of thing will be behind
me. Give me some more wine!”
“Next month is next month Paolo.”
“Yeah, deep!” snorts Paolo.
“Tomorrow let us paint. Let us find your Laura for you – and a
dead pheasant and an apple for me and we shall paint in the old tradition of
the exceptionally drunk/hungover starving artists.”
Says Alaric as he tears off a wad of fresh bread and dunks it in a new flagon
of wine. Smells of cooking waft from the kitchen.
Someone sniggers again close by.
“In fact we shall be so hideously hung over that we shall be end
up finger painting using our own bodily secretions – that would put Waldo out.
I did hear of one artist who insisted on using his own semen as a means of
artistic expression – poor chap was quite wrung out by the end of a painting.
How would that go down in the Cathedral do you think or, will I provoke another
round of tittering from behind the screens. Closeted Nuns or
what?”
No giggles this time but perhaps a snort. A guy at the closest
table smiles and raises a cup in salute.
“Well I suspect painting’s all I’ll be doing with it soon.” Paolo
shrugs. “Yeah, sure! Though there won’t be any
paintings of Laura until she gets back from home.”
OK Steve, Alaric is very hungry and has accidentally caused a
fellow artist pain – and would like to get back to his own painting. Alaric is
not feeling in the best of sorts. He does not like hearing people sniggering or,
tittering and when he thinks it’s coming from behind the screen again he will
say “excuse me Paolo, I am curious as to what someone else finds so amusing.”
He walks over towards to screen and looks to see who is there.
He rounds the screen to find of the three alcoves on the far side
of the bistro, only one seems occupied. In it, three teenage girls are
indulging in typically girlish conversation. They look very still, as if
suddenly controlling themselves. None look your way; one is trying to smother a
smirk with her hand.
“Please do share the joke with me ladies – or, perhaps you’d like
to join us at our table and then we can all be entertained by your obvious
amusement.” Alaric smiles at them politely. The smile doesn’t extend to his
eyes. No, not at all.
The smirker bursts out laughing, the
girl opposite quickly follows with a guffaw. The third and youngest, [thirteen,
perhaps?] girl blushes and looks the other way. “Nothing, Sir,” giggles the smirker, “my friend just said something funny.” Their renewed
cackles make it clear that whatever was said was at your expense.
Alaric smiles coldly at them again and says “then I suggest that
when your friend is capable of saying something that could be described as
being funny that they should do so. Until such time, perhaps you should all
return to the nurseries from where you have so obviously just emerged. I will
bid you an unfond good night, children.”
Richard bows slightly and returns to his and Paolo’s table.
“OK, granddad!” Another burst of giggles.
“Oh leave them, Richard,” calls Paolo from behind you, “They’re
not worth it!”
“So paint someone else Paolo. There’s a bevy of unamusing girls lurking behind the screen – aching for
attention from your eye and brush. We could hold a private paint the painter
competition after lunch – if I don’t die of hunger first.” Alaric looks
mournfully towards other tables where people are eating. “After all – all of Mirabeau and its talented inhabitants await the tender
mercies of artists such as ourselves.”
Paolo looks at you kind of strange but restricts himself to
pouring more wine. It becomes clear that Paolo’s hitting the vino with serious intent and by the time your food arrives,
he’s getting a little drunk.
Your food arrives and the two of you stagger back to his attic.
It’s not far but it takes you twenty minutes to manhandle the food and keep him
walking. He’s nowhere near paralytic but he’s certainly navigating poorly.
The two of you stagger upstairs and he opens his door, almost
collapsing on the bed. You notice the covered easel by the window but go into
the cooking area and start putting food on plates while he harangues you from
the bed. “You’re a bastard, Richard, you know that? You’ve bloody ruined my
life. Bloody ruined, I tell you.”
“Stop being so bloody melodramatic Paolo – you’re sounding like a
two bit ham player and you’ll be offered a part in a play soon. You’re not
bloody ruined.”
“Oh, I am, I am. You just don’t understand.” He rolls over and
looks at you, startled. “Do you really know a musician who can play a ham?” he
thinks for a second. “Oh...you mean ‘play’ as in act; that must have been a
weird one.”
Alaric looks doubtfully at him and smiles, “She was much better
when she played bacon.”
You enter from the kitchen festooned with food, laying the plates
on the floor. Richard sits up and starts eating with you. “I wish I’d never met
you,” he grumbles. After a few minutes, he stops eating, pushes something away
from your mouth and says. “Wait a minute! I gotta get
used to this... Bless this... stuff we’re about to eat and... drink and... ah... we’re sorry we
didn’t cook it ourselves but it is a... work of art and we... appreciate it,
Lady. You know... stuff like that.”
“Yeah, yeah. Stuff like that Paolo. I have
never been so moved by an act of Grace in all my life.”
“Hey, it’s my first...”
“Why not try this one?” Alaric recites a Latin Grace as he
doubtless heard in 15th Century
“What...what’s that?” says Paolo around a mouthful of lamb.
“Or, perhaps this one,” he recites a Unicorn grace if such a thing
exists.
[There is an equivalent.] Paolo just blinks at you.
“It’s got to mean something to you Paolo – its like good art – if
its not inside of you than it isn’t going to appear on paper in front of you. This
food – it’s good. I’ve had better and I’ve had worse but don’t mumble over it
like some... Oh, I don’t know. Eat it, and enjoy it”!
“Yes, father. You can forgive me for this too when you get around
to it but thanks for the tip.”
“Shut up Paolo – the day I am an Iconer
will be the day that...” Alaric stops, not wanting to accidentally dare Mira.
“Can you stop interrupting my meal please”!
Paolo returns to stuffing his face. He’s clearly as hungry as you.
By the time you’ve finished, he seems sobered by a full stomach.
“So, Paolo – show me this portrait you’ve been working on?”
Paolo’s still eating but he nods at the covered easel by the
window. “T’sover there!” he mumbles. Then he swallows
and cleans his mouth with wine. “Feel free but make sure your hands are clean.
It’s probably going to be the best thing I’ll ever do, now.” There’s a slight
edge of bitterness to his voice.
Alaric goes to the kitchen to clean up his hands and goes over to
the easel to lift up the cover. “Are you sure you don’t want to uncover the
prize for me Paolo – let’s play Patrons and Artisans.”
Food and drink seem to have recovered Paolo’s spirits. He leans
back with a belch and smilingly waves his cup at you. “Get on with it!”
Alaric stops fooling around and uncovers the painting.
It’s Flora!
Oh, sure! She’s a brunette dyed blond and looks a trifle younger
than you’d paint her but it’s definitely her or her shadow. She’s a nude,
reclining languorously and seductively full length on Paolo’s bed, both
distorted by strange swirls in the paint as if seen through deep water. Her mouth partly open; tongue just visible. One hand holds a
fold of a sheet over her loins while the other lightly caresses her belly. It’s
one of the most incredibly erotic pictures you’ve ever seen. It’s certainly the
best thing you’ve seen of Paolo’s; you’d be quite proud to own up to it
yourself.
Alaric stops completely and looks long and hard at the painting –
“is it or isn’t it?” he’s thinking. He checks to see if it’s got Trump/Icon
qualities or not and through his mind he’s running the Mirabeau/Amber
time sequences together to see if Flora’s absences over the last month or so
match up with what he knows [or would like to find out!].
This was painted recently, in the last few days. Paolo had done nothing
like this when Alaric first saw his rooms over a week ago. Ergo, if it were
Flora, her ‘absence’ would have happened after Alaric left, whatever the time
stream. You can’t detect any trump quality in the painting but you’d say Paolo
was easily capable of painting icons even before his ‘accident’ with Mira.
Alaric whistles appreciatively. “She’s a stunner Paolo – my eyes
are turning even greener with envy. You have, as the critics might say, found
your mode of expression and, much as it irritates me to say this – I wish that
this were my work. It’s not half bad at all.”
He bows forward on the bed and rolls off onto the floor with a
bump, apparently deliberately. “Thank you, Richard!” He smugly says from the
floor. “I appreciate your kind words. I think it’s good and if you think she
looks good in it, you should see her in the flesh.” He chuckles lasciviously
then catches himself and sighs mournfully. “Of course, I’ll never do anything
like it again.”
“I don’t see why not Paolo...”
Paolo sighs but doesn’t argue.
.”..this is easily of Icon quality – why
not stay with the style – err, and the model. When do you expect her to be
back? I’d like to see her response to this work – that might be worth recording
in its own right.”
“She’ll be back in a few days but she saw it when I finished it,
just before we went out last night. She...seemed pleased, said something
about...finding a buyer.”
Your head tells you that it must be a shadow of your aunt but your
heart tells you this is the real thing. You recall Paolo quoting her, ‘Well, at
heart I’m naturally a blond’.
Alaric is sure that Aunt Flora is well capable of ‘playing’ blonde
and suspects that he might be interfering in someone else’s plans. “I will not
let this interfere in my painting” he recites to himself.
“Uh, what?” Says Paolo,
still prone, wine spreading across the floor from his fallen goblet.
Looking at him, it occurs to you that perhaps his roll off the bed wasn’t
deliberate after all; he hasn’t moved an inch since and his eyes are half-closed.
He seems to be succumbing to the drink.
Alaric puts Paolo into recovery position and leaves a bowl of some
sort near by for puking into and leaves him to it – taking any remaining
bottles with him.
As you leave, he starts to snore.