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MFU fanfic: Through the Invisible - Post 2/6
Rating: NC-17
The street was more than Sunday morning quiet when Illya emerged from the tube station. Further down the hill, there was a lone family waiting to cross the road and one couple strolled along the opposite pavement. Only a few cars passed by. Above the gold tinged trees shading the avenue, the sun shone in a cloudless sky. Illya switched his bag to his left shoulder and walked downhill towards the crosswalk, and turned south.
The gates to Holland Park were open and since he was early, Illya took a small detour inside. What remained of the bombed manor house looked defiantly beautiful amidst the landscaped lawns and bright flower beds. The park wasn't as magnificent as Regent's Park, but it had its own loveliness. He exited further south along Abbotsbury Road and paused to consult his A-Z. Accurately negotiating the last few turns, Illya arrived in front of his destination still five minutes ahead of schedule. He decided against circling the block which was often not a straightforward exercise in London and pushed the buzzer next to the gate in the garden wall enclosing the house. While he awaited a response, he surveyed the facade of the Victorian building, picking out the ornamental details in the brickwork.
"Coming," a woman called out good naturedly. "Just a moment," the voice added, coming closer.
"Good morning," Illya smiled, leaning forward slightly from the waist when the gate opened. "I apologise for arriving early...Mrs. Solo."
A startled look appeared on the smiling face regarding him, "Oh, I'm not Napoleon's mother, although I've looked after him since he was a baby, and you must be Mr. Kuryakin, please come in," she concluded, stepping aside and motioning Illya forward.
Illya entered the small forecourt and paused while the gate was secured behind him. "Mr. Solo wanted to come down to greet you himself, but he's on the telephone and it's taking a little longer than expected." She gestured for Illya to follow her up the steps into the house. "It should only be a minute or two more." When they reached the foyer, she asked, "Can I get you a cup of tea in the meantime?" A kettle began to whistle. Illya watched an anxious look flit across his hostess's face.
"Shall I wait here while you get that?" he asked.
"Oh, no. I'll see you up," she began and winced as the kettle shrilled even more loudly.
"Are you sure?" Illya asked again.
"Well, if you wouldn't mind, the sitting room's just up the stairs there," Mrs. Featherstonehaugh gestured towards the next room. "I won't be a minute with the tea. Thank you." She dashed off through an archway and out again through a door beneath the stairs just as Illya entered the room.
He stopped, his eyes widening. Without moving past the archway, he let his eyes roam from the stuffed peacock displayed on the carved wooden balustrade directly in front of him, around the ornately tiled walls, back to the stairs and up the banister to where a tall, trim young man in a dove grey suit, pale blue shirt and silver tie stood a step or two down from the top watching him.
"It's beautiful," Illya said to him.
Napoleon's shoes were a grey blur as he finished descending the stairs. He crossed the few steps to where Illya stood with his hand extended. "Mr. Kuryakin, welcome. I'm Napoleon Solo. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm sorry I couldn't greet you at the gate, the..."
"Phone. Yes, apologies were already offered," Illya replied, grasping the proffered hand and looking directly into the warm brown eyes of his host, "But it's I who must apologise for arriving before time." He let go of the hand and glanced up at the walls again. "One would never expect this was inside. It's extraordinary."
Napoleon's smile broadened. "Would you like to see the other tiled rooms?"
"Yes, with pleasure."
Napoleon reached for Illya's bag. "Let me take that." Illya slipped the bag off his shoulder and handed it to Napoleon. "We can leave it here," he said, setting it down on a small wooden bench inlaid with mother-of-pearl, then stretching his arm towards another doorway. Illya followed Napoleon through a room whose tiled walls sparkled in the sunlight streaming from a large arched window then into a rounded, dimmer room with cushioned seats beneath its stained glass windows and a small fountain playing in the middle of the floor.
Napoleon watched Illya's appreciative glances taking in the details of the room. "Look up," Napoleon said, the delight audible in his voice.
Illya tilted his head until it was nearly all the way back to take in the three-story height of the room, the smaller stained glass windows higher in the walls, the enclosed wooden balcony, and the domed wooden roof. "This is why you chose this house?" he asked when he lowered his gaze.
"Oh, no." Napoleon answered. "I brought the tiles back from Syria and designed this myself."
"Yes," Illya said slowly, "I should have realised." He moved towards the nearest wall and reached out to trace the Arabic calligraphy there.
A small ripple ran across the muscles of Napoleon's stomach at that gesture. He observed the curves of the extended arm, of the tracing fingers. Was every motion so graceful?
"What were you doing in Syria?"
When I finished my studies in Rome, I took a tour around the Mediterranean," Napoleon explained. "Athens, Rhodes, Istanbul, Beirut, overland to Damascus; Alexandria, up the Nile to Cairo, Luxor and Abu Simbel; Carthage, Sale, inland to Meknes and Fez; Gibraltar and then Sete."
"I've danced in some of those cities. From Cairo a few of my friends and I sailed up to Luxor, but we didn't have time to go all the way to Abu Simbel."
Napoleon watched as Illya continued to trace the words connecting the tiles and wondered whether his visitor could read Arabic.
When he reached the niche containing a vase of peacock feathers, Illya paused and added, "Last year we performed in Marrakech; took the ferry from Sete and the train south from Tangiers, but there was no time to sight-see. I've been meaning to go back."
"Sometimes it's unwise to go back," Napoleon said without thinking.
Illya heard the melancholy in Napoleon's tone and turned to see what expression accompanied the words. There was no trace of the smile that had been animating his face since Illya had first seen Napoleon. Without it, his expression was bleak and his eyes, which were directed at the floor, seemed to be regarding something hopeless.
"I've put the tea things up in the sitting room, but I can bring them down if you'd prefer to stay here," Mrs. Featherstonehaugh announced into the silence.
Napoleon looked up from his apparent study of the geometric pattern of the floor tiles and replied, "No, upstairs is fine. Thank you, Feather. We'll be right up."
Illya caught the brief flash of concern in her eyes before Napoleon had smiled and answered her.
*******************
"I have a portfolio right here," Napoleon said as they reached the top of the stairs. He took a couple long strides and lifted a large black folder. "Shall we have tea before looking through them?" he asked, leaning the portfolio against the tea table.
Illya nodded. "That's the balcony, isn't it?" he asked, moving towards it.
"Yes, open the shutters. I love the view from there."
Illya leaned forward on one knee and stretched out his arm to undo the latch and push one shutter open.
"It's a great place to listen to music or have tea. My aunt's favourite spot in the house. How do you take yours?"
"Just milk, thank you," Illya said. Slipping off his shoes, he moved deeper into the recess, opened the other shutter and looked across the hall and down. The faint sound of the fountain made its way into the room. "One can really appreciate the decoration on the ceiling from here."
"I like the perspective," Napoleon replied. "And the quality of the light."
"Do you entertain there often?" Illya asked, resting on his heels and watching the dust motes in the air change colour.
"Sometimes. My aunt likes to borrow it for receptions now and then. She says the setting effects the outcome of a gathering and that the hall is magical. Here you are."
"I agree with her," Illya said, twisting to settle into a cross-legged position to take the almost translucent white cup and saucer Napoleon held out to him. "Thank you."
The fluidity of the motion caused a tightening in Napoleon's chest. "Once she arranged for two musicians to play from here," he nodded at the alcove where Illya sat, "a lute player and a drummer."
"Mmm," Illya said as though hearing it. "That would add to the effect...and was the outcome successful?"
"It was. Aunt Aurelia had agreed to help the National Trust raise funds to buy a property in London. They had several events planned to achieve their goal, but enough was raised that evening to save the property from being demolished."
"Does your aunt do that often?" Illya enquired.
"No, but several of her friends do and she helps them out from time to time. That was how I came to have the use of a box this season for the ballet." Illya raised his eyebrows enquiringly. "One of her neighbours persuaded her to take a box for the season to aid the cause."
"You're not a long time enthusiast?" Illya sipped his tea and regarded his host over the rim of his cup.
Napoleon considered his reply and decided he'd be caught out if he pretended to be more knowledgeable about the art than he was. He met his guest's gaze. "I've seen as many ballets in the past two weeks as I'd seen in the rest of my life put together." Illya's lips turned up slightly at the corners and he lifted his eyebrows again. "It never seemed so alive before," Napoleon admitted. He turned back to the tea table, took a tiny bowl of almonds, walnuts and raisins and held them out to his guest.
"Thank you." Illya had noticed the hesitation before both replies. He set the delicate, footed bowl on the lowest of the recessed shelves in the left wall of the alcove.
Napoleon set his cup down on an end table just to the right of the alcove, walked back to fetch his portfolio and settled at the edge of the alcove cushions. With a quick tug, he undid the bow holding the portfolio covers closed and opened them. On the top of the papers inside he had placed a drawing of Illya and the ballerina dancing the role of the Young Princess when they were facing in opposite directions, their positions mirroring one another's, their arms helping to balance each other. Napoleon offered the folder to Illya.
Illya set his cup on the shelf, too, and accepted the open portfolio. Slowly, he turned the drawings over, letting the papers fall gently so that the large sheets didn't tear. There were two more drawings with the ballerina and a series of five sketches taking Illya through a leap, all from Scheherazade. "You've captured the motion," Illya observed and turned to the next drawings - two from The Prodigal Son and the pastel head and upper body after the photograph in the programme. "Do you ever design costumes?" he asked.
"I haven't, no," Napoleon answered, exhaling the breath he found he had been holding. "Well, I had to imagine the rest of the shirt for that one. Was I right?" he asked, taking a sip of tea.
"You improved on it," Illya replied, lifting the corner of the drawing to turn it over. "Do you ever do landscapes or only people?"
"In the course of my studies, I did both, but now I only use landscapes occasionally as backgrounds for my portraits."
Illya finished turning over the paper to reveal the drawing at the bottom of the stack. He recognized the sketch from the programme which had been entitled, The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine. Napoleon had left the title off the larger version of the drawing, and placed a tall silver ewer on the ground next to the lithe figure with the suggestion of a garden in the background. He had tinted it with coloured pencils, lengthened the fair hair and made the serene blue eyes look directly out of the drawing.
Still examining the illustration, Illya recited:
"Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
"To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign,
"And lose your fingers in the tresses of
"The Cypress-slender..."
He glanced up at Napoleon with those same blue eyes and concluded the verse, "...Minister of Wine."
Napoleon looked back for a long minute, lost in the intricate patterns of those cobalt irises. He lowered his eyes and turned to put his cup down, taking a very slow, deep breath.
"This one isn't from the ballets," Illya said.
"No, it's for a project of my own that I started years ago," Napoleon answered, still turned away. "Although I haven't added to it for a long time," he finished, turning back to face Illya.
Illya nodded. "Sometimes inspiration leaves one. Especially if one is working alone." He closed the portfolio and set it down next to him. "They, too, are beautiful," he concluded, tapping the folder lightly. He leaned back against the cushions. "It is easier for me. I work with other artists every day and ideas can ricochet from one to the other. It can be very stimulating." He took down the bowl and selected a morsel. "Although sometimes the muse won't come to me in a crowd." Illya put the raisins into his mouth.
Napoleon sighed, "This isn't commonly understood."
"No, it isn't," Illya agreed. "Do you have any finished paintings I might see?" he asked, unfolding one leg and flexing it.
Napoleon stood. "I do have one in my studio. It's to be collected tomorrow."
Illya unfurled his other leg and slid out of the alcove.
"This way," Napoleon gestured.
********************
The sky had remained cloudless and the noon sun was pouring into the studio when they entered.
Illya's gaze swept around the large rectangular room and then moved up to the row of windows in the pitched roof. "A cathedral of light," he observed. "You added the skylights?"
Napoleon nodded, inordinately pleased to be asked. He was about to direct Illya to the draped easel to his left when Illya headed towards a canvas with only outlines on it on the right side of the room. He halted in front of it. Napoleon found himself holding his breath again. "You used a landscape in the background for this one. Why?" Napoleon drew closer. Illya's head turned from the canvas to the table behind it littered with books, sheet music and a flute, and back to the canvas. His scrutiny switched to the left side of the canvas where the book shelves had been sketched in, he tilted his head sideways. "There are titles," he said. "Did you choose them or the young lady?"
"She did," Napoleon replied, watching as Illya spied the half of the table visible on the balcony beyond the doors, the half of the bouquet in its centre, the goblet half full of red wine and the edge of a plate of fruit in the drawing. Illya's hand reached out as though to touch the wine glass.
"So much detail. This will take a long time to paint, won't it?"
"Probably," Napoleon answered.
"There is a message here. For the woman or someone else?" Illya asked, looking back at Napoleon.
"For her mostly, although it would be nice if certain other people understood."
Illya raised his eyebrows. "What is the occasion of the portrait?" he asked.
"Her betrothal," Napoleon answered.
"Not an entirely happy one, I gather," Illya concluded, turning back to the canvas.
"You see that in the picture?" Napoleon asked.
Illya nodded. "She's confined within a room, a rather densely furnished one. There is an open door right next to her, a balcony just beyond the door with food and drink and blooming flowers on it and past that the countryside rising to hills that bring the eye up to the sky."
"Isn't that her bright future?" Napoleon asked.
"Then you would have had her partly turned towards the doors or placed her on the balcony with stairs visible leading down from it or possibly dispensed with the room altogether."
"But there are lovely things in the room, fine books and music," Napoleon reasoned.
"They could be shown outside to indicate a love of learning or of the arts," Illya countered. "Instead they are trapped inside with her; they are what she uses to escape the oppression of the room, to forget what's beyond the door she has turned her back upon," he added, his voice rising very slightly.
"That's all clear?"
Illya faced Napoleon, his brows drawn together. "You put it there. Why does it puzzle you that I see it?"
Napoleon shook his head. "She was so melancholy when she arrived for her first sitting. The ideas I had for the painting after we had talked for a while seemed to cheer her."
"Who commissioned it?" Illya asked.
"Her parents," Napoleon replied, his brow furrowed.
"I've worried you that they will see what you put in the painting and be offended or be angry at their daughter if she says she helped design it?" Napoleon nodded. "I wouldn't worry," Illya said. "If they haven't seen that she has doubts about her engagement, they will only see her bright future here." He gestured at the canvas.
"Is that the completed painting?" Illya asked, turning towards the draped easel.
"Yes," Napoleon answered, his expression relaxing at the change in subject. He moved ahead to unveil the painting, wondering what his seemingly clairvoyant visitor would see in that picture. As he grasped the corner of the cloth, Napoleon glanced back at Illya and wondered what he had already seen in the drawings he had shared with him.
Illya stopped directly in front of the easel and gave the artwork his full attention. He took a step back. Napoleon watched Illya's gaze take a diagonal path from the upper left hand corner of the painting to the lower right hand corner, then he turned to look at Napoleon before returning to his study of the older man standing with his hand on his son's shoulder seated with his young son on his knee. The baby's hand on his father's cheek had caused the father to turn his face slightly away from the viewer, leaving the young father and son gazing with delight at one another. Illya's focus seemed fixed on the middle of the painting, on the young father's face. "They aren't relatives of yours, are they?" he asked.
"No, Alistair and I were at boarding school together," Napoleon replied.
"You show two very happy fathers," Illya commented. "The tenderness between father and child isn't emphasised much in art."
"Perhaps that is why The Prodigal Son is such an affecting ballet," Napoleon said.
The dancer looked at Napoleon, "Yes, exactly." He took another step back from the painting, a crease appearing in his forehead. "He is a very handsome man...Alistair."
"If you'd have seen him at thirteen, you wouldn't have thought it likely to be so," Napoleon laughed. "My younger cousin used to tease him terribly when he spent summers with us in France. Children can be so cruel."
Something in Napoleon's light tone erased the crease from Illya's forehead. "Here you've left the background dark and vague. The people in their light-coloured summer clothes almost glow. Other than them, only the chair, the child's toy at its foot and the Persian carpet are detailed." Illya glanced over his shoulder towards the door to the sitting room.
"It is the one under the tea table," Napoleon confirmed.
"My grandparents brought their carpets with them when they left Russia. I spent many hours as a child playing games on them," Illya said, a small smile appearing as his gaze drifted up to the right.
Involuntarily, Napoleon's eyes flickered up to his left. He had just finished shaking his head as though to clear it when Illya suddenly turned to face him. "How do you imagine my portrait?" he asked.
Startled, Napoleon replied, "In motion."
Illya stepped closer and looked directly into Napoleon's eyes, "Sometimes standing still is most eloquent."
Napoleon felt his pulse speed up, "How do you visualise it? What do you want it to say?"
Illya turned and paced to the tall window at the end of the studio and considered the garden. Golden leaves were somersaulting across the grass. Napoleon joined him. "We could use the garden for background. Shall we go out and walk round it and discuss possibilities?"
*********************
The breeze was picking up. The aspens along the garden wall were bending with it. Illya tapped Napoleon's arm and handed him his jacket. "Wait here," he said and walked back to the corner of the lawn. He stood there for a few moments, stretching and looking diagonally across the grass. Although there was not a cloud marring the blue of the sky, the wind had began tearing leaves off the trees. Illya took two long, running strides and was directly in front of Napoleon when he leapt. The black of his turtleneck and trousers outlined his form against the green and gold of the garden; the wind blew his hair about his face and the early afternoon sun gilded his hair and skin accentuating the pure lines of his profile. As though his memory were a photographic plate, Napoleon felt the image burn into it.
Illya walked back towards Napoleon and took his jacket.
"There you are!" Mrs. Featherstonehaugh called from the terrace doors. "Luncheon is ready. Where shall I serve it?"
Slightly dazed, Napoleon looked towards the house and then back to Illya. "If we dine in the studio I can sketch out preliminary ideas at the same time," he said, angling his eyebrows questioningly.
"The studio would be fine," Illya smiled as he slipped his jacket back on. "Has inspiration struck?"
"Yes," Napoleon replied. "Yes, it has." He pivoted towards the house and called out, "The studio, please."
****************
The sky was almost dark when Napoleon accompanied Illya to the garden gate.
"Thank you for coming," Napoleon said as he opened it.
"I'm glad I did," Illya replied, swinging his bag up to his shoulder.
"So, the same time next Sunday?" Napoleon asked to be certain.
"Yes."
"I'll sketch what we've agreed onto the canvas so the painting can begin."
Nodding, Illya asked, "What is your box number?"
"Five," Napoleon answered.
"There's a Scheherazade performance on Tuesday," Illya commented, "and Firebird has its season debut this week."
"Oh, I expect to be there every night," Napoleon replied. "It's been very good for my painting."
"Your muse likes a crowd," Illya observed, the beginnings of a smile flickering about his lips.
Napoleon watched the clouds which had gathered with the evening scudding past. "So it would appear." He looked down into Illya's amused eyes. "I never question my muse. I just accept whatever gifts are given."
The amusement faded from Illya's expression and he nodded soberly, "A wise course."
Napoleon extended his hand and Illya accepted it with a cool, firm grip that did not begin to hint at the strength there. "Till next week then," he said, letting go of Napoleon's hand. "Good night."
"Good night," Napoleon echoed as Illya turned up the hill. Napoleon remained leaning against the gatepost. Evening was falling fast and the shadows had obscured Illya's figure before he reached the corner. Napoleon couldn't tell whether he had glanced back before he turned left.
****************
"Sergei, do you have a pair of opera glasses?" Illya asked, looking out between the curtains at the audience.
"No, but someone must. I'll go ask," Sergei replied. "Checking to see if your artist is in attendance? I never asked how your meeting went."
"Find me a pair of opera glasses first and I'll give you a summary," Illya responded, glancing down at the seating plan in his hand.
"Ah," he murmured and angled his gaze to the far right of the stage and counted. Someone appeared to already be seated in Box 5.
"Here you go," Sergei said, nudging Illya's shoulder with the glasses.
"That was quick," Illya commented.
"Lucky first time," Sergei explained.
"That's often the case, isn't it?" Illya quipped, training the glasses on the box.
"Flattery will get you everywhere," Sergei replied, smiling.
"Yes, I know," Illya answered, adjusting the focus.
"Must dash, mine's first tonight, but I want details later," he said and disappeared.
Napoleon was alone in the box, scanning the crowd and sipping something clear from a tall glass. He set the glass down and began flipping through a programme, pausing to read a bit here and there, then he set the programme aside and picked up opera glasses. He'll be able to see expressions clearly, Illya thought and let the curtain fall back into place.
******************
At the interval, Sergei found Illya in his dressing room. "Come show me your artist," Sergei said, picking up the borrowed opera glasses from the dressing table.
"He might not be in his box now," Illya cautioned.
"Yes, perhaps, but point me in the right direction in case he is," Sergei urged.
Illya put down the book he was reading and accompanied Sergei to the left wing.
Illya checked first, then passed the glasses to Sergei. "He's still there. Box 5," Illya said. "I think he's drawing."
After a minute or so, Sergei lowered the glasses. "He's a good-looking young fellow." He handed the glasses back to Illya. "I was expecting an older man. So how did it go on Sunday?"
"Well, I've agreed to sit for a portrait," Illya began, running the ribbon for the glasses through his fingers.
"So you liked him?"
"His technique is excellent. I saw more developed pieces, a completed painting. He has insight into people; it's why the portraits are so good. He's also designed part of his house and it's beautiful. He's travelled, studied abroad. I was impressed, actually."
"But...," Sergei prompted.
"He's been hurt, fairly recently I think, at least he's still hurting," Illya remarked.
"And this worries you?" Sergei probed.
"Yes, and he's rich," Illya added.
"Well, you knew that before you went," Sergei said.
"True, but it's more vivid when it's right before your eyes," Illya replied.
"So he can keep you in a better style than the one to which you have become accustomed," Sergei quipped.
"And that's exactly what I don't want him to think!" Illya growled and turned to head back to his dressing room.
"Illya, I was just joking," Sergei explained, walking after him. "I didn't mean..." Illya had marched into his room and closed the door behind him. "...anything by it." Sergei looked back towards the stage. "Hmm."
********************
The applause was verging on the uproarious. Not at all typical for a ballet audience. After the last curtain call, Sergei caught up with Illya as he opened the door to his dressing room and slipped in after him.
"Bozhe moi, Illya. They're going to start mobbing you in the streets. The way you were dancing tonight, the ballerinas may mob you in a few minutes when you leave this room," he pointed at the door, "and some of the guys, too. God, you were like fire."
Illya crossed his forearms on the dressing table and lay his head on his hands. "I am on fire," he whispered.
Sergei sat down on the bench next to Illya and rested his hand on his back. "But you just met him yesterday," Sergei said softly.
"No, I think I met him when I first opened that envelope," Illya murmured. "He made me think about who would draw me like that. What was he seeing when he watched me." Illya closed his eyes. "Yesterday, I kept doing it."
"What?" Sergei asked.
"You know..." Illya opened his eyes to meet Sergei's and gave a small, wry smile. "...what we do so well. All of us for whom movement and posture are an art...I would move a little too sinuously, stand a little too close, look directly into his eyes."
"Ah."
Illya stretched out an arm, the hand palm up, inscribed a figure eight with it in the air and folded it back to his side. Sergei followed its graceful progress and nodded. "When I wasn't looking at him, I could feel him watching and reacting and it made me want to keep doing it until he would have to reach out for me."
"Did he?" Sergei whispered.
"No, I resisted most of the urges to keep tempting him, but I shouldn't have done it at all. It was unkind."
"Why? He may want you just as much as you seem to want him. Where's the problem?" Sergei asked.
"He's injured, I'm sure. And for how long would I want him? A few weeks? Until we go on tour? And it would hurt his art."
"But he's painting well despite his other heartache," Sergei pointed out.
"He can manage, he's healing; but I don't think he was doing any original work until..."
"The drawings he sent you," Sergei finished. Illya nodded. "Do you wish you hadn't agreed to go back?"
"Yes...no...I don't know," Illya mumbled and lay his head back down.
Sergei got up and rubbed Illya's shoulders and neck slowly, working his fingers into the muscles. "So what will you do?"
"Dance!" Illya raised his head a few inches, then let it sink back onto his arms. "What else can I do?"
********************
Napoleon heard the applause and realised he ought to join in, but he couldn't put the glasses down until Illya left the stage, couldn't take his eyes off his face. Couldn't dispel the memories of the expressions he'd seen on it. The Angel of the darker Drink, Napoleon thought.
******************
Tuesday afternoon, Adrian leaned around the half-open door, "Sir?"
Illya stopped unbuttoning his shirt and saw the envelope the boy was holding out towards him. "More post for me, Adrian?"
Adrian smiled and ducked his head. "Yes, sir."
"Well, let's have it, then," Illya said, stretching out his arm.
Adrian slipped around the door and brought it to him. "Pretty writing, sir," he said and blushed.
Illya looked down at the double lines forming the ornate capitals and nodded. "Yes, very pretty." His stomach constricted. "Thank you, Adrian."
"Oh, you're welcome, sir." Adrian said and slipped back out the door without moving it.
*******************
At the interval Sergei popped in still in his costume from Apollo. "Warmed 'em up for you," he grinned.
"Yes, I heard," Illya smiled back. "You have a triumphant look on your face which speaks of more than applause though."
"Indeed. Alicia agreed to come out with a few of us afterwards the first time I asked," he nodded for emphasis.
"Well done," Illya replied.
Sergei noted the envelope and folded paper on the dressing table. "More post?" he asked, stepping closer.
Illya handed him the paper. Sergei unfolded it and read the caption beneath the picture, "that Angel of the darker Drink". He studied the drawing for a moment. "Wonderful drawing, but you look a bit ominous in this one."
Illya passed him a slim paperback with a scrap of paper sticking out. "Open where it's marked."
Sergei handed back the drawing and found the page.
"So when that Angel of the darker Drink
"At last shall find you by the river-brink,
"And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
"Forth to your Lips to quaff..."
"...you shall not shrink," Illya joined his voice to Sergei's.
"Well," Sergei said, exhaling. Illya looked up from the drawing. "Seems you have your Cyrano and your Christian all rolled up into one," Sergei concluded.
Illya laughed. "Now that's a positive way to look at it." Sergei chuckled. "Did you get to the part where Cyrano says he has been 'braver since'?" Illya asked.
"I did," Sergei sighed. "And may I never have to be brave like that. Nor you. Nor anyone I care at all for!" he added.
"You're right. It could be a toast, 'May you never need to say that you've been 'braver since'!"
"Or a curse: 'May you, and your children after you, have to be 'braver'."
"No, no. That's too harsh," Illya laughed. "Spare the children."
"Alright, it's awful enough without the children."
"You should change," Illya said. "You'll catch a chill."
Sergei glanced down at himself. "You're right. And you need to put your slippers on." He headed for the door. "I'll see you later. Come out with us," he urged tilting his head and raising his eyebrows hopefully.
"Yes, I think I will," Illya answered as Sergei left. After the door clicked shut, Illya sighed and murmured to himself, "It may help."
****************
Napoleon wondered whether the post had arrived as he sat down at the front of the box. He ate a mint. During the first half of the programme, he studied the other dancers more carefully. He was beginning to have preferences for certain dancers in certain parts. He noticed that no one else danced Illya's roles.
He couldn't sketch at the interval. He found himself staring at the red velvet stage curtains. Might he be looking out at me? He asked which box was mine. Why else would he want to know? He felt a chill and ran a hand over his dark hair. He brought the glasses to his eyes and studied the curtains more intently with them.
When the music for Scheherazade began Napoleon felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders tighten. He rolled them a couple times and turned his head from left to right to loosen them, then gripped the opera glasses.
*************
Illya handed the opera glasses to Sergei and went out onto the stage.
Illya focussed on his partner, channeling all his energy towards her, drawing her to him as with a magnet. She danced away, she looked away, but she was always drawn back by his looks, by his gestures...and when he was at just the right angle to Box Five, he lifted his gaze a degree or two for an instant and beamed it directly at Napoleon.
*************
Napoleon saw the minute shift in focus. Felt it. Was that for me?
***************
"Finished it," Sergei announced stepping through the wide open doorway. "May all our amours be more straightforward than Cyrano's." He stopped as two pairs of eyes looked up from a book at him. "Good afternoon, Allegra," he said bowing. "You have her studying on Saturday, Illya?" Sergei continued, tossing the book lightly onto the dressing table and checking what Allegra was reading.
"We missed our usual English lesson last Sunday and we hadn't made it up yet," Illya replied. "What did you think of the play otherwise?"
"I think it would be suitable," he answered, glanced at Allegra, who looked back down at her book, and didn't elaborate. "What else do you have?"
Illya handed him a thick book with an illustration of a black cat on the cover. Sergei checked the spine, "Poe?"
"I've marked a few of the poems and one of the stories," Illya explained. "See what you think."
Sergei opened the book to the first bookmark and read to himself. Allegra looked up again cautiously and when she saw Sergei wasn't aware, continued to watch his eyes scanning the page from under his thick dark lashes. "Is 'tintinnabulation' a word?" Sergei asked.
"It is now," Illya replied, then glanced at Allegra and cleared his throat. She looked down at the book open in her lap.
Sergei looked up. "I'll be off with this then," he said, closing the book. He leaned towards Allegra, "And good luck with Great Expectations."
At the door Sergei turned back, "Are you coming on the trip to Greenwich tomorrow?"
"I'm going," Allegra answered brightly, "but Illya has another...:" She stopped, flustered.
"It's alright, Sergei knows about the painting," Illya interjected. Sergei raised an eyebrow at Illya who shrugged and flushed slightly.
"Ah," Sergei said and nodded. " Etudiez bien," he called on the way out.
**************
It was cooler than the previous Sunday. A fresh breeze drove white clouds past the sun, dappling the light. Illya strolled rapidly downhill from the tube station to the traffic lights. He paused there and let them change three times before he walked across. His mind considered an indirect route through the park, but his feet wouldn't turn in at the gates. In front of Napoleon's house, Illya checked his watch. He rang the buzzer even though its hands informed him that he was ten minutes early.
The garden gate opened wide even before the sound faded. Illya stepped in to find Napoleon behind it. He was dressed casually in a dark grey wool jacket, a light grey shirt open at the collar and black trousers. His hands were sheathed in sturdy gardening gloves, one grasped ten or twelve red and white roses, the other an open pair of secateurs. Napoleon raised the secateurs in greeting. "Good morning!" he smiled and his eyes flicked across Illya's face as though looking for clues.
"War of the Roses?" Illya asked as Napoleon pushed the gate closed. He handed Illya the secateurs and slid the bolt into place.
"More 'and Rose-in-hand my thread-bare Penitence apieces tore,'" Napoleon replied. "The red are especially fragrant," he said and separated one from the bunch, held it out to Illya and reclaimed the secateurs.
Illya bent to inhale as he grasped it. "Ow," he said, switching the rose more carefully to his other hand and shaking the injured digit a couple times before quickly sucking the blood off and bringing the flower to his nose. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes for a moment and smiled.
Napoleon saw the small scarlet blotch on the pale finger before it disappeared between the pink lips. "I'm sorry. I forgot about the thorns. Gloves," he added, raising his hands.
Illya opened his eyes, the smile lingering. "Not to worry, I'll live," he said. "I didn't notice roses last week, where are they?"
"Mostly round the other side of the house, although there's a small bush hidden in here." Napoleon tucked the secateurs under his arm, took one of his gloves off and handed it to Illya. "If you'll hold these for me, it'll just take a moment," he said offering the roses. Illya slipped on the glove. The inside was still warm and the sensation travelled from his hand to distant parts of his body and created a reciprocating warmth there.
Napoleon nudged the bouquet into Illya's gloved hand. He glanced up briefly as he took it and saw Napoleon look quickly away.
Napoleon placed one foot strategically in the flowerbed and pushed aside some ivy hanging over the wall. Illya's eyes followed the bending form and heard a snip. When Napoleon stood back up he held a rose whose petals were such a dark shade of red that their curved edges were nearly black. "This one deserves a vase by itself," he said.
"Yes," Illya said slowly.
Napoleon tilted his head as though listening.
Still regarding the rose, Illya said, "A couple Sundays ago I was in Regent's Park and had an idea for a ballet based on the Rose Garden." He paused and Napoleon waited. "This one could be the soloist."
A bright smile spread across Napoleon's face.
"Her costume would be like these petals," Illya mused aloud.
"I could try my hand at that if you'd like," Napoleon said.
******************
The sky had cleared and the crescent moon was bright when they went down to the gate.
"I'll send drawings of my ideas for the costume during the week," Napoleon promised.
Illya smiled and held out his hand. "If you have time. You have many other projects."
Napoleon grasped the hand and smiled back. "True, but you know how it is when the muse smiles on you."
*******************
The wicker of the chair creaked as Sergei gestured towards Illya with his arm, his legs stretched between his chair and the bench upon which Illya sat. "I see the attraction of The Bells, but it has no resolution, just goes rather mad at the end. I prefer the other two."
"Which one more?" Illya said from his seat in front of the dressing table mirror.
"Oh, Annabel Lee, definitely. It is full of mood and emotions and I like the story."
"That his love dies?" Illya questioned as he finished outlining one eye.
Sergei gave Illya a light shove with his foot. "No! The mood, the feelings... 'And this maiden she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me.'"
"You're lucky I'd finished that eye," Illya said with a mock glare.
"I checked first," Sergei chuckled. "And the images -- 'The angels not half so happy in Heaven, went envying her and me...' I see a gracefully swarming corps de ballet there... 'For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams...' Dramatic, evocative... and the poem's short enough to print in the programme and it's in the public domain. What music were you thinking of?"
"Haven't identified the music to be adapted and perhaps it needs to be commissioned, but I thought to have a few different ideas to begin developing, not to limit my focus to just one at this point," Illya said.
"Sounds like my philosophy in a different area," Sergei responded, flipping through the book and falling quiet to read.
There was a light knock on the door. Sergei began reciting, "...suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door..."
Illya swatted the foot which was still resting against his hip. "Come in," he called out, twisting towards the door.
"''Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.'" Sergei continued.
"Adrian!" Illya said as the door was pushed open and a head of tawny curls appeared around it. "You have something for me?"
"I do, sir," Adrian replied, obviously pleased to be able to say so, then stopped, noticing Sergei.
"Oh, excuse me, sir," Adrian froze three-quarters of the way past the door.
Sergei looked up at Adrian's startled brown eyes, smiled and rubbed his foot against Illya. He watched the colour bloom on Adrian's cheeks.
"Let's see what you have," Illya said to the boy, and swatted Sergei's foot again. It stilled, but Sergei kept smiling at Adrian as he brought the rest of himself around the door and over to Illya with a large manila envelope in his hand.
Illya reached out for it. Adrian's eyes flicked down to the address and back up to Illya's face. "Ah, the pretty handwriting again," Illya said.
"Yes, sir," Adrian almost whispered, stepping back towards the door and dropping his eyes to Sergei's foot.
"Thank you again, Adrian," Illya said as Adrian bolted out the door.
"You have a little admirer there," Sergei remarked, leaning forward in his chair to look at the address on the envelope.
"You shouldn't tease the lad, he's only about seventeen," Illya said, turning the envelope over.
"We were younger than that," Sergei said softly.
"Yes, we both were," Illya replied, opening the flap and easing out the cardboard inside.
Sergei put his legs down and pulled his chair closer. "Let's see," he said.
Illya lifted the cardboard to reveal a drawing in coloured inks of a ballerina in a yellow and peach tutu and headdress. Near the bottom right hand corner of the page was glued a rose petal of the same colour.
"So he does do costume design," Sergei remarked, holding his hands out to have a closer look at the picture.
Illya handed it over, uncovering another drawing of a light and dark pink costume, the skirt falling from the ballerina's waist in soft tiers. "I think that's Fiona," Illya commented, touching the matching rose petal in the corner.
Sergei looked up. "Mmm. And this one's Claire," he said, nodding at the picture in his hands.
Illya set Fiona's drawing aside and regarded the next drawing of a costume of pale pink, edged with lavender. Sergei leaned further forward, "Allegra," he pronounced. "Your artist has been paying attention from his box."
Allegra was set aside and the final ink came into view. "Ah," Illya said. Sergei turned sharply from his contemplation of the drawing in his hands. "The soloist," Illya murmured, carefully taking in the greater detail in this costume. Absentmindedly, his index finger stroked the petal at the bottom of the page. "No wonder it took until Thursday."
**********************
There was a tenderness to the Tsarevich's capture of The Firebird that night.
Napoleon noticed the subtle difference.
********************
Mrs. Featherstonehaugh brought up the afternoon post and the letter opener with the tea tray on Friday. Napoleon spotted the theatre's stationery and seized it. There were five words in a beautiful hand inside, "Brilliant. Thank you. 'Til Sunday."
Napoleon glanced at his watch. No, until seven-thirty.
****************
"You'll do it then?" Illya asked.
Mrs. O'Donnell continued studying the drawing on the work table, her hand hovering over the skirt. She glanced down at the rose petal glued in the corner. It was shrunken and darker than it had been when the drawings arrived the day before. Viola rubbed her thumb and index finger together. "It's tempting to choose velvet, I think that's what he was imagining when he coloured it, but it doesn't reflect the light and it's too warm." Her eyes focussed on the head piece and the face of the ballerina. "Is the artist sweet on Alicia?"
Why not? Illya thought. Yet he felt nothing like he had when he'd considered Alistair's handsome face in the portrait. The ballerinas had disappeared from the programme sketches. The figure that remained was mine. The fierceness of the countering thought startled Illya. Alicia dances the Young Princess. There certainly were enough drawings of that ballet. In the process of studying me, he has studied her as well... he reasoned. Why so sure, Illya? he asked himself. He slipped off his jacket and draped it over his arm. "Portraits are his speciality," he answered Mrs. O'Donnell. "He hasn't done costume design before. He may not know that the figure is usually just an outline."
"He's caught her expression, the way she holds herself in that pose. Do you want the costume made to her measurements?" Viola looked up at Illya.
The ballet wasn't even choreographed...and yet...Alicia would make a regal Rose and they danced well together. Slowly, Illya nodded. "Yes," he answered. "So you'll do it?"
"It will take a while to find the right fabric and we may need to dye it...you want that exact colour," Viola continued, thinking aloud.
The colour of that rose, a scarlet so dark it was nearly black. A passion so intense it could be deadly. That's what that imperious rose symbolised. When everyday attraction to prettiness deepened into a fiercer emotion. Illya closed his eyes. The images formed patterns against the back of his eyelids.
"This will take some time," Mrs. O'Donnell cautioned. "I'll see who I can find to do the detail sewing."
"But you'll do it?"
"I will," Viola affirmed with a decisive nod. She paused. "Did the idea start that day in the park?" Illya nodded. A gratified smile lit up her face, "I'll send word if I have any questions and when the practical design is ready."
"Five minutes," a voice intoned.
"Thank you," Illya said and leaned across the corner of the cutting table to kiss Viola's cheek. "I have to run," he added and sprinted from the work room.
************************
Contentedly, Napoleon settled into his seat in the box, his glass of tonic and his opera glasses to hand. He had become so fond of this place where patience was always rewarded.
****************
The rain had come on with the evening on Sunday. It was pattering gently on the skylights when Napoleon and Illya turned out the lights in the studio and headed to the sitting room for dinner.
"The first backdrop is the arbour in the Rose Garden," Napoleon said, moving to one of the armchairs by the fire with his cognac.
"Yes," Illya answered, settling back amongst the cushions in the alcove with his.
"But you envision an actual gate which opens when the dancers first enter the park? That divides and rolls into the wings?."
"Yes," Illya answered.
"And this comes back before the final scene as the visitors leave and the gates close behind them."
"Yes. The final dance is inside," Illya's voice explained from the shadows of the alcove seat.
Napoleon got up and selected a record from the shelves above his hi-fi. He turned to look towards the alcove. The notes of a harp filled the room. Illya leaned forward, his face emerging from the darkness into the firelight. "Debussy," he said.
Napoleon nodded and sat back down.
"Maybe," Illya murmured. "Orchestrated," he added before leaning back into the shadows to listen.
When the record ended, Napoleon got up to turn it over. "The second dance needs a different backdrop?"
"I imagine it with the stream in the foreground, the small island and the waterfall behind it," Illya answered.
Napoleon stood still for a moment considering. "I need pastels," he said and strode to the studio. As he opened the door, lightening flashed. A crack of thunder sounded a few seconds later. Illya came up behind Napoleon, "It's close," he said. Another flash of lightening illuminated the room. They stepped inside and stopped under the skylights. The thunder crashed over them. Then the rain began to pummel the roof.
"You can't walk to the tube in this and a taxi won't want to come out either." The lightening flashed again, the thunder hard upon it. "Stay here tonight. You can have my room; I'll sleep in the alcove," Napoleon said when the noise abated.
The next lightning bolt and thunder clap were simultaneous. Napoleon glanced sideways at Illya's profile and didn't breathe.
"I'd prefer the alcove," Illya replied.
Napoleon exhaled quietly. "I don't have an appointment until two," he commented. "We could have brunch before you go to rehearsal."
Tree branches were thrashing the side of the house. The drumming of the rain against the skylights resounded in the open room. Illya moved towards the window overlooking the garden. The lightning silhouetted him against it. "Doesn't it make you want to move?" he asked.
Napoleon drew in a breath as the lightning outlined Illya spinning with his arms extended. The next flash revealed him still rotating with arms raised above his head. Through the ensuing darkness, the thunder boomed. The lightning flashed again as Illya came to a stop facing Napoleon. As its light faded, the thunder roared.
*********************
The small table lamp shed a focussed beam onto Napoleon's sketch pad. "There," he said. "Tell me what you think." Illya leaned over the wing of the armchair. "Could you add a couple swans?"
"Swimming...walking?"
"One swimming and one landing," Illya said and leaned further over to point, "about there." He watched as Napoleon created the swans.
**************
Napoleon handed Illya a stack of towels and pyjamas before Illya departed for the bathroom. "Do you prefer coffee or tea in the morning?" he asked.
"Coffee," Illya answered, accepting the stack.
"Au lait?" Napoleon pursued.
Illya smiled. "I'll take that as a yes," Napoleon said. A clock chimed two. "Good-night then," he finished and turned towards his bedroom by the stairs.
When Illya returned to the sitting room clad in the dark blue silk pyjamas, he found the alcove made up with white linen and a thick maroon comforter. By the waning firelight he could see that there was a deep blue robe draped across the bedding and a small decanter and a water glass on the end table near the alcove. A pair of slippers sat next to the table.
Illya shook his head and set his folded clothes down on the bench in the corner of the room. He poured himself some water, took a sip, then slipped into the improvised bed.
********
The soft murmur of the fountain was clear in the silent room. Illya turned on his side towards the soothing sound and pulled the covers up to his chin. After a minute, he heard a door being opened carefully. Quiet footsteps descended the stairs. A moment later, Illya heard a rustling sound in the hall and then only the fountain. He slept.
****************
Napoleon lay down along the cushioned banquettes in the hall. He tucked the duvet around him and arranged his pillow so he could comfortably see the flicker of the dying fire through the open balcony shutters.
*****************
The house was quiet when Illya first awoke. He rose to his knees and looked down into the hall. Napoleon was still sleeping where he had imagined him last night. Stretched out on the banquette on his back, one arm curled above his head, he was facing Illya. While he watched, Napoleon lips moved as though he were speaking, but no sound reached Illya's ears. He turned his face into the curve of his arm and rubbed it back and forth twice. This time Illya heard a sigh or a moan. Napoleon's arm slipped under the covers and he turned onto his side to face the wall.
Illya walked barefoot to the bathroom. The silk of the carpets was smooth and cool beneath his feet. On the way back to the sitting room, he detoured into the studio. The rain had stopped. He looked up through a skylight at the pearly clouds above. They lit the room with a bright, colourless light. Illya shivered. He closed the studio door behind him and hurried to the alcove to burrow under the covers.
********************
"Weren't you chilly sleeping down here, dear," Mrs. Featherstonehaugh asked mid-morning. Napoleon looked up at her sleepily.
"No, it was quite cosy," he said, rising to one elbow.
"Where would you like your tea, then?"
"We have a guest for breakfast," Napoleon explained, "so could we have cafe au lait?" He smiled. "I'm not sure what to have for brunch yet though," he added, rubbing his hand over his face.
"It's good you didn't let him venture out in that storm," Mrs. Featherstonehaugh said. "I've been round the garden and we didn't lose any trees, but our neighbour was not so lucky," she continued. "Although that pine wasn't healthy and should have been cut down years ago." Napoleon sat up fully. "You go freshen up and I'll bring the coffee. What would you like with it?"
"Some fruit...and nuts. We don't have any croissants, do we?" Napoleon asked.
"I can call the bakery and have some delivered," she said and headed for the kitchen stairs.
*****************
Although he showered and shaved, Napoleon put on another pair of dark green pyjamas and his robe afterwards. He walked soundlessly to the alcove. Illya was fast asleep on his stomach, facing the room, his golden hair fanned out on the white pillow, one arm tossed over the maroon covers. The deep blue pyjama sleeve was pushed up revealing a muscular forearm and a broad hand, the fairness of his skin accentuated by the dark fabrics.
Napoleon backed up a couple steps towards the table where he had left his sketch pad and pastels. He barely flicked his eyes away from the alcove to ascertain their exact location. Lifting the pad, he quietly turned to a blank page and settled on the arm of the wingback chair nearer the alcove and began to draw.
The picture was nearly finished when he heard the musical clink of silver against china. Napoleon leaned the sketch book against the chair, the drawing faced inwards and went to the stairs. He reached for the tray as Mrs. Featherstonehaugh approached the landing. "Ah, you secured the croissants," he commented softly.
"Pain au chocolat, s'il vous plait," she specified in a whisper.
"Brava," Napoleon replied smiling, lifting the tray carefully to keep its contents level. "I'll come down when I ascertain what our guest would enjoy for brunch."
"Very good," she replied and turned back down the stairs.
Napoleon swivelled noiselessly and walked back to the sitting room. There he froze for a moment when he saw Illya sitting cross-legged in the alcove, his pyjama top unbuttoned and open as he leaned over to study the sketch pad resting on his knees. Napoleon took the last couple steps to the tea table and set down the tray. He heard a small rustle. His brow was creased when he raised his eyes and met Illya's blue gaze. Napoleon's heart sped up.
"Good morning," Illya said.
Napoleon remained half bent over the tea table for an instant longer. "Good morning," he smiled back and straightened up. "I couldn't resist. You looked so..."
"Peaceful?" Illya supplied. "It's what my parents used to say prevented them from selling me to the gypsies when I was a child...that I looked so peaceful while I slept."
Beautiful is the word. Like a sleeping angel. "You were a difficult child?" Napoleon asked, his heartbeat slowing slightly.
"I was full of energy," Illya answered.
"That hasn't changed," Napoleon observed.
"According to my parents, I am lethargic now by comparison." He smiled. "Is that coffee I smell?"
"Cafe au lait," Napoleon corrected, pouring a cup. "Here you are," he added, bringing the large cup and saucer over to Illya and exchanging it for the sketch pad.
"Thank you," Illya said, accepting them. "You slept in the hall last night?"
Napoleon flushed before he answered. "I sleep all over the house," he said. "In the hall, where you are now, in my studio, especially when the moon is full, it shines directly in the skylights; even in my bedroom sometimes. The privileges of living alone," he finished.
"I didn't mean to pry," Illya said. "I thought I might have taken your favourite place unknowingly last night."
"Oh, no. I like them all and pick what suits my mood or level of fatigue."
"You sleep in the studio when you've worked too late," Illya surmised.
"It's when I'm most creative," Napoleon explained, "late at night. But I need the sunlight for the sittings, so I must be up for them."
***************
Part 3 is here
The street was more than Sunday morning quiet when Illya emerged from the tube station. Further down the hill, there was a lone family waiting to cross the road and one couple strolled along the opposite pavement. Only a few cars passed by. Above the gold tinged trees shading the avenue, the sun shone in a cloudless sky. Illya switched his bag to his left shoulder and walked downhill towards the crosswalk, and turned south.
The gates to Holland Park were open and since he was early, Illya took a small detour inside. What remained of the bombed manor house looked defiantly beautiful amidst the landscaped lawns and bright flower beds. The park wasn't as magnificent as Regent's Park, but it had its own loveliness. He exited further south along Abbotsbury Road and paused to consult his A-Z. Accurately negotiating the last few turns, Illya arrived in front of his destination still five minutes ahead of schedule. He decided against circling the block which was often not a straightforward exercise in London and pushed the buzzer next to the gate in the garden wall enclosing the house. While he awaited a response, he surveyed the facade of the Victorian building, picking out the ornamental details in the brickwork.
"Coming," a woman called out good naturedly. "Just a moment," the voice added, coming closer.
"Good morning," Illya smiled, leaning forward slightly from the waist when the gate opened. "I apologise for arriving early...Mrs. Solo."
A startled look appeared on the smiling face regarding him, "Oh, I'm not Napoleon's mother, although I've looked after him since he was a baby, and you must be Mr. Kuryakin, please come in," she concluded, stepping aside and motioning Illya forward.
Illya entered the small forecourt and paused while the gate was secured behind him. "Mr. Solo wanted to come down to greet you himself, but he's on the telephone and it's taking a little longer than expected." She gestured for Illya to follow her up the steps into the house. "It should only be a minute or two more." When they reached the foyer, she asked, "Can I get you a cup of tea in the meantime?" A kettle began to whistle. Illya watched an anxious look flit across his hostess's face.
"Shall I wait here while you get that?" he asked.
"Oh, no. I'll see you up," she began and winced as the kettle shrilled even more loudly.
"Are you sure?" Illya asked again.
"Well, if you wouldn't mind, the sitting room's just up the stairs there," Mrs. Featherstonehaugh gestured towards the next room. "I won't be a minute with the tea. Thank you." She dashed off through an archway and out again through a door beneath the stairs just as Illya entered the room.
He stopped, his eyes widening. Without moving past the archway, he let his eyes roam from the stuffed peacock displayed on the carved wooden balustrade directly in front of him, around the ornately tiled walls, back to the stairs and up the banister to where a tall, trim young man in a dove grey suit, pale blue shirt and silver tie stood a step or two down from the top watching him.
"It's beautiful," Illya said to him.
Napoleon's shoes were a grey blur as he finished descending the stairs. He crossed the few steps to where Illya stood with his hand extended. "Mr. Kuryakin, welcome. I'm Napoleon Solo. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm sorry I couldn't greet you at the gate, the..."
"Phone. Yes, apologies were already offered," Illya replied, grasping the proffered hand and looking directly into the warm brown eyes of his host, "But it's I who must apologise for arriving before time." He let go of the hand and glanced up at the walls again. "One would never expect this was inside. It's extraordinary."
Napoleon's smile broadened. "Would you like to see the other tiled rooms?"
"Yes, with pleasure."
Napoleon reached for Illya's bag. "Let me take that." Illya slipped the bag off his shoulder and handed it to Napoleon. "We can leave it here," he said, setting it down on a small wooden bench inlaid with mother-of-pearl, then stretching his arm towards another doorway. Illya followed Napoleon through a room whose tiled walls sparkled in the sunlight streaming from a large arched window then into a rounded, dimmer room with cushioned seats beneath its stained glass windows and a small fountain playing in the middle of the floor.
Napoleon watched Illya's appreciative glances taking in the details of the room. "Look up," Napoleon said, the delight audible in his voice.
Illya tilted his head until it was nearly all the way back to take in the three-story height of the room, the smaller stained glass windows higher in the walls, the enclosed wooden balcony, and the domed wooden roof. "This is why you chose this house?" he asked when he lowered his gaze.
"Oh, no." Napoleon answered. "I brought the tiles back from Syria and designed this myself."
"Yes," Illya said slowly, "I should have realised." He moved towards the nearest wall and reached out to trace the Arabic calligraphy there.
A small ripple ran across the muscles of Napoleon's stomach at that gesture. He observed the curves of the extended arm, of the tracing fingers. Was every motion so graceful?
"What were you doing in Syria?"
When I finished my studies in Rome, I took a tour around the Mediterranean," Napoleon explained. "Athens, Rhodes, Istanbul, Beirut, overland to Damascus; Alexandria, up the Nile to Cairo, Luxor and Abu Simbel; Carthage, Sale, inland to Meknes and Fez; Gibraltar and then Sete."
"I've danced in some of those cities. From Cairo a few of my friends and I sailed up to Luxor, but we didn't have time to go all the way to Abu Simbel."
Napoleon watched as Illya continued to trace the words connecting the tiles and wondered whether his visitor could read Arabic.
When he reached the niche containing a vase of peacock feathers, Illya paused and added, "Last year we performed in Marrakech; took the ferry from Sete and the train south from Tangiers, but there was no time to sight-see. I've been meaning to go back."
"Sometimes it's unwise to go back," Napoleon said without thinking.
Illya heard the melancholy in Napoleon's tone and turned to see what expression accompanied the words. There was no trace of the smile that had been animating his face since Illya had first seen Napoleon. Without it, his expression was bleak and his eyes, which were directed at the floor, seemed to be regarding something hopeless.
"I've put the tea things up in the sitting room, but I can bring them down if you'd prefer to stay here," Mrs. Featherstonehaugh announced into the silence.
Napoleon looked up from his apparent study of the geometric pattern of the floor tiles and replied, "No, upstairs is fine. Thank you, Feather. We'll be right up."
Illya caught the brief flash of concern in her eyes before Napoleon had smiled and answered her.
*******************
"I have a portfolio right here," Napoleon said as they reached the top of the stairs. He took a couple long strides and lifted a large black folder. "Shall we have tea before looking through them?" he asked, leaning the portfolio against the tea table.
Illya nodded. "That's the balcony, isn't it?" he asked, moving towards it.
"Yes, open the shutters. I love the view from there."
Illya leaned forward on one knee and stretched out his arm to undo the latch and push one shutter open.
"It's a great place to listen to music or have tea. My aunt's favourite spot in the house. How do you take yours?"
"Just milk, thank you," Illya said. Slipping off his shoes, he moved deeper into the recess, opened the other shutter and looked across the hall and down. The faint sound of the fountain made its way into the room. "One can really appreciate the decoration on the ceiling from here."
"I like the perspective," Napoleon replied. "And the quality of the light."
"Do you entertain there often?" Illya asked, resting on his heels and watching the dust motes in the air change colour.
"Sometimes. My aunt likes to borrow it for receptions now and then. She says the setting effects the outcome of a gathering and that the hall is magical. Here you are."
"I agree with her," Illya said, twisting to settle into a cross-legged position to take the almost translucent white cup and saucer Napoleon held out to him. "Thank you."
The fluidity of the motion caused a tightening in Napoleon's chest. "Once she arranged for two musicians to play from here," he nodded at the alcove where Illya sat, "a lute player and a drummer."
"Mmm," Illya said as though hearing it. "That would add to the effect...and was the outcome successful?"
"It was. Aunt Aurelia had agreed to help the National Trust raise funds to buy a property in London. They had several events planned to achieve their goal, but enough was raised that evening to save the property from being demolished."
"Does your aunt do that often?" Illya enquired.
"No, but several of her friends do and she helps them out from time to time. That was how I came to have the use of a box this season for the ballet." Illya raised his eyebrows enquiringly. "One of her neighbours persuaded her to take a box for the season to aid the cause."
"You're not a long time enthusiast?" Illya sipped his tea and regarded his host over the rim of his cup.
Napoleon considered his reply and decided he'd be caught out if he pretended to be more knowledgeable about the art than he was. He met his guest's gaze. "I've seen as many ballets in the past two weeks as I'd seen in the rest of my life put together." Illya's lips turned up slightly at the corners and he lifted his eyebrows again. "It never seemed so alive before," Napoleon admitted. He turned back to the tea table, took a tiny bowl of almonds, walnuts and raisins and held them out to his guest.
"Thank you." Illya had noticed the hesitation before both replies. He set the delicate, footed bowl on the lowest of the recessed shelves in the left wall of the alcove.
Napoleon set his cup down on an end table just to the right of the alcove, walked back to fetch his portfolio and settled at the edge of the alcove cushions. With a quick tug, he undid the bow holding the portfolio covers closed and opened them. On the top of the papers inside he had placed a drawing of Illya and the ballerina dancing the role of the Young Princess when they were facing in opposite directions, their positions mirroring one another's, their arms helping to balance each other. Napoleon offered the folder to Illya.
Illya set his cup on the shelf, too, and accepted the open portfolio. Slowly, he turned the drawings over, letting the papers fall gently so that the large sheets didn't tear. There were two more drawings with the ballerina and a series of five sketches taking Illya through a leap, all from Scheherazade. "You've captured the motion," Illya observed and turned to the next drawings - two from The Prodigal Son and the pastel head and upper body after the photograph in the programme. "Do you ever design costumes?" he asked.
"I haven't, no," Napoleon answered, exhaling the breath he found he had been holding. "Well, I had to imagine the rest of the shirt for that one. Was I right?" he asked, taking a sip of tea.
"You improved on it," Illya replied, lifting the corner of the drawing to turn it over. "Do you ever do landscapes or only people?"
"In the course of my studies, I did both, but now I only use landscapes occasionally as backgrounds for my portraits."
Illya finished turning over the paper to reveal the drawing at the bottom of the stack. He recognized the sketch from the programme which had been entitled, The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine. Napoleon had left the title off the larger version of the drawing, and placed a tall silver ewer on the ground next to the lithe figure with the suggestion of a garden in the background. He had tinted it with coloured pencils, lengthened the fair hair and made the serene blue eyes look directly out of the drawing.
Still examining the illustration, Illya recited:
"Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
"To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign,
"And lose your fingers in the tresses of
"The Cypress-slender..."
He glanced up at Napoleon with those same blue eyes and concluded the verse, "...Minister of Wine."
Napoleon looked back for a long minute, lost in the intricate patterns of those cobalt irises. He lowered his eyes and turned to put his cup down, taking a very slow, deep breath.
"This one isn't from the ballets," Illya said.
"No, it's for a project of my own that I started years ago," Napoleon answered, still turned away. "Although I haven't added to it for a long time," he finished, turning back to face Illya.
Illya nodded. "Sometimes inspiration leaves one. Especially if one is working alone." He closed the portfolio and set it down next to him. "They, too, are beautiful," he concluded, tapping the folder lightly. He leaned back against the cushions. "It is easier for me. I work with other artists every day and ideas can ricochet from one to the other. It can be very stimulating." He took down the bowl and selected a morsel. "Although sometimes the muse won't come to me in a crowd." Illya put the raisins into his mouth.
Napoleon sighed, "This isn't commonly understood."
"No, it isn't," Illya agreed. "Do you have any finished paintings I might see?" he asked, unfolding one leg and flexing it.
Napoleon stood. "I do have one in my studio. It's to be collected tomorrow."
Illya unfurled his other leg and slid out of the alcove.
"This way," Napoleon gestured.
********************
The sky had remained cloudless and the noon sun was pouring into the studio when they entered.
Illya's gaze swept around the large rectangular room and then moved up to the row of windows in the pitched roof. "A cathedral of light," he observed. "You added the skylights?"
Napoleon nodded, inordinately pleased to be asked. He was about to direct Illya to the draped easel to his left when Illya headed towards a canvas with only outlines on it on the right side of the room. He halted in front of it. Napoleon found himself holding his breath again. "You used a landscape in the background for this one. Why?" Napoleon drew closer. Illya's head turned from the canvas to the table behind it littered with books, sheet music and a flute, and back to the canvas. His scrutiny switched to the left side of the canvas where the book shelves had been sketched in, he tilted his head sideways. "There are titles," he said. "Did you choose them or the young lady?"
"She did," Napoleon replied, watching as Illya spied the half of the table visible on the balcony beyond the doors, the half of the bouquet in its centre, the goblet half full of red wine and the edge of a plate of fruit in the drawing. Illya's hand reached out as though to touch the wine glass.
"So much detail. This will take a long time to paint, won't it?"
"Probably," Napoleon answered.
"There is a message here. For the woman or someone else?" Illya asked, looking back at Napoleon.
"For her mostly, although it would be nice if certain other people understood."
Illya raised his eyebrows. "What is the occasion of the portrait?" he asked.
"Her betrothal," Napoleon answered.
"Not an entirely happy one, I gather," Illya concluded, turning back to the canvas.
"You see that in the picture?" Napoleon asked.
Illya nodded. "She's confined within a room, a rather densely furnished one. There is an open door right next to her, a balcony just beyond the door with food and drink and blooming flowers on it and past that the countryside rising to hills that bring the eye up to the sky."
"Isn't that her bright future?" Napoleon asked.
"Then you would have had her partly turned towards the doors or placed her on the balcony with stairs visible leading down from it or possibly dispensed with the room altogether."
"But there are lovely things in the room, fine books and music," Napoleon reasoned.
"They could be shown outside to indicate a love of learning or of the arts," Illya countered. "Instead they are trapped inside with her; they are what she uses to escape the oppression of the room, to forget what's beyond the door she has turned her back upon," he added, his voice rising very slightly.
"That's all clear?"
Illya faced Napoleon, his brows drawn together. "You put it there. Why does it puzzle you that I see it?"
Napoleon shook his head. "She was so melancholy when she arrived for her first sitting. The ideas I had for the painting after we had talked for a while seemed to cheer her."
"Who commissioned it?" Illya asked.
"Her parents," Napoleon replied, his brow furrowed.
"I've worried you that they will see what you put in the painting and be offended or be angry at their daughter if she says she helped design it?" Napoleon nodded. "I wouldn't worry," Illya said. "If they haven't seen that she has doubts about her engagement, they will only see her bright future here." He gestured at the canvas.
"Is that the completed painting?" Illya asked, turning towards the draped easel.
"Yes," Napoleon answered, his expression relaxing at the change in subject. He moved ahead to unveil the painting, wondering what his seemingly clairvoyant visitor would see in that picture. As he grasped the corner of the cloth, Napoleon glanced back at Illya and wondered what he had already seen in the drawings he had shared with him.
Illya stopped directly in front of the easel and gave the artwork his full attention. He took a step back. Napoleon watched Illya's gaze take a diagonal path from the upper left hand corner of the painting to the lower right hand corner, then he turned to look at Napoleon before returning to his study of the older man standing with his hand on his son's shoulder seated with his young son on his knee. The baby's hand on his father's cheek had caused the father to turn his face slightly away from the viewer, leaving the young father and son gazing with delight at one another. Illya's focus seemed fixed on the middle of the painting, on the young father's face. "They aren't relatives of yours, are they?" he asked.
"No, Alistair and I were at boarding school together," Napoleon replied.
"You show two very happy fathers," Illya commented. "The tenderness between father and child isn't emphasised much in art."
"Perhaps that is why The Prodigal Son is such an affecting ballet," Napoleon said.
The dancer looked at Napoleon, "Yes, exactly." He took another step back from the painting, a crease appearing in his forehead. "He is a very handsome man...Alistair."
"If you'd have seen him at thirteen, you wouldn't have thought it likely to be so," Napoleon laughed. "My younger cousin used to tease him terribly when he spent summers with us in France. Children can be so cruel."
Something in Napoleon's light tone erased the crease from Illya's forehead. "Here you've left the background dark and vague. The people in their light-coloured summer clothes almost glow. Other than them, only the chair, the child's toy at its foot and the Persian carpet are detailed." Illya glanced over his shoulder towards the door to the sitting room.
"It is the one under the tea table," Napoleon confirmed.
"My grandparents brought their carpets with them when they left Russia. I spent many hours as a child playing games on them," Illya said, a small smile appearing as his gaze drifted up to the right.
Involuntarily, Napoleon's eyes flickered up to his left. He had just finished shaking his head as though to clear it when Illya suddenly turned to face him. "How do you imagine my portrait?" he asked.
Startled, Napoleon replied, "In motion."
Illya stepped closer and looked directly into Napoleon's eyes, "Sometimes standing still is most eloquent."
Napoleon felt his pulse speed up, "How do you visualise it? What do you want it to say?"
Illya turned and paced to the tall window at the end of the studio and considered the garden. Golden leaves were somersaulting across the grass. Napoleon joined him. "We could use the garden for background. Shall we go out and walk round it and discuss possibilities?"
*********************
The breeze was picking up. The aspens along the garden wall were bending with it. Illya tapped Napoleon's arm and handed him his jacket. "Wait here," he said and walked back to the corner of the lawn. He stood there for a few moments, stretching and looking diagonally across the grass. Although there was not a cloud marring the blue of the sky, the wind had began tearing leaves off the trees. Illya took two long, running strides and was directly in front of Napoleon when he leapt. The black of his turtleneck and trousers outlined his form against the green and gold of the garden; the wind blew his hair about his face and the early afternoon sun gilded his hair and skin accentuating the pure lines of his profile. As though his memory were a photographic plate, Napoleon felt the image burn into it.
Illya walked back towards Napoleon and took his jacket.
"There you are!" Mrs. Featherstonehaugh called from the terrace doors. "Luncheon is ready. Where shall I serve it?"
Slightly dazed, Napoleon looked towards the house and then back to Illya. "If we dine in the studio I can sketch out preliminary ideas at the same time," he said, angling his eyebrows questioningly.
"The studio would be fine," Illya smiled as he slipped his jacket back on. "Has inspiration struck?"
"Yes," Napoleon replied. "Yes, it has." He pivoted towards the house and called out, "The studio, please."
****************
The sky was almost dark when Napoleon accompanied Illya to the garden gate.
"Thank you for coming," Napoleon said as he opened it.
"I'm glad I did," Illya replied, swinging his bag up to his shoulder.
"So, the same time next Sunday?" Napoleon asked to be certain.
"Yes."
"I'll sketch what we've agreed onto the canvas so the painting can begin."
Nodding, Illya asked, "What is your box number?"
"Five," Napoleon answered.
"There's a Scheherazade performance on Tuesday," Illya commented, "and Firebird has its season debut this week."
"Oh, I expect to be there every night," Napoleon replied. "It's been very good for my painting."
"Your muse likes a crowd," Illya observed, the beginnings of a smile flickering about his lips.
Napoleon watched the clouds which had gathered with the evening scudding past. "So it would appear." He looked down into Illya's amused eyes. "I never question my muse. I just accept whatever gifts are given."
The amusement faded from Illya's expression and he nodded soberly, "A wise course."
Napoleon extended his hand and Illya accepted it with a cool, firm grip that did not begin to hint at the strength there. "Till next week then," he said, letting go of Napoleon's hand. "Good night."
"Good night," Napoleon echoed as Illya turned up the hill. Napoleon remained leaning against the gatepost. Evening was falling fast and the shadows had obscured Illya's figure before he reached the corner. Napoleon couldn't tell whether he had glanced back before he turned left.
****************
"Sergei, do you have a pair of opera glasses?" Illya asked, looking out between the curtains at the audience.
"No, but someone must. I'll go ask," Sergei replied. "Checking to see if your artist is in attendance? I never asked how your meeting went."
"Find me a pair of opera glasses first and I'll give you a summary," Illya responded, glancing down at the seating plan in his hand.
"Ah," he murmured and angled his gaze to the far right of the stage and counted. Someone appeared to already be seated in Box 5.
"Here you go," Sergei said, nudging Illya's shoulder with the glasses.
"That was quick," Illya commented.
"Lucky first time," Sergei explained.
"That's often the case, isn't it?" Illya quipped, training the glasses on the box.
"Flattery will get you everywhere," Sergei replied, smiling.
"Yes, I know," Illya answered, adjusting the focus.
"Must dash, mine's first tonight, but I want details later," he said and disappeared.
Napoleon was alone in the box, scanning the crowd and sipping something clear from a tall glass. He set the glass down and began flipping through a programme, pausing to read a bit here and there, then he set the programme aside and picked up opera glasses. He'll be able to see expressions clearly, Illya thought and let the curtain fall back into place.
******************
At the interval, Sergei found Illya in his dressing room. "Come show me your artist," Sergei said, picking up the borrowed opera glasses from the dressing table.
"He might not be in his box now," Illya cautioned.
"Yes, perhaps, but point me in the right direction in case he is," Sergei urged.
Illya put down the book he was reading and accompanied Sergei to the left wing.
Illya checked first, then passed the glasses to Sergei. "He's still there. Box 5," Illya said. "I think he's drawing."
After a minute or so, Sergei lowered the glasses. "He's a good-looking young fellow." He handed the glasses back to Illya. "I was expecting an older man. So how did it go on Sunday?"
"Well, I've agreed to sit for a portrait," Illya began, running the ribbon for the glasses through his fingers.
"So you liked him?"
"His technique is excellent. I saw more developed pieces, a completed painting. He has insight into people; it's why the portraits are so good. He's also designed part of his house and it's beautiful. He's travelled, studied abroad. I was impressed, actually."
"But...," Sergei prompted.
"He's been hurt, fairly recently I think, at least he's still hurting," Illya remarked.
"And this worries you?" Sergei probed.
"Yes, and he's rich," Illya added.
"Well, you knew that before you went," Sergei said.
"True, but it's more vivid when it's right before your eyes," Illya replied.
"So he can keep you in a better style than the one to which you have become accustomed," Sergei quipped.
"And that's exactly what I don't want him to think!" Illya growled and turned to head back to his dressing room.
"Illya, I was just joking," Sergei explained, walking after him. "I didn't mean..." Illya had marched into his room and closed the door behind him. "...anything by it." Sergei looked back towards the stage. "Hmm."
********************
The applause was verging on the uproarious. Not at all typical for a ballet audience. After the last curtain call, Sergei caught up with Illya as he opened the door to his dressing room and slipped in after him.
"Bozhe moi, Illya. They're going to start mobbing you in the streets. The way you were dancing tonight, the ballerinas may mob you in a few minutes when you leave this room," he pointed at the door, "and some of the guys, too. God, you were like fire."
Illya crossed his forearms on the dressing table and lay his head on his hands. "I am on fire," he whispered.
Sergei sat down on the bench next to Illya and rested his hand on his back. "But you just met him yesterday," Sergei said softly.
"No, I think I met him when I first opened that envelope," Illya murmured. "He made me think about who would draw me like that. What was he seeing when he watched me." Illya closed his eyes. "Yesterday, I kept doing it."
"What?" Sergei asked.
"You know..." Illya opened his eyes to meet Sergei's and gave a small, wry smile. "...what we do so well. All of us for whom movement and posture are an art...I would move a little too sinuously, stand a little too close, look directly into his eyes."
"Ah."
Illya stretched out an arm, the hand palm up, inscribed a figure eight with it in the air and folded it back to his side. Sergei followed its graceful progress and nodded. "When I wasn't looking at him, I could feel him watching and reacting and it made me want to keep doing it until he would have to reach out for me."
"Did he?" Sergei whispered.
"No, I resisted most of the urges to keep tempting him, but I shouldn't have done it at all. It was unkind."
"Why? He may want you just as much as you seem to want him. Where's the problem?" Sergei asked.
"He's injured, I'm sure. And for how long would I want him? A few weeks? Until we go on tour? And it would hurt his art."
"But he's painting well despite his other heartache," Sergei pointed out.
"He can manage, he's healing; but I don't think he was doing any original work until..."
"The drawings he sent you," Sergei finished. Illya nodded. "Do you wish you hadn't agreed to go back?"
"Yes...no...I don't know," Illya mumbled and lay his head back down.
Sergei got up and rubbed Illya's shoulders and neck slowly, working his fingers into the muscles. "So what will you do?"
"Dance!" Illya raised his head a few inches, then let it sink back onto his arms. "What else can I do?"
********************
Napoleon heard the applause and realised he ought to join in, but he couldn't put the glasses down until Illya left the stage, couldn't take his eyes off his face. Couldn't dispel the memories of the expressions he'd seen on it. The Angel of the darker Drink, Napoleon thought.
******************
Tuesday afternoon, Adrian leaned around the half-open door, "Sir?"
Illya stopped unbuttoning his shirt and saw the envelope the boy was holding out towards him. "More post for me, Adrian?"
Adrian smiled and ducked his head. "Yes, sir."
"Well, let's have it, then," Illya said, stretching out his arm.
Adrian slipped around the door and brought it to him. "Pretty writing, sir," he said and blushed.
Illya looked down at the double lines forming the ornate capitals and nodded. "Yes, very pretty." His stomach constricted. "Thank you, Adrian."
"Oh, you're welcome, sir." Adrian said and slipped back out the door without moving it.
*******************
At the interval Sergei popped in still in his costume from Apollo. "Warmed 'em up for you," he grinned.
"Yes, I heard," Illya smiled back. "You have a triumphant look on your face which speaks of more than applause though."
"Indeed. Alicia agreed to come out with a few of us afterwards the first time I asked," he nodded for emphasis.
"Well done," Illya replied.
Sergei noted the envelope and folded paper on the dressing table. "More post?" he asked, stepping closer.
Illya handed him the paper. Sergei unfolded it and read the caption beneath the picture, "that Angel of the darker Drink". He studied the drawing for a moment. "Wonderful drawing, but you look a bit ominous in this one."
Illya passed him a slim paperback with a scrap of paper sticking out. "Open where it's marked."
Sergei handed back the drawing and found the page.
"So when that Angel of the darker Drink
"At last shall find you by the river-brink,
"And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
"Forth to your Lips to quaff..."
"...you shall not shrink," Illya joined his voice to Sergei's.
"Well," Sergei said, exhaling. Illya looked up from the drawing. "Seems you have your Cyrano and your Christian all rolled up into one," Sergei concluded.
Illya laughed. "Now that's a positive way to look at it." Sergei chuckled. "Did you get to the part where Cyrano says he has been 'braver since'?" Illya asked.
"I did," Sergei sighed. "And may I never have to be brave like that. Nor you. Nor anyone I care at all for!" he added.
"You're right. It could be a toast, 'May you never need to say that you've been 'braver since'!"
"Or a curse: 'May you, and your children after you, have to be 'braver'."
"No, no. That's too harsh," Illya laughed. "Spare the children."
"Alright, it's awful enough without the children."
"You should change," Illya said. "You'll catch a chill."
Sergei glanced down at himself. "You're right. And you need to put your slippers on." He headed for the door. "I'll see you later. Come out with us," he urged tilting his head and raising his eyebrows hopefully.
"Yes, I think I will," Illya answered as Sergei left. After the door clicked shut, Illya sighed and murmured to himself, "It may help."
****************
Napoleon wondered whether the post had arrived as he sat down at the front of the box. He ate a mint. During the first half of the programme, he studied the other dancers more carefully. He was beginning to have preferences for certain dancers in certain parts. He noticed that no one else danced Illya's roles.
He couldn't sketch at the interval. He found himself staring at the red velvet stage curtains. Might he be looking out at me? He asked which box was mine. Why else would he want to know? He felt a chill and ran a hand over his dark hair. He brought the glasses to his eyes and studied the curtains more intently with them.
When the music for Scheherazade began Napoleon felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders tighten. He rolled them a couple times and turned his head from left to right to loosen them, then gripped the opera glasses.
*************
Illya handed the opera glasses to Sergei and went out onto the stage.
Illya focussed on his partner, channeling all his energy towards her, drawing her to him as with a magnet. She danced away, she looked away, but she was always drawn back by his looks, by his gestures...and when he was at just the right angle to Box Five, he lifted his gaze a degree or two for an instant and beamed it directly at Napoleon.
*************
Napoleon saw the minute shift in focus. Felt it. Was that for me?
***************
"Finished it," Sergei announced stepping through the wide open doorway. "May all our amours be more straightforward than Cyrano's." He stopped as two pairs of eyes looked up from a book at him. "Good afternoon, Allegra," he said bowing. "You have her studying on Saturday, Illya?" Sergei continued, tossing the book lightly onto the dressing table and checking what Allegra was reading.
"We missed our usual English lesson last Sunday and we hadn't made it up yet," Illya replied. "What did you think of the play otherwise?"
"I think it would be suitable," he answered, glanced at Allegra, who looked back down at her book, and didn't elaborate. "What else do you have?"
Illya handed him a thick book with an illustration of a black cat on the cover. Sergei checked the spine, "Poe?"
"I've marked a few of the poems and one of the stories," Illya explained. "See what you think."
Sergei opened the book to the first bookmark and read to himself. Allegra looked up again cautiously and when she saw Sergei wasn't aware, continued to watch his eyes scanning the page from under his thick dark lashes. "Is 'tintinnabulation' a word?" Sergei asked.
"It is now," Illya replied, then glanced at Allegra and cleared his throat. She looked down at the book open in her lap.
Sergei looked up. "I'll be off with this then," he said, closing the book. He leaned towards Allegra, "And good luck with Great Expectations."
At the door Sergei turned back, "Are you coming on the trip to Greenwich tomorrow?"
"I'm going," Allegra answered brightly, "but Illya has another...:" She stopped, flustered.
"It's alright, Sergei knows about the painting," Illya interjected. Sergei raised an eyebrow at Illya who shrugged and flushed slightly.
"Ah," Sergei said and nodded. " Etudiez bien," he called on the way out.
**************
It was cooler than the previous Sunday. A fresh breeze drove white clouds past the sun, dappling the light. Illya strolled rapidly downhill from the tube station to the traffic lights. He paused there and let them change three times before he walked across. His mind considered an indirect route through the park, but his feet wouldn't turn in at the gates. In front of Napoleon's house, Illya checked his watch. He rang the buzzer even though its hands informed him that he was ten minutes early.
The garden gate opened wide even before the sound faded. Illya stepped in to find Napoleon behind it. He was dressed casually in a dark grey wool jacket, a light grey shirt open at the collar and black trousers. His hands were sheathed in sturdy gardening gloves, one grasped ten or twelve red and white roses, the other an open pair of secateurs. Napoleon raised the secateurs in greeting. "Good morning!" he smiled and his eyes flicked across Illya's face as though looking for clues.
"War of the Roses?" Illya asked as Napoleon pushed the gate closed. He handed Illya the secateurs and slid the bolt into place.
"More 'and Rose-in-hand my thread-bare Penitence apieces tore,'" Napoleon replied. "The red are especially fragrant," he said and separated one from the bunch, held it out to Illya and reclaimed the secateurs.
Illya bent to inhale as he grasped it. "Ow," he said, switching the rose more carefully to his other hand and shaking the injured digit a couple times before quickly sucking the blood off and bringing the flower to his nose. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes for a moment and smiled.
Napoleon saw the small scarlet blotch on the pale finger before it disappeared between the pink lips. "I'm sorry. I forgot about the thorns. Gloves," he added, raising his hands.
Illya opened his eyes, the smile lingering. "Not to worry, I'll live," he said. "I didn't notice roses last week, where are they?"
"Mostly round the other side of the house, although there's a small bush hidden in here." Napoleon tucked the secateurs under his arm, took one of his gloves off and handed it to Illya. "If you'll hold these for me, it'll just take a moment," he said offering the roses. Illya slipped on the glove. The inside was still warm and the sensation travelled from his hand to distant parts of his body and created a reciprocating warmth there.
Napoleon nudged the bouquet into Illya's gloved hand. He glanced up briefly as he took it and saw Napoleon look quickly away.
Napoleon placed one foot strategically in the flowerbed and pushed aside some ivy hanging over the wall. Illya's eyes followed the bending form and heard a snip. When Napoleon stood back up he held a rose whose petals were such a dark shade of red that their curved edges were nearly black. "This one deserves a vase by itself," he said.
"Yes," Illya said slowly.
Napoleon tilted his head as though listening.
Still regarding the rose, Illya said, "A couple Sundays ago I was in Regent's Park and had an idea for a ballet based on the Rose Garden." He paused and Napoleon waited. "This one could be the soloist."
A bright smile spread across Napoleon's face.
"Her costume would be like these petals," Illya mused aloud.
"I could try my hand at that if you'd like," Napoleon said.
******************
The sky had cleared and the crescent moon was bright when they went down to the gate.
"I'll send drawings of my ideas for the costume during the week," Napoleon promised.
Illya smiled and held out his hand. "If you have time. You have many other projects."
Napoleon grasped the hand and smiled back. "True, but you know how it is when the muse smiles on you."
*******************
The wicker of the chair creaked as Sergei gestured towards Illya with his arm, his legs stretched between his chair and the bench upon which Illya sat. "I see the attraction of The Bells, but it has no resolution, just goes rather mad at the end. I prefer the other two."
"Which one more?" Illya said from his seat in front of the dressing table mirror.
"Oh, Annabel Lee, definitely. It is full of mood and emotions and I like the story."
"That his love dies?" Illya questioned as he finished outlining one eye.
Sergei gave Illya a light shove with his foot. "No! The mood, the feelings... 'And this maiden she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me.'"
"You're lucky I'd finished that eye," Illya said with a mock glare.
"I checked first," Sergei chuckled. "And the images -- 'The angels not half so happy in Heaven, went envying her and me...' I see a gracefully swarming corps de ballet there... 'For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams...' Dramatic, evocative... and the poem's short enough to print in the programme and it's in the public domain. What music were you thinking of?"
"Haven't identified the music to be adapted and perhaps it needs to be commissioned, but I thought to have a few different ideas to begin developing, not to limit my focus to just one at this point," Illya said.
"Sounds like my philosophy in a different area," Sergei responded, flipping through the book and falling quiet to read.
There was a light knock on the door. Sergei began reciting, "...suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door..."
Illya swatted the foot which was still resting against his hip. "Come in," he called out, twisting towards the door.
"''Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.'" Sergei continued.
"Adrian!" Illya said as the door was pushed open and a head of tawny curls appeared around it. "You have something for me?"
"I do, sir," Adrian replied, obviously pleased to be able to say so, then stopped, noticing Sergei.
"Oh, excuse me, sir," Adrian froze three-quarters of the way past the door.
Sergei looked up at Adrian's startled brown eyes, smiled and rubbed his foot against Illya. He watched the colour bloom on Adrian's cheeks.
"Let's see what you have," Illya said to the boy, and swatted Sergei's foot again. It stilled, but Sergei kept smiling at Adrian as he brought the rest of himself around the door and over to Illya with a large manila envelope in his hand.
Illya reached out for it. Adrian's eyes flicked down to the address and back up to Illya's face. "Ah, the pretty handwriting again," Illya said.
"Yes, sir," Adrian almost whispered, stepping back towards the door and dropping his eyes to Sergei's foot.
"Thank you again, Adrian," Illya said as Adrian bolted out the door.
"You have a little admirer there," Sergei remarked, leaning forward in his chair to look at the address on the envelope.
"You shouldn't tease the lad, he's only about seventeen," Illya said, turning the envelope over.
"We were younger than that," Sergei said softly.
"Yes, we both were," Illya replied, opening the flap and easing out the cardboard inside.
Sergei put his legs down and pulled his chair closer. "Let's see," he said.
Illya lifted the cardboard to reveal a drawing in coloured inks of a ballerina in a yellow and peach tutu and headdress. Near the bottom right hand corner of the page was glued a rose petal of the same colour.
"So he does do costume design," Sergei remarked, holding his hands out to have a closer look at the picture.
Illya handed it over, uncovering another drawing of a light and dark pink costume, the skirt falling from the ballerina's waist in soft tiers. "I think that's Fiona," Illya commented, touching the matching rose petal in the corner.
Sergei looked up. "Mmm. And this one's Claire," he said, nodding at the picture in his hands.
Illya set Fiona's drawing aside and regarded the next drawing of a costume of pale pink, edged with lavender. Sergei leaned further forward, "Allegra," he pronounced. "Your artist has been paying attention from his box."
Allegra was set aside and the final ink came into view. "Ah," Illya said. Sergei turned sharply from his contemplation of the drawing in his hands. "The soloist," Illya murmured, carefully taking in the greater detail in this costume. Absentmindedly, his index finger stroked the petal at the bottom of the page. "No wonder it took until Thursday."
**********************
There was a tenderness to the Tsarevich's capture of The Firebird that night.
Napoleon noticed the subtle difference.
********************
Mrs. Featherstonehaugh brought up the afternoon post and the letter opener with the tea tray on Friday. Napoleon spotted the theatre's stationery and seized it. There were five words in a beautiful hand inside, "Brilliant. Thank you. 'Til Sunday."
Napoleon glanced at his watch. No, until seven-thirty.
****************
"You'll do it then?" Illya asked.
Mrs. O'Donnell continued studying the drawing on the work table, her hand hovering over the skirt. She glanced down at the rose petal glued in the corner. It was shrunken and darker than it had been when the drawings arrived the day before. Viola rubbed her thumb and index finger together. "It's tempting to choose velvet, I think that's what he was imagining when he coloured it, but it doesn't reflect the light and it's too warm." Her eyes focussed on the head piece and the face of the ballerina. "Is the artist sweet on Alicia?"
Why not? Illya thought. Yet he felt nothing like he had when he'd considered Alistair's handsome face in the portrait. The ballerinas had disappeared from the programme sketches. The figure that remained was mine. The fierceness of the countering thought startled Illya. Alicia dances the Young Princess. There certainly were enough drawings of that ballet. In the process of studying me, he has studied her as well... he reasoned. Why so sure, Illya? he asked himself. He slipped off his jacket and draped it over his arm. "Portraits are his speciality," he answered Mrs. O'Donnell. "He hasn't done costume design before. He may not know that the figure is usually just an outline."
"He's caught her expression, the way she holds herself in that pose. Do you want the costume made to her measurements?" Viola looked up at Illya.
The ballet wasn't even choreographed...and yet...Alicia would make a regal Rose and they danced well together. Slowly, Illya nodded. "Yes," he answered. "So you'll do it?"
"It will take a while to find the right fabric and we may need to dye it...you want that exact colour," Viola continued, thinking aloud.
The colour of that rose, a scarlet so dark it was nearly black. A passion so intense it could be deadly. That's what that imperious rose symbolised. When everyday attraction to prettiness deepened into a fiercer emotion. Illya closed his eyes. The images formed patterns against the back of his eyelids.
"This will take some time," Mrs. O'Donnell cautioned. "I'll see who I can find to do the detail sewing."
"But you'll do it?"
"I will," Viola affirmed with a decisive nod. She paused. "Did the idea start that day in the park?" Illya nodded. A gratified smile lit up her face, "I'll send word if I have any questions and when the practical design is ready."
"Five minutes," a voice intoned.
"Thank you," Illya said and leaned across the corner of the cutting table to kiss Viola's cheek. "I have to run," he added and sprinted from the work room.
************************
Contentedly, Napoleon settled into his seat in the box, his glass of tonic and his opera glasses to hand. He had become so fond of this place where patience was always rewarded.
****************
The rain had come on with the evening on Sunday. It was pattering gently on the skylights when Napoleon and Illya turned out the lights in the studio and headed to the sitting room for dinner.
"The first backdrop is the arbour in the Rose Garden," Napoleon said, moving to one of the armchairs by the fire with his cognac.
"Yes," Illya answered, settling back amongst the cushions in the alcove with his.
"But you envision an actual gate which opens when the dancers first enter the park? That divides and rolls into the wings?."
"Yes," Illya answered.
"And this comes back before the final scene as the visitors leave and the gates close behind them."
"Yes. The final dance is inside," Illya's voice explained from the shadows of the alcove seat.
Napoleon got up and selected a record from the shelves above his hi-fi. He turned to look towards the alcove. The notes of a harp filled the room. Illya leaned forward, his face emerging from the darkness into the firelight. "Debussy," he said.
Napoleon nodded and sat back down.
"Maybe," Illya murmured. "Orchestrated," he added before leaning back into the shadows to listen.
When the record ended, Napoleon got up to turn it over. "The second dance needs a different backdrop?"
"I imagine it with the stream in the foreground, the small island and the waterfall behind it," Illya answered.
Napoleon stood still for a moment considering. "I need pastels," he said and strode to the studio. As he opened the door, lightening flashed. A crack of thunder sounded a few seconds later. Illya came up behind Napoleon, "It's close," he said. Another flash of lightening illuminated the room. They stepped inside and stopped under the skylights. The thunder crashed over them. Then the rain began to pummel the roof.
"You can't walk to the tube in this and a taxi won't want to come out either." The lightening flashed again, the thunder hard upon it. "Stay here tonight. You can have my room; I'll sleep in the alcove," Napoleon said when the noise abated.
The next lightning bolt and thunder clap were simultaneous. Napoleon glanced sideways at Illya's profile and didn't breathe.
"I'd prefer the alcove," Illya replied.
Napoleon exhaled quietly. "I don't have an appointment until two," he commented. "We could have brunch before you go to rehearsal."
Tree branches were thrashing the side of the house. The drumming of the rain against the skylights resounded in the open room. Illya moved towards the window overlooking the garden. The lightning silhouetted him against it. "Doesn't it make you want to move?" he asked.
Napoleon drew in a breath as the lightning outlined Illya spinning with his arms extended. The next flash revealed him still rotating with arms raised above his head. Through the ensuing darkness, the thunder boomed. The lightning flashed again as Illya came to a stop facing Napoleon. As its light faded, the thunder roared.
*********************
The small table lamp shed a focussed beam onto Napoleon's sketch pad. "There," he said. "Tell me what you think." Illya leaned over the wing of the armchair. "Could you add a couple swans?"
"Swimming...walking?"
"One swimming and one landing," Illya said and leaned further over to point, "about there." He watched as Napoleon created the swans.
**************
Napoleon handed Illya a stack of towels and pyjamas before Illya departed for the bathroom. "Do you prefer coffee or tea in the morning?" he asked.
"Coffee," Illya answered, accepting the stack.
"Au lait?" Napoleon pursued.
Illya smiled. "I'll take that as a yes," Napoleon said. A clock chimed two. "Good-night then," he finished and turned towards his bedroom by the stairs.
When Illya returned to the sitting room clad in the dark blue silk pyjamas, he found the alcove made up with white linen and a thick maroon comforter. By the waning firelight he could see that there was a deep blue robe draped across the bedding and a small decanter and a water glass on the end table near the alcove. A pair of slippers sat next to the table.
Illya shook his head and set his folded clothes down on the bench in the corner of the room. He poured himself some water, took a sip, then slipped into the improvised bed.
********
The soft murmur of the fountain was clear in the silent room. Illya turned on his side towards the soothing sound and pulled the covers up to his chin. After a minute, he heard a door being opened carefully. Quiet footsteps descended the stairs. A moment later, Illya heard a rustling sound in the hall and then only the fountain. He slept.
****************
Napoleon lay down along the cushioned banquettes in the hall. He tucked the duvet around him and arranged his pillow so he could comfortably see the flicker of the dying fire through the open balcony shutters.
*****************
The house was quiet when Illya first awoke. He rose to his knees and looked down into the hall. Napoleon was still sleeping where he had imagined him last night. Stretched out on the banquette on his back, one arm curled above his head, he was facing Illya. While he watched, Napoleon lips moved as though he were speaking, but no sound reached Illya's ears. He turned his face into the curve of his arm and rubbed it back and forth twice. This time Illya heard a sigh or a moan. Napoleon's arm slipped under the covers and he turned onto his side to face the wall.
Illya walked barefoot to the bathroom. The silk of the carpets was smooth and cool beneath his feet. On the way back to the sitting room, he detoured into the studio. The rain had stopped. He looked up through a skylight at the pearly clouds above. They lit the room with a bright, colourless light. Illya shivered. He closed the studio door behind him and hurried to the alcove to burrow under the covers.
********************
"Weren't you chilly sleeping down here, dear," Mrs. Featherstonehaugh asked mid-morning. Napoleon looked up at her sleepily.
"No, it was quite cosy," he said, rising to one elbow.
"Where would you like your tea, then?"
"We have a guest for breakfast," Napoleon explained, "so could we have cafe au lait?" He smiled. "I'm not sure what to have for brunch yet though," he added, rubbing his hand over his face.
"It's good you didn't let him venture out in that storm," Mrs. Featherstonehaugh said. "I've been round the garden and we didn't lose any trees, but our neighbour was not so lucky," she continued. "Although that pine wasn't healthy and should have been cut down years ago." Napoleon sat up fully. "You go freshen up and I'll bring the coffee. What would you like with it?"
"Some fruit...and nuts. We don't have any croissants, do we?" Napoleon asked.
"I can call the bakery and have some delivered," she said and headed for the kitchen stairs.
*****************
Although he showered and shaved, Napoleon put on another pair of dark green pyjamas and his robe afterwards. He walked soundlessly to the alcove. Illya was fast asleep on his stomach, facing the room, his golden hair fanned out on the white pillow, one arm tossed over the maroon covers. The deep blue pyjama sleeve was pushed up revealing a muscular forearm and a broad hand, the fairness of his skin accentuated by the dark fabrics.
Napoleon backed up a couple steps towards the table where he had left his sketch pad and pastels. He barely flicked his eyes away from the alcove to ascertain their exact location. Lifting the pad, he quietly turned to a blank page and settled on the arm of the wingback chair nearer the alcove and began to draw.
The picture was nearly finished when he heard the musical clink of silver against china. Napoleon leaned the sketch book against the chair, the drawing faced inwards and went to the stairs. He reached for the tray as Mrs. Featherstonehaugh approached the landing. "Ah, you secured the croissants," he commented softly.
"Pain au chocolat, s'il vous plait," she specified in a whisper.
"Brava," Napoleon replied smiling, lifting the tray carefully to keep its contents level. "I'll come down when I ascertain what our guest would enjoy for brunch."
"Very good," she replied and turned back down the stairs.
Napoleon swivelled noiselessly and walked back to the sitting room. There he froze for a moment when he saw Illya sitting cross-legged in the alcove, his pyjama top unbuttoned and open as he leaned over to study the sketch pad resting on his knees. Napoleon took the last couple steps to the tea table and set down the tray. He heard a small rustle. His brow was creased when he raised his eyes and met Illya's blue gaze. Napoleon's heart sped up.
"Good morning," Illya said.
Napoleon remained half bent over the tea table for an instant longer. "Good morning," he smiled back and straightened up. "I couldn't resist. You looked so..."
"Peaceful?" Illya supplied. "It's what my parents used to say prevented them from selling me to the gypsies when I was a child...that I looked so peaceful while I slept."
Beautiful is the word. Like a sleeping angel. "You were a difficult child?" Napoleon asked, his heartbeat slowing slightly.
"I was full of energy," Illya answered.
"That hasn't changed," Napoleon observed.
"According to my parents, I am lethargic now by comparison." He smiled. "Is that coffee I smell?"
"Cafe au lait," Napoleon corrected, pouring a cup. "Here you are," he added, bringing the large cup and saucer over to Illya and exchanging it for the sketch pad.
"Thank you," Illya said, accepting them. "You slept in the hall last night?"
Napoleon flushed before he answered. "I sleep all over the house," he said. "In the hall, where you are now, in my studio, especially when the moon is full, it shines directly in the skylights; even in my bedroom sometimes. The privileges of living alone," he finished.
"I didn't mean to pry," Illya said. "I thought I might have taken your favourite place unknowingly last night."
"Oh, no. I like them all and pick what suits my mood or level of fatigue."
"You sleep in the studio when you've worked too late," Illya surmised.
"It's when I'm most creative," Napoleon explained, "late at night. But I need the sunlight for the sittings, so I must be up for them."
***************
Part 3 is here
no subject
'He stopped, his eyes widening. Without moving past the archway, he let his eyes roam from the stuffed peacock displayed on the carved wooden balustrade directly in front of him, around the ornately tiled walls, back to the stairs and up the banister to where a tall, trim young man in a dove grey suit, pale blue shirt and silver tie stood a step or two down from the top watching him.
"It's beautiful," Illya said to him.'
And like a snowball things sort of gathered and I was lost in the moment. I really needed a chair at that point to sit down and remember.
no subject
You can see why I wanted to put characters in that house and not just any characters, but another painter who fell in love. In a way I was doing some RPF with Leighton and Watts in the story.
I am so thrilled that you felt the words did the view justice. Doesn't it just stop you in your tracks?
I think the comments you recall were on the crack-van post when TTI was recommended (maybe August 2010, I think).
If you get around to visiting the Sir John Soanes Museum, it is a house I am planning to appropriate for the villain. What villain, you ask? You know how Illya suspects that someone had really hurt Napoleon and in the continuation of TTI Illya talks about a ballet he is considering creating and he explains that it would need a villain and Napoleon looks anxious. Well, the Sir John Soanes Museum is the villain's house although I am thinking to move it to Paris.