Chapter nine.
In which we break ten thousand words, baby! Oscar listens to houses and Anastasia buys shoes.
Chapter Nine
Portia, after their visit to the house Joudeau had sent them to in Rome, spent a couple of days sightseeing. Félix wanted to make up his mind about the house, as well as look at some less splendid examples of modern living in Rome.
Anastasia had gone up to Venice for a day or two, and apparently had an Ecstasy-inspired one-night stand in a gondola. More and more, the Americans were beginning to appreciate the barrier between Félix's public life outside of their sphere and his private life with them; as Portia said, at least if Félix was doing those things, he wasn't telling people about it in great and upsetting detail afterwards.
Oscar spent his time with his nose in a book on the Rome house, written in French by the architect, detailing the research and theories that had gone into the "most perfect re-creation of an Imperial Roman town-home ever to be built". His skill in French was mostly verbal, but he tottered along all right in reading, if he could read it aloud and if Félix was on hand occasionally to identify the more difficult words.
"You're fascinated by this house," Félix said, when Oscar brought up a few architectural terms at dinner one night. "I think you're considering painting it? Pictures of it, I mean."
"I thought I might ask the agent if I could," Oscar said truthfully. "As long as you're planning on staying in Rome a little while longer."
"It depends entirely upon Anastasia," Félix replied. "And perhaps a little on Portia, though we wouldn't leave mid-painting if they finished before you did. That would be like -- " he stopped, then, and grinned mysteriously. "That would be a bad thing, leaving a work like that unfinished. What interests you?"
"Well, you know, restoration is what I do," Oscar answered. "Most of the time. So there's that. And some of the structural things make me want to try my hand at designing houses again."
"Really?" Félix asked, delightedly. "Would you design me a house?"
"What, now you want me to build you something?" Oscar teased.
"No, I just want to see what you would build for me if you did. What is Félix's house?" Félix replied. "For that matter, what is Portia's house?"
"It would have a fashion runway," Oscar said, into his water-glass. Félix snorted. "And be all glass so that she could sunbathe inside even when it was cold outside. There'd be big aquariums in all the walls, and a load of modern gas-fireplaces, and at the very centre it would have one small, private, perfectly dark bedroom for her to sleep in."
Félix stared at him.
"What?" Oscar asked.
"You surprised me," Félix said. "I'm a little afraid to hear what you think I'd want, now."
Oscar shrugged. "I don't know. If you don't know what you want, how should I?"
"Ah, yes, that's why we look, isn't it," Félix sighed. "I'll know it when I see it, I believe, is the English phrase."
"Do you really think you'll find it outside of Paris?"
"I only know I couldn't live in Paris any longer."
"Why?"
Félix shrugged. "I told you. I was smothering there. I was born in Paris, raised there for the most part, and it's...a beautiful city, but it's no more a home than -- than my family's mansion was. You've seen pictures."
"Oh, yes -- I thought it was lovely," Oscar said, feeling slightly traitorous.
"It is," Félix agreed. "But it isn't a home. It's a museum where people happen to sleep."
Oscar laughed. "I wouldn't mind living in a museum! Fix me up a little bedroom in the Met -- or wander out into the atrium of the Gardner Museum with a plate of bacon and eggs every morning..."
"You make homes," Félix pointed out.
"Among other things. Really it's been years since I designed a home."
"Yes, but...wherever you are, you make that your home -- that was why you lived in the hotel, before it burned. Hm, yes, I begin to understand you better, Oscar. Do all architects do that? You wouldn't ever build yourself a home, would you?"
"I've never considered it," Oscar said truthfully. "But then I spent most of my life in New York City, and it's not exactly easy to come by an empty spot to put a new house, even if I wanted to."
"I envy you that ability," Félix said wistfully.
"Which, to make home where my hat is?"
Félix laughed a little, and nodded. "I've decided not to buy the re-creation, by the way."
"Oh?"
"I don't mind restorations, but this one's too fake -- I'd always know that not a piece of it was real," Félix said, pausing to take a bite of his fettucini. "I'd rather have the Spanish villa, if it came to it. And there would be nothing for you to do here in Rome, by way of remodeling. I'm betting on you being able to make a home for me like you do for yourself, if you're given the chance to do a little work on a place."
Oscar set his fork down, slowly. "Félix, that's -- "
"A dangerous presupposition, I'm aware," Félix said with a smile. "Either way, you and Portia get to see the world, Oscar, and I have the pleasure of seeing you see it."
"Then I probably shouldn't start the painting," Oscar said.
"You can if you want."
"I did some preliminary sketches, actually, but they did seem sort of flat. Like drawings you'd see in a cheap history textbook. Where are we going next?"
Félix's eyes lit up with a sort of sinful glee.
"Berlin."
"Félix! Félix!" Anastasia's voice echoed through the restaurant, and Oscar saw Félix fight the urge to hide behind the menu. Instead, the young man raised one lycra-clad arm and gestured for Anastasia and Portia to come sit down. They'd left Anastasia's comrades behind, somewhere, or at least Anastasia had; Oscar was mentally thinking of it as "two down, one to go".
"Shopping, I see," Félix observed innocently, as Anastasia put her bags down. "More ethnicwear?"
"Sweetheart, this is Italy," Anastasia said condescendingly. "This is the homeland of Gucci and Fendi and Armani and..." she trailed off, and glanced at Portia, who looked as though she was clinging to sanity, but at least doing it with good cheer.
"Prada," Portia said promptly.
"Doesn't fit," Oscar grunted. "Got to have an i on the end."
"Pradi?" Félix snickered.
"Oh, you mock," Anastasia said, slapping Félix on the arm affectionately. "I bought you shoes, Oscar."
"Me?" Oscar asked, alarmed.
"Yes, why not?"
"Didn't you try to stop her?" Oscar asked Portia, in English.
"Okay, have you tried to stop her?" Portia replied. "She's like a freight train with a handbag."
Félix snorted into his wine, helplessly.
"Bad, bad Portia," he murmured, before turning back to Anastasia.
"This is why we have to stick around, Félix has awful taste in people," Portia said, in lower tones. "Remember Madam Rowan?"
"She was okay once she stopped trying to talk to the walls," Oscar replied.
"She tried to talk to walls," Portia pointed out.
"Well, yeah, but..." Oscar fell silent.
"What?"
"Well, I do that too once in a while."
"Yes, but you're an architect, you're supposed to," Portia said, dropping back into French. "That's professional nuttiness."
"What's this now?" Anastasia asked, beaming at Oscar.
"Oscar talks to buildings," Portia said, an evil glint in her eye. Clearly spending all day with Anastasia had done nothing for her sweet temper, if she'd ever had one in the first place.
"I don't -- "
"He does. It's wonderful," Félix agreed. Oscar sighed.
"What do they say back?" Anastasia inquired, wide-eyed.
"They don't," Oscar said, without thinking. "Not these houses. Or if they do I can't hear them."
Félix was watching him carefully; Anastasia brushed it off with a laugh.
"It's important to hear them," Félix murmured.
"Anyway, I'm going to the Protestant graveyard tomorrow," Portia said, filling the silence that followed. "You should come along, Oscar, there's a lot of interesting graves. Poets and stuff. I bought some black paper and gold crayon in town, and I'm going to do grave-rubbings."
"Uh...why?" Oscar asked, bewildered.
"Why should you come, or why am I doing grave-rubbings?"
"Both?"
"Because it's fun, and it creeps people out when they see them." Portia grinned. "Besides, Shelley's buried there. Don't you want to have your namesake's tombstone-impression framed and hung on your wall?"
Oscar was about to reply when Anastasia produced the shoes she'd purchased for them, and instead he decided to choke on his wine at the sight.
"I didn't think they made mens' boots in that shade of pink," Félix remarked, conversationally.
Chapter Nine
Portia, after their visit to the house Joudeau had sent them to in Rome, spent a couple of days sightseeing. Félix wanted to make up his mind about the house, as well as look at some less splendid examples of modern living in Rome.
Anastasia had gone up to Venice for a day or two, and apparently had an Ecstasy-inspired one-night stand in a gondola. More and more, the Americans were beginning to appreciate the barrier between Félix's public life outside of their sphere and his private life with them; as Portia said, at least if Félix was doing those things, he wasn't telling people about it in great and upsetting detail afterwards.
Oscar spent his time with his nose in a book on the Rome house, written in French by the architect, detailing the research and theories that had gone into the "most perfect re-creation of an Imperial Roman town-home ever to be built". His skill in French was mostly verbal, but he tottered along all right in reading, if he could read it aloud and if Félix was on hand occasionally to identify the more difficult words.
"You're fascinated by this house," Félix said, when Oscar brought up a few architectural terms at dinner one night. "I think you're considering painting it? Pictures of it, I mean."
"I thought I might ask the agent if I could," Oscar said truthfully. "As long as you're planning on staying in Rome a little while longer."
"It depends entirely upon Anastasia," Félix replied. "And perhaps a little on Portia, though we wouldn't leave mid-painting if they finished before you did. That would be like -- " he stopped, then, and grinned mysteriously. "That would be a bad thing, leaving a work like that unfinished. What interests you?"
"Well, you know, restoration is what I do," Oscar answered. "Most of the time. So there's that. And some of the structural things make me want to try my hand at designing houses again."
"Really?" Félix asked, delightedly. "Would you design me a house?"
"What, now you want me to build you something?" Oscar teased.
"No, I just want to see what you would build for me if you did. What is Félix's house?" Félix replied. "For that matter, what is Portia's house?"
"It would have a fashion runway," Oscar said, into his water-glass. Félix snorted. "And be all glass so that she could sunbathe inside even when it was cold outside. There'd be big aquariums in all the walls, and a load of modern gas-fireplaces, and at the very centre it would have one small, private, perfectly dark bedroom for her to sleep in."
Félix stared at him.
"What?" Oscar asked.
"You surprised me," Félix said. "I'm a little afraid to hear what you think I'd want, now."
Oscar shrugged. "I don't know. If you don't know what you want, how should I?"
"Ah, yes, that's why we look, isn't it," Félix sighed. "I'll know it when I see it, I believe, is the English phrase."
"Do you really think you'll find it outside of Paris?"
"I only know I couldn't live in Paris any longer."
"Why?"
Félix shrugged. "I told you. I was smothering there. I was born in Paris, raised there for the most part, and it's...a beautiful city, but it's no more a home than -- than my family's mansion was. You've seen pictures."
"Oh, yes -- I thought it was lovely," Oscar said, feeling slightly traitorous.
"It is," Félix agreed. "But it isn't a home. It's a museum where people happen to sleep."
Oscar laughed. "I wouldn't mind living in a museum! Fix me up a little bedroom in the Met -- or wander out into the atrium of the Gardner Museum with a plate of bacon and eggs every morning..."
"You make homes," Félix pointed out.
"Among other things. Really it's been years since I designed a home."
"Yes, but...wherever you are, you make that your home -- that was why you lived in the hotel, before it burned. Hm, yes, I begin to understand you better, Oscar. Do all architects do that? You wouldn't ever build yourself a home, would you?"
"I've never considered it," Oscar said truthfully. "But then I spent most of my life in New York City, and it's not exactly easy to come by an empty spot to put a new house, even if I wanted to."
"I envy you that ability," Félix said wistfully.
"Which, to make home where my hat is?"
Félix laughed a little, and nodded. "I've decided not to buy the re-creation, by the way."
"Oh?"
"I don't mind restorations, but this one's too fake -- I'd always know that not a piece of it was real," Félix said, pausing to take a bite of his fettucini. "I'd rather have the Spanish villa, if it came to it. And there would be nothing for you to do here in Rome, by way of remodeling. I'm betting on you being able to make a home for me like you do for yourself, if you're given the chance to do a little work on a place."
Oscar set his fork down, slowly. "Félix, that's -- "
"A dangerous presupposition, I'm aware," Félix said with a smile. "Either way, you and Portia get to see the world, Oscar, and I have the pleasure of seeing you see it."
"Then I probably shouldn't start the painting," Oscar said.
"You can if you want."
"I did some preliminary sketches, actually, but they did seem sort of flat. Like drawings you'd see in a cheap history textbook. Where are we going next?"
Félix's eyes lit up with a sort of sinful glee.
"Berlin."
"Félix! Félix!" Anastasia's voice echoed through the restaurant, and Oscar saw Félix fight the urge to hide behind the menu. Instead, the young man raised one lycra-clad arm and gestured for Anastasia and Portia to come sit down. They'd left Anastasia's comrades behind, somewhere, or at least Anastasia had; Oscar was mentally thinking of it as "two down, one to go".
"Shopping, I see," Félix observed innocently, as Anastasia put her bags down. "More ethnicwear?"
"Sweetheart, this is Italy," Anastasia said condescendingly. "This is the homeland of Gucci and Fendi and Armani and..." she trailed off, and glanced at Portia, who looked as though she was clinging to sanity, but at least doing it with good cheer.
"Prada," Portia said promptly.
"Doesn't fit," Oscar grunted. "Got to have an i on the end."
"Pradi?" Félix snickered.
"Oh, you mock," Anastasia said, slapping Félix on the arm affectionately. "I bought you shoes, Oscar."
"Me?" Oscar asked, alarmed.
"Yes, why not?"
"Didn't you try to stop her?" Oscar asked Portia, in English.
"Okay, have you tried to stop her?" Portia replied. "She's like a freight train with a handbag."
Félix snorted into his wine, helplessly.
"Bad, bad Portia," he murmured, before turning back to Anastasia.
"This is why we have to stick around, Félix has awful taste in people," Portia said, in lower tones. "Remember Madam Rowan?"
"She was okay once she stopped trying to talk to the walls," Oscar replied.
"She tried to talk to walls," Portia pointed out.
"Well, yeah, but..." Oscar fell silent.
"What?"
"Well, I do that too once in a while."
"Yes, but you're an architect, you're supposed to," Portia said, dropping back into French. "That's professional nuttiness."
"What's this now?" Anastasia asked, beaming at Oscar.
"Oscar talks to buildings," Portia said, an evil glint in her eye. Clearly spending all day with Anastasia had done nothing for her sweet temper, if she'd ever had one in the first place.
"I don't -- "
"He does. It's wonderful," Félix agreed. Oscar sighed.
"What do they say back?" Anastasia inquired, wide-eyed.
"They don't," Oscar said, without thinking. "Not these houses. Or if they do I can't hear them."
Félix was watching him carefully; Anastasia brushed it off with a laugh.
"It's important to hear them," Félix murmured.
"Anyway, I'm going to the Protestant graveyard tomorrow," Portia said, filling the silence that followed. "You should come along, Oscar, there's a lot of interesting graves. Poets and stuff. I bought some black paper and gold crayon in town, and I'm going to do grave-rubbings."
"Uh...why?" Oscar asked, bewildered.
"Why should you come, or why am I doing grave-rubbings?"
"Both?"
"Because it's fun, and it creeps people out when they see them." Portia grinned. "Besides, Shelley's buried there. Don't you want to have your namesake's tombstone-impression framed and hung on your wall?"
Oscar was about to reply when Anastasia produced the shoes she'd purchased for them, and instead he decided to choke on his wine at the sight.
"I didn't think they made mens' boots in that shade of pink," Félix remarked, conversationally.