MFU Fanfic: Through the Invisible - Post 6/6
Originally posted on MUNCLE .
Rating: NC-17
Act IV
The quayside at Civitavecchia was crowded with eager friends and family craning their necks and standing on tiptoe to get a better view of the deck of the docking ship. Napoleon wove his way through them and reached almost to the front behind a little curly-haired boy who was clinging to his mother's skirts and trying to get her to look down at him rather than up at the ship. Napoleon smiled at the child who hid his face in his mother's dress and then smiled back from its folds. Suddenly, his mother flung her arm up in a vigourous wave, her hip canting and almost knocking the child off the dock. Napoleon reached out and caught his arm, set him upright again. The mother glanced down for an instant, saw her child was safe and continued waving. Napoleon couldn't tell who among the gesticulating passengers was returning her greeting. The boy was examining his shoes, his bottom lip quivering. His mother had put him in danger and hadn't even noticed it. Napoleon opened his tin of mints and offered them to the boy. The child looked up at Napoleon as though he might be able to explain why his mother could find anything more important than him and took a handful of the candies.
Napoleon finally spotted Illya's bright hair near the top of the gangway. Someone with long dark tresses was clinging to him; he had his arm around her shoulder and seemed to be speaking to her. An officer was making way for them through the crowd on deck. Napoleon didn't have the strength to wave.
He heard his name. Mrs. O'Donnell was walking behind Illya and gestured for Napoleon to join them. He made his way to the gangway as the trio reached the bottom. Illya looked up, his brow furrowed. "Napoleon. I hoped you'd be here. Do you have a car?"
Something loosened in Napoleon's chest which made breathing easier. "Yes, far side of the mob," he said, gesturing. "Is that Allegra?" he asked.
Both Illya and Mrs. O'Donnell nodded. "Migraine," Viola explained. "Started yesterday evening. The ship's doctor tried a couple remedies, but it's only gotten worse. The bus to Rome..." She didn't finish her sentence.
"I understand," Napoleon said. "I have an old friend, a physician, whose villa is this side of the city. We'll stop to phone and see if he's in." He shifted his glance and caught Illya looking at him over Allegra's bowed head. His brow had smoothed and he was considering Napoleon with a soft look that made Napoleon turn suddenly into the crowd pressing towards the ship and begin opening a passage for the others to follow behind him to the car.
***********
Allegra was stretched out, asleep, her head on Mrs. O'Donnell's lap in the back seat as they drove from the doctor's house to their hotel. Napoleon and Illya were crammed in the front next to the driver.
"You were fairly sure I'd meet the ship, weren't you?" Napoleon whispered.
"Might have been the title of the drawing you asked Sergei to deliver to me," Illya answered quietly, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Your eyes were shut. My hand clasped your face, my thumb brushing lightly against your lips. You called it "Addiction".
*************
They ate dinner with the company at a restaurant near the hotel. Afterwards they headed in the opposite direction when the others went back to their rooms. The studio was only a ten-minute walk away.
Napoleon took off his glove to unlock the creaking gate in the high stone wall. He relocked it when they were on the other side and pressed a set of keys into Illya's hands. "The three antique-looking ones are for the gate, the front door and the studio; the other is for my suite at the hotel," he said. "In case you need to get anything when I'm out or to leave when I'm asleep," he explained. Illya stared at the keys.
The moonlight penetrated the shadows near the portico. Napoleon reached out his hand and tapped Illya‘s arm. "Try your keys," he said. The silvery light accentuated the deep crease down the center of Illya's forehead. "I'm hoping to finish the figure for a new painting while we're here together...If you agree, I may be asleep when you leave for rehearsal..."
Illya kept his eyes fixed on the key he was guiding into the ancient lock. Napoleon's hand closed over his when the key didn't turn. "There's a bit of a trick to it," he said as the tumbler turned noisily. "I'll be at every performance though," he added quickly. "Mere lack of sleep couldn't keep me away."
Illya slowly raised his head. The moonbeams bleached one side of his face and hid the rest. Napoleon plunged his bare hand into the darkness, seeking the warmth at Illya's neck and tilting his chin upwards with his thumb. He stepped closer, chest to chest with Illya, closing him into the corner between the door and the side of the portico. I hope I'm answering the question I see in your eyes, Illya, Napoleon thought and brought his lips down softly to Illya's, barely touching until he felt them parting.
*****************
Even through the leather of his gloves, Illya could feel the chill of the sculpted stone he grasped for support. When Napoleon turned away to open the door, he remained in the corner, his chest rising and falling with the deep breaths he was taking, his ears filled with the pounding of his blood, waiting until he could trust his legs again.
Napoleon's arm wrapped around his waist and drew him inside. He heard the keys jangling, the door close, the double locks turning, Napoleon's voice saying, "It's a long climb to the studio." His voice echoed faintly. "The lights aren't working down here," he explained, his voice disappearing into a large space. A vague curiosity about the place they had entered fluttered in the back of Illya's mind, but it was too feeble to cause him to open his eyes. He felt the keys being dropped into his coat pocket, the metal heavy against his thigh. "I have a fire ready to be lit upstairs," Napoleon urged and Illya considered moving.
**************
Napoleon's hand was unsteady as he bolted the door. He drew Illya's supple body further inside the vast entry hall, keeping his arm around his waist. We could be warmer, more comfortable upstairs, Napoleon thought, but the allure of Illya's body relaxed against his was not to be ignored. He slipped his other arm around Illya’s shoulders, pressing him closer. His knee slid upwards towards the heat between Illya's legs, as his lips whispered over Illya’s closed eyelids and down his cheek. Their next kiss almost brought them to the marble floor. Napoleon forced himself away. "Come upstairs," he mumbled and pulled Illya's hand towards the stairs. His body followed so willingly.
"We're almost there," he encouraged softly against Illya's lips at the next to last landing. Illya pulled Napoleon's head down for another kiss.
************
Their footsteps reverberated in the space Napoleon called his studio. He led Illya around the obstacles he knew lay in the dark room and pushed him gently down onto a yielding surface. "I'll light the fire and get us some cognac," he said. "The room's been unheated all day, I'm afraid."
Illya felt cushions at his back and leaned into them. He drew off a glove. He felt the silk beneath him, followed it outwards until he found an edge and pulled it around him. It was colder in the room than it was outside. His fingers stroked the velvet he felt on the other side of the silken fabric.
The crackle of paper and the snap of very dry wood as the flames caught was loud in the quiet room. The wood was aromatic, sprinkled with sandalwood, he thought. Illya opened his eyes. Napoleon stood up from his crouch in front of the carved marble hearth over which hung a dim mirror. He moved to a nearby table and poured the cognac. Illya watched Napoleon approach; the deep cuts in the crystal glasses he held refracted the firelight. Illya shifted slightly within his velvet cocoon. He saw Napoleon's eyes widen as he noted that movement and held out a hand for the glass. The rest of the kindling catching fire produced a promising roar.
"It will be warm enough to take off our coats in a few minutes," Napoleon said. Illya held his gaze, deliberately drawing Napoleon closer, not even blinking until he had knelt on the thick carpet in front of him. He held out his glass. "To meetings," Napoleon proposed.
"To joinings," Illya replied. His glass chimed against Napoleon's. The cognac was warm against his tongue and throat.
Napoleon emptied his glass and set it on the floor. Illya observed every movement as Napoleon shrugged off his coat and jacket and toed off his shoes. Napoleon took Illya's glass from him and set it next to his own. There was a cold draft when he parted the cloak Illya had wrapped around himself. He knelt on the divan, his knees either side of one of Illya's legs and leaned forward. His kiss pressed Illya's head into the top of the cushions and Illya felt a deeper warmth flooding through him.
The polished wood of the screen next to the divan reflected the light and the warmth of the fire back over Illya. Napoleon had piled more wood onto the blaze and its glow, along with the heat of the arc lamps Napoleon had positioned around the divan and next to his easel, kept Illya comfortable despite his clothes having been discarded earlier in the evening.
Their bodies had warmed the cloak that partially covered him. Their aroma still scented its folds. Illya drifted towards consciousness, his dreams, or memories, reluctant to release him. The lamp light was red against his eyelids. He shifted a leg, feeling the silk slide past the skin of his thigh. His limbs felt heavy.
"Don't move," Napoleon said.
Illya opened his eyes slightly and saw Napoleon lay down his brush. From beneath nearly closed lids, he watched Napoleon approach. His hand slid under Illya's thigh and placed it back where it had been. Illya parted his lips and exhaled slowly. Napoleon glanced up at him, his hand gliding to the top of Illya's leg, caressing the flaccid organ resting there. Illya lifted his hip against the pressure, felt himself hardening and locked his sleepy gaze on Napoleon.
*************
Napoleon’s touches merged with the fabric of Illya’s dream, his hands cool on his skin, his breath warm against his neck, his soft lips, teasing and soothing as they roamed. Illya considered seizing one of the hands, directing it, but his arms were so comfortably sunk into the cushions…then the heat of Napoleon’s mouth found him and he didn’t need to move.
Napoleon drew away slowly. A sigh passed Illya's lips; his limbs didn't resist when Napoleon rearranged them. He stretched up and kissed Illya again, deeply and very slowly, his fingers tracing down Illya's throat, feeling the barely audible moan that resulted when he leaned away. He kissed the inside of Illya's thigh, then stood back to see that Illya's position was exactly as it had been, straightened his own clothes and returned to his easel. He concentrated on completing Illya's face. The expression was precisely the one he had envisioned.
**************
Napoleon saw them off at the train station. He handed Illya a folder tied closed on three sides before he boarded the train. "I hope to have the disguised version finished when I meet you in France. The other may..." Napoleon paused, "...require more sittings in Paris." Illya smiled. There were to be two paintings, one realistic for Napoleon's bedroom, the other with Illya transformed into a brunet with olive skin, to be submitted to the Salon d'Automne in April.
"Three weeks is such a long time," Napoleon whispered.
"Especially to be working on those paintings," Illya teased, his voice provocatively low.
The train whistle blew. "Until Paris then," Napoleon called as Illya mounted the steps. Illya looked back at him over his shoulder from the door of the train and nodded.
How am I going to make it through the rest of March? Napoleon thought. He saw Illya enter a car and sit down across from Sergei. Napoleon waved. They both waved back as the train pulled away from the platform.
****************
"Napoleon, dear boy," Aunt Aurelia exclaimed as she sailed into his studio. "Have you seen the papers lately?" She dropped several newspapers in French and English on the table set for tea. "Mr Kuryakin and his company are all over them and there's a charming one about you and your portrait of Mr Morgan in The Financial Times. She slipped off her gloves, looked across the room and stopped. "Oh, pardon me," she said.
Napoleon walked towards his aunt and took her elbow to draw her near the painting the other guest in the studio was examining. "I believe you and Mr Hathaway know one another," Napoleon said, stepping back.
Mr Hathaway's usually light blue eyes were dark and his complexion high when he bowed and took Aurelia's hand and almost touched it to his lips. "It has been a long time," he said when he released it.
Aurelia paled at first and then a light flush brightened her cheeks. "It's not polite to reveal how long, Ambrosius," Aurelia responded. Napoleon turned away to hide his smile. He couldn't recall ever having seen his aunt being flirtatious. She glanced over at the finished portrait on the easel, at the earnest face looking out at her from it.
"Your nephew has done a good job of making an old fellow appear presentable," Ambrosius said. "He’s a talented artist."
"He is that," Aurelia agreed, thoughtfully studying the expression captured in the portrait. "And an perceptive observer of the human condition," she added.
"I've brought up another setting for tea," Feather announced from the doorway, a tray replete with sandwiches, scones and cakes in her hands.
The trio looked over at her, then back at one another. Tentatively, Mr Hathaway held out his arm for Aurelia. She glanced from his extended arm to his face, the same plea that Napoleon had reproduced in the portrait was in his eyes. They were as bright as she remembered, but the hopelessness she had seen the last time they had gazed directly into hers was gone. They had both avoided such revealing encounters during their occasional social interactions since that distant summer. With the glimmer of a smile, Aurelia laid her arm on top of his and they followed Napoleon to the tea table.
**********************
Napoleon was settling his jacket over the back of his desk chair when he heard the door bell chime. He slipped the jacket back on and went to the railing to listen.
“He just came in a few minutes ago,” he heard Feather saying. “Go on up.”
Cecilia was slightly out of breath when she met Napoleon midway up the stairs. "I’m so glad I’ve found you at home,” she began, leaning forward to offer her cheek for a kiss as she extended her hand. “I wanted to tell you my news in person before I headed back to Cambridge today.”
Napoleon kept hold of her hand and drew her onto the landing. "You look wonderful," he said, stepping back to take in her whole appearance. "Do you want to see your portrait? I've finished it." He gestured toward the open studio door.
Cecilia nodded. "Yes, please. I’m certain it's brilliant,” she added as Napoleon lead her into the studio and across to a draped easel in the far corner. “I'm afraid mother and father may never pay you for it though."
"I will give them a chance to collect it and if they don't, I will exhibit it - without your name on it, of course," he explained.
Cecilia stood in front of the easel as Napoleon whisked off the covering. The expression on the figure's face made her smile disappear. "Planning this with you helped me understand what I had to do, Napoleon," she said quietly. “You heard that we broke our engagement?”
“Yes,“ Napoleon answered as he looked back and forth between the vital young woman before him and the withdrawn one he had started painting half a year earlier. "I've never seen a broken engagement make anyone happier," he admitted.
"You know I think Gerald is just as pleased," Cecilia replied, still gazing at the painting. "It was something our parents wanted for us, not something we wanted." She turned to Napoleon and her smile returned. “But I have a piece of news you haven’t heard.” Napoleon raised enquiring eyebrows.
Cecilia unsnapped her purse, pulled out a folded letter and opened it. “Read it,” she said, handing the paper to Napoleon.
He took in the letterhead. “Cornell University?” he murmured, glancing at Cecelia.
“Read,” she urged, tilting her head towards the page.
“A full scholarship for your doctoral studies starting this summer!” he exclaimed. “Campus housing, travel and relocation allowance and a stipend,” he listed as his eyes picked out the key words. “No wonder you look radiant. How…”
“The head of my department put my name forward. I didn’t even know about it until a few days before I received this letter,” Cecilia said.
"Is your thesis finished?" Napoleon asked.
"Nearly, but I still have to defend it. Assuming all goes well, I’ll be going to Cornell shortly after graduation to meet the faculty and finalise the arrangements for beginning my doctoral studies in the autumn." She paused, smiling. "Would you come to my graduation this summer?"
"I'd be delighted," Napoleon answered. He turned back to the easel. “If your parents don’t want your portrait, perhaps I could change it, if you have time to sit once or twice again.”
Cecilia considered her painted image. “I think I’d want to be outside now,” she said. “Maybe running up that hill.”
“I have a friend who said something like that when he saw the sketch for this,” Napoleon said softly. “He said I’d drawn you trapped in that room.”
“Another artist?” Cecilia asked, glancing at Napoleon. He nodded. Cecilia turned back to the picture. “Your friend was right.”
There was a faint toot from outside. Cecilia started and glanced at her watch. “I almost forgot I kept the taxi waiting. I have to catch the 5 o’clock train to be back in time.”
“Let me walk you down,” Napoleon said, moving with her towards the stairs.
“I’ll send you an invitation as soon as they‘re printed,” Cecilia promised as they approached the front door.
“I hope to be there, but even if I can’t come, I’ll expect a postcard or two from Ithaca this fall," Napoleon said, unlocking the garden gate.
“Of course," she agreed, kissing Napoleon on the cheek as he stood by the open taxi door. “Napoleon?" she said as she settled into the seat and Napoleon bent to close the door. He looked in at her. “Thank you.”
Napoleon nodded. “You’re welcome,” he replied. He smiled as he shut the door.
****************
"I'm looking forward to getting back to London and staying in one spot for a while," Sergei commented as they asked the hotel clerk for their keys in Amsterdam.
"We've been travelling for more than three months and we're not done yet," Illya agreed.
"Post for you, sir," the clerk announced as he handed Illya his key.
Sergei looked for a rose seal on the envelope Illya held in his hand and didn't find one. He turned over the envelope on the counter. "Well, this one's from Napoleon," he said, revealing the seal. Illya picked up Napoleon's envelope and headed towards the elevators. "You realise you're amassing your own art collection, Illya?"
Sergei noted the faraway look in Illya's eyes when he smiled in response to that question. "Mmm," Illya murmured. The elevator doors opened and they got in. Although he hadn't seen any of the drawings Napoleon had sent Illya while they were on tour other than the ones of costumes and sets, Sergei had a good idea of their nature and knowing Napoleon's talent, he assumed that they were affecting representations. He glanced at Illya in profile as he lounged against the wall of the elevator and tore open the mysterious envelope. You would be an ideal subject for erotic art, Sergei mused. You can transform leaning against a wall into an act of seduction. Illya scowled.
"What?" Sergei asked. The elevator halted at the third floor and the doors opened.
"Gurgenidze," he said as they walked towards their room. "He's offering to produce my choreography, if I come back."
"When?" Sergei asked, unlocking the door and standing back for Illya to enter.
"This autumn," Illya answered, walking in and flinging himself on the bed. "I'd been asking him to consider it for years before I left for London. Why now?"
Sergei slipped off his coat, draped it over an armchair and dropped himself into the other one. "You don't read the reviews, do you?" he asked.
Illya shook his head. "Not unless you read me one."
"Before we left Copenhagen, Martins said something to me about coming back," Sergei explained. Illya looked over at him sharply. "Talk is easy. I'm not even going to think about it unless he makes me an offer in writing," Sergei continued. "And it would take a lot to top London."
"Has anyone else had an offer?" Illya asked.
"Not that I know about," Sergei answered. "But I wouldn't be surprised if several of us did after these tours. The only negative word I've read was about our repertoire being a little too traditional."
"But..." Illya began.
Sergei held up a hand. "I know. A lot of our ballets are not classical and with yours next season that will be even less the case. I think one or two journalists simply had to find something critical to say."
Illya nodded. "They've been that good, huh?"
"I've got a file of press clippings, if you'd like to have a look," Sergei answered, slipping off his shoes and propping his legs up on the end of the bed. "What I'd find really tempting would be American offers."
"Really?" Illya said, standing up to take off his coat and shoes. "Do you think there's enough interest?"
"Those were the best reviews. Every critic sounded as though they were in love. They make great reading." Sergei laughed. "And they yearn after Europeans, especially ones with Russian-sounding names like ours."
"Real ones," Illya added with a snort.
"Although the ones direct from the Soviet Union are the most in demand," Sergei admitted.
"Humph," Illya said. "Are you getting hungry?"
"I am," Sergei answered, standing. "So what are you going to do about your offer?"
"Think about it," Illya replied.
"Did he give you a deadline to answer?"
"First of May," Illya replied, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and slipping his shoes back on.
Sergei laughed.
********************
Napoleon took the train to Paris via Dover and Calais. French surrounded him once he boarded the train in Calais. The sound made him restless. He'll arrive tomorrow afternoon. I'll see him tomorrow, Napoleon kept repeating to himself, impatient for the final stage of his waiting to be over. From the trolley making its way through the aisles, he bought a copy of Le Figaro and a small bottle of wine. He'd have a better dinner in Paris and he didn't want to leave his painting with his luggage to go to the dining car. Napoleon patted the crate next to him. The painting inside pleased him; he hoped the judges at the Salon d'Automne shared enough of his opinion to accept it for the exhibition.
It was raining lightly on the greening fields the train passed. Napoleon turned away from the window, opened the Sunday supplement and began to browse through the articles. A photo from Carmen arrested his attention. It was of Alicia and Illya in an early scene from the ballet. Illya was supporting himself on his hands and feet, chest facing upwards; Alicia was balanced over him, her arms on his shoulders, one knee on his knee, her other leg aloft, their limbs forming a geometric design, presenting a symbol of the connection between domination and dependency. Napoleon translated the text as he read.
Gurgenidze has been the subject of continuous criticism for his decision not to better the London offer to Kuryakin last year. Kuryakin has been described as everything from a traitor to a national treasure, and pressure is mounting for Gurgenidze to offer him whatever he wants to come back to his native shores. This pressure has reached intolerable levels since the British company has been on tour and receiving resounding accolades for their performances on both sides of the Atlantic. Reliable sources indicate that Gurgenidze may finally be cracking under the pressure and that the performances in Paris next week will be the time when he makes his move to lure Kuryakin back.
Napoleon turned his head. The raindrops on the window blurred the passing landscape; the late afternoon light bled from the sky. His hands dropped to his lap. How much longer to Paris? How much longer until tomorrow? Napoleon squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, went envying her and me...
******************
Despite the chill in the early spring air, Napoleon left the balcony door ajar. He wasn't sure exactly when they would arrive. He sketched distractedly for hours and all the sketches were of Illya. The growl of the bus engines roused him. He was out the door before the first excited voices reached his balcony.
The lobby was already full of dancers and musicians when the elevator deposited him there. He searched for Illya, trying to keep an anxious look off his face. "Napoleon," a high voice called. Allegra appeared with Fiona and Antoinette trailing behind. She rose on tiptoe to kiss Napoleon on both cheeks. "We missed you. You shouldn't go do other things. You belong with us now," she exclaimed and her friends nodded. Antoinette appeared to be judging the cut of his suit. "I wrote to maman about how you helped me in Rome and she insists that you and Illya come to dinner while you are in Paris. Promise you will agree. Maman will be very upset if you don't," Allegra warned.
"Well, we mustn't upset mothers, if at all possible," Napoleon began.
"Oh, that's wonderful," Allegra enthused, kissing both his cheeks again. "She sent me an invitation for you. I will leave it in your box when I unpack," she said starting to move away. "You are staying here with us, aren't you?" Napoleon nodded. "Good. I'll put it in your box tomorrow," she promised and disappeared back into the crowd with her friends.
"Mr. Solo," another voice called. Napoleon turned to find Mrs. O'Donnell coming towards him with Alicia. "How good to see you again," she smiled and Napoleon took her hand. "Have you completed the angel costume designs?" she asked. Napoleon started. "I know you're very busy, but the ones for Regent's Park are done and we're keen to start on the rest for Annabel Lee ," she explained.
"I brought them with me," he replied. "I'll give them to Illya, as soon as I find him."
"Excellent. Alicia's is done," she said, turning to Alicia. "You can come see it, if you like," Mrs. O'Donnell added.
"I'll even model it for you, if you wish," Alicia said, smiling. Napoleon smiled his most gracious and public smile in response.
"You may have to wait a while for Illya though," Mrs. O'Donnell explained. "He and Sergei were in the back of the bus, so I don't think they've even gotten down yet."
"Well perhaps I can catch them as they do," Napoleon turned towards the doors. "See you later, then."
"Napoleon," Sergei exclaimed as he stepped off the bus. "Great to see you. Illya's still inside. He dropped his fountain pen and we couldn't find it in the dark. I'm going to borrow a torch."
"I've got a small one on my key ring," Napoleon said, pulling out his keys and depressing a button on a small cylinder.
"That's handy," Sergei commented. "I'll go check in then."
Illya was on his hands and knees peering under the back seat when Napoleon saw him. He sat down behind him and slid along the bench seat until his head was just above Illya's. "May I help?" he enquired. "I have a torch."
Illya's head sprung up, both eyebrows raised, his lips opened to speak. Napoleon didn't let him.
*************
The breeze was fresh the next evening as they strolled along the Champs Elysees. "So he's already offered?" Napoleon said, shaking his head slightly. "Sometimes the newspapers are right."
Illya nodded, his hands shoved in his coat pockets, his eyes fixed on the pavement.
"Have you made up your mind yet?" Napoleon asked quietly. His dinner moved unpleasantly in his stomach.
Illya shook his head.
"It's a big decision," Napoleon murmured. He took off his glove and slipped his hand into Illya's coat pocket.
***************
"So did they accept it?" Illya asked when Napoleon came in the door of his hotel suite a few days later.
Napoleon turned, nodding his head and froze. Illya was stretched out on the couch, wrapped in the blue velvet cloak. Judging from the bit of shoulder and the bare foot peeking coquettishly out from the bottom, that was all he was wearing. Napoleon slipped the chain lock across the door and shed his clothes as he walked across the room.
**************
"Well, you had dinner with Allegra's mother and my parents, so it's only fair that I go to the country with you to visit your aunt and your cousin," Illya said.
"You don't mind a rather dull weekend in Fontainebleau?" Napoleon said.
"Did I understand correctly that your aunt has given us adjoining bedrooms?" Illya asked. Napoleon nodded. "Well, I don't think it will be dull then," Illya said and folded the velvet cloak, laid it on top of his clothes and closed his suitcase.
******************
"I should be done with the portrait of Constance's daughter-in-law and her baby by mid-May, I would think," Napoleon said as the train for London pulled in.
"I'll send word," Illya promised, looking directly into Napoleon's eyes. He looked back, lost in the seemingly infinite blue of that gaze. The train whistle blew. "You have to go," Illya said.
"I'll send drawings," Napoleon promised, not looking away.
Illya took his shoulders and turned Napoleon towards the train. "I'll wait for them," he said.
Napoleon nodded and mounted the steps.
Illya watched Napoleon settle into a window seat. Their eyes met again. Neither looked away as the train pulled away from the platform.
**************
Spring had come late and it seemed to have come all at once. Every plant and tree in London appeared to be in bloom as Illya walked through Holland Park towards Napoleon's house the first Sunday in May. Almost home, he thought and walked faster.
The garden gate was closed when he arrived. He rang the bell. Feather called out, "I'm coming. I'm coming."
"Good to see you," Illya smiled when she unlatched the thick wooden gate. It creaked. He handed Feather a heavy box wrapped in gold foil paper.
"Why, thank you," she exclaimed. "Oh, it's lovely to see you, Illya," Feather continued, pulling him inside and looking him up and down. She threw the bolt and headed up the front steps. "Come on in now. The garden's beautiful, but it's still rather damp after all the rain we've had. This is the first sunny day in weeks, I think."
Illya took a deep breath when the staircase came into view. "Does he have a sitter?" Illya asked, when Napoleon didn't appear at the top of the stairs.
"No," Mrs Featherstonehaugh answered softly. "He may be asleep. He's not been so well since he came back from Paris. All that travelling, I guess. Although you look right as rain," she added and smiled wanly at Illya.
"Didn't he know I was coming?" Illya asked.
Feather nodded. "I told him you'd called and would be here this morning at eleven. Although you're early, as always," she said. "I can go wake him, if he's not down in a minute, he must have fallen back to sleep."
Illya walked into the hall and sat on a banquette. He took a calling card out of his inside pocket and rummaged in his bag until he found his fountain pen. He wrote a few letters on it, then blew on the ink.
"Would you take that up to him, Feather?" Illya asked. A cloud passed between the hall window and the sun. The room dimmed. Illya looked up at the closed shutters of the balcony. He thought he glimpsed a movement through the mashrebiya.
"Oh, yes, of course, I will," Mrs. Featherstonehaugh replied and took the card. "I'll only be a minute. I've a lovely tea ready to be served," she said on the way out. "I'll just be a minute."
Maybe I should have called back until I got Napoleon on the phone, Illya thought. He rubbed his hand over his face. He's taking too long. Illya remembered how rapidly Napoleon had descended the steps the first time he'd come to this house. How he had looked at the top of the stairs, tall and elegant in grey, blue and silver. He remembered Napoleon's face lighting up at his appreciation of the beauty he had created here. Illya got up and paced around the fountain. He recalled the look of sadness he had spied in this room. How he had not wanted to cause that kind of pain. But I have anyway, haven't I? he thought. His eyes kept going back to the shuttered balcony above him.
****************
"He's downstairs waiting for you, dear," Feather said quietly as she approached the alcove where Napoleon was sitting. He'd been dressed since nine o'clock in his dove grey suit, pale blue shirt and a silver tie. "He gave me this for you," she added, handing Napoleon the card. She turned and headed back towards the staircase.
He held it in the palm of his hand and looked down at Illya's name. Seconds passed. His heart was thundering in his ears; his hands felt clammy. The edges of the card were getting damp. He picked it up with his thumb and index finger and noticed the smudge of ink it left on his palm. He turned the card over. There was one word written there, six letters, a slight wobble marring their lines. A beautiful hand. Noticed that when you answered my first letter, Napoleon thought, considering the lines as though they were a small drawing rather than writing. Finally, they resolved into letters. London. Napoleon tried to take it in. A single word. It shouldn't be hard to understand. One word. A city. The place where I live, he thought. He's chosen London. Napoleon turned his head, considered the word from several angles. He's chosen me.
Napoleon rose onto his knees and flung open the shutters. Outside, a breeze rustled the young leaves. The sun beamed through the stained glass throwing coloured shadows all over the room. Illya looked up and Napoleon saw the crease down his brow, between his eyes, the thin line of his lips. "Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire," Napoleon whispered. In the quiet room the words seemed to reverberate. The tightness in Illya's face relaxed and he rose on his toes. Napoleon bolted down the stairs past Feather and into the hall.
Feather walked across the entry hall to the kitchen stairway far more slowly, not even glancing into the Arabian Hall as she passed its open doors. “Tea can wait and luncheon will probably be late,” she murmured to herself.
THE END
*************
A sequel in in progress. The first section is here.
Rating: NC-17
Act IV
The quayside at Civitavecchia was crowded with eager friends and family craning their necks and standing on tiptoe to get a better view of the deck of the docking ship. Napoleon wove his way through them and reached almost to the front behind a little curly-haired boy who was clinging to his mother's skirts and trying to get her to look down at him rather than up at the ship. Napoleon smiled at the child who hid his face in his mother's dress and then smiled back from its folds. Suddenly, his mother flung her arm up in a vigourous wave, her hip canting and almost knocking the child off the dock. Napoleon reached out and caught his arm, set him upright again. The mother glanced down for an instant, saw her child was safe and continued waving. Napoleon couldn't tell who among the gesticulating passengers was returning her greeting. The boy was examining his shoes, his bottom lip quivering. His mother had put him in danger and hadn't even noticed it. Napoleon opened his tin of mints and offered them to the boy. The child looked up at Napoleon as though he might be able to explain why his mother could find anything more important than him and took a handful of the candies.
Napoleon finally spotted Illya's bright hair near the top of the gangway. Someone with long dark tresses was clinging to him; he had his arm around her shoulder and seemed to be speaking to her. An officer was making way for them through the crowd on deck. Napoleon didn't have the strength to wave.
He heard his name. Mrs. O'Donnell was walking behind Illya and gestured for Napoleon to join them. He made his way to the gangway as the trio reached the bottom. Illya looked up, his brow furrowed. "Napoleon. I hoped you'd be here. Do you have a car?"
Something loosened in Napoleon's chest which made breathing easier. "Yes, far side of the mob," he said, gesturing. "Is that Allegra?" he asked.
Both Illya and Mrs. O'Donnell nodded. "Migraine," Viola explained. "Started yesterday evening. The ship's doctor tried a couple remedies, but it's only gotten worse. The bus to Rome..." She didn't finish her sentence.
"I understand," Napoleon said. "I have an old friend, a physician, whose villa is this side of the city. We'll stop to phone and see if he's in." He shifted his glance and caught Illya looking at him over Allegra's bowed head. His brow had smoothed and he was considering Napoleon with a soft look that made Napoleon turn suddenly into the crowd pressing towards the ship and begin opening a passage for the others to follow behind him to the car.
***********
Allegra was stretched out, asleep, her head on Mrs. O'Donnell's lap in the back seat as they drove from the doctor's house to their hotel. Napoleon and Illya were crammed in the front next to the driver.
"You were fairly sure I'd meet the ship, weren't you?" Napoleon whispered.
"Might have been the title of the drawing you asked Sergei to deliver to me," Illya answered quietly, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Your eyes were shut. My hand clasped your face, my thumb brushing lightly against your lips. You called it "Addiction".
*************
They ate dinner with the company at a restaurant near the hotel. Afterwards they headed in the opposite direction when the others went back to their rooms. The studio was only a ten-minute walk away.
Napoleon took off his glove to unlock the creaking gate in the high stone wall. He relocked it when they were on the other side and pressed a set of keys into Illya's hands. "The three antique-looking ones are for the gate, the front door and the studio; the other is for my suite at the hotel," he said. "In case you need to get anything when I'm out or to leave when I'm asleep," he explained. Illya stared at the keys.
The moonlight penetrated the shadows near the portico. Napoleon reached out his hand and tapped Illya‘s arm. "Try your keys," he said. The silvery light accentuated the deep crease down the center of Illya's forehead. "I'm hoping to finish the figure for a new painting while we're here together...If you agree, I may be asleep when you leave for rehearsal..."
Illya kept his eyes fixed on the key he was guiding into the ancient lock. Napoleon's hand closed over his when the key didn't turn. "There's a bit of a trick to it," he said as the tumbler turned noisily. "I'll be at every performance though," he added quickly. "Mere lack of sleep couldn't keep me away."
Illya slowly raised his head. The moonbeams bleached one side of his face and hid the rest. Napoleon plunged his bare hand into the darkness, seeking the warmth at Illya's neck and tilting his chin upwards with his thumb. He stepped closer, chest to chest with Illya, closing him into the corner between the door and the side of the portico. I hope I'm answering the question I see in your eyes, Illya, Napoleon thought and brought his lips down softly to Illya's, barely touching until he felt them parting.
*****************
Even through the leather of his gloves, Illya could feel the chill of the sculpted stone he grasped for support. When Napoleon turned away to open the door, he remained in the corner, his chest rising and falling with the deep breaths he was taking, his ears filled with the pounding of his blood, waiting until he could trust his legs again.
Napoleon's arm wrapped around his waist and drew him inside. He heard the keys jangling, the door close, the double locks turning, Napoleon's voice saying, "It's a long climb to the studio." His voice echoed faintly. "The lights aren't working down here," he explained, his voice disappearing into a large space. A vague curiosity about the place they had entered fluttered in the back of Illya's mind, but it was too feeble to cause him to open his eyes. He felt the keys being dropped into his coat pocket, the metal heavy against his thigh. "I have a fire ready to be lit upstairs," Napoleon urged and Illya considered moving.
**************
Napoleon's hand was unsteady as he bolted the door. He drew Illya's supple body further inside the vast entry hall, keeping his arm around his waist. We could be warmer, more comfortable upstairs, Napoleon thought, but the allure of Illya's body relaxed against his was not to be ignored. He slipped his other arm around Illya’s shoulders, pressing him closer. His knee slid upwards towards the heat between Illya's legs, as his lips whispered over Illya’s closed eyelids and down his cheek. Their next kiss almost brought them to the marble floor. Napoleon forced himself away. "Come upstairs," he mumbled and pulled Illya's hand towards the stairs. His body followed so willingly.
"We're almost there," he encouraged softly against Illya's lips at the next to last landing. Illya pulled Napoleon's head down for another kiss.
************
Their footsteps reverberated in the space Napoleon called his studio. He led Illya around the obstacles he knew lay in the dark room and pushed him gently down onto a yielding surface. "I'll light the fire and get us some cognac," he said. "The room's been unheated all day, I'm afraid."
Illya felt cushions at his back and leaned into them. He drew off a glove. He felt the silk beneath him, followed it outwards until he found an edge and pulled it around him. It was colder in the room than it was outside. His fingers stroked the velvet he felt on the other side of the silken fabric.
The crackle of paper and the snap of very dry wood as the flames caught was loud in the quiet room. The wood was aromatic, sprinkled with sandalwood, he thought. Illya opened his eyes. Napoleon stood up from his crouch in front of the carved marble hearth over which hung a dim mirror. He moved to a nearby table and poured the cognac. Illya watched Napoleon approach; the deep cuts in the crystal glasses he held refracted the firelight. Illya shifted slightly within his velvet cocoon. He saw Napoleon's eyes widen as he noted that movement and held out a hand for the glass. The rest of the kindling catching fire produced a promising roar.
"It will be warm enough to take off our coats in a few minutes," Napoleon said. Illya held his gaze, deliberately drawing Napoleon closer, not even blinking until he had knelt on the thick carpet in front of him. He held out his glass. "To meetings," Napoleon proposed.
"To joinings," Illya replied. His glass chimed against Napoleon's. The cognac was warm against his tongue and throat.
Napoleon emptied his glass and set it on the floor. Illya observed every movement as Napoleon shrugged off his coat and jacket and toed off his shoes. Napoleon took Illya's glass from him and set it next to his own. There was a cold draft when he parted the cloak Illya had wrapped around himself. He knelt on the divan, his knees either side of one of Illya's legs and leaned forward. His kiss pressed Illya's head into the top of the cushions and Illya felt a deeper warmth flooding through him.
The polished wood of the screen next to the divan reflected the light and the warmth of the fire back over Illya. Napoleon had piled more wood onto the blaze and its glow, along with the heat of the arc lamps Napoleon had positioned around the divan and next to his easel, kept Illya comfortable despite his clothes having been discarded earlier in the evening.
Their bodies had warmed the cloak that partially covered him. Their aroma still scented its folds. Illya drifted towards consciousness, his dreams, or memories, reluctant to release him. The lamp light was red against his eyelids. He shifted a leg, feeling the silk slide past the skin of his thigh. His limbs felt heavy.
"Don't move," Napoleon said.
Illya opened his eyes slightly and saw Napoleon lay down his brush. From beneath nearly closed lids, he watched Napoleon approach. His hand slid under Illya's thigh and placed it back where it had been. Illya parted his lips and exhaled slowly. Napoleon glanced up at him, his hand gliding to the top of Illya's leg, caressing the flaccid organ resting there. Illya lifted his hip against the pressure, felt himself hardening and locked his sleepy gaze on Napoleon.
*************
Napoleon’s touches merged with the fabric of Illya’s dream, his hands cool on his skin, his breath warm against his neck, his soft lips, teasing and soothing as they roamed. Illya considered seizing one of the hands, directing it, but his arms were so comfortably sunk into the cushions…then the heat of Napoleon’s mouth found him and he didn’t need to move.
Napoleon drew away slowly. A sigh passed Illya's lips; his limbs didn't resist when Napoleon rearranged them. He stretched up and kissed Illya again, deeply and very slowly, his fingers tracing down Illya's throat, feeling the barely audible moan that resulted when he leaned away. He kissed the inside of Illya's thigh, then stood back to see that Illya's position was exactly as it had been, straightened his own clothes and returned to his easel. He concentrated on completing Illya's face. The expression was precisely the one he had envisioned.
**************
Napoleon saw them off at the train station. He handed Illya a folder tied closed on three sides before he boarded the train. "I hope to have the disguised version finished when I meet you in France. The other may..." Napoleon paused, "...require more sittings in Paris." Illya smiled. There were to be two paintings, one realistic for Napoleon's bedroom, the other with Illya transformed into a brunet with olive skin, to be submitted to the Salon d'Automne in April.
"Three weeks is such a long time," Napoleon whispered.
"Especially to be working on those paintings," Illya teased, his voice provocatively low.
The train whistle blew. "Until Paris then," Napoleon called as Illya mounted the steps. Illya looked back at him over his shoulder from the door of the train and nodded.
How am I going to make it through the rest of March? Napoleon thought. He saw Illya enter a car and sit down across from Sergei. Napoleon waved. They both waved back as the train pulled away from the platform.
****************
"Napoleon, dear boy," Aunt Aurelia exclaimed as she sailed into his studio. "Have you seen the papers lately?" She dropped several newspapers in French and English on the table set for tea. "Mr Kuryakin and his company are all over them and there's a charming one about you and your portrait of Mr Morgan in The Financial Times. She slipped off her gloves, looked across the room and stopped. "Oh, pardon me," she said.
Napoleon walked towards his aunt and took her elbow to draw her near the painting the other guest in the studio was examining. "I believe you and Mr Hathaway know one another," Napoleon said, stepping back.
Mr Hathaway's usually light blue eyes were dark and his complexion high when he bowed and took Aurelia's hand and almost touched it to his lips. "It has been a long time," he said when he released it.
Aurelia paled at first and then a light flush brightened her cheeks. "It's not polite to reveal how long, Ambrosius," Aurelia responded. Napoleon turned away to hide his smile. He couldn't recall ever having seen his aunt being flirtatious. She glanced over at the finished portrait on the easel, at the earnest face looking out at her from it.
"Your nephew has done a good job of making an old fellow appear presentable," Ambrosius said. "He’s a talented artist."
"He is that," Aurelia agreed, thoughtfully studying the expression captured in the portrait. "And an perceptive observer of the human condition," she added.
"I've brought up another setting for tea," Feather announced from the doorway, a tray replete with sandwiches, scones and cakes in her hands.
The trio looked over at her, then back at one another. Tentatively, Mr Hathaway held out his arm for Aurelia. She glanced from his extended arm to his face, the same plea that Napoleon had reproduced in the portrait was in his eyes. They were as bright as she remembered, but the hopelessness she had seen the last time they had gazed directly into hers was gone. They had both avoided such revealing encounters during their occasional social interactions since that distant summer. With the glimmer of a smile, Aurelia laid her arm on top of his and they followed Napoleon to the tea table.
**********************
Napoleon was settling his jacket over the back of his desk chair when he heard the door bell chime. He slipped the jacket back on and went to the railing to listen.
“He just came in a few minutes ago,” he heard Feather saying. “Go on up.”
Cecilia was slightly out of breath when she met Napoleon midway up the stairs. "I’m so glad I’ve found you at home,” she began, leaning forward to offer her cheek for a kiss as she extended her hand. “I wanted to tell you my news in person before I headed back to Cambridge today.”
Napoleon kept hold of her hand and drew her onto the landing. "You look wonderful," he said, stepping back to take in her whole appearance. "Do you want to see your portrait? I've finished it." He gestured toward the open studio door.
Cecilia nodded. "Yes, please. I’m certain it's brilliant,” she added as Napoleon lead her into the studio and across to a draped easel in the far corner. “I'm afraid mother and father may never pay you for it though."
"I will give them a chance to collect it and if they don't, I will exhibit it - without your name on it, of course," he explained.
Cecilia stood in front of the easel as Napoleon whisked off the covering. The expression on the figure's face made her smile disappear. "Planning this with you helped me understand what I had to do, Napoleon," she said quietly. “You heard that we broke our engagement?”
“Yes,“ Napoleon answered as he looked back and forth between the vital young woman before him and the withdrawn one he had started painting half a year earlier. "I've never seen a broken engagement make anyone happier," he admitted.
"You know I think Gerald is just as pleased," Cecilia replied, still gazing at the painting. "It was something our parents wanted for us, not something we wanted." She turned to Napoleon and her smile returned. “But I have a piece of news you haven’t heard.” Napoleon raised enquiring eyebrows.
Cecilia unsnapped her purse, pulled out a folded letter and opened it. “Read it,” she said, handing the paper to Napoleon.
He took in the letterhead. “Cornell University?” he murmured, glancing at Cecelia.
“Read,” she urged, tilting her head towards the page.
“A full scholarship for your doctoral studies starting this summer!” he exclaimed. “Campus housing, travel and relocation allowance and a stipend,” he listed as his eyes picked out the key words. “No wonder you look radiant. How…”
“The head of my department put my name forward. I didn’t even know about it until a few days before I received this letter,” Cecilia said.
"Is your thesis finished?" Napoleon asked.
"Nearly, but I still have to defend it. Assuming all goes well, I’ll be going to Cornell shortly after graduation to meet the faculty and finalise the arrangements for beginning my doctoral studies in the autumn." She paused, smiling. "Would you come to my graduation this summer?"
"I'd be delighted," Napoleon answered. He turned back to the easel. “If your parents don’t want your portrait, perhaps I could change it, if you have time to sit once or twice again.”
Cecilia considered her painted image. “I think I’d want to be outside now,” she said. “Maybe running up that hill.”
“I have a friend who said something like that when he saw the sketch for this,” Napoleon said softly. “He said I’d drawn you trapped in that room.”
“Another artist?” Cecilia asked, glancing at Napoleon. He nodded. Cecilia turned back to the picture. “Your friend was right.”
There was a faint toot from outside. Cecilia started and glanced at her watch. “I almost forgot I kept the taxi waiting. I have to catch the 5 o’clock train to be back in time.”
“Let me walk you down,” Napoleon said, moving with her towards the stairs.
“I’ll send you an invitation as soon as they‘re printed,” Cecilia promised as they approached the front door.
“I hope to be there, but even if I can’t come, I’ll expect a postcard or two from Ithaca this fall," Napoleon said, unlocking the garden gate.
“Of course," she agreed, kissing Napoleon on the cheek as he stood by the open taxi door. “Napoleon?" she said as she settled into the seat and Napoleon bent to close the door. He looked in at her. “Thank you.”
Napoleon nodded. “You’re welcome,” he replied. He smiled as he shut the door.
****************
"I'm looking forward to getting back to London and staying in one spot for a while," Sergei commented as they asked the hotel clerk for their keys in Amsterdam.
"We've been travelling for more than three months and we're not done yet," Illya agreed.
"Post for you, sir," the clerk announced as he handed Illya his key.
Sergei looked for a rose seal on the envelope Illya held in his hand and didn't find one. He turned over the envelope on the counter. "Well, this one's from Napoleon," he said, revealing the seal. Illya picked up Napoleon's envelope and headed towards the elevators. "You realise you're amassing your own art collection, Illya?"
Sergei noted the faraway look in Illya's eyes when he smiled in response to that question. "Mmm," Illya murmured. The elevator doors opened and they got in. Although he hadn't seen any of the drawings Napoleon had sent Illya while they were on tour other than the ones of costumes and sets, Sergei had a good idea of their nature and knowing Napoleon's talent, he assumed that they were affecting representations. He glanced at Illya in profile as he lounged against the wall of the elevator and tore open the mysterious envelope. You would be an ideal subject for erotic art, Sergei mused. You can transform leaning against a wall into an act of seduction. Illya scowled.
"What?" Sergei asked. The elevator halted at the third floor and the doors opened.
"Gurgenidze," he said as they walked towards their room. "He's offering to produce my choreography, if I come back."
"When?" Sergei asked, unlocking the door and standing back for Illya to enter.
"This autumn," Illya answered, walking in and flinging himself on the bed. "I'd been asking him to consider it for years before I left for London. Why now?"
Sergei slipped off his coat, draped it over an armchair and dropped himself into the other one. "You don't read the reviews, do you?" he asked.
Illya shook his head. "Not unless you read me one."
"Before we left Copenhagen, Martins said something to me about coming back," Sergei explained. Illya looked over at him sharply. "Talk is easy. I'm not even going to think about it unless he makes me an offer in writing," Sergei continued. "And it would take a lot to top London."
"Has anyone else had an offer?" Illya asked.
"Not that I know about," Sergei answered. "But I wouldn't be surprised if several of us did after these tours. The only negative word I've read was about our repertoire being a little too traditional."
"But..." Illya began.
Sergei held up a hand. "I know. A lot of our ballets are not classical and with yours next season that will be even less the case. I think one or two journalists simply had to find something critical to say."
Illya nodded. "They've been that good, huh?"
"I've got a file of press clippings, if you'd like to have a look," Sergei answered, slipping off his shoes and propping his legs up on the end of the bed. "What I'd find really tempting would be American offers."
"Really?" Illya said, standing up to take off his coat and shoes. "Do you think there's enough interest?"
"Those were the best reviews. Every critic sounded as though they were in love. They make great reading." Sergei laughed. "And they yearn after Europeans, especially ones with Russian-sounding names like ours."
"Real ones," Illya added with a snort.
"Although the ones direct from the Soviet Union are the most in demand," Sergei admitted.
"Humph," Illya said. "Are you getting hungry?"
"I am," Sergei answered, standing. "So what are you going to do about your offer?"
"Think about it," Illya replied.
"Did he give you a deadline to answer?"
"First of May," Illya replied, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and slipping his shoes back on.
Sergei laughed.
********************
Napoleon took the train to Paris via Dover and Calais. French surrounded him once he boarded the train in Calais. The sound made him restless. He'll arrive tomorrow afternoon. I'll see him tomorrow, Napoleon kept repeating to himself, impatient for the final stage of his waiting to be over. From the trolley making its way through the aisles, he bought a copy of Le Figaro and a small bottle of wine. He'd have a better dinner in Paris and he didn't want to leave his painting with his luggage to go to the dining car. Napoleon patted the crate next to him. The painting inside pleased him; he hoped the judges at the Salon d'Automne shared enough of his opinion to accept it for the exhibition.
It was raining lightly on the greening fields the train passed. Napoleon turned away from the window, opened the Sunday supplement and began to browse through the articles. A photo from Carmen arrested his attention. It was of Alicia and Illya in an early scene from the ballet. Illya was supporting himself on his hands and feet, chest facing upwards; Alicia was balanced over him, her arms on his shoulders, one knee on his knee, her other leg aloft, their limbs forming a geometric design, presenting a symbol of the connection between domination and dependency. Napoleon translated the text as he read.
Gurgenidze has been the subject of continuous criticism for his decision not to better the London offer to Kuryakin last year. Kuryakin has been described as everything from a traitor to a national treasure, and pressure is mounting for Gurgenidze to offer him whatever he wants to come back to his native shores. This pressure has reached intolerable levels since the British company has been on tour and receiving resounding accolades for their performances on both sides of the Atlantic. Reliable sources indicate that Gurgenidze may finally be cracking under the pressure and that the performances in Paris next week will be the time when he makes his move to lure Kuryakin back.
Napoleon turned his head. The raindrops on the window blurred the passing landscape; the late afternoon light bled from the sky. His hands dropped to his lap. How much longer to Paris? How much longer until tomorrow? Napoleon squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, went envying her and me...
******************
Despite the chill in the early spring air, Napoleon left the balcony door ajar. He wasn't sure exactly when they would arrive. He sketched distractedly for hours and all the sketches were of Illya. The growl of the bus engines roused him. He was out the door before the first excited voices reached his balcony.
The lobby was already full of dancers and musicians when the elevator deposited him there. He searched for Illya, trying to keep an anxious look off his face. "Napoleon," a high voice called. Allegra appeared with Fiona and Antoinette trailing behind. She rose on tiptoe to kiss Napoleon on both cheeks. "We missed you. You shouldn't go do other things. You belong with us now," she exclaimed and her friends nodded. Antoinette appeared to be judging the cut of his suit. "I wrote to maman about how you helped me in Rome and she insists that you and Illya come to dinner while you are in Paris. Promise you will agree. Maman will be very upset if you don't," Allegra warned.
"Well, we mustn't upset mothers, if at all possible," Napoleon began.
"Oh, that's wonderful," Allegra enthused, kissing both his cheeks again. "She sent me an invitation for you. I will leave it in your box when I unpack," she said starting to move away. "You are staying here with us, aren't you?" Napoleon nodded. "Good. I'll put it in your box tomorrow," she promised and disappeared back into the crowd with her friends.
"Mr. Solo," another voice called. Napoleon turned to find Mrs. O'Donnell coming towards him with Alicia. "How good to see you again," she smiled and Napoleon took her hand. "Have you completed the angel costume designs?" she asked. Napoleon started. "I know you're very busy, but the ones for Regent's Park are done and we're keen to start on the rest for Annabel Lee ," she explained.
"I brought them with me," he replied. "I'll give them to Illya, as soon as I find him."
"Excellent. Alicia's is done," she said, turning to Alicia. "You can come see it, if you like," Mrs. O'Donnell added.
"I'll even model it for you, if you wish," Alicia said, smiling. Napoleon smiled his most gracious and public smile in response.
"You may have to wait a while for Illya though," Mrs. O'Donnell explained. "He and Sergei were in the back of the bus, so I don't think they've even gotten down yet."
"Well perhaps I can catch them as they do," Napoleon turned towards the doors. "See you later, then."
"Napoleon," Sergei exclaimed as he stepped off the bus. "Great to see you. Illya's still inside. He dropped his fountain pen and we couldn't find it in the dark. I'm going to borrow a torch."
"I've got a small one on my key ring," Napoleon said, pulling out his keys and depressing a button on a small cylinder.
"That's handy," Sergei commented. "I'll go check in then."
Illya was on his hands and knees peering under the back seat when Napoleon saw him. He sat down behind him and slid along the bench seat until his head was just above Illya's. "May I help?" he enquired. "I have a torch."
Illya's head sprung up, both eyebrows raised, his lips opened to speak. Napoleon didn't let him.
*************
The breeze was fresh the next evening as they strolled along the Champs Elysees. "So he's already offered?" Napoleon said, shaking his head slightly. "Sometimes the newspapers are right."
Illya nodded, his hands shoved in his coat pockets, his eyes fixed on the pavement.
"Have you made up your mind yet?" Napoleon asked quietly. His dinner moved unpleasantly in his stomach.
Illya shook his head.
"It's a big decision," Napoleon murmured. He took off his glove and slipped his hand into Illya's coat pocket.
***************
"So did they accept it?" Illya asked when Napoleon came in the door of his hotel suite a few days later.
Napoleon turned, nodding his head and froze. Illya was stretched out on the couch, wrapped in the blue velvet cloak. Judging from the bit of shoulder and the bare foot peeking coquettishly out from the bottom, that was all he was wearing. Napoleon slipped the chain lock across the door and shed his clothes as he walked across the room.
**************
"Well, you had dinner with Allegra's mother and my parents, so it's only fair that I go to the country with you to visit your aunt and your cousin," Illya said.
"You don't mind a rather dull weekend in Fontainebleau?" Napoleon said.
"Did I understand correctly that your aunt has given us adjoining bedrooms?" Illya asked. Napoleon nodded. "Well, I don't think it will be dull then," Illya said and folded the velvet cloak, laid it on top of his clothes and closed his suitcase.
******************
"I should be done with the portrait of Constance's daughter-in-law and her baby by mid-May, I would think," Napoleon said as the train for London pulled in.
"I'll send word," Illya promised, looking directly into Napoleon's eyes. He looked back, lost in the seemingly infinite blue of that gaze. The train whistle blew. "You have to go," Illya said.
"I'll send drawings," Napoleon promised, not looking away.
Illya took his shoulders and turned Napoleon towards the train. "I'll wait for them," he said.
Napoleon nodded and mounted the steps.
Illya watched Napoleon settle into a window seat. Their eyes met again. Neither looked away as the train pulled away from the platform.
**************
Spring had come late and it seemed to have come all at once. Every plant and tree in London appeared to be in bloom as Illya walked through Holland Park towards Napoleon's house the first Sunday in May. Almost home, he thought and walked faster.
The garden gate was closed when he arrived. He rang the bell. Feather called out, "I'm coming. I'm coming."
"Good to see you," Illya smiled when she unlatched the thick wooden gate. It creaked. He handed Feather a heavy box wrapped in gold foil paper.
"Why, thank you," she exclaimed. "Oh, it's lovely to see you, Illya," Feather continued, pulling him inside and looking him up and down. She threw the bolt and headed up the front steps. "Come on in now. The garden's beautiful, but it's still rather damp after all the rain we've had. This is the first sunny day in weeks, I think."
Illya took a deep breath when the staircase came into view. "Does he have a sitter?" Illya asked, when Napoleon didn't appear at the top of the stairs.
"No," Mrs Featherstonehaugh answered softly. "He may be asleep. He's not been so well since he came back from Paris. All that travelling, I guess. Although you look right as rain," she added and smiled wanly at Illya.
"Didn't he know I was coming?" Illya asked.
Feather nodded. "I told him you'd called and would be here this morning at eleven. Although you're early, as always," she said. "I can go wake him, if he's not down in a minute, he must have fallen back to sleep."
Illya walked into the hall and sat on a banquette. He took a calling card out of his inside pocket and rummaged in his bag until he found his fountain pen. He wrote a few letters on it, then blew on the ink.
"Would you take that up to him, Feather?" Illya asked. A cloud passed between the hall window and the sun. The room dimmed. Illya looked up at the closed shutters of the balcony. He thought he glimpsed a movement through the mashrebiya.
"Oh, yes, of course, I will," Mrs. Featherstonehaugh replied and took the card. "I'll only be a minute. I've a lovely tea ready to be served," she said on the way out. "I'll just be a minute."
Maybe I should have called back until I got Napoleon on the phone, Illya thought. He rubbed his hand over his face. He's taking too long. Illya remembered how rapidly Napoleon had descended the steps the first time he'd come to this house. How he had looked at the top of the stairs, tall and elegant in grey, blue and silver. He remembered Napoleon's face lighting up at his appreciation of the beauty he had created here. Illya got up and paced around the fountain. He recalled the look of sadness he had spied in this room. How he had not wanted to cause that kind of pain. But I have anyway, haven't I? he thought. His eyes kept going back to the shuttered balcony above him.
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"He's downstairs waiting for you, dear," Feather said quietly as she approached the alcove where Napoleon was sitting. He'd been dressed since nine o'clock in his dove grey suit, pale blue shirt and a silver tie. "He gave me this for you," she added, handing Napoleon the card. She turned and headed back towards the staircase.
He held it in the palm of his hand and looked down at Illya's name. Seconds passed. His heart was thundering in his ears; his hands felt clammy. The edges of the card were getting damp. He picked it up with his thumb and index finger and noticed the smudge of ink it left on his palm. He turned the card over. There was one word written there, six letters, a slight wobble marring their lines. A beautiful hand. Noticed that when you answered my first letter, Napoleon thought, considering the lines as though they were a small drawing rather than writing. Finally, they resolved into letters. London. Napoleon tried to take it in. A single word. It shouldn't be hard to understand. One word. A city. The place where I live, he thought. He's chosen London. Napoleon turned his head, considered the word from several angles. He's chosen me.
Napoleon rose onto his knees and flung open the shutters. Outside, a breeze rustled the young leaves. The sun beamed through the stained glass throwing coloured shadows all over the room. Illya looked up and Napoleon saw the crease down his brow, between his eyes, the thin line of his lips. "Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire," Napoleon whispered. In the quiet room the words seemed to reverberate. The tightness in Illya's face relaxed and he rose on his toes. Napoleon bolted down the stairs past Feather and into the hall.
Feather walked across the entry hall to the kitchen stairway far more slowly, not even glancing into the Arabian Hall as she passed its open doors. “Tea can wait and luncheon will probably be late,” she murmured to herself.
THE END
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A sequel in in progress. The first section is here.