"Did you hear?"
He sat up blearily from his place on the table, trying not to think about pain and its variety of definitions. The warbling haze of his eyesight settled on Mirabelle, who's delicate fingers were wrapped snugly about the edges of a paper, fresh off prints and presses. Fresh enough that she had ink staining her fingertips. Such tiny fingertips. Like the pinpoints of quills, touched at the nail with a faint tint of pviolet that he could never quite figure out how she managed to maintain. It matched the supple sheen that stained her lips, which rarely saw a smile or anything but the sardonic these days. Which, he decided right there and then, was a shame. He squinted, flushing tears from his eyes, which he wiped away with what he thought was where his index finger was, but instead seemed to be his wrist. Her bounty of red curls came into view, albeit briefly and he allowed himself a momentary wandering of sights toward the pert flash of pale, pale, palest breast that leaped out above her black leather bodice.
"Giancarlo?" He caught her eyes, side-long down her nose, head tilted aslant, neck curving with the motion to expose a delicate throat of careful cords and slightly open jaws. The pink of her lips pulled back from her teeth in a vague showing of ferality. "My Tits are for customers, Dear."
He grunted, swallowing around some lodged nugget in his throat, head already descending toward the table and the rather comfortable puddle of...something, he'd been using for a pillow. His eyes slipped shut, the light tickle of floating hair sending a hum past his throat and through his nasal cavity. It rippled his tiny pillow pond and he smiled almost dreamily.
"Giancarlo-" He winced slightly, which disrupted his ripples. He could feel her gaze settling on him then. The one thing about all good Harlots was their penchant for letting you know when you had their attention. Gaining yours was not so much a talent as it was expected and Mirabelle had a thousand different methods, not all of them pleasant, to gather up his attentions quite quickly. At this very moment, she was employing a rather patient stare that spoke more volumes than were coming out of her bodice.
He decided that today would be the day he would ignore such things. Defy the common rule and response. He feigned a soft snore into his puddle.
And for a few blissful seconds, it was the only sound available to his ears. Excepting of course, the various low-life mutterences from the surrounding patrons of the bar they were in. He had made it a point not to look at much when they had entered, simply told Mirabelle that he wanted someplace dark, dank and all together discontinuous with the remainder of civilization. She had found something called Il Resto Chioccia, in a part of Venice that he was fairly sure did not exist in any other state but when thoroughly drunk. Or engaged in business of a most lewd nature, as Mirabelle often was.
For those few precious seconds, however, he found he could think about nothing and know a sense of happiness.
"Giancarlo!" The shriek came about his ear, a feathering touch combined with a hell-piercing pitch and topped off with the clapping of that dainty hand into his puddle, the sharp inhale snorting long streams of stale beer into his nasal cavity, where it did it's level best to drown him over the span of a half minute. Mirabelle remained nearby, calmly returning her attentions to the paper in her hands, which she perused most fastidiously. Of the other patrons, none had been disturbed from their own stupors by her clarion.
He finally recovered enough to lean his elbows on the table, hands wrapped around the back of his head and ears hugged to his wrists. He groaned out something foul and, thankfully, unintelligible to which she offered a soft snort, the sort reserved for ladies.
"Welcome back. I'm quite sure whatever business you were hoping to pay for tonight, did not account sleep." He grumbled again, a little more coherently or...perhaps simply more heated. Enough at least to get her attention, which came very close to his tucked in arms, which only cinched tighter about his head at her proximity. She whispered. He heard her anyway. He hated that.
"Do you find yourself wondering sometimes about just what sort of life led you to this? How it is you came to preside over such a storm of Merda that would place you firmly at war with your own memories? At war and losing I might add, if your state of mind and body-" She slapped at the pouch of a gut he carried out front of him, not gently "-is any indication. Really, I had thought you might have found, in all these years, some better way of coping with your sad upkeep of a life.”
He kept his eyes closed and his arms where they were, listening to her breathing softly near the outside of his wrist. He gripped his molars to one another, as hard as he could, listening to the enamel grate by fractions of inches. It seemed to last forever, but only a moment later and she was leaning back in her chair, one leg over the other, the stretching groan of sashaying petticoats, cut just short of immodesty, drifting out across her thighs, tattered here or there for invitation’s sake. The paper was once more in her grasp and she returned to studying it’s writings with inquisitive attention.
He eventually came up for air, a loud gasping inhale that shot his eyes wide open. He blinked several times without recognition of his surroundings, before the blurry promise of the bar counter and the stout and sleeping mountain of a keeper and felt a sudden and powerful urge for a new drink.
Someone had gone and spilled his last one, rather unkindly, the excess dripping down the side of his face.
“Are you ready to hear the news then?”
He answered with a loud scraping of chair legs, pushed back along the floorboards. He near, threw himself to his feet, steadying with planted hands on the table they were sharing. The motion was repeated, throwing himself into forward motion in hopes of picking up enough momentum to strike the bar’s top-most fourth and fifth feet of height with arms across it, rather than into the thick oaken paneling that made up it’s lower First to Third feet.
He heard Mirabelle clear her throat, that oh so pleasant voice reaching out toward him even at a distance, tickling his ear as if she had followed along in his footsteps.
““Tragic are these times, we live in” says Arturo Mezzino, chief publisher and scribe for these our-” She paused, the paper ruffling sharply “-Chronicles of the Canal. “That we are chosen to receive such appalling description as transpired not a night ago.””
He struck the bar at some point around description, sprawling desperately as his momentum caught up to and surpassed his co-ordination. His arms and chin and neck caught most of the force, a spittle laced cough spraying the bar as he doubled up and over the wood, in search of his gag reflex and a working pair of lungs.
“”The Family Eisler of Austrian descent, around Steiermark, found themselves born of what could only be the Devil’s very own hand. Some call foul magics and others claim the Untested Sciences as the culprit, but the tragic shortening of Sir Bernhardt Eisler of the Aus-...Aues-”...I’m beginning to think our would be occupiers came up with a language so vastly difficult, as to ward off any would be conquerors who could not realize it was a Country. “-...Some Austrian Military presence I don’t care to try and pronounce any longer, remains a mystery even at this time. What is known are the strange and haunting calamity that bled through our Fair streets within the City, rousing many from the night’s ablutions to find a temporary lunacy plaguing the lanes and bridges. Normal citizenry were turned to hysteric animals and the Constabulary were called nearly to a man, to apprehend and calm much of the seemingly unhinged collective that had witnessed Sir Eisler’s unpleasant demise.”
He didn’t remember ordering anything over Mirabelle’s description and voice but at some point, a tankard was set into place between his out-stretched arms, his eyes bleeding open to regard the mountain of a Barkeep who was staring at him with one good eye and a tongue prodding the inside of one cheek. He made a note to burp an .apology and began the long interlude to pick himself back up and prepare for the return trip. This would take some care as the contents of the mug were precious and spilling would not be acceptable.
He heard the door creak open as more bodies shuffled in from the afternoon sun, a cluster of voices suddenly muted and dull under Mirabelle’s continuing description.
“”The Doctorate and Apothecarian Guild have been put on standing notice by the Austrian Dignity, putting to rights all those minds present at the unfortunate event who suffered visual trauma” Hah! How much you want to wager the only minds on that list are those within the Aut-community. “Meanwhile, the hunt continues for those witnesses as yet to be apprehended for consideration and assistance-” Now isn’t that just tragic to hear, Giancarlo?”
He climbed to a standing position, both hands wrapped around the heavy tankard, his gaze finding the frothy surface and then- Aha! Lightning! He put a hand over the top of the Tankard, grinning at the genius of it. The voices by the door and the boots they belonged to, were moving through the bar now, loudly and with purpose. Heavy set steps, the sort of authority one wore on a belt and a vest.
“Giancarlo.”
He grunted, nodding his swaying thanks to the Barkeep.
“Have you been paying attention to what I’ve been saying?”
He soured his expression with his back still turned, slightly fearful of her reaction should she catch it, though he had no way of knowing if she possessed some feminine method of identification even without line of sight-
“I can see you in the mirror, Giancarlo. Hardly charming.”
He winced and cursed (‘Merda’) beneath his breath, tonguing around the inside of his sticky mouth (when was the last time he had any water?) before allowing a sigh to escape. He looked up into the mirror to give Mirabelle a rather frank sort of stare, only to discover she was no longer alone at their table.
The men around her wore the livery of the Military collective of Austria. Occupiers one and all, each bearing a waxed moustache to keep with the times, each slightly different in colour or thickness than his fellows. Their garments were long sleeveless coats, trimmed gold and colour a naval blue, while the simple rectangularly askew hats atop their heads spoke of an authority he couldn’t quite get up the muster to respect. He did a quick check of their numbers (four at the back, two on either side of Mirabelle, one standing out and directly up front) and found that they’d brought enough of a compliment to be expecting trouble and a Lieutenant alongside who’s sour expression said this was less a duty and more of a punishment for some mishap or other.
“Signore Giancarlo Baptiste Luardo?”
He grunted at the mirror, their reflections doing much to peel away whatever authoritative airs they may have wanted to present. Mirabelle piped in with a casual tug of one of the nearby soldiers. He watched the man glance down, catching a full eyed view down the generous and perfectly positioned fulsome of her pushed up cleavage, while she spoke in some low husk.
“That’s Bernado, Dear.” A pause from her, eyes casting glances without a hint of a curled lip, toward the Soldier’s nethers and back. “And your accent is atrocious.”
Who, thankfully, did not understand what she was saying and took cues more from her flirtatious expressions and gestures, than anything else. His veneer of professional militancy cracked just slightly, a brow perking and a slight flicker of a smile coming to one corner of his lips.
He repressed the urge to roll his eyes, least the Lieutenant’s reflection suddenly become firm. Well...firmer, than it happened to be. He cleared his throat, leaning forward against the bar, mug hovering before his jaw, a sudden stability creeping into his movements as the cold hand of sobriety found it’s way into his brain and tongue. He wasn’t sure if that was a gift or curse, but felt no need to dissuade the reflex.
“Sono interessata a ciò che la comunità Austriaca ha richiamato i problemi con questo o qualsiasi altro giorno fino alla fine della mia sospensione, signore.” He drained half of the mug he’d been given, glancing at the Barkeep as he did, who was gauging him in return, rubbery lips puffed out in a slightly confused and fearful frown.
The Austrian Lieutenant stood at stiff attention, not bothering to speak. His soldiers glanced at one another absently, then back to their commanding officer. He took another sip of the beer, licking froth from off his moustache, sucking on the tips to get at each drop. He heard Mirabelle offer a sigh and repressed a smirk.
“I believe what Signore Bernado is trying to say, Gentleman? Is Er ist auf Urlaub. So lassen ihn allein.”
To which he finally turned around to stare quizzically, brow furrowed, lips peeled back in a slight smile of surprised. Mirabelle turned her attention toward him, one well sculpted brow perked, the newspaper on the table before her, hands primly set one over the other, to touch those dainty fingertips to the table. She fluttered her lashes with expert ease.
“A lady needs to know many languages, if she’s to assure all men of their adequacies, Giancarlo.”
It was the Lieutenant’s turn to clear his throat, with none of the put on airs of accident. A purely attention grabbing gesture, that had him step forward smartly, hard heeled boots clacking against the floorboards. Their uniforms were stiff, their attire, entirely ceremonial and though fit for duty, he imagined it would make them poor runners. A man could play hide and seek with them for ages in Venice’s tight corridors.
The Lieutenant thrust out a hand, within it, a neatly folded piece of parchment with an Austrian Seal on it’s lip. He reached out gingerly to pluck it from the Lieutenant’s hand, a wariness creeping into his system, even as the tinkling silver of Mirabelle’s laughter, hardly humoured or humourous, drifted in with a guess.
“Methinks, Giancarlo, my love of loves, your vacation is over.”
He pulled back the seal, to flip the page open, the stationary mark of Paulo Marzetti, Chief of Venice’s Constabulary and his Commanding Officer within the immediate vicinity leaping out to at him before word one of anything. It told him all he needed to know, but did the Lieutenant the courtesy of reading it through.
His head was shaking and his smile was gone by the time he got to the end of the page, Mirabelle’s laughter suddenly growing in volume until she was teetering in her chair, proud bosom capturing the attention of no less than four of the six men who walked through the doors. He ignored her, folding the letter over and slipping it into one ragged pant pocket.
The Lieutenant glanced at his face, scrutinizing for some sign of trouble or concern before, with some hidden glimpse of satisfaction, he turned on his heel and marched toward the door without another word, his soldiers dragged in his wake by the chain of authority attached to each. Several lingered a little longer on Mirabelle’s breasts, but eventually, the pair were left to the Bar again. By themselves, it would seem, as most of the other patrons had decided to flee rather than face down the Austrians themselves.
“My Poor Giancarlo. Just when you believe you are free to obliterate yourself? They go asking you to be proper again.”
He sneered across at her. That brought a fresh round of lush mirth.
“Fanculo!”
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