Summary:An Italian Ren Qui-Gon meets an artisticly inclined
Obi-Won. Stuff happens.
Feedback:Sure. I would like to know what people think. Of
course, I could develop telepathy, but that would take more
time.
Discliamers:These character never were mine and I'm only using
them becuase everyone else is. They said it was okay and none
of them have been sued. Everything belongs to the Great Lord
Lucas.
Quiarro de Gonno entered the manor house of his "friend" the
archduke Pietro Brunichelli. The boy prince was celebrating
some new and undoubtedly gaudy acquisition and had invited him.
He didn't want to attend, but because of the demands of good
manners he did. In fact, he didn't appear to practically any
function, but he always had a weakness for art. Quiarro hated
these functions. He hated the false smiles. He hated the petty
squabbles that never benefited anyone. He hated the people that
enjoyed it. Most of all, he hated that he had to be there.
"May I take your cloak, sir?" the doorman cooed.
"Yes...and could you direct me to the archduke? I wish to greet
him as soon as I may." He wasn't particularly fond of lying
either.
"Through the Great Hall and into the main garden. Is there
anything else that you'll need sir?"
"No. Thank you."
He entered the Great Hall and took in the decadent opulence. It
was terribly opulent. The Hall and its occupants were covered
in it. The fresco on the wall displayed the nine muses and a
group of satyrs in rather compromising positions. A white
marble statue of Zeus in all his Olympian glory stood in the
middle of the room. A chestnut relief of the Nativity was on
the opposite side of the fresco. Somehow, Mary and the angels
seemed out of place in this room. Even the white marble tile
was polished till it reflected the visages of all that were in
the Hall. The servants bustled about to make sure no cup was
ever empty and no request unfulfilled. Outside he could hear
the merriment of the party and could already see the bright
light of countless torches and candles. He had seen the garden
before, but knew that Pietro loved to make improvements so that
nothing was ever the same twice.
He paused for a moment while everyone took a moment to
recognize him, then he was awash in a sea of fine silk, lace,
brocade, and velvet. Deep purples, sunflower yellows, violent
reds, and stormy blues assaulted his vision. The clicking of
rings, necklaces, and other jewelry competed with the wave of
compliments on his clothing and the false joy of seeing him.
Quiarro looked a tad out of place among all the gilded peacocks
in the room. In spite of current fashion, he wore a long brown
silk robe that reached his ankles. What could be seen of his
ankles was garbed in a modest black. His shoes were of the
poorest quality he could get away with, which meant that they
were still rather nice. People still complimented him on his
superb taste of clothes, regardless of how he dressed. He
looked like he had money, and if he didn't spend it on
clothing, maybe he spent it on friends.
Yet, his clothes were only the least impressive part of him. In
this case, it was the man that made the clothes. His face was a
care-worn one, yet it hinted at something else, something
dangerous. The eyes were what gave the impression of danger.
They seemed to skewer their victim with a glance, take in all
of the person, and discard what was left. Quiarro enjoyed the
unnerving effect his gaze had. Should anyone make it past his
gaze, they would see a fine form. It was a form that spoke of
quite strength and determination. Not that anyone really cared
or noticed. He was just another guest/friend/chesspiece that
was in attendance.
Quiarro tired of the inane unmeant compliments and tried to
free himself.
"Thank you, Lady Bonnacelli. I did enjoy your son's
performance. No, I couldn't possibly be so rude as to have him
perform at my shamble of a house."
"Thank you, Lord Credanollo. I got these from Spain."
"Thank you, Lord Sforza. I'll visit your wife in a moment."
"I really must go see our host. He would be most displeased if
I were to repay his generous invitation by snubbing him
entirely. Please. I must go. Thank you."
Outside, he was the picture of tranquility. He was a placid
lake. Inside, he wanted to scream. He wanted to throttle each
and every one of these painted fops. He wanted to go home and
not come out until the world was a better place. However, he
could do none of these things, so he pretended to enjoy himself
and they pretended not to notice.
As he went to the garden, one of the countless servants handed
him a bejeweled wineglass. He sipped the wine and let the
splendor of the Brunichelli gardens overwhelm him. A flowering
orchid, a massive oak, a forest of Morning Glories, it didn't
seem to matter where the plant originally came from, it was to
be found in this garden. The differing flowers and trees
pervaded the entire garden without seeming oppressive, all the
while letting mossy stone paths wind through them. The one
thing that he would concede to Pietro was that he had an
excellent gardener.
It was easy to find Pietro. Quiarro simply looked for the
greatest conglomeration of fawning admirers. Or at least, it
should've been easy. The thick foliage prevented a person from
seeing from one side of the garden to the other. Quiarro noted
another feature that he admired Pietro's garden for. He briefly
considered saying that he just couldn't find him. He discarded
the thought just a quickly, for Pietro would easily see through
the lie. Quiarro paused and listened for the slightly raised
competing voices that would all be proclaiming some new wonder
they had just discovered of their host. He didn't have to
listen long and reluctantly followed them to their source.
As he thought, Pietro was to be found in the center of an
enormous entourage. It seemed that the host of followers had
paused to let their benefactor bask in their gales of praise.
While he had time, Quiarro thought that he had never met anyone
who liked to dress as over-the-top as Pietro Brunichelli. He
was clad in a great length of gray-blue brocade. Patterns to
twist the eye and exhaust the imagination were emblazoned on
every inch of clothing. Folds and ruffles, bows and strips of
cloth. He wore it all. His white tights were hardly visible,
not that that meant any less had been spent on them. His cap
matched, as did his cape. He was a veritable fashion plate.
Everyone felt the need to let him know this. And Pietro adored
it. His ears gobbled up the compliments and his eyes drank in
their adoring faces. Quiarro wanted to turn around and go back
to his country home. Instead, he went to greet his "friend".
"Good evening to our most regal host." No one took notice.
He tried a little louder.
"A most fine and splendid day to have the most regal and
commanding of men, the great Pietro Brunichelli, to have
invited one so unworthy as myself." This got Pietro's
attention.
The shrewd eyes took in the newest of his admirers. His eyebrow
raised nearly imperceptibly as he saw who had delivered the
gift of words.
"Please sir, there is no need to debase yourself. All of my
guests are worthy or they would not be my guests." Quiet
titters followed the remark as all looked at the often unseen
Quiarro. "You are Quiarro de Gonno, are you not? 'Tis a most
gracious honor to have you attend. You are so often elsewhere
that I feared your presence might be absent tonight as well. I
am most relieved to see you in my home. Please admire the
garden and sample my food."
Quiarro didn't argue with the abrupt dismissal and forced a
welcoming smile on his face.
"Thank you sir for your hospitality. I relish the anticipation
of seeing your newest acquisition unveiled."
"You shall not anticipate much longer. Soon all shall see what
Milanese monies can buy. Now, what were you saying about the
Turk, Lord Visconti?"
Quiarro couldn't stomach it any longer. He pretended to become
absorbed in a rose's bloom and waited for the crowd to go away.
Apparently, his lack of surfacing had cost him. Ah well, maybe
everyone would leave him alone then. He did want to see the new
work, however. He passed the time by halfway avoiding the
guests and admiring Pietro's garden.
The piercing note of a trumpet blasted through the silence.
Quiarro ceased his directionless wanderings and began making
his way to the display room. Fortunately, the main garden
connected with all of the rooms in the house. Well, at least
the rooms that the guests were allowed in. He walked quietly
and unnoticed into the display room.
It was filled with art. Paintings, sculpture, relief,
everything that had barely earned the title was in there. It
occurred to Quiarro that if Pietro were to sell his collection
it would be very easy for him to buy another manor house all
together. As he was looking over the assortment closer however,
it was plain that Pietro didn't know good art from the spit of
a peasant. Masterpieces were casually set next to trash. Wasted
canvas was obscuring fine works. It made Quiarro's gut churn.
Hopefully, tonight's work will be worth it.
A chime was struck.
"Lords and Ladies, please turn your gazes here. I wish to thank
you all for appearing tonight. I am truly honored by the
radiance that fills this humble home. As you well know, I have
taken quite a fancy to collecting art. It is one of my supreme
passions in life. I must have fine works as a normal man must
have water. There is no limit to...."
Quiarro stopped listening. Pietro had a knack for the
long-winded oration. He had no taste for it. He knew that
eventually he would get to the point and then the piece would
be revealed. It frustrated him even more that Pietro had chosen
to hide the subject behind a velvet curtain. He wished he could
see it and be done with this farce. He took the time to plan
what he would say if asked about his impression was, which he
undoubtedly would. Regardless, he would have to praise it. He
didn't like lying and he hoped it would be something
worthwhile.
"...as fine as Apollo's music. Let all marvel and wonder at
this new work of genius."
With that, the curtain was pulled back and a painting was
revealed. Quiarro looked on dumbfounded. It was glorious. The
display of light was fantastic. He wished that this wasn't a
public exhibition, that way he could admire it by himself. He
hardly heard the rain of acclaim being heaped upon it.
The painting...staggered. That's what it did. It staggered the
mind. He was without words.
"Wonderful. This is absolutely wonderful," managed Quiarro.
His comment was so faint, however, that no one heard it. Not
that he cared. The crowd around him deluged Pietro in
compliments. It was a feeding frenzy of who could outdo whom
with words. The praise became more and more elaborate. Soon,
the actual work itself was overlooked in favor of general
adoration. Pietro loved it. Quiarro didn't really notice.
Slowly, he moved to get closer to the canvas. He wanted a much
better look than the one that he had. The closer he came, the
more he seemed to discover about it. The delicate play of
color, the way different perspectives subtly changed it. Its
depth amazed him.
"Lord Gonno, I fear that you can not crawl into the painting.
Never fear, if you do, I'll be sure to display you in some
forgotten corner. I'd only bring you out to dust off the
cobwebs, I assure you. Do you think you would like that?"
Quiarro's hackles rose at the quip from Pietro. Not that anyone
could tell from the tone of his voice.
"Oh, no sir. Even if I was to be so blessed as to have the
artist put my image to canvas, I would want it shown proudly.
In fact, if it were prominently displayed, I may even venture
out of hiding even more. Is that enough of an incentive to have
you set this piece properly?"
"Oh, but if I did that, then Milan would be abuzz with gossip
over who the new Lord in town was. I would soon tire telling
people that you've been here all along and merely hiding away.
You see the dilemma that would cause me?"
Soft titters of laughter followed.
"I see. Yes, it would be rather difficult for you to keep up
with what you told to whom. I suppose I could just save all of
us the trouble and pose under a different name. I could claim
to be a Visconti and have you begging to attend my gatherings.
Of course, I would invite you, for who doesn't enjoy it when
the jester comes in to act?"
The room went dead silent.
"Oh, I'm certain that I don't comprehend your meaning. Perhaps
you could put it in a bit plainer tongue?" Pietro's tone was
ice.
"I simply meant that your witty repartee would be sorely missed
at any function. You are a most valued treasure among guests."
The archduke's eyes narrowed as he pondered how to receive this
jibe.
"Why thank you. To think that one who throws celebrations so
often would exalt me above all others. I am most grateful."
"It was nothing. By the by, could you be so gracious as to tell
me who has created such a magnificent work?"
"One of the many talented painters that frequents Milan. I
would tell you his name, but there are so many to remember that
I'm sure I'd give you the wrong one. Now, Lord Visconti, what
did you say about the palette of light? I can't seem to
recall."
Quiarro let the conversation die. He didn't really want to
provoke Brunichelli as it was. He went back to admiring the
painting. He was practically alone, except for the occasional
onlooker. He was perfectly content to let this be.
"Sir, you've been scrutinizing that work throughout the
festivities. Surely, you must have seen all there was to be
discovered."
Quiarro turned to examine the intruder. He was a comely enough
youth. Probably hadn't seen more that twenty summers. He was
fair of face and had the most intense brown eyes. His hair was
a light sienna haze. His pale skin almost glowed in the gentle
moonlight. He wasn't a slave to fashion either, or he wasn't of
obvious noble blood. He was only dressed in a loose undone
white linen tunic and a peculiar set of lose trousers. It fit
him well, however. Quiarro could see parts of the smooth chest
and the faint hints of hair at the navel.
Quiarro pulled himself away. It wasn't exactly approved of
when one started ogling the local boys. He tried to remember
what the boy had said.
"Oh, yes. Yet, I never cease to admire it. As soon as I think
I've found everything, something leaps out at me and interests
me anew. I could spend days contemplating this."
"Is it as compelling as that? I wouldn't have thought so." A
mischievous grin played at his mouth. Quiarro tried to banish
the uncomfortable stare the boy had fixed on him.
"Then you, like many of the people here, have a lot to learn
about art."
"Indeed sir? And what are your qualifications to judge fine
art?"
"I am a collector, but not the type that collects only
whatever is popular. I collect true art, works that inspire the
soul. If it fails to touch my heart, then I won't spare it a
second thought. You'd be surprised how much trash is raised as
treasure."
"And you think that painting is true art?"
"Yes. My only question is who made it?"
"Why don't you ask Lord Brunichelli?
"That painted peacock would rather be exiled from Italy."
"That friendly?"
Quiarro turned to look at this strange fellow. He wasn't of
Italian blood, which could be seen right off. There was
something in his voice as well, that spoke of a difficulty in
pronouncing the words. He couldn't place the accent, however.
He tore his gaze away before his own stare became too obvious.
"You aren't from around here, are you?" Quiarro mused.
"Am I that transparent?"
"Not too terribly. However, the fact that you aren't trying to
either make friends with me or trying to see whom to make
friends with, does say something."
"I never could grasp Italian politics."
"I wish I never did," breathed Quiarro.
"What was that?"
"Nothing. Now, where are you from?"
"I'd rather not say. You see the only reason I haven't been
thrown out on the streets is because no one knows of my
origins. My country isn't very popular here."
"Then tell me your name. At least do me that courtesy."
"I don't think you could pronounce it in your tongue, The name
I use here however, is Obiona de Wonno."
"It is most gracious to meet you Master Wonno. May our paths
cross again and often."
"And your name would be...?"
"Please excuse an old man for a forgetful mind. My name is
Quiarro de Gonno."
"Pleased to meet you."
A gong struck.
"An hour before midnight," Quiarro whispered, " I must break
this conversation. It is late and I must go to my home. It was
a pleasure to speak with you." He was quite grateful for the
excuse to leave temptation. He did regret the hurried
departure, however.
"Before you go, sir. Perhaps we could arrange a time to meet. I
would like to continue our discussion." Quiarro froze. A
million different reasons flooded his mind as to why he should
never see this boy again. Not that he listened to any of them.
"I would enjoy that immensely. Would you be able to meet me at
my home at midday tomorrow?"
"Yes, I believe I would. Thank you for the invitation."
"It was nothing." With that Quiarro hurried out of Brunichelli
manor without even letting his host know. The slight of manners
never even crossed his mind as he thought about what he had
agreed to. He was a fool and hoped to God that everything would
turn out all right.
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