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A story featuring Nickolai: On the Boulevard Hauptmann there was a patisserie. A very fine patisserie - quite above the usual run of the mill shops where one might purchase sachertorte, gateaux de la foret and other similar delights. This patisserie had special recipes for each and every one of the cakes it provided - and they were of such richness, such mouth-watering delicacy, that it was said they could draw down sweet spirits from the heavens to sing their praises. Although, if those spirits were to arrive in the middle of the morning, they would surely be disappointed, for there was barely a seat to spare in the small tearoom that abutted the shop itself and where, seated on little candy striped, satin-ulpholstered chairs, the fortunate Few of Begma might enjoy a slice of one of M'sieur Decon's wonderful tortes and a cup of rich caffe. It was said that M'sieur Decon would never suffer one of his plush little seats to be graced by anything lower than a Baronial backside, but this was not the case. Wit could get you a seat at Decon's, and beauty. And when a young lady combined both, a table would doubtless be found. Or, of course, she could join a gentleman friend, if she did not mean being thought a trifle fast. And this morning, one gentleman in the tea room was clearly expecting a lady to do just that. Dark and saturnine, he was dressed in formal court costume - but even without it, Count Nickolai Odelinski was well-known enough as a Minister of the Crown to receive no small measure of respect. But as he sat reading the newspaper, a slice of rich chocolate torte before him and an equally ignored coffee close to his other hand, it was clear he was not in the best of humours.
Outside, the morning air was electric. Thunder rumbled in the distance. People passed, going about their business hurriedly. [Here I go presuming there is glass here - is there glass? You sound very good a place building - it's one of my bigger weaknesses.] A faint breeze blew down the street and died. Smiling and in no hurry at all, Francesca Didias strolled down the avenue, watching the people as they rushed by. A few of them returned her measuring glances, for she was dressed out of style and propriety. She wore black pants - for they could be called nothing else, not even with their loose and flaring fashion - and a man's shirt, not quite buttoned all the way up, and loose over the pants. The wide black belt snug about her waist made her gender quite obvious, though, as did her quite feminine shoes. Most people recognized her and shook their heads, and a few threw out greetings. The most elite viewed her with scorn. The tourists stared, as tourists in large cities are apt to do. The wonderful scents of the patisserie carried on the breeze, and she increased her pace, slightly. Just outside of M'sieur Decon's she met with a friend. They exchanged kisses and greetings, and discussed the latest problem at the Cornaro, until the rain broke over the city and drove them apart. Francesca entered Decon's and pulled her loose hair through her hands to brush away the wetness. She smiled at M'sieur Decon and leaned against the counter. "M'sieur Decon! Give me something so good it will inspire me for a poem, will you? I don't care what," she smiled, and leaned over to whisper words to her host, causing him to color nicely. She smiled then, quite satisfied with herself, and headed over to the Count. She reached the table and shook her head. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. All dressed up, and nowhere to go, Nickolai." "On the contrary," he drawled, throwing down the paper and looking at her with a slow almost insolent appraisal. "My presence has been requested at the palace by my dear sister. Had you been much later, my firebird, you would have missed me altogether. As it is, I have time for one coffee with you." He signalled to have another brought to replace the tepid brew at his elbow. "Well," he said, and now there was a slight smile on his thin lips, "you look most ravishing - although I think I prefer you naked in my bed, with your curls tumbling over those beautiful shoulders, and your eyes dark with passion. Yes, thank you, Decon. That will be all." He raised the cup to his lips and sipped. "I shan't be escorting you to the opera tonight," he said abruptly. "I am to make one of the royal party - escorting some bland white Contessa. We can have supper afterwards though - I should be able to shake the Contessa off by then." All the cheer fled her eyes to be replaced with burning anger. She stayed on her feet, crossing her arms over her chest. Her anger was evident in the angle her head took on. "Don't bother, Nik. I won't be available for supper," she said with no small malice, shoving the chair against the wall with her foot. As she sat, she said, "You should stay and entertain your little Contessa. She will deserve no less, after lacing herself up into one of those torturous devices, spending hours en wardrobe, and desperately attempting to keep your attention with all the witty repartee she can manage, having so much empty space behind her eyes. It is your duty, no less." She broke her blazing stare away from him and felt about her pants pockets, scowled, and swore. She looked back up and grabbed the fork, stabbing into her dessert. "It is indeed my duty," he agreed equably, "whereas you, my dear termagant, are my pleasure." He took another sip of coffee, watching her now with a certain amusement. "But, if you wish, I shall take her to supper too. I might even take her to my bed - but only if you give me your pledge that you will join us." She rolled her eyes. "'He dares not calm his contumelious spirit, nor cease to be an arrogant controller.' You'll have to do better than some bland Contessa if you want to play, love," she said with some challenge. She narrowed her eyes. "Not that you deserve such niceties. You are like a blunt boar, lately." He smiled. "Blunt I dispute," he said. "But a boar? As long as you gift me with tusks and bristles, I might accede ... I am not, however, boring." He reached out a hand to her and touched her upper lip. As he drew it away, she saw a tiny drop of pale cream glisten there, presumably from the torte. Slowly he brought the finger to his mouth ... and slid it between his lips. "Mmmm," he said. "Quite delicious. And yet ... how shall I put this ... it lacks a certain piquancy that I have tasted elsewhere on your lovely form." He smiled again. "Come to supper, my firebird ... and I shall tell you why I have been so sore-headed of late. And no bland Contessa to interrupt our discourse, I promise." She licked her upper lip, looking a bit pouty. "I don't know why I put up with you," she said, trying not to smile. She eyed him suspiciously. "I'll come to sup," she agreed reluctantly, "but do try not to test my ire tonight. There are rehearsals today and they are going to massacre the meter, and my patience will be gone by the time you get done with your party. I hate early rehearsals. "And the Marquessa of East Shore is going to be following me around the whole day wondering what her patronage has bought her, exactly. Damn, but that woman will not take no for an answer." She rubbed her eyes, and her youth and inexperience with business showed a moment. She sighed. "Perhaps I will hire some pretty young player to follow her about all day and vie for her affection. That may be a fairly non-insulting way of distracting her from the sad madhouse of early rehearsals." "You should let me find you a man of business," said Nickolai calmly. "I've offered before, you know. Someone to delight your eye - and save you money. You can afford him. You might even enjoy him - and not just in the carnal sense. Such a one could charm Marquessa ... even if her tastes lie in other - and very alluring - directions. But above all, he could help you organise your life so dreary business intrudes as little as possible on wicked pleasure." She frowned at him with a long-suffering expression. He looked at her thoughtfully, and then added, "He could also see that your writing times were sacrosanct and protected. For that is your bedrock, isn't it, my firebird? You'll never find a man you'll love as passionately as you love your art ... " He raised his coffee cup again and added, "I could find you a woman, if you'd prefer." She nibbled at her breakfast. "To love, or for business?" she teased. She shook her head. "I can do this and I will. I do not need some man, or woman, some... accountant." She wrinkled her nose. "And if I ever had a 'person' of business, that 'person' would have to be ugly as sin and dedicated only to their work. I would hate that person. Beside, this will teach me. I write enough for five people already, and you know there is hell to pay for anyone who dares violate the sanctity of my creative space." She sighed, and reached out to pat his hand. "And really, Nickolai, you will not be finding me anything. There are limits. If I was interested in being kept, I would be." She smiled at him warmly. "Sadly, you are in desperate want of distraction yourself," she smirked knowingly, "but you must off to court. Where the count will count the continuing seconds, until the count can count himself out of court, and then the count will count the hours until the 'white' contessa will stop talking." He chuckled, then bent forward and reached for her hand. "You are ... as ever, enchanting," he told her, lifting her hand to kiss it. "And yes ... I shall count the hours until we are re-united. But think on my offer. You are an excellent writer - and an artist needs someone to look after them ... so they may tend their Muse. For the Muse is a jealous lady, more jealous than my firebird by far ... "Where shall we meet? The Palazzo? Rukhara's? Or shall we dine privately in my rooms?" He kissed her fingers one by one, looking at her all the time. She purred, growled, and bit her lip. "Your rooms," she said quietly.
It was late ... The soft-footed manservant Kodaly had opened the door at Francesca's knock, and bowed her into the apartment. Rather than the drawing room or the dining room, he at once led her up to the stairs and into the opulent master bedroom. This was a high ceiling room, decorated with hanging of deepest crimson, trimmed with faint touches of gold, and dark wood, cunningly carved. Massive was a word that sprang to mind - and massive was the four poster bed that dominated the room. But the heavy crimson silk cover was still in place - Kodaly would not dream of suggesting what might later transpire by turning back the covers. The lighting of the room was subdued. Candles in the wall sconces, and the light of the fire in the great white marble fireplace provided the only illumination - although there was light enough to read by. A table was drawn up next to one of the armchairs by the fire; a flagon of spiced wine, a goblet of fantastically chased and painted glass, and several plates of little dishes to be nibbled and enjoyed. Spread on an ottoman was a robe of crimson, trimmed with thick pale fur around the collar and cuffs, to be bound with a simple sash - it would feel divine against naked skin. Kodaly bowed to her. "My Master sent a message," he said. "He will be here within the hour - and begs you to make use of what you will ... If you choose, I can draw a bath for you ... " Francesca was familiar with the small marble bathroom beyond, and while part of her desired nothing more than to sink into a hot, servant drawn bath (such a luxury), the words were upon her. She set down her bag on the ottoman. "Kodaly, thank you, but I must work. I'll be fine, everything is beautiful, thank you," she smiled. She had gotten used to Kodaly and stopped blushing months ago. Or rather, she had become accustomed to showing up at a man's household for an assignation, instead of having him come to her. It was for her hard to fight the battle against all the little luxuries of his place. Hers was just quirky, and generally, a mess of paper and books, and people were so much more likely to just show up at her apartments. Once the manservant left she quickly slipped out of her clothes and shoes, tossing them into the corner, and put on the robe. She rubbed the fur cuffs against her face, and murmured, "Where does he find these things?" She pushed one of the armchairs back from the fire and table, grabbed her bag, and kneeled down on the floor. She started emptying the bag out around her. Soon she was surrounded by a display of books, papers, two inkwells and three quills, and a small soapstone carving of a fairy. She set to work, occasionally reaching up to grab some grapes, and shifting her sitting positing often. She quickly lost track of time. The room was still ... so still. The only sound seemed to be her pen as it scratched across the paper, and the soft sounds of the fire. She had no way of knowing how long she had worked when suddenly a log fell in the fire with a little thud and a shower of sparks. She started at the unexpected noise. She slowly came back to herself and realized the robe had fallen open in the front, defying her deft knot, which still held about her waist. Her legs, stretched out in front on her with just enough bend to serve as a writing table, were exposed entirely. Luckily, the fire was still warm. She very carefully re-read her last stanza, nodded, and set aside her work. She began to stretch and look around the room, wondering what time is was. And when she looked up she realised Nickolai was sitting in the armchair across the fire from her, a goblet of wine in his hand, still dressed in the quasi-military uniform that he would have worn to the opera and gazing at her with an enigmatic, intent expression on his face as she worked on the floor at his feet. As he saw her look up at him, he raised the goblet to his lips and drank, as though in silent toast to her. Then he spoke. "Take off the robe." She settled her movement, smiled a little, licked her lips and looked down to start unworking the knot. "How long have you been watching me?" she asked, her blush obvious even in the firelight. "Long enough," he said quietly. "You should always be seen by firelight ... the flames add magic to your skin... And when you blush like that ... you become a rose goddess at my fireside. Now ... slide it from your shoulders .... let me see you. Let me see all of you."
Much later ... His hand, stroking her hair, stilled for a moment. "Francesca," he said quietly, "If I asked you something... something important... If I asked you to give up your writing, to be mine entirely, would you do it?" She sat up immediately and turned to look down at him. She looked shocked, and uncomprehending. "What? Why?" "Don't ask me why," he said quietly. "Just tell me - would you do it? Could you do it?" "Is the Queen angry about something I've written?" she asked, her face going still. He smiled. "The King and Queen are angry about most of what you've written," he said. "But my protection does count for something - and even if you answer no to my question, that protection will continue. That, I promise you on the honour of my House." "Well, there
is angry and there is angry. I've tried not to cross the line that leads
to treason... no," she shook her head. "I don't think I could
stop writing. If I got locked up I'd be scratching it into the walls
with my fingernails and then my bones." She looked very sad. "This
is the only constant thing I've had in my life. Why would you ask He was silent for a long moment. Then he said, "Because, as writing is for you, so politics is for me. Politics... and power. In my blood, in my bones. And their Majesties have given me just that choice. To give up you... or to give up my court position and become merely a private gentleman." She looked devastated for a moment, before crossing her arms over her chest and pulling inward. In a constricted voice, she asked, "What makes you believe, for even one moment, that if I stopped writing today and retreated to some country estate of yours that they would be satisfied? The work that is already out there is not going to go away. It rings too true. For all the disgust our aristocracy shows for those plays, they still sneak out 'en masque' and watch them. And laugh too. That's not going to stop. I could never go to court, or even a ball with you Nik. They would never stand for it. So I would stop writing, and you would get to put me away somewhere, out of sight but not quite out of mind, and they would all agree to pretend that was okay? "You don't understand," he said softly. "No one is asking you to give up writing. It is I who am being told ... I must give up you - or give up politics. You are too scandalous, my firebird, for a respectable minister of the crown ... " She looked angry and annoyed. "This is not new news, Nickolai. You knew that when you started this. Surely your friends warned you, my lord," she spat bitterly, "that I was political poison." Her face fell. She clenched her jaw. "I didn't think they'd really care though, who you..." she motioned about the bed in an agitated manner. "I didn't know it was that bad." She climbed off the bed. "Neither did I," he said ruefully. He sat up in the bed, watching her. "There is something for you," he said, "in the top drawer of the writing bureau. The deed to the Empoli Theatre in Radestsky Plaza. A small theatre - but I thought the Grand Opera House would be too extravagant a gesture. Besides, I couldn't afford it. But the Empoli ... will give you independence. Freedom from rapacious sponsors and dirty minded stage managers." She turned on him, eyes blazing. "No. Absolutely not! Unbelievable." Her voice was rising to a shout. "Have you heard nothing I said outside of your bed?" She turned and stormed over to her clothes, and started dressing as quickly as she could. "Then it comes to this," he said. "You are angry with me because I cannot make a sacrifice comparable to one you know you could not make yourself. You could never give up your writing - I have discovered that I cannot give up politics and power. And my offer of an apology is rejected." He was propped up on one elbow, watching her. "An apology? It's a bloody theater, Nickolai!" she yelled. She took a deep breath, buttoned her shirt, and looked back over at him. "When I die they are going to say, 'Well, yes, she was a slut, but she wasn't really a whore.'" she told him calmly. "If you want to apologize for this, then apologize. You are you. I am me," she stopped, shrugged, and turned her back on him to pick up her shoes. "All right," he said. "All right. I'll regard it as a base insult to offer someone I am very fond of something that she could really use. In the future I'll confine offering wildly generous gifts to people I have no intention of screwing - in any sense of the word. Will that content you, spitfire? She kept her back to him, and finished getting dressed. She said nothing, and started gathering up all her writing tools, books, and papers, and shoving them unceremoniously into her bag. She tossed a few rejected pages into the trash, and turned to look back at him. She looked pale, very wan compared to her earlier glow. "Next time you have to do something like this, you should wait until closer to morning, Nik," she said, deadpan. He lay back in the bed, his arms folded behind his head. "Don't worry," he said. "Kodaly has a carriage waiting for you." She held her face very still, snorted, as if she found that amusing, somehow, and walked out the door, slamming it quite loudly behind her. Out in the hall he could hear her call, "Kodaly, I'm done with him now and ready for my ride home."
You can read
more about Nickolai and Francesca in A Ride in the
Park
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