Panic

I'm leaving the country in a week and everything suddenly seems to be falling apart. I'm sure it will seem better in the morning, but you'll have to forgive me for not having an episode this week. Much to look forward to as we're back to Helen and her father, goblins and airships. Okay, the goblins might not be real -- then again, her father could be right...

4.9

"She's gone out." Eduardo sat with his paws neatly together, drawn up to his tallest seated position. He even had his fez on.

Maggiormente looked around the room. It seemed entirely empty of occupants apart from his familiar. "I see."

The Venetian lion sighed. "No, she's gone out of the house."

"Ah." Even better that. Maggiormente sat down and contemplated his table of beakers, cylinders and unguents. It would be a lot to have to pack up and move, he realised. They had gotten rid of the crates in which they had brought everything from Rome. Then there would be a cart to arrange as well.

Suddenly he felt very very tired.

"We don't have to move," the lion said, looking a little too pleased with himself. He stretched his wings out to their full size and then folded them back down again.

The alchemist looked at him with an eyebrow raised. "What?"

"I said, we don't have to move anymore."

"We did before?"

"You were thinking it."

"True enough. So why don't we have to do so now?"

Eduardo grinned, showing his big teeth. While the alchemist was very accustomed to this display, many were understandably intimidated by the gleaming choppers, a fact Eduardo chose to be aware of only some of the time. "I solved our problems with the concierge."

The alchemist had a momentary image of the lion eating the poor woman, but doubtless he would be lying down to digest a meal of that size and he was looking far too alert and pleased with himself for that—which was a relief to say the least.

He was not pleased with Mme. Gabor, but he would not wish her to become Eduardo's supper.

"How did you solve our problems?"

"I reasoned with her." The lion looked even more smug now, shaking his mane to emphasize his pronouncement.

"How exactly did you do that? You worry me, Eduardo."

His familiar barked with laughter, which seemed an entirely unsuitable sound for a lion to make. "What can I say? I made her an offer that she could not reasonably refuse."

Maggiormente did not like the sound of that. "What sort of offer? Did this involve pigeons?"

"Only as an example," Eduardo said with a small growl.

"Eduardo!"

"What? She was trouble—and it was only likely to get worse. You need to work. I need to eat. It's a fairly simple equation." The lion coughed and a couple of pigeon feathers wafted out of his mouth onto the floor.

Maggiormente considered the situation. "Well, I suppose anything is worth not having to move again."

"And the pigeons are really fat here." Eduardo licked his paw as if a taste of his feathery meal remained there. "We need to get back to work before the Exposition, piccolo mago. It's just around the corner after all."

"And I have nothing to show for it!" The alchemist threw up his hands. "The linseed oil has gone nowhere. I need sand. What if I should be working with magnetism after all?!"

"I think steam more likely to be effective for air travel. The locomotive is the model to follow after all. More certain."

Maggiormente shook his head. "No, the answer lies in alchemy. A chemical reaction that will take the place of inefficient coal. If not linseed, some other fuel from which I can release its explosive powers."

Eduardo huffed. "More smelly fluids."

The alchemist waved his hand, a faraway look evident in his eyes now. "The secrets to efficient air travel lie hidden in the smallest elements. I must delve deeper and explore the unseen world." He stroked his beard, lost in thought now.

The lion burped. Another feather floated down to the wooden floor, but the alchemist failed to notice its fall.

"I must review my Hitchcock, and perhaps Madame Atwood, too," Maggiormente muttered.

Eduardo laid down and rested his head on his paws and almost immediately slept.

4.8

"Perhaps you should talk about something other than the colour," Maggiormente suggested as his friend stared forlornly at the page on which he had scribbled moments before.

"Its texture?" The poet squinted at his friend while he sipped some more wine.

"Did you actually feel its texture?"

"No."

Maggiormente stifled an eruption of irritation. "How about shape? That offers a chance to employ some, ah—sensual detail."

The poet's face brightened. "Oui! Curves, curls, tumbling down…" He bent over the page again, scribbling furiously.

The alchemist downed the last of the wine in his glass and poured more of the bottle into Gustave's glass. The poet seemed to be operating under his own steam now. "I shall leave you to your task," Maggiormente said as he rose to his feet.

"Hmm? Yes, yes," the poet muttered as he continued to scratch away in the notebook. "Bountiful, yes, that's good, yes."

The alchemist smiled and turned away. It seemed his friend would not notice his absence now. While Maggiormente pitied his friend's struggle, he knew that the poet would be up to the task for certain. Now that his muse burned brightly, there would be no stopping him.

The alchemist started to walk away from the restaurant, raising a hand to wave farewell to Philippe and then wondered what direction he ought to head. He had been wandering in the general direction of the river in hopes of retrieving some sand, but now he wondered.

What was he doing?

It was an important question that had a lot more to it than geography. What was he going to do? What if they had to move?! Oh, that was a thought too horrible to countenance. The problem of the concierge was a complicated one. However, he had every confidence that ignoring the problem was likely to make it go away.

Surely problems always went that way?

The alchemist walked toward the river. Even if he didn't really care about the sand anymore, it would offer him a good excuse. He pondered the options before him. Either he gave in to the concierge's interest or he struck off in a new direction.

Sadly, a new direction might mean a new location—just when he had arranged his workshop so neatly. The alchemist sighed. Surely it wasn't possible; his concierge wouldn't make him move just for—

Just for what?

Maggiormente pondered. Did she really have the kind of madness that the poet exhibited? No, he was sure not. But then again, what did he really know—about her, about the situation, about any of it?

Not much!

The alchemist frowned. It wasn't so much that he dismissed the attentions of an interesting older woman. In fact, he couldn't think of much that would be more gratifying. However, his concierge's interest didn't seem to be so much in him as in the uses he could provide.

Which rather made him feel like a prize chicken and not a human at all. I should go back to the house and rescue Eduardo.

After a moment, the alchemist retraced his steps and bent them toward the familiar steps of the little hotel. He had been pleased to find it initially as accommodating as he had imagined from Italy.

Who knew the concierge would offer an interesting twist of her own?

When they had come from Italy it seemed to be everything he had wanted: spacious, slightly remote, with a non-residential feel to it that promised plenty of elbow room for experimentation. They had had a few breakthroughs that gave him hope.

And Eduardo liked the number of pigeons. He was sadly consistent in that.

"It needn't be like this, "Maggiormente told himself. But then he pondered the concierge again. She might disagree with that.

"I do need sand," he told himself, but then bent his trails back to a more classical approach. "Perhaps I ought to be checking on Eduardo. We can explore the sands together.

The alchemist reversed his path. Concierge or no concierge, he was going to be brave about this.

4.7

Maggiormente laughed. "Now, now—you mustn't give in to despair. You've only just begun."

Gustave grinned weakly.

"Have you written down the eyes yet?"

Dutifully the poet scribbled away. "I added limpid, too. That's a good word."

The alchemist found his grasp of French struggling against its limits. "What does that mean?"

"Pellucid," the poet said, a far away look in his eyes.

Maggiormente raised one eyebrow. "I am no closer to understanding. It must be something different in Italian."

"Clear, undimmed, without obstruction. Her eyes were green and limpid."

The alchemist coughed. "Well, I suppose ocular health is important."

The poet winced. "It's not about her health, it's about the clarity of her eye colour. Its perfection."

"Ah." Maggiormente considered this for a moment. "At least you consider something of hers to be without imperfections."

"I am doing my best to remain on a flattering path. But what more about her eyes?"

"Perhaps you should move on from eyes. What's next?"

"Off the top of my head, I'd guess perhaps lips."

Maggiormente frowned. "Haven't you written love poems before?"

"Well—" Gustave looked sheepish. "I have…for other people."

"But not for yourself."

"No."

Maggiormente grinned at his friend, who looked suddenly pink. "That makes this so much more important, amico mio. You must go with the truth. From here," he added, thumping his chest with a fist.
The poet rubbed his chin. "Hmmmm."

"So what did you notice first?"

Gustave closed his eyes. Maggiormente supposed he was remembering every detail of the encounter. At least the poet's face showed a flickering montage of expressions as his eyes moved under their lids. At last they flicked open and he stared at his friend.

"Her hair!"

"Perfect. Her hair was red, yes?"

"Fiery." He wrote the word down in his notebook, then frowned at it. "Perhaps that's too strong." Gustave looked up at the alchemist. "She could take that the wrong way."

Maggiormente considered the issue. "Is there another word that conveys the excitement of the flame yet sounds less…combative?"

The poet mused, tapping the pencil against his teeth. "Incendiary?"

The alchemist nodded encouragement. "A word for the colour? Red? It seems too mundane. Is there something more, ah, poetic?"

"Crimson? No, inaccurate." The poet looked skyward as if he might pluck a word from above. "Not red, not brown, in between. There's a word for that…"

"Burnt sienna?" Maggiormente suggested, remembering his encounter with the painters.

"No, auburn, that's it!" He wrote the word down hastily as if it might escape before he did so. "What's this 'burnt sienna'?"

"I just learned it recently, in fact I was thinking of making my own range of burnt colours but it took so long to find someone who knew what the sienna was that could be burnt, so I got distracted because there was this linseed business that I was hoping would prove a useful fuel source but so far it has not provided more than explosions which I'm afraid have not been easy to control."

Gustave blinked at him. "Perhaps I should go with auburn."

The alchemist frowned. "But she is an artist. Perhaps she would appreciate the knowledgeable reference to her expertise. That would be a good thought, surely."

The poet grimaced and ran a hand through his hair again. The wild tumble suggested confusion. "This love is a perishingly difficult business, my friend."

"Agreed."

4.6

Gustave reached into his satchel and pulled out a much-stained notebook. He took another swallow of wine, then opened the notebook to a blank page. The poet began to rummage through his pockets while the alchemist looked on.

"I have a pencil here somewhere," he said as he continued to pat his clothing. At last he located the object in his breast pocket and looked at it with something akin to surprise.

Maggiormente pushed away his nearly empty glass. "I should leave you to your labours and get back to my own."

Gustave looked stricken. "No, mon ami! I need you here!"

The alchemist frowned. "Whatever for? I don't have a poetic bone in my body." He threw his arms wide as if to demonstrate the fact, nearly striking the passing waiter in so doing.

The poet threw up his hands. "Look how far you have taken me already. I would still be in the depths of despondency if it were not for you."

"But love," Maggiormente shrugged. "I know nothing of that art."

A desperate look lit his face. "But that is what I need! Your clear-eyed wisdom. Love as alchemy, a volatile compound."

The alchemist laughed. "I don't know any thing about love, my friend. If I can help somehow, I suppose I shall." He sat down once more and reached for the wine. If he had to assist the poet, surely more wine was a necessity. For a moment, Maggiormente thought with guilt of the Venetian lion back at the work room. Eduardo would be displeased to be longer neglected.

On the other hand, Eduardo tended to do as he pleased, so there was little to be done.
He would doubtless amuse himself.

"I suspect you will be very helpful as I try to compose. It helps to have someone to bounce the ideas off, as it were." The poet ran his fingers through his hair as if to stir up some thoughts.

"Well, how do you usually start?"

"I have a theme—"

"Well, you do."

"Yes, but," the poet paused. "It's not a visual theme."

"You need to see groveling?"

"I'm not groveling."

"You need to grovel." Maggiormente nodded sagely. "You need to grovel a lot."

"I need to show her why she is so important to me, why I had to ask her to seek perfection in her work."

"I think you ought to steer away from any attempt at corrective observations until you have actually convinced her to listen to you."

"Good plan." Gustave put the pencil to the page, then paused again. "So…what should I write about?"

"How about her…eyes?" The alchemist frowned in thought. "They burn like the sun."

"No, no," the poet also frowned. "Her eyes are nothing like the sun…"

"Well, what colour are they?"

Gustave sighed. "Green like the moss deep in the forest, like a wet glen at the bottom of a wild waterfall."

Maggiormente nodded. "Yes, yes. That's good."

"Do you think so?" Gustave but the pencil, screwing his mouth up into a bow.

"Yes, of course, of course. Write it down!"

The poet stared. "But—"

"You can always change it afterward, but it's important to get the first impressions down."

"Do you think so?" The poet repeated.

Maggiomente made an explosive sound of annoyance. "If you don't get down these raw thoughts at the start, you lose the magic. It's important to capture the rich pearls of inspiration—even if you rub most of them away."

Gustave stared at him open-mouthed. "Is this alchemy?"

The alchemist shrugged. "Doesn't poetry work the same way?"

The poet sighed. "When it does."

4.5

"What? Why do you look at me like that?"

The alchemist shook his head, chuckling. "You introduced yourself to the woman you love, this goddess, this angel—"

"I didn't say angel, did I?" Gustave frowned. "I don't want her to be too angelic."

"This woman you fell in love with, eh?" Maggiormente frowned, although he found it hard to hide a smile. "Your first words to her are finding fault with her sketch?"

"The perspective was a bit off." The poet shrugged. "What? Criticism helps improve your art."

The alchemist laughed. "Is that why you were so happy with the critic in Le Figaro?"

"The fool! He knew nothing of rhyme!"

"And what do you know of sketching?"

Gustave stared at him. "What are you saying?"

Maggiormente shrugged. "I'm guessing your goddess did not respond well to your words of criticism."

The poet covered his face again. "She was livid! She called me names a beautiful woman should not know."

The alchemist pondered for a moment what sort of words those might be, but then turned his attention back to his friend. "As a first impression, criticism may not have been the best avenue to pursue. You should establish a friendly interaction before provoking a hostile one."

"Do you think so?" The poet pulled at his moustache and stared morosely off into space, then reached for his glass and downed the rest of his wine.

"Of course, of course."

Gustave buried his head in his hands. "I'm ruined! She hates me! I will die of a broken heart!"

His muffled words made plain his distress, but Maggiormente had to bite his lip not to laugh at his friend. "There, there." He patted the man gingerly on the shoulder. "Perhaps you can ameliorate the situation."

The poet sniffed and raised his head. "How?"

The alchemist spread his hands. "What are your strengths?"

"What?" Gustave blinked at him.

"What are your strengths?" He repeated. "What do you do well?"

"I can recite the alphabet backwards while standing on one leg…"

Maggiormente guffawed. "Poetry, you fool!"

The young man gaped at him, than laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Why of course, of course! I shall write an epic poem detailing how my love has gone awry, I will make people weep and beat their chests—"

"Ah, mio amico! That's not what I meant at all." Maggiormente shook his head in disbelief. "You need to change her mind and show her that you are more than just a critic."

"But I was right about the perspective—"

"Would you rather be right or in the arms of your goddess of the red-gold hair?" The alchemist raised his eyebrow at the poet.

Gustave beat his own chest. "My goddess! I must have her!"

"Then write to her! Beg her forgiveness, praise her beauty and her skill."

"But—"

"Do you want to be in her favours again?"

"Yes, of course, a thousand times, yes!"

"Then pour your heart out in a letter, a poem and get it to her."

The poet's face looked sunny again. "Do you think it will work?"

Maggiormente shrugged and sipped his wine. "Love comforteth like sunshine after rain."

It was the poet's turn to raise an eyebrow. "You have surprises, Maggiormente, that I do not expect."

"That is the nature of surprise." The alchemist grinned.

4.4

"I think the first thing you must do, my friend, is speak to her," the alchemist said at last while the poet continued to mutter quietly to himself.

Gustave looked up, eyes wide. "But I have!"

Maggiormente gaped. "You did? Then what—?"

"Oh, it was a disaster, mon ami." Gustave buried his head in his hands again.

The alchemist swallowed a smile. "I'm sure you're simply exaggerating, or rather," he added hastily, "considering it to be worse than it was. Surely!"

The poet sighed. "You won't say that when I tell you what happened."

"Go on, then. Tell me—it can't be that bad now, can it?"

Gustave took a deep breath. "Well, I wandered distraught for some hours, lost in my thoughts. Rapturous! She was a vision. At last I realised I must return to the same place and see if I could glimpse her beauty again. I stayed in Nancy that night, sleeping in the park because I knew no one. I had to see if she were real, if her beauty were as compelling on the second sight."

"And was it?"

Gustave struck his heart with his closed fist. "Of course! She was exquisite, an angel, a vision, a goddess." He closed his eyes, a rapturous look on his visage.

"And?"

"And what?"

"Did you speak to her this time?"

The poet sighed again and shook his head while he waved toward the waiter. "Philippe! More wine!"

"Is that a good idea," the alchemist asked, eyeing his friend's flushed features.

The poet waved his concerns away. "There ain't no cure for love, as the poet says. We must only endure it."

"But how much simpler it would be if you simply spoke to her!"

"Ah, I don't know about that, considering what happened."

Maggiormente raised his eyebrows. "What did happen?"

Gustave covered his face with his hands again. "I awoke at dawn. If the daylight had not roused me the gendarme would have certainly done so. My entire body felt stiff, my fingers and toes cracked in agony. A chill had settled in my bones."

"Not propitious for love."

Gustave snorted. "Nonetheless, I set out for the square, certain that she had to return, my vision, to complete her picture. No artist could abandon a work with so much promise."

"And she did not disappoint?"

"Of course not! She was there by eight o'clock. Her work had delicious life, her hand worked unerringly to capture the shadow and light. One might only wish for a model that more adequately suited her skills."

"Indeed," Maggiormente agreed, pouring more wine from the bottle that Philippe had brought. Both his and Gustave's glasses were full again, though he suspected that the poet's would not long remain so. Indeed, his friend tipped his head back and swallowed half the glass. "What did you say?"

Gustave's expression fell again. "I knew I had to reveal to her who I was, what I was, so she would understand the depths of my love for her."

"That seems reasonable," the alchemist said, although he was beginning to have his doubts about what the poet might mean.

"She was so incredibly beautiful with the morning sun on her red-gold hair, her green dress and the soft sides of the artist's portfolio she carried. Even her brushes seemed to be in perfect form, the hairs abundant and soft."

"But—"

Gustave shrugged. "I could not be a liar, after all."

"A liar?"

"I could not pretend all was well if it was not."

"So?"

"So I offered a careful critique of her work. Who would not feel impelled to assure her that while in the main her sketch was terrific, there were some points that needed work. What?" Gustave looked at his friend with surprise.