Author's Note: Thank you for your reviews. I am very grateful. Please keep reading, enjoying and reviewing. I don't know if this is believable and feedback would be totally appreciated.
The Museo del Prado was quieter than he'd imagined it would be and it was a relief to say the least. While he was trying to act relaxed about wandering the hot streets of Madrid with her, he spent the entire time panicking over the dangers to which he was exposing her. No one knew who they were, but as equally no one knew where they were going either or what they were doing. He was breaking every rule he'd ever made and enforced within his disciplined and regimented team. This morning, when he'd dismissed Anton, the other man had looked at him with unmasked concern. He'd known what his boss intended to do, yet he would never have said. Instead Anton boarded the plane and went home and left Joseph to his own stupidity. Because no one ever corrected Joseph.
The majority of tourists were taking advantage of the early morning sun, eating breakfast in the cafes which lined the street, and would not want to come inside to the air-conditioned but nonetheless shadowed halls of the museum so it was quiet and cool and dark.
She was leading them through the first hall, nose in the museum guide, having determined what paintings it was essential they see.
"I think you can take your glasses off now Your Majesty," he said quietly, leaning towards her.
"Don't call me that here," she grumbled, slipping her glasses onto her hair.
"Oh I am sorry," he laughed, "Clarisse."
"That's fine Joseph," she grabbed his hand, in a move so natural it left him breathless, "Come on. This way."
They stalled before Velazquez's 'Las Meninas' and she let out a little 'oh' of excitement. He watched as she took it in, tipping her head from side to side as she examined it.
"Imagine," she said.
"Imagine what?" He leaned towards her.
"Imagine being in this court," she gestured with her hand, "Such absurdity."
"Not much has changed," he said dryly.
"No," she laughed, "I suppose not. I hate posing for paintings. She looks decidedly more pleased."
"I used to walk past this, you know," he said, "I never stopped to look at it."
"Why on earth not?"
"I have a favourite piece," he answered, "And I never understood the absurdity of court life quite like I do now."
"Insider understanding," she kept her eyes still on the painting, "You poor man. Life was much more rigid. For example, one was forbidden to have close friendships with their staff. Courtly rules dictated strict etiquette."
"And has that changed?"
He stepped back and stood behind her, appreciating now why she was so lost in the realism of the piece.
"No," she looked over her shoulder, "But it's a rule I fully disagree with."
He laughed.
"Show me your favourite," she said softly, "Take me on Joseph's tour of the gallery."
"But you know what you want to see."
"No, I'd rather see it through your eyes. You are, after all, a native of this city."
"No I'm not," he corrected softly, nodding towards the next room, "I was once a victim of this city. Or a lover. I wasn't born here."
"No," she let him lead the way, "That's right. You're a farm boy at heart and a fisherman in turns. A lover? Are you in love with Madrid?"
He grinned at her mischievousness, "I used to be. Then I got wise to her."
"Was she bad for you?"
"Very Clarisse," he grinned again, feeling his mood lighten despite how truly deranged the entire thing was.
Despite how much they were playing roles they could never truly fulfill.
They wandered around until noon, chatting quietly and taking pleasure in the work which spanned centuries, when he finally drew her towards his favourite piece.
Hung on a wall alone, it was Bosch's triptych 'The Garden of Earthly Delights'. It was as vivid as it always was, both hellish and delightful in aesthetic turns. He hadn't seen it since he'd last lived in Madrid, and on visits home had flirted with the idea of dropping in just to see it but never had. It spoke too much of his own predicament, too much of his own temptations.
Yet here he stood, with his very own temptation, before it.
"This is my favourite," he said, eyes roaming over the colours of the centre panel.
"Earthly delights," she muttered, eyes wide.
He watched her as she took it in, torn between her wonder and his own desire to view it again. Then, as if in warning, his eyes wandered towards the gruesome depiction of hell on the final panel. The hellscape always disturbed him, always left him feeling dark and uneven.
"it's…I don't know. The centre is beautiful," she tipped her head to the side.
"It's a warning," he smiled, "No such earthly delights without the torments of hell. That's why I like it. It reminds us how dangerous our excesses are."
"You don't really believe that, do you?"
"I've always believe it," he answered seriously, "But it doesn't mean it ever stopped me."
She shook her head, that little disapproving smile creeping onto her mouth again.
"It's disturbing," she said, eyes on the dark right hand panel, "It's frightening."
"It's not real," he touched her arm, "It's beautiful, and frightening, but it isn't real."
She laughed a little, though he could tell she was afraid of something he couldn't identify.
"Hah," she turned from the painting and spun around, "I'm quite at a loss without a pressing schedule."
"What about some lunch?"
"And wine."
"Not a good idea," he said, smiling to lessen the lack of conviction.
"Hmmm, maybe not."
"We can walk," he continued, leading her towards the exit and the hot city, "To that tapas restaurant I told you about. It's not far from here, in the Malasana district."
She nodded quietly and slipped her glasses on.
The walk took longer than it should, because she stopped to admire and take in the city as it fell into the heat of a blazing afternoon. She stalled to buy a little silver necklace in a jewellers and to admire the architecture of the buildings and when they finally reached the street on which the restaurant was located, it was the middle of the afternoon.
The restaurant was small and cool, and traditional Madrile᷈no in its décor. The proprietor, an old friend, met them at the door. He had cooked in the military, feeding up to two-thousand hungry men at a time with Joseph's battalion amongst them, so owning a little restaurant in the cultural bohemia of Madrid had proven easy for Victor.
"Joseph!" He cried, clapping hard arms around him, "So good. It's been so long. I didn't know you were back," he turned to the waitress at the bar, "A beer! And for the lady?"
"A red wine please," she answered unobtrusively as Joseph threw her an embarrassed smile.
Victor ushered them towards a seat and the other customers seemed not to blink an eye at the typically boisterous host. It seemed, to Joe, that the fact Victor was like this all the time made it much easier for him and Clarisse to appear perfectly ordinary.
He pulled up a chair and offered his hand to Clarisse, "Victor, mademoiselle. Your name?"
"This is Clara, Victor, my friend," Joe interrupted quickly, "Victor is a friend of mine from the army."
The other man didn't even waste a look on Clarisse but thumped a friendly hand onto Joseph's shoulder.
"Joe, it's been too long. Andre was saying you'd be back soon – he was in last week with Maria – but we never see you," he pushed the drinks, a bottle of wine rather than glasses, towards them as the waitress stopped for a moment and deposited a tray, "How's life in Genovia?"
"Busy, good," he said vaguely, "We're really hungry."
"Of course," Victor stood up and went to the bar, returning with menus, "Whatever you want, on the house. You have to promise though that we'll have a proper beer next time you're home."
He laughed, "Of course."
She immediately lifted the menu, scanning it with dark eyes and hiding her face. He could tell from her rigid shoulders and set mouth that she had suddenly lost all of her previous calm.
"If you wish to go, we can," he whispered, aware that while they weren't exactly in close quarters with the other diners, he didn't want them to hear.
"No," she shook her head, "It isn't that."
"Then what?"
"It's…" she shook her head again, "It doesn't matter."
"It does," he said softly, "Please."
"You don't ever come here," she blurted out, lifting the bottle of wine and pouring a sizable glass, "You spend all of your time with…"
"With you," he finished simply, "Yes. With you. Let's not pretend."
"I've asked something of you that is impossible."
"Not impossible," he soaked his nervously dry mouth with a gulp of the wine because this was the closest they'd ever come to having this conversation, "Just difficult."
"I'm sor-"
He was earnest in his pleading as he reached for her hand and leaned across the table to interrupt her, "Don't. Let's enjoy this. Please don't. I can't bear to hear you apologise."
She nodded, her face suddenly blank as if she'd forced all of her emotion away. She squeezed the tips of his fingers.
"Make me laugh," she said softly, "Please."
He grinned, "I'm rubbish at jokes."
She did laugh then, a small and little noise that still spoke of her sadness, "That is true. But you do make me laugh."
"Do I?"
"Mmmm, your social commentary of the boring nobility in particular," she continued.
"I was always dry and sarcastic," he offered, "My mother used to get really irritated at me for it."
She smiled then and her eyes returned to the menu, "What should I get?"
"Everything," he answered lightly.
"I do not have your appetite," she said, "And I doubt the paella would be as good as yours."
"Actually, it's Victor's recipe I stole," he shrugged, "So…"
"You cheat," she said in mock indignation.
They finally settled on a selection of dishes, which were brought out promptly by Victor himself, and enjoyed the meal in the wan, relaxed fashion of people with nothing to do. He enjoyed seeing her like this immensely; with nothing pressing her or demanding her attention.
"I like this place," she said, her finger tracing the rim of her lipstick-stained glass as they sat post-meal, sated and quiet.
He had sat back, removed his jacket and slung it over the chair. From somewhere in the street guitar music was pouring out of a bar. In the dusk Malasana came alive with artists and musicians and market stalls selling antiquated books and things you thought you needed at the time but didn't want the next morning.
"This is where I lived," he said, giving away information he hadn't wanted to.
"Oh?" She smiled, "I can just see you here. I can just imagine you…"
"It is vastly different from any place I've ever known, any life I've ever led. Here, everything is free."
Her shining eyes were sad again and he felt like he was on the wrong foot at every turn.
"You're poetic when you're here," she said softly, "Do you know that?"
"No," he shook his head, "No. It's not about being here."
She was quiet then, looking out into the street as it filled with people who were looking for a night's entertainment.
He signalled to Victor, "Victor, ¿nos trae la cuenta por favor?"
He knew she was watching as he asked for the bill.
Victor laughed jovially and came towards them, "En la casa!"
"No, really we couldn't possible," she suddenly said.
Victor turned to her, "Listen, it's just rude to refuse. Promise me you'll make him come back for a beer, then we're even."
Though she would have been affronted by his friend's tone, she did well to hide it as Victor held out her chair for her and then saw them to the door.
"He's a little rough around the edges," Joseph excused when they were out in the busyness of the street.
"Indeed. But he appears to be kind. I have never met anyone that doesn't like you," she said as they began walking, though where to he wasn't sure.
"That is because I get rid of those who don't," he joked, the booze making him light and fuzzy.
She laughed too, the laugh of a Clarisse who was relaxed, and fell against him, "You're not really an assassin."
"I'm not telling you," he let her lead them both to the centre of the plaza, where a flamenco band had struck up.
"Let's have a coffee," she pointed to a bustling little café set out in the square, "And listen."
He agreed to her edict and that's what they did until the dancers appeared and she looked wistfully on. He found himself staring at her, fully, unabashedly and he could feel lust darkening his eyes and face. She was so lost in her observation she would not have noticed and that in itself was a relief.
"Do you want to dance?"
She simply shook her head and continued to watch the couples swaying rhythmically across the square. His instinct for her, the love he bore, overrode any compunction for morality then. He reached out and grazed her cheek with his fingers, then her hair.
"It isn't fair," she said, barely audible over the painfully beautiful music.
"I know."
Please leave a review. Thank you.