Chapter Text
Leo. 30 November, 1887
In the middle of November, it snowed for a full week. The streets were still and the air was quiet, the full sky and all was motionless. It was then that I was informed of Victor’s death. He contracted pneumonia, or so we were told, and died very suddenly. He was a young man of 27 with a notable fortune and a notable presence as a performer. His presence had graced many stages in many lands and yet his reputation never preceded him. In short, he was well-recognized as a good man.
As there were many of us scattered across the globe, very few made it to the proper funeral. He had no descendants and many possessions and such a combination was the reason his student, a foul-mouthed, barbed-tongued boy of sixteen years of age named Yuri, begrudgingly sent out a letter inviting those who could make it to his London townhouse and mansion along the moors to dig through his belongings to see if there was any possession any of us would want. I never called Victor a friend, myself, I was surprised that it seemed he considered me one. At least my name was folded into an address book reserved for those deemed important. Rather, important enough that we be considered worthy of invitation to rummage through his excessive residences. Now, as I am a born and bred Texan, from the proud town of Houston, I would typically turn down such an extravagant offer. Luckily for me, I was in Paris so vice out-did virtue. It was my first time living in Europe, knowing no French, but found myself surprised how many city-folk would pay good money to see an American fire a gun. I learned less quickly that they would pay even more money to see a Spaniard spin tales about non-existent wars. I am no Spaniard and quickly ran out of tales. And so I left snowy Paris by boat, the water frigid and inky black but not frozen. In London there was no snow, not even the fog it is so famed for (I had been some times before at the beginning of my teenaged years). Instead of a blanket of white, the world was grey. With only an address, I de-boarded the ferry in hopes of fanding the home of my lost friend.
“I did not expect you to arrive first of the invited parties.”
I was greeted by the heavily accented hiss of a voice of the deceased man’s student, small and fair-haired, trying desperately not to shift from one foot to the other.
“Well, I did not either if I must be frank.”
“Ah, yes. The American. I was wondering if you would make it. Supper is ready.”
At supper, the student and I were joined by another Russian companion of Victor, who was also present at his death. He was a tall man with an expression that seemed expertly contorted into something unruly, soft blue eyes that he seemed desperately to want to seem both alluring and mysterious, but also dangerous. They did no such thing.
“I must admit that I am right surprised that Victor’s friend ain’t here with us, given how close they were. You’d think he would want some of Victor’s belongings.”
The two Russian men dropped their forks and I swear, I have never seen gazes so penetrating.
“He has other matters to attend to in the other countries. Victor left behind him many loose strings.” The student narrowed his gaze once more.
“Why do you talk like that? You don’t look like white American.” The other man, Georgi, quickly asked. Yuri must have stepped on his foot as he jumped back a bit and quickly murmured an apology.
“Georgi here does not mean ill. He has never met another American. Not that I have, myself, but he thinks you are all the fair skinned owners of slaves.”
What I did not comment on was that the older of the two men made a very good point. He had a keen eye for performance, I noted, while Yuri possessed a keen eye for culture. Indeed, not all of us were the fair-skinned children of owners of slaves. Some of us were, indeed, their children, but not with their wives, and not with their slaves. I was raised by my mother and my mother alone and the pair seemed to know all of those implications.
Perhaps Victor told them. He never seemed adept at secrets. The truth is, he and I had only briefly first met during my childhood. I was eight and he sixteen and my mother told me he was an actor. I went to the play. It was Shakespeare but I did not know that at the time. My mother spoke to me in English for our own survival (I only learned Spanish in later years through my travels ) but I did not understand the young man, his Russian accent almost impossible to hear as he delivered Hamlet’s lines. There were paintings of him in that role around the world, I’d learn, Victor clad in black, his hair, long almost silver and wild, staring wide eyed at the spectral image of an armor-clad ghost. I wanted to be an actor.
He left after a week but not after gaining the address of the house in which my mother and I resided but certainly did not own and he promised to write me.
I never did become a proper actor, but Victor and I did write over the years.
“So you became an actor.” He said to me when I saw him last, less than a year ago. His hair was no longer wild, cropped close to his head, his eyes softer.
“Sharp shooter. What I learned in Texas.”
He laughed at that. And I never saw him again.
“You, American.” I was brought back to my senses by the angry boy glowering in my face. “Are you going to eat the rest of your supper or not? I’d like to feed my cat if you’re going to waste it.”
I must have consented to his request to take my food and feed his pet, but try as I might, I can not recall the moments that followed. It seemed as if I suddenly found myself on an orange plush couch, the only vibrant spot of color in an otherwise grey and deep burgundy parlor. The wait staff had been excused for some nights, and yet I had a cocktail. It must have been prepared for me by one of the two Russian men while I did not notice. Surely I was in something of a travel induced stupor, as when I closed my eyes and opened them next, I was in one of the many bedrooms, one with cream colored walls and pale blue sheets. Unlike the previous day, the London sun seeped through the cracks in the curtains. Footsteps downstairs, loud and determined, indicated that the next of the guests, our mourning, scrounging party had arrived.
When I at last made my way downstairs, after some debating with myself, I found myself face to face with a lean, olive-skinned man with pale eyes and a nervous expression. He stood tall, almost too tall, and clasped his hands behind his back.
“American, this is Michele Cirspino. He comes from Italy. You know him, I do not doubt it.”
The small, angry student of the deceased actor gestured at the man who only nodded. Of course I knew who he was. Michele was a renowned poet and artist both, one who spent extensive time in both Italy and London. While his writing was of the more sentimental sort, it was his paintings that captivated all viewers. Almost all of them depicted a young woman with dark hair and wide, bright eyes
“Leonardo. The sharp shooter. Your reputation precedes you.”