So Much Fire and So Many Plans

by Aaron S Gallagher

  “Lord Toefler,” she snapped. The words lashed out at him from across the table, the disgust in her voice unmistakable. She turned to Diego and glared at him. She swallowed a second outburst. “I apologize, Senhor de la Luna, Senhora. I find myself without appetite. If you’ll pardon me?”

  “Please, Senhora,” Toefler said. “Do not leave on my account. In fact, it’s you I’m here to see, after a fashion. You and your painter.”

  “Why?” Carolyn crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you trying to top the damage you’ve already done?”

  Toefler’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t take the bait. “I apologize for what I’ve done, however inadvertently. I would never have crushed his confidence on purpose. Verbal sparring is like fencing; a touch should be light and momentary. It should never cut deeply enough to draw lifeblood. I did not mean to do so. Please believe me.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Herr de la Luna has informed me of the inadvertent disaster I have brought to your lives and I am here to make what amends I can.”

  Carolyn’s upper lip curled in a snarl. “You’ve done quite enough, thank you. We don’t need any more-”

  Diego cleared his throat. “Carolita,” he said judiciously, “As the engineer of this crisis of faith, it is just that he repair it. And after all, he is also a painter. He and Ossirian speak the same language. Or at least similar dialects.”

  “Ossirian is a painter. Toefler is a dabbler.” Carolyn’s voice held pique and bitter dismissiveness. “His jealousy was and is quite apparent.”

  Miciela clucked her tongue. “Dear girl, did you not tell me yourself that Ossirian was already under a certain amount of strain? That he was approaching this crisis before he and Herr Toefler even met?”

  Carolyn stared daggers at the older woman, but relented quickly. Her words were clipped and formal. “That is quite beside the point. Restlessness and dissatisfaction are not the same as having your world collapsed by a mean-spirited, jealous boy playing at being important.”

  Before de la Luna or his wife could speak, Toefler interrupted smoothly. “I agree. You are utterly correct. It was selfishness and jealousy that caused me to attack Herr Ossirian’s art. It is not an excuse, but I am used to verbally fencing with other artists and critics skilled in the practice, and at least half of the conversation is about the mental joust. The… how do you say… the game. Art, as in politics, is not so much what you say about the subject but what you can say about the opponent. Be that as it may… it was wrong of me to assume that so accomplished an artist was also an accomplished verbal fencer.”

  Carolyn stared at him for a beat. “You’re quite a pretentious asshole, aren’t you?”

  Diego de la Luna coughed weakly, looking away. Miciela laughed out loud. Hans Toefler gave her a sad, shy smile. “Most of us are, Senhorita Delgado. May I call you Carolyn?”

  “Certainly not,” she told him diffidently, glaring.

  Toefler appeared ruffled; his charms did not often fail him, it seemed. She was amused to see he had to consider his next words. His already perfect posture seemed to stiffen with determination, his chin a fraction higher, his glacial blue eyes affixed to hers.

  “Very well. Senhorita Delgado, I give you my most solemn oath: I am abjectly apologetic. I have no excuse, no justification. I was wrong. My one goal in coming here is, as Senhor de la Luna has made clear to me, to mitigate and repair what damage I can. My word of honor, Senhorita Delgado.”

  Carolyn studied him impassively, but there came a time when indignant anger became unseemly, and she judged she had reached that limit. “Very well. I’ll fetch in Ossirian for lunch.”

  Toefler said nothing more. He bowed his head.

  She found Ossirian on the balcony in the midst of a conversation with, apparently, himself.

  “Lunacy,” he said, half muttering. “I can’t simply-”

  “But why not?” he asked.

  “Because… because it’s…”

  “Lunacy.”

  “There has to be a way to see this-”

  He sneered at himself. “You’ve failed, of course. What else did you expect? You told them they weren’t ready. You told her they weren’t ready. You showed her the inside, and it still didn’t-”

  She stood next to him and put a hand on his arm. He seemed to have known she was there; he didn’t startle, or even cease talking.

  “She doesn’t know,” he whispered to himself. “She is the Muse, not the reason.”

  “What don’t I know, Ossirian?”

  He gave her a shy look from between long, dark lashes. His hair had grown longer, wilder, and the mass of baby-like curls atop his head seemed spun of the finest silken threads to her. She ran a hand through the curls because she could, smiling at the way they sprang back. She laid her hand upon his cheek. “What don’t I know?”

  “How to say what I need to. How to find something worth saying.” He shrugged hopelessly.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not a terribly good muse, it seems.”

  He turned to her, took her hands, and fell to his knees before her. “You,” he pronounced with all sincerity, “are the muse I need. The Muse inspires me to create. The Muse inspires me to be better every day. The Muse inspires me to paint. But the reason behind the things I paint… the meaning of them… that is for me to determine, my beloved Muse. You must never feel as though you have failed me; it couldn’t possibly be so.”

  “Get up, you foolish man.” Color came to her cheeks. She tugged him to his feet. He gave her a guileless, open look, bashful and innocent eyes looking at her through his thick lashes.

  “If I am foolish, it is because you inspire it in me. You are my Muse, now and always.”

  “Thank you for the privilege. I don’t know what I’ve done to earn it, but thank you.”

  He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Why, you’ve done everything to earn it, my Muse. You were the first woman I saw in São Paulo. You inspire me to paint. You protected me from Ruffiero. You take care of the unpleasant business of business. You’ve provided me with shelter and clothing and allowed me to occupy your bed. You’ve given everything to me. How could I not honor you?”

  She blushed. “I-I was just trying to help.”

  “And so you have.” He began to say something else but his stomach growled loudly enough for it to startle her. The tension between them broke and they chuckled.

  “I would like food now,” Ossirian said. “Would you join me in my search?”

  “Oh, but that’s what I came to tell you. Luncheon is served. And… we have a guest.”

  “Oh?” Ossirian perked up. He grinned impishly. “Shall I be on my best behavior, or my worst?”

  “You must decide for yourself,” she said diffidently. “It’s… Herr Toefler.”

  The reaction from this revelation was not the one she had expected. To her puzzlement his face lit up and he gave a wide, delighted smile. “Ah! Then we must go at once!”

  He took her by the hand and led her to the doors. Flinging them wide he called, “Hello! And hello again!” He swarmed over the startled Toefler and wrung his hands in a vigorous shake. Toefler seemed at a loss.

  Carolyn shared a look with Miciela, sharing their confusion between them.

  “Good to see you again, my friend.” Carolyn’s neck bristled at hearing Toefler address Ossirian as such; in her estimation his actions were not those of a friend, but she waited to see what would happen.

  “And you,” Ossirian said, grinning. “Have you come to stay?”

  “I… haven’t made any formal plans,” Toefler hedged with a speculative glance at Senhor de la Luna.

  “You are most welcome for as long as you wish to grace us,” de la Luna intoned with an indulgent smile. “Is that not so, my dear?”

  Miciela’s smile seemed brittle to Carolyn, but she murmured, “Of course, and welcome.”

  Toefler extricated his hand from Ossirian’s grip. “You have my most humble gratitude,” he said. He eyed
the food on the table, but said, “Herr Ossirian, may I-”

  “Ossirian,” the younger man said. His voice was edged almost subliminally with acid.

  Toefler stumbled over the interruption. “…ah, yes, of course. Ossirian, may I speak with you in private?”

  “I rather think that isn’t favorable,” Carolyn said, spitting out the words.

  Toefler fixed her with a grave eye. “I must speak to him… artist to artist. You cannot-”

  “You address my Muse,” Ossirian said, a dangerous glint in his eye. “If she suggests it isn’t favorable, then it is so. And do not call me ‘artist’ again. I have told you; I am a painter.”

  Toefler blinked, eyes darting from Ossirian’s glower to Carolyn’s triumphant smirk.

  “How am I called?” Ossirian asked.

  Both de la Lunas tried and failed to suppress smiles of delight. Carolyn felt a bit small for enjoying Toefler’s discomfort, but she wouldn’t have stopped it for the world.

  “I do not understand.” Toefler’s expression carried something Carolyn had not yet seen on his smooth, handsome face; confusion.

  “How am I called?”

  “You- by your name. You are called Ossirian.”

  “Why?”

  “…because it is your name?”

  “It is who I am,” Ossirian told the German. His jaw flexed as he ground his teeth. “It is how I call myself. It is my name. My label. My personal imago that represents the me I wish to be.”

  He leaned closer to Toefler who, to Carolyn’s unrepressed delight, leaned away before he could catch himself.

  “If I call myself a painter, that is the imago of the me that I feel best represents it. Call yourself anything you wish. Artist. Painter. Ostrich. It matters not at all. But I would address you as such out of respect for your self-image. You will do the same.” Ossirian’s piercing stare visibly disquieted the older man.

  “I… it seems it’s my day to apologize,” Toefler said humbly. “And so I do apologize. I will of course address you as you prefer.”

  “And do not ever imply that my Muse would not understand the nature of art and painters. She is the very essence of understanding.” Ossirian smiled at Carolyn. Her heart warmed like a coal in her chest. She gave him her best smile.

  “And now, is this talk necessary?” Ossirian said, glancing down at the table. “I find myself ravenous. I can’t remember the last time I ate anything.”

  He looked up at Carolyn and gave her an impish wink.

  “That’s not entirely true. I cannot remember the last time I ate food.”

  Carolyn blushed, but she gave him a bright smile because Toefler had become even more flustered.

  “This is… important, Ossirian.”

  “Of course it is,” he said with a shrug. “Sex, painting, food, and talk. What else is worth our time?”

  He gave Carolyn another impish smile. “Although propriety suggests food should be the first thing we address on that list at the moment.”

  They sat down to the light lunch. The cheese and meat were both the best temperature; the meat still steaming, the cheese slightly warmed, the rolls perfectly in between. They talked of lighter matters while eating, taking their time with the meal. More than two hours later they finished, helping clear the table of the remnants of the meal. Senhor and Senhora de la Luna retired to have a siesta, and Carolyn, Ossirian, and Toefler were left alone. They took several bottles of chilled agua fresca out to combat the heat of the day.

  Ossirian led them down onto the well-manicured sloping back lawn, almost to the place where he and Carolyn had been busily enjoying one another when happened upon by Senhor de la Luna. She gave Ossirian a secret smile, which he returned. They sat in a row, Carolyn on the left, Ossirian between, Toefler on the right. They sat cross-legged, sipping the cool, fruit-flavored water.

  “You said that you had to speak with me,” Ossirian said absently, staring at the flowing, lapping green waters of the jungle below them, which ringed the sprawling city of São Paulo below them, a chalice holding an overflowing sea of a city.

  Toefler coughed weakly. “As a matter of fact, I think I do. The last time we met I was… I wasn’t kind. I said things that I regret.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh.” Toefler scrubbed a hand into his hair and tousled it. Handsomely, Carolyn noticed to her annoyance. Toefler had the type of hair that looked good no matter how messed it got. “Well, I’m not entirely sure. I… as I explained to your… to Senhorita Delgado, I didn’t fully-”

  Ossirian turned to stare at Toefler. “Why do you want to speak to me?”

  “Oh,” Toefler said. “Er…”

  “You told me a truth,” Ossirian said. “I needed to hear it. It is always better to know too much than it is to know too little. I didn’t know what I didn’t know, and you showed me that. I am indebted to you.”

  Toefler considered this. “Have you painted since-”

  “Why? What would be the point? You made me see that. There’s nothing in my paintings. They’re pictures, with nothing deeper. I have nothing to say. What would be the point of painting anything? Beauty exists already.”

  Toefler appeared startled. To Carolyn he seemed like a man who had accidently uncovered a universal truth while reading a menu. “I… I did not mean for you to stop-”

  “Of course you did.” Ossirian stared out over the city again. He seemed to draw strength from the view, seemed to draw nourishment from the city in ways that food never afforded him. “You meant to lessen my works while advancing yours. You are a creature of the system. Not without skill and inspiration, but a systemic infection nonetheless.”

  Toefler’s nonplussed expression matched Carolyn’s inner turmoil. She had never heard Ossirian be so… so human.

  “You hoped to score a point or two. Like a company, you wanted to raise the price of your stock while diminishing my own,” Ossirian said absently. He studied the horizon. With dismay, Carolyn realized his hands were twitching as they did when he saw something he wished to paint, but instead of rushing off to find something to paint with, he seemed to consciously still his hands. It filled her with unaccountable remorse. She gave Toefler a mild glare. He seemed to accept the rebuke.

  “You are, of course, correct,” he said with no self-deception. “That is how we spar. At least, that’s how the artists with which I normally associate spar. I was unprepared for an honest conversation with a… a painter. Someone unprepared and uninterested in the dance of words by which we all live.”

  “You think you underestimated me?”

  “Hardly. I… I misread you. I couldn’t underestimate you as an opponent because you weren’t one. I see that now,” Toefler said. He put a hand on Ossirian’s leg. Carolyn’s eyes flickered down and back up to study Ossirian’s face. So far, Ossirian hadn’t even looked at Toefler, but she saw his hand creep over to cover Toefler’s. She looked away.

  “You don’t know me or what I am,” Ossirian said. “But that did not stop you from devastating me. You saw a truth about me I couldn’t see. And so you’ve accomplished your mission, Herr Toefler. You have raised the value of your own stock while bankrupting mine. I doubt you have anything else in your quiver that can harm me.”

  Carolyn looked at Ossirian and saw the tears brimming, saw one spill over, and her heart broke. The anger boiled up within her and she clenched her fists. “Tell me,” she growled, “to make him leave. Please. It would be my pleasure.”

  Toefler’s startled expression was gratifying to see.

  But Ossirian said, “No, my Muse. He isn’t malicious. He is but a tool of fate, perhaps. A messenger carrying a message he could not understand. But I do. I heard his words with ears he did not intend, and I cannot unhear them, much as I might wish to. I cannot lie to myself.”

  Toefler pulled his hand away from Ossirian’s touch. “But I didn’t mean to-”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Ossirian stood, held out a hand to Carolyn, and helped her to her feet. �
��And yet you did. You may not have to live with the consequence of your actions, but I do. I think I shall bid you a good afternoon, Herr Toefler.”

  The calmness with which Ossirian delivered his speech shook Carolyn to her core. He sounded so… lifeless.

  Toefler climbed to his feet as they started up the slope. “But I am not just here to apologize, Ossirian!” he exclaimed. “I came to ask you a question.”

  Ossirian froze. His hand tightened in Carolyn’s. She saw him squeeze his eyes closed, and the tears that spilled from his eyes succeeded in filling whatever predetermined capacity she had within herself to tolerate his pain. She rounded on the startled Toefler.

  “How dare you!” she yelled at him, fists knots at the ends of her arms, shoulders bunched, face screwed up in fury. “How dare you come here and… and worsen your miserable mess!”

  “My Muse,” Ossirian called, but she shook her head, tossing her hair like a horse shooing flies.

  “No! Not again, Ossirian. You may be able to stand this… this creature, but I cannot, I will not, and what’s more I don’t have to.”

  She marched stolidly to the wary Toefler and stuck out her lower lip. “You, sir, are a bully and a cad.”

  Toefler’s mouth hung open. “I-”

  “And what’s more,” she growled, the furious rage boiling up inside her to overfilling, “you have something on your face.”

  Toefler reached up and touched one cheek. “Where?”

  Her fist crashed into his perfectly-formed lips, and she watched in satisfaction as his head rocked back by the impact. She felt the lips beneath her knuckles pop like balloons. Blood spurted from the splits, and spattered the pristine milk-white skin of his face.

  She examined her fist. His blood was smeared across all her knuckles, and she gave a satisfied nod. She looked up at him, and his eyes were wide with disbelief. She straightened one index finger, pointed it at his face, and smiled grimly in satisfaction as he flinched back a scant inch.

  “Right there,” she told him, and turned away.

  She rejoined Ossirian, who took her hand in his and cleaned the blood from her fingers with his shirt. Then he kissed them.