A Commission

[skittles]

The doors to the opera house, large and grand to accommodate crowds of audience members, seemed over grandiose to use for a single man on a cloudy afternoon. But, not knowing whether there was a smaller entrance to the side or not, Riggs strode confidently forward and entered through the leftmost door. A thin man, he barely had to open the door wide enough to accommodate him and the wrapped canvas he carried under one arm and the small briefcase he held under the other. So smooth and unassuming his entrance was, that the box office worker didn’t notice him come in. The woman, who had been engrossed in a book, looked up as he tapped on the glass softly.

“Oh, um, yes, may I help you?”

“Actually, madam, I’ve come ‘ere on commission. Could you kindly direct me to where Diva Aiydeein would be h’expecting me?”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Diva? Well, that one might be called that, only in one manner of speaking and not the other. I’ve not heard of any commission, what are you here for?”

The man flashed a smile and lifted the canvas to show the woman through the window. “I’m here to paint her in honour of her debut in the new opera.”

“Ah, yes.” The woman suppressed a grin. “Well, umm, let me think, you’ll probably find her if you go up the staircase, to the left, turn to follow a hallway with busts of the opera’s patróns, then walk to the fourth hallway on your right…” she stopped as she saw that the man was shaking his head.

“Oh, now, I’ll never be able to remember all that!” He frowned. “Can’t you just show me?” he cocked his head at a rakish angle

“Well, I…no one buys tickets at this time of the day anyway, so I guess so, though I probably…I mean,” she gathered herself up and shook off the lingering oddness that this character had cast over her. “This way, follow me.”

They took off at a brisk pace, almost too brisk for Riggs to take in any of the great scope of artistic beauty that the elabourate and grandiose place possessed. Before long, he had passed through a dizzying number of corridors and doorways, which proved his point true, he would have never been able to follow directions to get there. However, he knew that now he had been through them, he would be able to follow the same path again easily. Not that that would help him if he needed to get somewhere else in the place.

“Here’s the girl’s dressing rooms, that’s where they usually are when they’re not rehearsing.” The woman walked up to the door and opened it a crack, blocking him from seeing anything from warm, strong light emanating from inside. The sounds of girls chattering was loud as the woman yelled “Is everyone decent in here?!”

“Yes!”

“Yeah!”

“Annabelle’s never decent!”

“Oh, ha ha!”

The box office worker sighed and poked her head in. She pulled it back out again as she opened the door wide and told him, “it’s safe. You’ll find her in there.” She bustled off, leaving Riggs to fend for himself.

He didn’t know what he had expected when the woman said “dressing rooms” but it was not this. The room, which had been opened by an ordinary size door, was immense. The sides of the room were lined with large mirrors like in a ballet studio, only with a wide shelf in front of them instead of a barre. In the center of the room were couches and lounge chairs on which lay no less than fifteen girls in various states of recline. Luckily, he knew which one of these chatterboxes he was looking for. If he hadn’t, however, he saw it would have been obvious from the way that the girl was dramatically arranged on the farthest chaise lounge with her checkered green skirt deliberately fanned out over her and her brown hair perfectly arranged that she considered herself the “diva”. Not to mention the wholly unnecessary black lace fan she waved herself with and gestured widely with as she talked. Riggs made his way over to her unhesitatingly. She ignored him until he came to stand directly in front of her, and then she slowly turned her too large eyes to fix on him. After a moment’s silence where she made it abundantly clear that he should introduce himself, he spoke.

“My pardons, madame, for interruptin, but you commissioned a portrait—“

“Commissioned? What arre you talking about?” the girl breathed

“You are the diva Aiydeein, we spoke last night at the—“

“Oh, of courrse, how silly of me!” She tittered. “You told me that you had been hirred as a prresent by one of my admirrerrs!” she rolled her eyes at the girls around her, “I just get so much attention! Ah well.” She turned her head back to Riggs. “Why don’t we adjourn to someplace morre comfortable to discuss this?”

He inclined his head and followed her as she rose and with great airs flounced out of the room. Following her, he found himself in a smaller, but by no means small, dressing room, ornately decorated with black and red draperies. A rack of ornate costumes off to one side and another set of lounge chairs and couches, which Aiydeein proceeded to drape across.

“Madame, when you hired me last night at the pub—“

She interrupted again. “Please, let us speak no more of it, you are herre now and I am eternally grrateful that you are, my dear.” She smiled prettily.

“Is this your dressing room? Do you wish to be painted—“

“No, well, that is, not yet, this is the primma donna’s drressing rroom.

“So this belongs to Miss MacDonald?”

“Oh, Issy, she won’t mind me using it for a moment orr two to chat with a handsome young man.”

“Is this where you wish to be painted? You said there would be an easel—”

“Oh, no, you’rre not going to paint me now, silly! I will have a rroom aaall set up, and I’ll be in my costume from the operra. Speaking of, you simply must attend tonight, it’s the opening and I insist you become familiarr with my characterr before you try to paint her. You simply must capturre her soul! Return tomorrow, after you have seen the opera!”

“You want me to see it—“

“So you can capture the soul of the character. Don’t worrry, I shall arrange a seat to be reserved for you. Now, please, bid me adieu, I must begin to prepare for my debut tonight!”

Riggs nodded, keeping his face neutral as he bowed and left the room.

[Maestro]

It had been a while since Esmond had gone to an opera. He'd heard a lot of good things about Morpheus' Opera House, but recently, their lead soprano had been out of commission. Now, she was back and Aida had been chosen to welcome her back. Even in the midst of the famine, the company was still performing, but more for charity than for profit, at the moment.

He was looking forward to seeing a good show; the last one he'd been to had been less than excellent. And things like that always bothered him. Tonight looked promising, though; the lead was back and apparently, the di Incubi was debuting a new soprano.

Settling into his seat, he glanced at his program, reading over the cast bios. Then the lights dimmed and the show started. He listened contently to the lead called Iseabail MacDonald and the rest of the cast, but when it came time for the new soprano to sing, he visibly cringed. While Iseabail's voice had been pure and her tone beautiful, Aiydeein's notes were just slightly off; a casual listener probably would not have been able to tell, but Esmond was a connoisseur of music and he noticed everything.

Every time Aiydeein sang, Esmond winced, though he tried not to. After so much of her voice, intermission couldn't come quickly enough. And yet, there was so much more that he could enjoy; he had to stick it out, for the sake of the beauty in the production. But Aiydeein would not be singing in another lead role, that was for certain.

[skittles]

Riggs watched around him, fascinated as he always was not only by the opera being performed onstage, but the faces of those that the stage lamps spilled light onto. As he watched, he noticed three things. First, the majority of the audience was clearly enjoying the performance, due, no doubt to the talents of the gorgeous Iseabail MacDonald. Second, there was something…not quite right about the other harmonics being produced, something he would pinpoint, and then lose, like the whine of a very faint and far off train. Third, when those harmonics were off, a few people in the audience would clearly pick up on it, with varying degrees of facial ticks and winces to express their aural discomfort. One of the most noticeable of those was the patron who sat immediately to his left. The distinguished older looking gentleman, who had a definite air of gentility about him, was severely discomfited by the off notes, although he politely tried to hide this sentiment. Riggs inwardly grinned, you can’t hide that from me, sir. You seem to pick up a lot more on this…disturbance of the peace…than I do. I’ll have to see whether I can’t get an explanation of what’s wrong here from yerself.

When the curtain was closed to signal the intermission, Riggs found himself suddenly alone. The man obviously could not wait to be rid of the amiss notes, and had vacated his seat almost before the curtain was all the way closed. Fearing that he might have lost his chance to talk to the man if he had decided to leave, Riggs found himself striding quickly up the aisle and out to the foyer to see if he could spot the man before he disappeared completely. Scanning the crowd, he didn’t see him at first, but on the second sweep he spotted the man at the bar purchasing what looked to be a fairly expensive wine. He moved cautiously over to the man, keeping him in sight, but letting him finish his transaction and take a few sips of his wine before he moved into the man’s field of vision to casually approach the bar.

“Excuse me, sir. I am a great fan of the arts, although my talents in them lie somewha’ elsewhere than the musical realm. I mention this because I noticed something amiss in the music, and that you seem to notice it too. Being that you h’are a gentleman and obviously of intelligence, I thought you might be more attuned to such things than myself. So I wondered if you might offer your h‘opinion in conjecture with me about the source of the disruption?” He was aware that he was choosing his words carefully, although not sure why he was doing so. True, he loved the invention of a well chosen phrase more than one would guess from his lower class accent, but this was something different. There was something about the man that made him want to straighten up and pay attention.

[Maestro]

And this was only the first intermission; there was another to go. Esmond was definitely going to need a good meal and a good wine after this. Ah, but the good wine could be reminded right now. He made his way to the bar and bought a glass of their finest Chianti. Taking a sip, he closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the taste. And then he heard someone speaking to him. Opening his eyes and turning in the direction of the speaker, he instantly took note of the man’s accent, filing it away for later use.

“Yes, there is certainly something amiss,” he began, taking another sip of his wine. Oh, that was good. Very good year. “My opinion would not be useful to you unless you are searching for facts, young man. The fact of the matter is that the new soprano, the one that was boasted of, is really rather atrocious, if you listen carefully. Of course, if one is not paying attention, nothing will seem amiss.” But she was just enough off to be glaringly obvious and quite painful.

“And that accent of yours, Cockney, isn’t it?” If there was one thing that Esmond was good at, it was recognizing accents. Granted, he was good at a lot of things, but that’s beside the point. “You’re choosing your words carefully…are you afraid I’ll disapprove of you otherwise?” he asked, intrigued. It was partly the fact that this man had approached him about the music and also because he was taking such care to say things properly. This young man could turn out to be very interesting, very interesting indeed.

[skittles]

Riggs inwardly recoiled as the older man spoke out what Riggs had been wondering himself. He tried to shake off the feeling of being found out that came from the man realizing he was putting effort into impressing him. After all, let him believe that you admire him and were nervous about talking to him, most men of stature would rather be approached by lackeys than equals or betters anyway.

Trying to maintain a cavalier attitude, he smiled. “Oh, well, I had been hoping you wouldn’t dismiss me right off. As ya said, I’m cockney and a gentleman such as yeself might not associate with me if your thinking from the start that I’m not educated.” He inclined his head. The man seemed to be receptive, even congenial towards him, and somehow Riggs felt as if he had gained some ground.

“My initial feeling seems to be accurate, though, you did know where the disruptive notes was originated. An' facts are just what I was looking for, so I'm much obliged to you for enlightening me. It doesn’t surprise me one bit that the silly girl can’t sing, just shows she’s even more repugnant than her personality h’indicated.” He cleared his throat as the thought occurred to him that he hadn’t a clue what this electrifying man’s name was. “Now, see, for all my carefulness I’ve gone and faux pa-ed anyway, I ‘aven’t introduced myself, nor found out your name. I’m Reginald, always better known as Riggs.” He smiled, ready to shake the man's hand if it was offered.

[Maestro]

“Dr. Esmond Lecter,” he responded, shaking the young man’s hand. And while it was true that the lack of introduction had bordered on impolite, Riggs had remedied the situation as soon as he had realized his error. Points in your favor, kiddo. “Good to meet you, Reginald. Or would you prefer Riggs?” The way he had worded his introduction led Esmond to believe the latter, but he would ask, all the same.

“I usually let people make an impression on me before I judge them.” But if you made a bad impression (for example, as Aiydeein just had), then things were bound to be worse for you for being acquainted with Esmond. “And despite your accent, I can tell that you are well educated.” He observed the younger man, taking another sip of his Chianti. Mmm, this bottle was a very good year; he’d have to come by after the show was over and purchase the whole thing.

Ah, but the young man was still talking to him, about that atrocious “debut” soprano. “You have met the girl, then, I presume?” he asked, a bit intrigued. But he didn’t want to dwell on the awful too much. “The lead has a rather exquisite voice, though, which makes the rest of it bearable. And rest assured, there are ways to keep Aiydeein from another lead role."

[skittles]

"Nice to meet your acquaintance Doctor, and yes, Riggs if ya please." He shook his head. "Yes, I've had the unpleasant h'experiance of Aiydeein's company. She solicited my services, such as it were, to paint her a portrait, unsurprisingly of herself, and to say it was ordered by a suitor as a gift."

Riggs then smiled and chuckled. "I'm afraid to say the silly chit won't like what I paint. She asked me to see the show so i could "study her character and paint her soul". I plan to do just that."His eyes gleamed blue for just a second, then settled back to grey as his features settled into a look of curiosity.

"But tell me, how do you mean, 'there are ways' of keepin her off the stage again? I would do much more than is decent to keep that magpie from ever singing with the accomplished prima donna MacDonald."'


OOC: Sorry, that took me much longer than it should have. I dunno about you, but my week has been ca-razy! I haven't gotten in before 2am a single night!

[Maestro]

So, the disgrace that called herself an opera singer was planning on using false pretenses to obtain a portrait. That was decidedly in bad taste, but he didn’t expect anything else from a woman that pretentious. He hadn’t met her, true, but he could tell a lot about a person from the way they portrayed themselves, even if that person was on a stage and he was in the audience.

“Oh, there are the traditional channels one can go through; the artistic director, the producers, etc, but that takes a long time and is rarely as effective as … other means,” Esmond murmured, musing over some things. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t kill Aiydeein just yet; the young man had to paint her portrait in order to receive any fee for services rendered and it would be rude of him to deprive Riggs of that income. “These other means, while extremely successful are … rather messy.” He left it up to Riggs to interpret that statement. After all, he could have just meant legally messy.


OOC: Hey, that's okay. While you were busy partying, I was busy dying of strange rashes and potentially Lyme disease! Had a fun weekend, though, so that was cool. Here you go!

[skittles]

Riggs nodded absentmindedly. He had hoped this doctor would have dropped some hints as to how well connected he was. As much as he liked Lecter already, it never hurt to catalogue an acquaintance’s standing in the pecking order. “Ah, well, there’s only so much one can involve themselves in. I imagine ye’ve got your hands in plenty of projects.” Riggs looked around. “Well, I shouldn’t be monopolizing of any more of your time if I can help it, and it looks like intermission is just about over. Pleasure meeting you, sir. I hope to run into you again, as I have made up my mind to attend these performances much more often, as it seems there has been no exaggeration in the fame of Miss MacDonald.”

[Maestro]

Esmond smiled, pleased with this young man’s courtesy. It was so refreshing, after so much rudeness. “Quite right,” he said, remembering what he would have to do once he arrived at his own residence after the opera. But now was not the time for that; he needed to dismiss himself politely and make his way back to his seat for the painful yet intensely enjoyable second act.

“Oh, I am quite certain that we will meet again, young Riggs,” Esmond murmured, intending to look him up (his history, if it existed) at some point in the near future. “Indeed, she is quite lovely. I look forward to her arias.” Finishing his glass of Chianti (almost tenderly, he was enjoying it so much), he bowed slightly. “Now, if you will excuse me, I will be heading back to my seat.” He knew that they were about to flash the lights and he wanted to be in his seat with as much time before curtain as possible.

[skittles]

The rest of the performance flew by in a pleasant haze. Riggs was not able to work with Aiydeein the next day or the day after, as she sent word that the performances the next two nights would be consuming her attentions and she would not have the “psionic energy to project the persona” that she wanted to be painted. As a result, Riggs had some time to finish a few of his other projects early and collect payment enough to purchase tickets for both nights' performances.

Each performance, Riggs found more and more pleasure in the company's musical execution of the opera, since after he had identified the origin of the mis-sung notes, he could easily mentally block them out. To his chagrin, however, he found that he was becoming extremely enchanted with the acting, singing and presence of Miss MacDonald. Wonderful, just wonderful, you ugly hound dog. Fill your 'ead with thoughts of beauty and sweetness ye’ll never attain. Always great to have a painfully impossible daydream to waste time on.

As he went in for the first few sessions on the painting, he found pleasure in the simplicity of the lines and curves he was copying onto the canvas, and reveled in the singular pleasure of being able to ask Aiydeein not to speak, for the sake of the painting of course. Unfortunately, as the canvas took on his vision, Aiydeein began to take it upon herself to comment on his every stroke, despite his requests for silence. She cooed over his latest iteration of her body, which was draped with her most revealing outfit from the opera and sprawled languorously over a chaise lounge.

“I knew it, I knew frrom the first moment I laid eyes on you that that beneath that rrrougish face you possessed the eye of an artist! Obviously, you know beauty if you werre drrawn to me!” He had pronounced himself finished for the day and was meticulously cleaning up his painting kit as she stood stretching and admiring the day’s work.

She laughed, a surprisingly pleasant note, “I mean, of courrse, I don’t mean to sound as conceited as all that, I just acknowledge that I have been given certain gifts. I think too many people hide behind false modesty to get complements that they know they don’t deserve. There are times when you have to just let a worrk speak for itself, and there are times when a little presentation is called for.”

Riggs, who had finished cleaning his brushes and had been massaging his cramped hands, said nothing, merely bobbing his head at appropriate moments. Then he heard a knock from the closed door of the room they had been working in. Aiydeein positively floated to the door, then opened it with her left hand while her right flung back the gauzy sleeves she was wearing in a manner of grandiose presentation. It was obvious this interruption was not a surprise to her.

“Oh, Lizzy, therre you arre, darrling!” Lizzy entered confidently, followed by four other girls that were vaguely familiar to Riggs as members of the opera’s chorus. “Oh, girls, I’m so glad you came, you simply must see the gorgeous rendering of my figure that Riggsy has been working so hard on!”

Riggs froze. It had been bad enough to endure comments on his work in progress, as he couldn’t find an effective way to keep Aiydeein from looking. But this gaggle of girls who had clearly been invited for the sole purpose of viewing his rough, unfinished piece set his teeth on edge. He rose from his chair stiffly, feet squarely planted on the ground with mental glue, forcibly kept there by strength of will in order to prevent him from rushing over and snatching the canvas off the stand and covering it, which would disturb the wet paint.

Aiydeein and the girls, unobservant of the discomfort they were causing him, all crowded around the painting and began talking. Silly as their comments were, they cut him to his artists soul, where all mental guards were unable to take hold of or protect the glowing creativity that he poured into his work. He felt like he was being ripped apart as the flock of preening girls turned their critical gazes away from each other for once and onto his child.

“Well, it is beautiful, Aiydeein, but what happened to the background? Is it meant to be all watery and indistinguishable?”

“No, I think that part is supposed to be the seat she is on, but the bottom leg is only sketched in, and it looks a little wonky.”

“I love the colour of the gown there!” said Lizzy, but she frowned as she turned back to look at Aiydeein, “But its not quite the same shade as the real thing, is it? I mean of course,” she hurried to soothe the diva, “You look stunning, but with your beauty so apparent, it doesn’t take much to bring it out.”

I haven’t finished it yet, I have barely touched the edges of the canvas.
I always paint over the sketches, they are there to guide me and I don’t need them to be completely accurate.
There is a glaze that goes over it, stupid bint, that darkens all the shades in the painting, so I have to pick a lighter colour to begin with! Riggs kept his face neutral and his hands behind his back where no one could see them clenching and unclenching with dismay, but he could do nothing to keep his mind from crying out.

Finally he took a deep breath and said in a low, even tone that cut clearly through their high whining voices, “Ladies, I ‘umbly beg you, let me finish my work, it will be presented for all to see, no doubt in the Lady Aiydeein’s dressing room or chamber. For now, let me worry about the imperfections that I have not been able to address yet.” He stepped forward, meaning to gently interpose his body between the girl’s barbed tongues and his work, as if he could offer his physical self to absorb the pain of the girls’ comments.

“Oh, we’re not criticizing you, deary, it’s only girlish prattle,” Aiydeein seemed to dismiss his protestations summarily with her tone. It seemed that once the girls had entered the room, her priority had changed and the gushing complements towards him had dried up. Then she threw a comment back over her shoulder, “and I always say, a bit of constructive criticism is worth its weight in gold. You might be able to learn something from having your work surveyed.”

Riggs, rendered completely speechless, bowed low. Then, picking up his kit, he swiftly crossed the room and left, flying down the corridors and the stairs, retreating from the impossibility of the situation and the cruel comments both. His expression seemed made of stone as he hurried back to his apartment. Once inside, he immediately grabbed a bottle of something from the liquor cabinets. With the first sip, the self imposed haze of politeness melted, and he felt the full weight of the anger he had hidden so well infuse his consciousness. The anger, like the whiskey, burned as it flowed, but brought with it a sweet salving numbness to the hurt. Anger focused him as the whiskey relaxed him. A second, then third mouthful, and that was all he needed.

He found his cleared head suddenly focusing on an image, a sketch of Aiydeein. However, this mental sketch had little in common with the painting that he had been pouring so much energy into lately. In the image, Aiydeein’s body was stretched, her arms pulled above her head, and a snake was winding itself around her neck. Large wings were in the process of bursting from her back in a spray of blood, and her face was twisted in beautiful agony as she breathed her last.

There are ways.

An echo of conversation drifted through his mind. An encouragement.

“These other means, while extremely successful are … rather messy.”

Had the older man grinned slightly as his cultured voice had intoned those words? Riggs thought so, remembering that he had felt somewhat puzzled at the statement. Well, intention aside, he felt no confusion now; Esmond’s words meant exactly what Riggs wanted them to mean. With sudden determination, Riggs realized that there was a power behind his ownership of the phrase. There are ways for the determined to get what they want. And now that he thought about it, that last part—

messy

“I can do messy.”

He laughed aloud as he rarely did in public, as he realized that he had never once killed just for his own pleasure. Some part of his mind acknowledged that this was rather odd for a self proclaimed semi-psychopath. Just as he rarely drew or painted without having a client request the work, he had always waited for a commission to come from elsewhere to fulfill his bloodthirst. Well, it seemed that he had acquired a commission from within himself for the first time. The wounded artistic mind inside was crying, and he would soothe it with blood.