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brigdhTitle: Principia Parva Sunt
Author: Brigdh
Ratings/Warnings: PG-13/T. Kissing.
Disclaimer: The Benjamin January mysteries are by Barbara Hambly.
Notes: A million, million thanks to my betas,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dhampyresa, egelantier, and Morbane. Written for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
shipswap exchange, for somebraveapollo.
Summary: Little things, things that in France would have been unremarkable, but since he’d left January had had to lower his expectations. Sefton's conversation, the music, and the gin were like pieces of Paris returned to him – a Paris that hadn't been destroyed by Ayasha's death.
First meetings for Benjamin, Hannibal, and Rose.
(Set pre-canon, but taking off from the flashback scene at the beginning of Days of the Dead where Ben and Hannibal meet.)
5,832 words. Also available on AO3
Principia Parva Sunt
January decided, as he took the first sip of the gin the fiddler had offered him, that getting drunk would be a wonderful idea. He hadn't been drunk in a very long time, but he remembered how it had felt, and he wanted that now: it would be a bit like being angry, a bit like being happy, and, most importantly, not at all like grief. The gin was terrible, but it did provide relief from the aching loss of Ayasha's death, as though the scouring burn of nearly-raw alcohol transformed inside his head and chest to the softness of cotton, muffling his pain and wrapping it up for later.
He had had the intention of taking some desperate action when he’d come to the waterfront that night, but like a man snatched from the jaws of a monster, he felt a wild, almost incredulous relief to find himself still whole. He recognized it as the joy that sometimes came on people after funerals; a frantic, reckless emotion that could spur one to laugh or shout or sing, to do anything at all. Death had been close enough to touch, but he, January, would live – and for the moment, he was glad of it. Life was something to drink to.
And so he raised the gin bottle for the second of many swallows, and determinedly turned the conversation to lighter matters. He and the fiddler spoke of music, books, and, once they had exchanged names, shared connections.
"Janvier? Are you by chance related to the lovely Dominique Janvier?" The fiddler – he had introduced himself as Hannibal Sefton – replaced the violin beneath his chin and played a snippet of music that January recognized as the Per la gloria d'adorarvi aria.
"You know Dominique?" he asked, surprised and slightly disapproving. They must have met at the Blue Ribbon Balls; January couldn’t think of any other plausible explanation. Sefton didn't look wealthy enough for that, but appearances could be deceiving, and he had spoken her name with too much familiarity for it to be secondhand knowledge. January didn’t like the thought of drinking with a man who might have contemplated bidding for Minou’s favors, or passed on her contract because he didn’t consider her worth the cost.
But Sefton grinned at him. "Not that way, to my deepest regret. However, perhaps if she was to hear a complimentary tale of me from her... cousin?"
"She's my sister."
"Even better. I will declare your name to my brothers, in the middle of the church I will sing praise to you. Well. To my sisters, in this case."
January laughed. He couldn’t take affront at Sefton's manner; the tension he’d felt dissipated in the face of such absurdity. "I don't think it would do much good. She seems very attached to that planter of hers."
"Beautiful and faithful. My love grows." He played on slowly; the music was as exquisite as before, though he seemed to give it no more attention than if he'd been tunelessly drumming his fingers on a table. "You look alike. I didn't see it at first, but now that I've had my attention drawn to the subject, I can discern the family resemblance."
"You can?" Dominique was short and willowy, with the sharp chin and delicate features of a cat, if it happened to be a particularly beautiful cat. And she was fair-skinned. According to the custom of the country, that mattered more than any other difference between them.
"In the eyes," Sefton said, and didn't elaborate.
She wasn't the only acquaintance they shared. Sefton knew John Davis – unsurprising, for a musician in New Orleans – and several others whom January had played with, years ago. Though he must have been curious about January’s presence on the waterfront in the deepest part of the night, he asked no further questions and politely followed wherever January led the conversation. It didn't even seem to occur to him not to grant January that measure of respect, and others as well. Despite his threadbare clothes and the disreputable state of his hair, Sefton had the polished manners and easy conversation of one who had been thoroughly schooled in comportment, and he treated January with the courtesy due an equal. He leaned forward to brush his fingers over January's arm when he wanted to emphasize some point he was making; he smiled when January, out of practice with the customs of New Orleans, met his eyes; and he shared the gin bottle companionably, not troubling to turn its mouth so that his lips wouldn't touch the spot where January had drunk.
Little things, things that in France would have been unremarkable, but since he’d left January had had to lower his expectations. Sefton's conversation, the music, and the gin were like pieces of Paris returned to him – a Paris that hadn't been destroyed by Ayasha's death. He could almost let himself believe that they were sitting on a bridge over the Seine; at this hour of the night, the only sound was their voices and the murmur of the river around the pilings, and one river sounded much like another. It was the smell that gave away the truth. The waterfront of New Orleans smelled of Mississippi mud and steamboat soot, and from somewhere far away came traces of wood-smoke and burnt sugar, hints of the coming roulaison.
Sefton coughed, caught his breath, and then abruptly coughed again, more violently this time; he hunched over and pressed a hand to his chest to try to still the fit. Without thinking, January caught him just above the elbow as he teetered and came close to falling off their shared crate. Sefton didn't jerk away from the uninvited touch of a colored man, but leaned gratefully into it, allowing January to steady him until he recovered. "Thank you," he said, as soon as he had control of his voice.
"It's nothing."
"To you, perhaps. I appreciate it, nonetheless." Sefton’s gaze flickered down to January’s hand before returning to his face, and January belatedly released him and reached for the gin bottle.
It was surprisingly light when he lifted it. He shook it, and only a little liquid sloshed in the bottom. "I suppose I should go back home before anyone notices I've been gone so long. I hate to imagine what my mother is going to say."
"Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.” Sefton took the bottle and turned it upside down for a last drink, then set it aside and looked back up at January, his black eyes bright with interest and a crooked smile on his face. “I have always found a poor reputation to be much more satisfying when you’ve actually committed a few wicked deeds. I could recommend some of my favorite vices, if you’ve no ideas of your own."
Sefton was flirting with him. Had been for some time, in fact. January recognized it with a sensation of slowly growing surprise, which seemed to spread through him until it washed up against the confines of his skin, leaving every inch of his body awake. Sefton had done or said nothing inappropriate, but he sat very close, had laughed frequently and had coaxed January into laughing with him; all of his friendliness had had the tenor of an open invitation.
And now that January had realized it, there was a question to be answered: What am I going to do? He should pretend to be still unaware – look away, go back home, and forget that he had been tempted. That was surely the appropriate thing to do when propositioned by a strange man met on the waterfront, never mind how much January didn’t want to be alone or the fact that said man had, in a way, just saved his life. His other option was to do something that would have seemed impossible, if he hadn't had too much grief, gin, and injustice.
He reached out and laid a hand on Sefton's knee – lightly, ready to draw back if he had been mistaken – and Sefton's smile deepened. He leaned nearer, his shoulder brushing against January's, though he left the last inch between them for January to keep or close. January could feel Sefton’s breath, the air warm against January's own mouth.
January kissed him. It was soft and brief, more a query than an answer. Sefton's lips were thin, and stubble rasped against the hand January lifted to his jaw, but it wasn't unpleasant. They pulled back, watching one another's reactions carefully. Sefton's expression held a shy anticipation, and January suspected his own was rather similar. But he made himself say, "I don't – that is, let me be clear. I'm not seeking a...." He hesitated, searching for a word that didn't sound insulting.
"I know," Sefton answered quietly before he found one. "And if you're not interested, of course I will not insist. But I'm not asking for anything much. Just an hour or so of – of friendship. I'd not expect anything of you afterward." He smiled ruefully. "Or we could play cards instead. Gambling is another of my favorite vices.”
January laughed and put his hand to Sefton’s cheek; the skin was warm and soft under his fingers, and Sefton leaned into the touch. Gently, January kissed him again. For a few minutes they kissed softly, languidly, until Sefton moved closer and his mouth opened beneath January's. He tasted of the gin, of course – a strong, scouring taste that was nonetheless much more appealing from him than it had been from the bottle. January began to touch him with greater certainty, gripping the long, slender line of his thigh and tightening a hand around his arm. Sefton was skeletally thin beneath his clothes, but he kissed with enthusiasm and skill, rubbing his hands against January's chest then putting his arm around January's neck to pull him closer.
The crate they sat on was part of a pile which hid them from easy view from the levee – not that many people were about, since the city was still half-empty for summer. It was as much privacy as they were likely to find, and January let his kisses grow bolder. He took hold of Sefton's chin and tilted his face up to kiss the underside of his jaw, his Adam's apple, to explore the smooth column of his throat for the spots where he was most sensitive. January moved up to his ear and bit the outer rim, and Sefton jerked a little in his arms – toward, not away. He murmured sweet-sounding encouragement as January did it again: "And the roof of thy mouth – ah! – like the best wine – Benjamin, yes –"
January pulled away, startled at how intimate his own name had sounded.
"If I may call you that," Sefton added politely.
"Can I call you Hannibal?" His tone was deliberately rude as he took the white man's first name.
Rather than taking offense, Sefton grinned. "I would be pleased if you did. It may be odd of me, but I do feel that I should be on a first-name basis with anyone I kiss." He shifted back on the crate and lay down, holding his arm up for January. January leaned over him, and Sefton’s – or Hannibal’s – hand landed on his shoulder, his body a warm, solid line against January’s side. "And I do want, very much, to kiss you," Hannibal said, almost in a whisper. He reached up and touched January’s cheek, then slid his hand back into January’s hair, his fingertips points of light pressure against January’s scalp.
January dropped his head to meet Hannibal’s lips; his mouth was hot and eager, and they kissed until January stopped thinking about names or anything else. It was like music – a safe place to put his soul, a place separate from pain and anger, at least for a while. He lost himself in the kissing, a place where nothing mattered except such simple physical sensations.
When they parted, the sky to the east had brightened to a misty grey, the first birds had begun to sing, and January could have called himself happy.
***
Rose woke early. She preferred to do her share of the housework while her students were still sleeping; once awake, they required nearly all of her attention, making even the simplest tasks take twice as long. Moreover, she enjoyed mornings. They gave the world a sense of newness and cleanliness that had always appealed to her: the air still and cool, the light white and diffuse. The house was not quite silent around her as she dressed and put up her hair; the faint, normal sounds of floorboards creaking above and pans clattering below assured her that all was well.
Mara, whom Rose had hired to help with the cooking and cleaning, must have let herself in. It would have been wiser to save the money that she paid to Mara, but there wouldn't be enough time in the day to teach her students if she had to feed four growing girls and do their dishes and laundry as well. Besides, Rose admitted to herself, it was pleasant to enter the kitchen and be greeted by the smell of freshly ground coffee beans and the sound of water in the kettle already nearing a boil. Her budget was tight right now, but in a few weeks people would begin to return to town for the winter, and she would have more students, and with them more money. She could afford to avoid housework: a small victory, but one she found extremely gratifying.
Mara glanced at Rose as she came through the door, a guarded expression on her face. "There a white man sitting on your back gallery."
Rose stopped in the middle of the floor, wariness shattering her good mood. "What is he doing?"
Mara shrugged. "Just sitting, seemed like. I think maybe he's asleep."
The man was slumped against the railing like someone asleep, but when Rose cautiously opened the door to check, he turned his head at the creak of the hinges. It was Hannibal Sefton, whom she knew and who was entirely unthreatening, though she had no idea what he was doing on her back gallery at dawn. She guessed from his appearance that he hadn’t slept the night before: his clothes had the soft, creased look of those that have been worn for too many hours, and there were purple shadows beneath his eyes. He stood unsteadily, but despite the indications of illness or insomnia he seemed happy, bowing to her with playful gallantry.
Rose lifted her eyebrows. "What are you doing?"
"I thought today was when we had arranged for me to instruct your young scholars in the intricacies of Latin grammar. It was today, wasn’t it? If it was yesterday, I am deeply conscience-stricken, but if it was tomorrow, it’s not too late to correct my mistake."
"It was today," she said, "but I hadn't planned on the lesson being before breakfast."
"Ah." Hannibal looked slightly abashed. "You see, I have found myself temporarily without a home. I thought perhaps it would cause no trouble if I passed a few hours on your steps. But if it bothers you, I could go away and come again later today."
"Why didn’t you knock?”
"And miss the sights? You have a lovely view of the dawn, you know. Of the – well, on this particular morning, mostly of the clouds. Morning fair / Came forth with pilgrim steps in amice gray."
Rose studied him for a moment. He leaned heavily on the railing, holding to it with a pale, white-knuckled hand; his accent had thickened, slightly blurring his words; he seemed to be having difficulties keeping his eyes completely open. He was, she suspected, very drunk, though to his credit he showed no sign of the crudeness or violence that she associated with those who drank too much. She stepped back and held the door wide for him. "Next time, knock."
Hannibal met her eyes in surprise and then smiled; it lit up his face and confirmed that she had been right to make the offer, but there was also something in his expression that made her glance away, as though it should have been private.
In the kitchen, she introduced him to Mara, though Hannibal had been to the school once before and Rose thought that they had already met. She was right, for the first thing Mara said was, "I didn't recognize you in the dark, sir. Sitting out there like some sort of thief – were you trying to frighten me to death?"
Hannibal took her hand and pressed it between both of his, its covering of soap bubbles providing an effective ward against the kiss he had obviously intended. "My most sincere apologies, Madame Barin. I would never have frightened you intentionally, but how could I have known that you are so diligent as to begin your work even before the first cockcrow?"
"The first cockcrow," she said, imitating his lilt and recovering her hand, "was an hour ago."
Hannibal flung his hands out like an actor in a melodrama. "As observant as she is lovely! If I had a house to take you to, I would woo you away from Mademoiselle Vitrac."
Rose rolled her eyes at Mara and handed Hannibal a cup of coffee. Pouring another for herself, she said, “I’m taking him into the schoolroom and out of your way, Mara. Would you set an extra place at breakfast, please?”
“I’ve only got cornbread and buttermilk.”
“Perfect,” Hannibal said. “Cornbread and buttermilk are exactly what I would have chosen for myself. And yours, I have no doubt, are like manna and honey.”
Mara snorted. “Get out,” she said, amusement obvious in her voice. “Flattery don’t bake bread.”
Hannibal followed Rose into the next room. The full bookshelves lining the walls caught his attention, and he paused to admire them while she sat herself at the writing table, setting aside a forgotten hair-ribbon, a sheet of paper with a half-finished geometry problem, and a penknife: all of it the usual debris of a household full of people who were more interested in starting something new than in tidying. She was proud of her library, built slowly over the years through the greedy hoarding of any extra money and the careful perusal of secondhand sales. She knew Hannibal did the same, and so she felt a warm fellowship as he tilted his head to read a title, rather than bracing herself for disapproving or uncomprehending questions.
She had met him at Customhouse sale. He had come up to her while she was holding a volume of Polybius; she’d half-expected him to ask if she was aware that the book was in neither French nor English, as if she might have selected it without noticing the Ancient Greek on the cover. But he had surprised her by asking mildly, "If you decide not to buy that one, could I have it? I had a copy once, but I left it in Boston, and dear as Polybius is to my heart, even he can't lure me back to that town."
She’d shaken her head and said, in a voice that was polite but firm, "I'm sorry, but I promised one of my students that I would find her a copy."
He hadn't seemed put off by her refusal; his smile, which she had taken for the civil mask he wore to make his request, stayed in place. "Far be it from me to prevent a student from making Polybius's acquaintance. You're a teacher, then?"
"Yes. Are you one also?" He certainly looked like most of the teachers she knew. The shabbiness of his clothes spoke of someone who never had enough money, though his recognition of Greek suggested that he’d been well-educated. He had long hair tied back by a ribbon, much like a professor she’d once had who was excessively fond of the Romantics and in the habit of styling himself after Byronic heroes despite his advancing years. This man seemed far too cheerful – and too self-aware – for that, at least.
He had laughed, almost as though he'd read her thoughts. "No. No parent would trust me with their daughter – or their son, to tell the truth. I would only teach them terrible habits. I've never been very good with responsibilities, not even when I was a schoolboy myself."
Rose didn't tend to like men who proclaimed themselves unfit to be near girls, but her suspicions had been offset by her excitement; he was obviously familiar with Classical history, and she’d wanted to ask him what he thought of Polybius's concept of bias, and if he had read Livy as well, and perhaps even tell him of the idea she'd had of making a scale model of one of Archimedes's machines. She had missed being able to speak of her studies with the fellow scholars she had known in New York; her students listened well but couldn't suggest new works for her to read, or find the flaws in her arguments, the way a colleague could. She had known for some time that she was lonely, but she’d thought it a minor inconvenience, one she could easily live with for the sake of having her own school and being able to do as she wished. But her heart had betrayed her, racing in her chest not from fear but with the spark of interest that came when meeting a stranger who shared one's interests, one who might become a friend.
Perhaps Hannibal had been lonely too, for he had talked to her all that afternoon, and before they had parted she had told him of the Latin papers she'd put off grading so she could come and look at books instead, and he had volunteered to help.
She put aside the memory as he finally turned from the bookshelves and came to take the seat beside her. Despite the marks of sleeplessness on his face, he had a complacent air this morning; he reminded her of some small bird, a sparrow or chickadee, full of seed and with its feathers fluffed.
“You seem pleased about something,” she said.
“I am.” He pulled the hair-ribbon from the pile of clutter and began to play with it, tying knots around his fingers. “I had a very enjoyable evening.”
“On my steps?”
“Oh, no. I’d only arrived there a little before you found me. I spent most of the night in company – did you know there’s a new pianist in town?”
“Is he any good?”
“Yes. Well,” Hannibal quickly corrected himself, “I haven’t actually heard him play yet. But if his music is anything like his conversation, he must be very good.” He shrugged and added, “At any rate, he can’t be as bad as Rich Maissie.”
Rose, who had never learned much about music herself, merely made an inquiring noise and sipped her coffee. She already knew that Hannibal was an inveterate gossip, and though he could speak glibly about Homeric figures or Roman politicians, he took the greatest joy in speaking of people he knew. Most of whom, it seemed, were women. But even when the topic was scandalous or even inappropriate, he never spoke with censure or malicious motives. He talked about people simply because he was genuinely interested in them, and so he told their stories in a way that was itself interesting. Rose had usually been bored by gossip, but she enjoyed his; Hannibal saw the world with the same compassionate irony as herself, and found a similar amusement in its pretensions.
This morning he told her of how he'd met this new piano-player, whom he described with effusive quotations in multiple languages as Orpheus-like in his brilliance and grief; Rose took the portrayal with a grain of salt. But even given Hannibal's usual hyperbole, he seemed to have been remarkably impressed by the unnamed man's intelligence and humor; he called him kind and fascinating and earnest in a manner that was probably meant to be humorous, but which instead seemed painfully honest. He grew inward-looking as he spoke, his voice softening and the pauses between his sentences growing longer, until Rose suspected that he might have forgotten her presence. Finally he simply fell silent, as though he had run out of things to say, or perhaps even drifted off. But after a time he added, looking down at the hair ribbon he still idly toyed with, "He had very gentle hands."
"Oh," she said, abruptly rearranging everything she had assumed about Hannibal and his friend.
He jerked his gaze up to her, startled back into awareness. "I shouldn't have said that. Forgive me –"
"It's fine. I have read Catullus’s poetry." Even so, her knowledge of what men might do together had been dry and hypothetical; such things had happened long ago and far away to other people, not here and to someone she knew. The scents of coffee and cornbread filled the air, and sunlight had begun to creep down the wall opposite the window; little details for her to hang onto as her academic understanding shifted into a more genuine comprehension. Hannibal still seemed uncertain, so she smiled reassuringly and said, "It really is all right. In fact, I'm glad you told me." Surprisingly, she was. She was content with their chaste friendship and had no desire for Hannibal to flirt with her, but she found herself pleased to know that someone cared for him in a fashion he so obviously enjoyed.
Hannibal’s fear turned into embarrassment, and he sheepishly pushed his hair back from his shoulders and began to gather it into a queue, tying it with the ribbon. "Well. I hadn't planned to include it in my Latin lesson."
The ribbon was cream muslin with a delicate, cloud-like edging of blonde lace; it was meant to compliment the pastels and off-whites that were worn by girls too young to be out. On Hannibal, it looked like a twist of decorative cake icing, incongruous against his frayed cuffs and the streaks of gray in his hair. Rose bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. "Marie-Neige will want that back, you know."
He blinked in surprise, as though he hadn't quite realized what he was doing. "Oh. I’ll take it out now –"
She shook her head. "Return it tomorrow. You'll need to come back in any event, to see if they actually do any of the work you assign."
He laughed and left the ribbon in his hair. "I'll do that. Thank you." He meant more than the ribbon, she knew, but she only nodded and stood to call the students down to breakfast.
***
A few days passed before Hannibal saw Benjamin again. Hannibal was sitting in the market when he did; he was flush with the sort of cash that meant he had paid his rent – early, for once – and still had enough left to contemplate purchases other than food, medicine, and drink. Of course, he probably would have bought the coffee and pralines even if he hadn't been able to afford them, but this afternoon he needn't even regret doing so. He had claimed ownership of an ideally located table as well: still within the shade of the arcade, but close enough to the sun-lit Place that he could watch the fruit and vegetable vendors, the beggars and the shoppers, the buzz of people around the doors of the Cathedral and the entranced passersby.
Pralines, he had decided, didn't qualify as food in the traditional sense. They weren't in the least filling, and as far as he could discern they had absolutely no purpose beyond sweetness and color. He appreciated them for exactly that reason. He had one of each color – white, brown, and pink – and was choosing which to eat first when he caught sight of Benjamin on the other side of the market.
It was easy to notice him; Benjamin was a remarkably tall man, and dark enough to stand out in a crowd even in New Orleans. He had worn a laborer's corduroy jacket when Hannibal met him on the levee, but today he was formally dressed. Some tailor – Parisian, Hannibal was sure of it – had clearly reached the end of all his trade’s ambition; each cut and stitch of the attire emphasized Benjamin's broad shoulders, and hinted with artistic delicacy at the muscles beneath sleeves and shirt. The coat embraced Benjamin's narrow waist in snug lines smooth as well-carved marble, and further down, long tails framed his slender legs, clad in trousers of gray. His waistcoat was cream silk, the coat itself black wool, though it seemed misguided to Hannibal to give the color that name, when it looked so inadequate against the depth and clarity of Benjamin's skin. He was a paragon of immaculate perfection, faultless in every detail – except for his bare hands.
He did have gloves; the edge of one was just visible emerging from his coat’s pocket, presumably tucked away to avoid spills from the gumbo bowl he held. That small foible turned him from Apollo to just a man who didn't want to do laundry, and Hannibal abandoned passive admiration in favor of direct action: he raised a hand to catch Benjamin's attention.
Benjamin saw him, but there was a reluctant stillness as he looked over, and his response to Hannibal's inviting gesture came only after a pause. Even once he'd reached Hannibal's table, he stood uncomfortably by its side. His hands shifted on the bowl, as a man's will when he holds something hot, though he was otherwise composed.
"Hello, Benjamin," Hannibal said. "Won't you sit with me?"
Benjamin's gaze met his own, then shifted down to take in Hannibal's pralines, and then moved to the bowl he held. "I was about to eat," he said, his voice cool and carefully implying nothing.
"Yes, so am I. Would you like to do so together?" He waved a hand at the crowded market. "I have an excellent table and you seem to have none. It would be churlish of me not to offer to share.”
Benjamin sank slowly into the empty chair, though his posture remained rigid and his shoulders stiff. Hannibal was conscious of a group of people at a nearby table glancing at Benjamin, then back to him with intrusive force. Hannibal ignored them, and said, "I quite like your coat."
Benjamin blinked, as though he hadn't been prepared for mild pleasantries. "Thank you." His hands released their grip on the bowl and he rested them against the table. "I was hired to play at the ball tonight, at the Salle d’Orléans."
"So was I." Hannibal grinned, and was rewarded by Benjamin's gaze softening and focusing on him. "I look forward to hearing you play."
Benjamin smiled; it was a very small expression, no more than a minuscule rise at the corners of his lips, but it gave Hannibal pleasure to see it. Benjamin picked up his spoon and took a bite of the gumbo. "I’m looking forward to being paid. For a while there, I'd nearly given up hope of finding employment."
"In New Orleans? O insensata cura de' mortali – this town would never turn away a good musician. Witness my own presence here."
Benjamin's smile turned wry. "That's only true if you have the right connections."
"Speak no such falsehoods. Polite society absorbed by their own self-serving opinions? – I will not hear such scandal, my good sir."
Benjamin chuckled softly.
As they spoke, they made their way through their respective meals. Other people in the market continued to glance askance at their table, but no one took it upon himself to rescue Hannibal from the ruin of whatever reputation he still had. They talked of the other musicians who would play at the ball that night; some of them Benjamin knew, and the rest Hannibal was happy to describe for him, along with an assessment of their skill at music or their appeal as a companion. He had just finished warning Benjamin about Froissart, the stuffy manager of the Salle who had a tendency to be deeply intolerant on issues such as lateness or musicians availing themselves of the buffet, when Hannibal found himself with half a praline and no desire whatsoever to eat it. He pushed it across the table toward Benjamin in silent offering.
Benjamin had been glancing at him circumspectly for the last few minutes, but apparently the praline was the final encouragement he’d needed. He shook his head at it and took a deep breath. "We should talk about what happened.”
Hannibal, who had guessed that this was coming, nodded acquiescence. Benjamin didn't seem the sort of man who often got drunk on wharves and kissed strangers. It wasn't the formal clothes he wore so much as his awareness of the others around them, his evident concern with how he was perceived. But if he had behaved atypically that night, Hannibal was grateful to have met him on it and not some other day. Love that well, which thou must leave ere long – and one kiss had always been better than none.
“I did enjoy what we did,” Benjamin said quietly, speaking slowly to consider his words. Hannibal appreciated that he was making the effort to be kind. “But still, I should never have done it. I have a wife.” He looked away abruptly, and Hannibal could see the muscles in his jaw bunch. "Had a wife," he corrected after a nearly unendurable pause. His eyes shone in the reddish light of the sunset that he had turned to face, and though his breathing remained steady, Hannibal thought he was forcing it to be so with great strength of will. It wasn't the dry-eyed desperation he had had the other night, but it was grief, and that was painful enough.
Hannibal reached out and laid a hand on Benjamin’s wrist, lightly, in case it was unwanted. Benjamin’s breathing finally broke – not in a sob, but with a great gasp, like a man surfacing from deep water. He put his other hand atop Hannibal’s, pressing his fingers hard. They sat like that for a time, until Benjamin’s shoulders relaxed and he had blinked away any tears. He reclaimed his hands and leaned back in his chair, then said, “Thank you.” The praline caught his eye, and he considered it for a moment, then picked it up and took a bite.
The tension ebbed, and Hannibal asked, “Would you tell me about her?”
Benjamin shook his head. “Not now. We should head to the Salle soon, and if I’ve been speaking of her, I won’t be able to concentrate on the music.” He looked over to Hannibal and then seemed to reconsider. “But some other time, if you truly want.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Hannibal said, and put out his hand to shake.
***
Notes:
Title:
Omnium rerum principia parva sunt.
The beginnings of all things are small.
-Cicero, De Finibus Bonorum et Malorum, V.58
Other Citations:
Per la gloria d'adoravi ("Since Tis Glory to Adore You") from Griselda (1722), an opera by Giovanni Bononcini. It's sung by the male lead, who sings “I will love you even if I have no hope of your loving me in return!”. Here's a nice performance of it. (With violin, even! Which was surprisingly hard to find.)
I will declare your name to my brothers, in the middle of the church I will sing praise to you.
- Hebrews 2:12
Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.
- Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act III, Scene 1
And the roof of thy mouth like the best wine for my beloved,
that goeth down sweetly,
causing the lips of those that are asleep to speak.
- Song of Solomon, 7:9
Till morning fair
Came forth with pilgrim steps in amice gray.
- John Milton, Paradise Regained, Book IV, line 426
O insensata cura de' mortali
O foolish anxiety of wretched man
-Dante, Paradiso, Canto XI, line 1
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.
- Shakespeare, Sonnet 73
Author: Brigdh
Ratings/Warnings: PG-13/T. Kissing.
Disclaimer: The Benjamin January mysteries are by Barbara Hambly.
Notes: A million, million thanks to my betas,
dhampyresa, egelantier, and Morbane. Written for the shipswap exchange, for somebraveapollo. Summary: Little things, things that in France would have been unremarkable, but since he’d left January had had to lower his expectations. Sefton's conversation, the music, and the gin were like pieces of Paris returned to him – a Paris that hadn't been destroyed by Ayasha's death.
First meetings for Benjamin, Hannibal, and Rose.
(Set pre-canon, but taking off from the flashback scene at the beginning of Days of the Dead where Ben and Hannibal meet.)
5,832 words. Also available on AO3
Principia Parva Sunt
January decided, as he took the first sip of the gin the fiddler had offered him, that getting drunk would be a wonderful idea. He hadn't been drunk in a very long time, but he remembered how it had felt, and he wanted that now: it would be a bit like being angry, a bit like being happy, and, most importantly, not at all like grief. The gin was terrible, but it did provide relief from the aching loss of Ayasha's death, as though the scouring burn of nearly-raw alcohol transformed inside his head and chest to the softness of cotton, muffling his pain and wrapping it up for later.
He had had the intention of taking some desperate action when he’d come to the waterfront that night, but like a man snatched from the jaws of a monster, he felt a wild, almost incredulous relief to find himself still whole. He recognized it as the joy that sometimes came on people after funerals; a frantic, reckless emotion that could spur one to laugh or shout or sing, to do anything at all. Death had been close enough to touch, but he, January, would live – and for the moment, he was glad of it. Life was something to drink to.
And so he raised the gin bottle for the second of many swallows, and determinedly turned the conversation to lighter matters. He and the fiddler spoke of music, books, and, once they had exchanged names, shared connections.
"Janvier? Are you by chance related to the lovely Dominique Janvier?" The fiddler – he had introduced himself as Hannibal Sefton – replaced the violin beneath his chin and played a snippet of music that January recognized as the Per la gloria d'adorarvi aria.
"You know Dominique?" he asked, surprised and slightly disapproving. They must have met at the Blue Ribbon Balls; January couldn’t think of any other plausible explanation. Sefton didn't look wealthy enough for that, but appearances could be deceiving, and he had spoken her name with too much familiarity for it to be secondhand knowledge. January didn’t like the thought of drinking with a man who might have contemplated bidding for Minou’s favors, or passed on her contract because he didn’t consider her worth the cost.
But Sefton grinned at him. "Not that way, to my deepest regret. However, perhaps if she was to hear a complimentary tale of me from her... cousin?"
"She's my sister."
"Even better. I will declare your name to my brothers, in the middle of the church I will sing praise to you. Well. To my sisters, in this case."
January laughed. He couldn’t take affront at Sefton's manner; the tension he’d felt dissipated in the face of such absurdity. "I don't think it would do much good. She seems very attached to that planter of hers."
"Beautiful and faithful. My love grows." He played on slowly; the music was as exquisite as before, though he seemed to give it no more attention than if he'd been tunelessly drumming his fingers on a table. "You look alike. I didn't see it at first, but now that I've had my attention drawn to the subject, I can discern the family resemblance."
"You can?" Dominique was short and willowy, with the sharp chin and delicate features of a cat, if it happened to be a particularly beautiful cat. And she was fair-skinned. According to the custom of the country, that mattered more than any other difference between them.
"In the eyes," Sefton said, and didn't elaborate.
She wasn't the only acquaintance they shared. Sefton knew John Davis – unsurprising, for a musician in New Orleans – and several others whom January had played with, years ago. Though he must have been curious about January’s presence on the waterfront in the deepest part of the night, he asked no further questions and politely followed wherever January led the conversation. It didn't even seem to occur to him not to grant January that measure of respect, and others as well. Despite his threadbare clothes and the disreputable state of his hair, Sefton had the polished manners and easy conversation of one who had been thoroughly schooled in comportment, and he treated January with the courtesy due an equal. He leaned forward to brush his fingers over January's arm when he wanted to emphasize some point he was making; he smiled when January, out of practice with the customs of New Orleans, met his eyes; and he shared the gin bottle companionably, not troubling to turn its mouth so that his lips wouldn't touch the spot where January had drunk.
Little things, things that in France would have been unremarkable, but since he’d left January had had to lower his expectations. Sefton's conversation, the music, and the gin were like pieces of Paris returned to him – a Paris that hadn't been destroyed by Ayasha's death. He could almost let himself believe that they were sitting on a bridge over the Seine; at this hour of the night, the only sound was their voices and the murmur of the river around the pilings, and one river sounded much like another. It was the smell that gave away the truth. The waterfront of New Orleans smelled of Mississippi mud and steamboat soot, and from somewhere far away came traces of wood-smoke and burnt sugar, hints of the coming roulaison.
Sefton coughed, caught his breath, and then abruptly coughed again, more violently this time; he hunched over and pressed a hand to his chest to try to still the fit. Without thinking, January caught him just above the elbow as he teetered and came close to falling off their shared crate. Sefton didn't jerk away from the uninvited touch of a colored man, but leaned gratefully into it, allowing January to steady him until he recovered. "Thank you," he said, as soon as he had control of his voice.
"It's nothing."
"To you, perhaps. I appreciate it, nonetheless." Sefton’s gaze flickered down to January’s hand before returning to his face, and January belatedly released him and reached for the gin bottle.
It was surprisingly light when he lifted it. He shook it, and only a little liquid sloshed in the bottom. "I suppose I should go back home before anyone notices I've been gone so long. I hate to imagine what my mother is going to say."
"Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.” Sefton took the bottle and turned it upside down for a last drink, then set it aside and looked back up at January, his black eyes bright with interest and a crooked smile on his face. “I have always found a poor reputation to be much more satisfying when you’ve actually committed a few wicked deeds. I could recommend some of my favorite vices, if you’ve no ideas of your own."
Sefton was flirting with him. Had been for some time, in fact. January recognized it with a sensation of slowly growing surprise, which seemed to spread through him until it washed up against the confines of his skin, leaving every inch of his body awake. Sefton had done or said nothing inappropriate, but he sat very close, had laughed frequently and had coaxed January into laughing with him; all of his friendliness had had the tenor of an open invitation.
And now that January had realized it, there was a question to be answered: What am I going to do? He should pretend to be still unaware – look away, go back home, and forget that he had been tempted. That was surely the appropriate thing to do when propositioned by a strange man met on the waterfront, never mind how much January didn’t want to be alone or the fact that said man had, in a way, just saved his life. His other option was to do something that would have seemed impossible, if he hadn't had too much grief, gin, and injustice.
He reached out and laid a hand on Sefton's knee – lightly, ready to draw back if he had been mistaken – and Sefton's smile deepened. He leaned nearer, his shoulder brushing against January's, though he left the last inch between them for January to keep or close. January could feel Sefton’s breath, the air warm against January's own mouth.
January kissed him. It was soft and brief, more a query than an answer. Sefton's lips were thin, and stubble rasped against the hand January lifted to his jaw, but it wasn't unpleasant. They pulled back, watching one another's reactions carefully. Sefton's expression held a shy anticipation, and January suspected his own was rather similar. But he made himself say, "I don't – that is, let me be clear. I'm not seeking a...." He hesitated, searching for a word that didn't sound insulting.
"I know," Sefton answered quietly before he found one. "And if you're not interested, of course I will not insist. But I'm not asking for anything much. Just an hour or so of – of friendship. I'd not expect anything of you afterward." He smiled ruefully. "Or we could play cards instead. Gambling is another of my favorite vices.”
January laughed and put his hand to Sefton’s cheek; the skin was warm and soft under his fingers, and Sefton leaned into the touch. Gently, January kissed him again. For a few minutes they kissed softly, languidly, until Sefton moved closer and his mouth opened beneath January's. He tasted of the gin, of course – a strong, scouring taste that was nonetheless much more appealing from him than it had been from the bottle. January began to touch him with greater certainty, gripping the long, slender line of his thigh and tightening a hand around his arm. Sefton was skeletally thin beneath his clothes, but he kissed with enthusiasm and skill, rubbing his hands against January's chest then putting his arm around January's neck to pull him closer.
The crate they sat on was part of a pile which hid them from easy view from the levee – not that many people were about, since the city was still half-empty for summer. It was as much privacy as they were likely to find, and January let his kisses grow bolder. He took hold of Sefton's chin and tilted his face up to kiss the underside of his jaw, his Adam's apple, to explore the smooth column of his throat for the spots where he was most sensitive. January moved up to his ear and bit the outer rim, and Sefton jerked a little in his arms – toward, not away. He murmured sweet-sounding encouragement as January did it again: "And the roof of thy mouth – ah! – like the best wine – Benjamin, yes –"
January pulled away, startled at how intimate his own name had sounded.
"If I may call you that," Sefton added politely.
"Can I call you Hannibal?" His tone was deliberately rude as he took the white man's first name.
Rather than taking offense, Sefton grinned. "I would be pleased if you did. It may be odd of me, but I do feel that I should be on a first-name basis with anyone I kiss." He shifted back on the crate and lay down, holding his arm up for January. January leaned over him, and Sefton’s – or Hannibal’s – hand landed on his shoulder, his body a warm, solid line against January’s side. "And I do want, very much, to kiss you," Hannibal said, almost in a whisper. He reached up and touched January’s cheek, then slid his hand back into January’s hair, his fingertips points of light pressure against January’s scalp.
January dropped his head to meet Hannibal’s lips; his mouth was hot and eager, and they kissed until January stopped thinking about names or anything else. It was like music – a safe place to put his soul, a place separate from pain and anger, at least for a while. He lost himself in the kissing, a place where nothing mattered except such simple physical sensations.
When they parted, the sky to the east had brightened to a misty grey, the first birds had begun to sing, and January could have called himself happy.
Rose woke early. She preferred to do her share of the housework while her students were still sleeping; once awake, they required nearly all of her attention, making even the simplest tasks take twice as long. Moreover, she enjoyed mornings. They gave the world a sense of newness and cleanliness that had always appealed to her: the air still and cool, the light white and diffuse. The house was not quite silent around her as she dressed and put up her hair; the faint, normal sounds of floorboards creaking above and pans clattering below assured her that all was well.
Mara, whom Rose had hired to help with the cooking and cleaning, must have let herself in. It would have been wiser to save the money that she paid to Mara, but there wouldn't be enough time in the day to teach her students if she had to feed four growing girls and do their dishes and laundry as well. Besides, Rose admitted to herself, it was pleasant to enter the kitchen and be greeted by the smell of freshly ground coffee beans and the sound of water in the kettle already nearing a boil. Her budget was tight right now, but in a few weeks people would begin to return to town for the winter, and she would have more students, and with them more money. She could afford to avoid housework: a small victory, but one she found extremely gratifying.
Mara glanced at Rose as she came through the door, a guarded expression on her face. "There a white man sitting on your back gallery."
Rose stopped in the middle of the floor, wariness shattering her good mood. "What is he doing?"
Mara shrugged. "Just sitting, seemed like. I think maybe he's asleep."
The man was slumped against the railing like someone asleep, but when Rose cautiously opened the door to check, he turned his head at the creak of the hinges. It was Hannibal Sefton, whom she knew and who was entirely unthreatening, though she had no idea what he was doing on her back gallery at dawn. She guessed from his appearance that he hadn’t slept the night before: his clothes had the soft, creased look of those that have been worn for too many hours, and there were purple shadows beneath his eyes. He stood unsteadily, but despite the indications of illness or insomnia he seemed happy, bowing to her with playful gallantry.
Rose lifted her eyebrows. "What are you doing?"
"I thought today was when we had arranged for me to instruct your young scholars in the intricacies of Latin grammar. It was today, wasn’t it? If it was yesterday, I am deeply conscience-stricken, but if it was tomorrow, it’s not too late to correct my mistake."
"It was today," she said, "but I hadn't planned on the lesson being before breakfast."
"Ah." Hannibal looked slightly abashed. "You see, I have found myself temporarily without a home. I thought perhaps it would cause no trouble if I passed a few hours on your steps. But if it bothers you, I could go away and come again later today."
"Why didn’t you knock?”
"And miss the sights? You have a lovely view of the dawn, you know. Of the – well, on this particular morning, mostly of the clouds. Morning fair / Came forth with pilgrim steps in amice gray."
Rose studied him for a moment. He leaned heavily on the railing, holding to it with a pale, white-knuckled hand; his accent had thickened, slightly blurring his words; he seemed to be having difficulties keeping his eyes completely open. He was, she suspected, very drunk, though to his credit he showed no sign of the crudeness or violence that she associated with those who drank too much. She stepped back and held the door wide for him. "Next time, knock."
Hannibal met her eyes in surprise and then smiled; it lit up his face and confirmed that she had been right to make the offer, but there was also something in his expression that made her glance away, as though it should have been private.
In the kitchen, she introduced him to Mara, though Hannibal had been to the school once before and Rose thought that they had already met. She was right, for the first thing Mara said was, "I didn't recognize you in the dark, sir. Sitting out there like some sort of thief – were you trying to frighten me to death?"
Hannibal took her hand and pressed it between both of his, its covering of soap bubbles providing an effective ward against the kiss he had obviously intended. "My most sincere apologies, Madame Barin. I would never have frightened you intentionally, but how could I have known that you are so diligent as to begin your work even before the first cockcrow?"
"The first cockcrow," she said, imitating his lilt and recovering her hand, "was an hour ago."
Hannibal flung his hands out like an actor in a melodrama. "As observant as she is lovely! If I had a house to take you to, I would woo you away from Mademoiselle Vitrac."
Rose rolled her eyes at Mara and handed Hannibal a cup of coffee. Pouring another for herself, she said, “I’m taking him into the schoolroom and out of your way, Mara. Would you set an extra place at breakfast, please?”
“I’ve only got cornbread and buttermilk.”
“Perfect,” Hannibal said. “Cornbread and buttermilk are exactly what I would have chosen for myself. And yours, I have no doubt, are like manna and honey.”
Mara snorted. “Get out,” she said, amusement obvious in her voice. “Flattery don’t bake bread.”
Hannibal followed Rose into the next room. The full bookshelves lining the walls caught his attention, and he paused to admire them while she sat herself at the writing table, setting aside a forgotten hair-ribbon, a sheet of paper with a half-finished geometry problem, and a penknife: all of it the usual debris of a household full of people who were more interested in starting something new than in tidying. She was proud of her library, built slowly over the years through the greedy hoarding of any extra money and the careful perusal of secondhand sales. She knew Hannibal did the same, and so she felt a warm fellowship as he tilted his head to read a title, rather than bracing herself for disapproving or uncomprehending questions.
She had met him at Customhouse sale. He had come up to her while she was holding a volume of Polybius; she’d half-expected him to ask if she was aware that the book was in neither French nor English, as if she might have selected it without noticing the Ancient Greek on the cover. But he had surprised her by asking mildly, "If you decide not to buy that one, could I have it? I had a copy once, but I left it in Boston, and dear as Polybius is to my heart, even he can't lure me back to that town."
She’d shaken her head and said, in a voice that was polite but firm, "I'm sorry, but I promised one of my students that I would find her a copy."
He hadn't seemed put off by her refusal; his smile, which she had taken for the civil mask he wore to make his request, stayed in place. "Far be it from me to prevent a student from making Polybius's acquaintance. You're a teacher, then?"
"Yes. Are you one also?" He certainly looked like most of the teachers she knew. The shabbiness of his clothes spoke of someone who never had enough money, though his recognition of Greek suggested that he’d been well-educated. He had long hair tied back by a ribbon, much like a professor she’d once had who was excessively fond of the Romantics and in the habit of styling himself after Byronic heroes despite his advancing years. This man seemed far too cheerful – and too self-aware – for that, at least.
He had laughed, almost as though he'd read her thoughts. "No. No parent would trust me with their daughter – or their son, to tell the truth. I would only teach them terrible habits. I've never been very good with responsibilities, not even when I was a schoolboy myself."
Rose didn't tend to like men who proclaimed themselves unfit to be near girls, but her suspicions had been offset by her excitement; he was obviously familiar with Classical history, and she’d wanted to ask him what he thought of Polybius's concept of bias, and if he had read Livy as well, and perhaps even tell him of the idea she'd had of making a scale model of one of Archimedes's machines. She had missed being able to speak of her studies with the fellow scholars she had known in New York; her students listened well but couldn't suggest new works for her to read, or find the flaws in her arguments, the way a colleague could. She had known for some time that she was lonely, but she’d thought it a minor inconvenience, one she could easily live with for the sake of having her own school and being able to do as she wished. But her heart had betrayed her, racing in her chest not from fear but with the spark of interest that came when meeting a stranger who shared one's interests, one who might become a friend.
Perhaps Hannibal had been lonely too, for he had talked to her all that afternoon, and before they had parted she had told him of the Latin papers she'd put off grading so she could come and look at books instead, and he had volunteered to help.
She put aside the memory as he finally turned from the bookshelves and came to take the seat beside her. Despite the marks of sleeplessness on his face, he had a complacent air this morning; he reminded her of some small bird, a sparrow or chickadee, full of seed and with its feathers fluffed.
“You seem pleased about something,” she said.
“I am.” He pulled the hair-ribbon from the pile of clutter and began to play with it, tying knots around his fingers. “I had a very enjoyable evening.”
“On my steps?”
“Oh, no. I’d only arrived there a little before you found me. I spent most of the night in company – did you know there’s a new pianist in town?”
“Is he any good?”
“Yes. Well,” Hannibal quickly corrected himself, “I haven’t actually heard him play yet. But if his music is anything like his conversation, he must be very good.” He shrugged and added, “At any rate, he can’t be as bad as Rich Maissie.”
Rose, who had never learned much about music herself, merely made an inquiring noise and sipped her coffee. She already knew that Hannibal was an inveterate gossip, and though he could speak glibly about Homeric figures or Roman politicians, he took the greatest joy in speaking of people he knew. Most of whom, it seemed, were women. But even when the topic was scandalous or even inappropriate, he never spoke with censure or malicious motives. He talked about people simply because he was genuinely interested in them, and so he told their stories in a way that was itself interesting. Rose had usually been bored by gossip, but she enjoyed his; Hannibal saw the world with the same compassionate irony as herself, and found a similar amusement in its pretensions.
This morning he told her of how he'd met this new piano-player, whom he described with effusive quotations in multiple languages as Orpheus-like in his brilliance and grief; Rose took the portrayal with a grain of salt. But even given Hannibal's usual hyperbole, he seemed to have been remarkably impressed by the unnamed man's intelligence and humor; he called him kind and fascinating and earnest in a manner that was probably meant to be humorous, but which instead seemed painfully honest. He grew inward-looking as he spoke, his voice softening and the pauses between his sentences growing longer, until Rose suspected that he might have forgotten her presence. Finally he simply fell silent, as though he had run out of things to say, or perhaps even drifted off. But after a time he added, looking down at the hair ribbon he still idly toyed with, "He had very gentle hands."
"Oh," she said, abruptly rearranging everything she had assumed about Hannibal and his friend.
He jerked his gaze up to her, startled back into awareness. "I shouldn't have said that. Forgive me –"
"It's fine. I have read Catullus’s poetry." Even so, her knowledge of what men might do together had been dry and hypothetical; such things had happened long ago and far away to other people, not here and to someone she knew. The scents of coffee and cornbread filled the air, and sunlight had begun to creep down the wall opposite the window; little details for her to hang onto as her academic understanding shifted into a more genuine comprehension. Hannibal still seemed uncertain, so she smiled reassuringly and said, "It really is all right. In fact, I'm glad you told me." Surprisingly, she was. She was content with their chaste friendship and had no desire for Hannibal to flirt with her, but she found herself pleased to know that someone cared for him in a fashion he so obviously enjoyed.
Hannibal’s fear turned into embarrassment, and he sheepishly pushed his hair back from his shoulders and began to gather it into a queue, tying it with the ribbon. "Well. I hadn't planned to include it in my Latin lesson."
The ribbon was cream muslin with a delicate, cloud-like edging of blonde lace; it was meant to compliment the pastels and off-whites that were worn by girls too young to be out. On Hannibal, it looked like a twist of decorative cake icing, incongruous against his frayed cuffs and the streaks of gray in his hair. Rose bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. "Marie-Neige will want that back, you know."
He blinked in surprise, as though he hadn't quite realized what he was doing. "Oh. I’ll take it out now –"
She shook her head. "Return it tomorrow. You'll need to come back in any event, to see if they actually do any of the work you assign."
He laughed and left the ribbon in his hair. "I'll do that. Thank you." He meant more than the ribbon, she knew, but she only nodded and stood to call the students down to breakfast.
A few days passed before Hannibal saw Benjamin again. Hannibal was sitting in the market when he did; he was flush with the sort of cash that meant he had paid his rent – early, for once – and still had enough left to contemplate purchases other than food, medicine, and drink. Of course, he probably would have bought the coffee and pralines even if he hadn't been able to afford them, but this afternoon he needn't even regret doing so. He had claimed ownership of an ideally located table as well: still within the shade of the arcade, but close enough to the sun-lit Place that he could watch the fruit and vegetable vendors, the beggars and the shoppers, the buzz of people around the doors of the Cathedral and the entranced passersby.
Pralines, he had decided, didn't qualify as food in the traditional sense. They weren't in the least filling, and as far as he could discern they had absolutely no purpose beyond sweetness and color. He appreciated them for exactly that reason. He had one of each color – white, brown, and pink – and was choosing which to eat first when he caught sight of Benjamin on the other side of the market.
It was easy to notice him; Benjamin was a remarkably tall man, and dark enough to stand out in a crowd even in New Orleans. He had worn a laborer's corduroy jacket when Hannibal met him on the levee, but today he was formally dressed. Some tailor – Parisian, Hannibal was sure of it – had clearly reached the end of all his trade’s ambition; each cut and stitch of the attire emphasized Benjamin's broad shoulders, and hinted with artistic delicacy at the muscles beneath sleeves and shirt. The coat embraced Benjamin's narrow waist in snug lines smooth as well-carved marble, and further down, long tails framed his slender legs, clad in trousers of gray. His waistcoat was cream silk, the coat itself black wool, though it seemed misguided to Hannibal to give the color that name, when it looked so inadequate against the depth and clarity of Benjamin's skin. He was a paragon of immaculate perfection, faultless in every detail – except for his bare hands.
He did have gloves; the edge of one was just visible emerging from his coat’s pocket, presumably tucked away to avoid spills from the gumbo bowl he held. That small foible turned him from Apollo to just a man who didn't want to do laundry, and Hannibal abandoned passive admiration in favor of direct action: he raised a hand to catch Benjamin's attention.
Benjamin saw him, but there was a reluctant stillness as he looked over, and his response to Hannibal's inviting gesture came only after a pause. Even once he'd reached Hannibal's table, he stood uncomfortably by its side. His hands shifted on the bowl, as a man's will when he holds something hot, though he was otherwise composed.
"Hello, Benjamin," Hannibal said. "Won't you sit with me?"
Benjamin's gaze met his own, then shifted down to take in Hannibal's pralines, and then moved to the bowl he held. "I was about to eat," he said, his voice cool and carefully implying nothing.
"Yes, so am I. Would you like to do so together?" He waved a hand at the crowded market. "I have an excellent table and you seem to have none. It would be churlish of me not to offer to share.”
Benjamin sank slowly into the empty chair, though his posture remained rigid and his shoulders stiff. Hannibal was conscious of a group of people at a nearby table glancing at Benjamin, then back to him with intrusive force. Hannibal ignored them, and said, "I quite like your coat."
Benjamin blinked, as though he hadn't been prepared for mild pleasantries. "Thank you." His hands released their grip on the bowl and he rested them against the table. "I was hired to play at the ball tonight, at the Salle d’Orléans."
"So was I." Hannibal grinned, and was rewarded by Benjamin's gaze softening and focusing on him. "I look forward to hearing you play."
Benjamin smiled; it was a very small expression, no more than a minuscule rise at the corners of his lips, but it gave Hannibal pleasure to see it. Benjamin picked up his spoon and took a bite of the gumbo. "I’m looking forward to being paid. For a while there, I'd nearly given up hope of finding employment."
"In New Orleans? O insensata cura de' mortali – this town would never turn away a good musician. Witness my own presence here."
Benjamin's smile turned wry. "That's only true if you have the right connections."
"Speak no such falsehoods. Polite society absorbed by their own self-serving opinions? – I will not hear such scandal, my good sir."
Benjamin chuckled softly.
As they spoke, they made their way through their respective meals. Other people in the market continued to glance askance at their table, but no one took it upon himself to rescue Hannibal from the ruin of whatever reputation he still had. They talked of the other musicians who would play at the ball that night; some of them Benjamin knew, and the rest Hannibal was happy to describe for him, along with an assessment of their skill at music or their appeal as a companion. He had just finished warning Benjamin about Froissart, the stuffy manager of the Salle who had a tendency to be deeply intolerant on issues such as lateness or musicians availing themselves of the buffet, when Hannibal found himself with half a praline and no desire whatsoever to eat it. He pushed it across the table toward Benjamin in silent offering.
Benjamin had been glancing at him circumspectly for the last few minutes, but apparently the praline was the final encouragement he’d needed. He shook his head at it and took a deep breath. "We should talk about what happened.”
Hannibal, who had guessed that this was coming, nodded acquiescence. Benjamin didn't seem the sort of man who often got drunk on wharves and kissed strangers. It wasn't the formal clothes he wore so much as his awareness of the others around them, his evident concern with how he was perceived. But if he had behaved atypically that night, Hannibal was grateful to have met him on it and not some other day. Love that well, which thou must leave ere long – and one kiss had always been better than none.
“I did enjoy what we did,” Benjamin said quietly, speaking slowly to consider his words. Hannibal appreciated that he was making the effort to be kind. “But still, I should never have done it. I have a wife.” He looked away abruptly, and Hannibal could see the muscles in his jaw bunch. "Had a wife," he corrected after a nearly unendurable pause. His eyes shone in the reddish light of the sunset that he had turned to face, and though his breathing remained steady, Hannibal thought he was forcing it to be so with great strength of will. It wasn't the dry-eyed desperation he had had the other night, but it was grief, and that was painful enough.
Hannibal reached out and laid a hand on Benjamin’s wrist, lightly, in case it was unwanted. Benjamin’s breathing finally broke – not in a sob, but with a great gasp, like a man surfacing from deep water. He put his other hand atop Hannibal’s, pressing his fingers hard. They sat like that for a time, until Benjamin’s shoulders relaxed and he had blinked away any tears. He reclaimed his hands and leaned back in his chair, then said, “Thank you.” The praline caught his eye, and he considered it for a moment, then picked it up and took a bite.
The tension ebbed, and Hannibal asked, “Would you tell me about her?”
Benjamin shook his head. “Not now. We should head to the Salle soon, and if I’ve been speaking of her, I won’t be able to concentrate on the music.” He looked over to Hannibal and then seemed to reconsider. “But some other time, if you truly want.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Hannibal said, and put out his hand to shake.
Notes:
Title:
Omnium rerum principia parva sunt.
The beginnings of all things are small.
-Cicero, De Finibus Bonorum et Malorum, V.58
Other Citations:
Per la gloria d'adoravi ("Since Tis Glory to Adore You") from Griselda (1722), an opera by Giovanni Bononcini. It's sung by the male lead, who sings “I will love you even if I have no hope of your loving me in return!”. Here's a nice performance of it. (With violin, even! Which was surprisingly hard to find.)
I will declare your name to my brothers, in the middle of the church I will sing praise to you.
- Hebrews 2:12
Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.
- Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act III, Scene 1
And the roof of thy mouth like the best wine for my beloved,
that goeth down sweetly,
causing the lips of those that are asleep to speak.
- Song of Solomon, 7:9
Till morning fair
Came forth with pilgrim steps in amice gray.
- John Milton, Paradise Regained, Book IV, line 426
O insensata cura de' mortali
O foolish anxiety of wretched man
-Dante, Paradiso, Canto XI, line 1
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.
- Shakespeare, Sonnet 73
