The Ebony Tower

[ariosto]

Deep in the ragged, shadowed hills of Brittany but still close enough to the sea to smell the salt and hear the gulls cry, not far in fact from the town of St.Malo whose voyageurs were once the bold explorers of the wild Atlantic...there in those hills stands the Ebony Tower.
It is not a tower exactly, nor is it constructed of ebony but rather a tall narrow structure of indeterminate age made of dark native stone and incumbered with a dozen eclectic additions whose origins reflect the fabled, exotic and farflung passion's of the Tower's owner, who sits at the moment bare chested and more than half drunk in the 'Moorish' courtyard, which he'd had constructed for a treasured mistress of a decade past or more.
He's reading the Paris newspapers and cursing under his breath when Dona Perlessi, his longtime secretary, enters quietly, bends low and whispers in his ear...
She's here.

Who's here?, asks the artist...looking up...annoyed.

The girl you wanted...the model.
She's here.

Dona Perlessi stands up and looks to the doorway. She nods.

His brow knits, he thinks furiously...the model?..what model?
He hasn't used a model in years.

He turns at the sound of footsteps...sharp clicking of heels on tile.
She's pretty...very pretty.
He stands, shrugs off his secretary's steadying hand, she grabs the teetering bottle of pernod instead.

Do I know you?
He asks the girl who is as tall as he.

She smiles brightly,
No you don't, but I've known of you all my life monsieur Picasso. It will be an honor to work with you!





This little vehicle is set in postwar France. Picasso still lives in the hideaway where he'd waited out the Nazi occupation.
The model will be played by Soleil a new star in Lits heavens.

This is a closed thread but feel free to drop in.
Ari

 

[Soleil]

Cécile

Wordlessly, he stared at the model before her. A few long moments passed and the anxiety grew. The model shifted nervously.

Then he bellowed, “Turn!”

“Pardon moi?” She asked, her eyebrows knitted into a pretzel.

“Turn. Let me take a look at you,” he ordered again.

The model turned slowly, hoping the thin material of her dress behaved by continuing to cling to her pale skin. She was a product of the war, too thin, too pale. Her hair was thin and dull though through the artist’s eyes, he was able to see the faint red was once alive and still have potential with proper nourishment and minimal care. After witnessing so much trauma to her family and close friends, and living on the streets begging for a scrap of bread, the light of her eyes had faded. They were just large and hollow and dead.

Cécile couldn’t screw up this assignment. She needed money and food, and most of all, she didn’t want to whore in the streets again.

“Will I do?” She asked.

When she saw the hesitance in his face, she begged. “I can wash and clean for you, monsieur.”

 

[ariosto]

"Don't be so cruel Pablo. The girl is frightened can't you see!..mon dieu!"
Dona Perlessi took the girl in hand, attentive as a mother bird.

"Take her out then...give her a meal, clean her up. Put some color in her cheeks for christsake...she's pale as a ghost!"
He began to turn away...

"So would you be! So would you be...if...if..."
Cecile had shrugged off the woman's arm and was confronting the diheveled painter across the table.
"...and besides you don't look so good yourself monsieur!"

Her voice trailed off. Her eyes fell to the cracked worn tile of the patio floor.
"I'm sorry." She whispered.

"Don't be."
She looked up, he was staring at her.

"Don't be...It's good to see such temper, such passion."
He smiled...a hint of a smile anyway.

"Now go with the tyrant over there and she'll feed you.
Rest up a bit.
Sleep if you can.
We'll be working all night."

 

[Soleil]

Cécile

The so called tyrant was hardly that. She clucked and cooed as she helped Cécile undress and actually gasped loudly when she saw Cécile’s ribcage cutting through her thin skin.

“Oh you poor little girl,” she continued to coo as Cécile glided gently into the scalding hot tub. She handed a fresh bar of soap to Cécile and a rag and barked, “I’m going to fix you a plate, then you rest before working for the master.”

But before exiting the room, she looked down at Cécile and shook her head again. Cécile closed her eyes and welcomed the warm sensation. The tyrant reminded her of her mother. Strong with her words, but loving in her actions.

The afternoon dinner consisted of fresh baked dark bread, goat cheese, and thick beef and vegetable soup. After two large helpings, Cécile couldn’t eat another bite, and her eyes started to close.

“I’ll help you clean up,” Cécile offered as the housekeeper started to clear up.

“No, no, you rest now. Master will expect you at 8.” She said while shooing her to her room.

Cécile woke to a spring scent. She blinked twice trying to remember where she was exactly. Then it all came crashing down on her. The long journey to the farmhouse was rough and tedious. She had risked all her strength for the small hope of a job. But it had all worked out. She smiled and buried her head in the lavender scented pillow.

Then she remembered. She was expected to work at the studio at eight. It had to be close to the time, she thought. It was already starting to get dark out, and the hunger pangs in her stomach was a reminder that it was close to the dinner hour.

“Hellooooo…” She called out. No response came. The studio was filled with canvases, all turned so the back was facing her. The smell of oil was strong and fresh. Rags and brushes were scattered about. The room was cluttered and untidy, unlike the house. It was obvious Dona didn’t have her way into the studio.

Cécile walked around curiously. She turned over a few canvases and gasped. The colors were so bright and vivid! They were nothing she had seen before…..

 

[ariosto]

There was no telling how long he'd been watching from the shadows. The flare of his match as he lit the gauloise startled her.

"Monsieur...monsieur Picasso is that you?"

He walked into the yellow light given off by two kerosene lamps hanging over a blank canvas. He was a bull of a man. She knew he was over 60 by how much she wasn't sure. He smiled, his teeth were good.

"Of course it is, who else could it be mademoiselle."
His voice was surprisingly young, there was a playfulness tonight in the black eyes staring at her. She could see the lamp flame reflected there...a very small hellish fire.

"take off the robe.
Let's see what you look like girl."
He leaned against the massive easel and drew deep on the reeking cigarette.

Cecile knew the moment had come, she'd steeled herself, rationalised it all in her mind and still...still was afraid.
With trembling hands she began to undo the buttons of the gown. She closed her eyes but could still feel his gaze upon her.

The gown, faded rose, old, soft and warm fell open. The evening was cool, her flesh shivered, the nipples on her small high breasts responded.

She head him sigh deeply as the gown fell to the floor.

Picasso had loved many women, made love to many many more. There had been real beauties among them, devastaingly sexy women with full breasts, lush thighs, caramel skin... but since the war his passions had cooled and his isolation from Paris had kept liaisons to a minimum.
This girl was slender almost to the point of emaciation, her skin was pale, translucent, but her face was lovely, her lips full with promise, her legs long and supple, her breasts small but firm and tipped with such delicious buds.
The old man felt a healthy stirring in his loins, maybe this one, this Cecile was what he needed now to resurrect him from the stagnation that his life had become.