Chapter Twelve
In which Oscar fixes things which are ruined.
It was left out last time, but I've gone back and edited, and we want to say thanks again to la_rainette for letting us pick her brain about Berlin, and correcting our German (and occasionally our French!). Rebuilding Ozymandias and A Law Divine both owe her a lot.
Chapter Twelve
They ate lunch in the suite at the hotel, while Anastasia -- who was just waking up, having come home and to bed at six in the morning -- fluttered around Félix in a panic. She exaggerated his wounds, informed Oscar that she didn't think much of German doctors, and refused to eat because the sight of Félix was too disturbing. It was, on the other hand, a nice distraction from their own woes.
"Are you all right, Oscar?" Félix asked, eating more slowly than usual and wincing when he had to open his mouth too widely. He was working away at a massive dish of mashed potatoes and sausage gravy, with applesauce on the side. Portia had promised him ice cream if he ate it all, in the grand tradition of her parents, who had done the same to her when she'd had her wisdom teeth out.
Oscar, who had been sitting at the table with his fork stuck idly in a piece of steak, blinked. "Sorry, what?"
"You looked like you were dozing off with your eyes open," Portia said.
"Oh, no -- I was uh...thinking," Oscar replied vaguely. Anastasia giggled.
"Looked like the opposite," Portia remarked.
"You know Humphrey Bogart?" Oscar asked. Félix's brow furrowed.
"Not personally," Portia replied.
"I went to see him in Dark Passage on the big screen when I was fifteen," Oscar said. "I mean that's the way you have to see the old movies. They were doing one of those old movie marathons."
"Oscar, are you going somewhere with this, or just random thought associating?" Portia inquired.
"So you don't even see him for the first half of the movie, because he's not supposed to look like Bogart, he looks like some other guy, and then he gets plastic surgery."
"More men should have plastic surgery," Anastasia remarked. Portia stared at her.
"He spends a week in bandages and then Lauren Bacall takes them off and you see his face for the first time. There's Bogart," Oscar continued. "And it makes you really...aware of the shape of a face, for some reason. I don't even remember most of the plot after that."
"Because of Bogart's face?" Félix inquired.
"Because he has these really high cheekbones, I mean, ridiculously high, and two little triangles of shadow," Oscar said, touching his own cheeks. "Right here and here. Because there are hollows in his cheeks. I was taking drawing and we'd been doing faces, and I couldn't stop staring at the shapes in his face."
There was an expectant pause.
"Oh -- sorry, I was just thinking, I was doing that to Félix with his bruise," he said. "I mean it's really an amazing assemblage of color."
Félix touched his bruise, selfconsciously.
"It's not a thing, it's just, you know..." Oscar drifted off again. "Well, it's interesting, that's all."
"It's purple," Félix answered.
"Yeah, and all kinds of red and green...could I paint it?"
Anastasia giggled again.
"Paint it?" Félix asked.
"Yeah -- I've got my paint set in my bag, and my paper block. It'd be a great watercolor study,"
"Oscar, you didn't bring a second pair of shoes, but you brought your paints?" Portia asked.
"I didn't need a second pair of shoes, these shoes are fine," Oscar answered. "I might have needed my paints. And I sort of do, now, if Félix is okay with it."
Félix looked confused. "You like the colors?"
"Well, I think it would make a striking portrait. Think of it like Picasso and all the weird stuff he did."
"Oh, paint Félix like a Picasso," Portia said. "Both eyes on one side and his nose sideways!"
"Portia, that is a gross simplification of -- "
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, you're the artist, I'm just an assistant," Portia said airily.
"Listen, it'll just take an afternoon, maybe less," Oscar said. "Where would we go, anyway?"
"The museum," Félix answered. "It's quite famous. The bust of Nefertiti is there, you know."
Oscar put down his fork. "The real one? The one with only one eye?"
"Only one eye?" Anastasia asked.
"I can't even look at pictures of it without getting wigged out," Portia said.
"But the real thing wouldn't disturb you! It's beautiful," Félix insisted. "Ava Gardner looks just like her -- lovely cheekbones and a beautiful nose, just perfect. I went to see her with my tutor when I was twelve, and I fell in love."
"With Ava Gardner? She's a little old for you," Portia teased.
"We can go this afternoon, it'll be a nice quiet place to spend the rest of the day, and you may paint me tomorrow," Félix said magnanimously.
"Who's Ava Gardner?" Anastasia asked.
***
"It's had a very tragic history, you know, the Egyptian Museum," Félix said, as they sat at a cafe table, looking out at the Spree river that ran past Museum Island. Oscar had remarked, as they were crossing it, that they were on a Spree, and had been forbidden from talking by Portia. "It's been kept in a falling-apart building for years -- and the collection was kept somewhere else for quite a while. During the second world war..." he paused to take a sip of his drink, "...there was a fire that destroyed most of the objects."
"Hard going," Oscar murmured. "You survive two thousand years in a tomb and then some ass takes you and puts you in a museum, and you burn down with it."
The bitterness in his tone surprised the other two, but Oscar wasn't paying attention. He had a pocket sketchbook on the table and was idly drawing the river, the city beyond, and one of Félix's hands, which happened to be in his field of vision.
"Some always survives," Félix replied, gently. "Nefertiti survived. She was magnificent, wasn't she?"
"I can't get over the eye," Portia sighed. She glanced at Oscar. "What did you think?"
"Every perfect thing has its flaw," Oscar replied.
"Come on, Oscar, tear yourself away from art for a minute?" Portia said, taking the pencil out of his hand. He glared at her. "You must have had some kind of feelings about it. She's famous, and she's history."
"Give me my pencil."
"Not until you give an opinion," Portia replied. Oscar looked to Félix, who shrugged.
"Don't look at me, I haven't got a pencil."
"She's exquisite. Can you imagine?" Oscar said, turning his palms up and almost cupping his hands. "But she's not Nefertiti. Or if she is, she's only one version. I'm too educated," he said with a small smile. "I know what other pictures of Nefertiti look like -- I know Egyptian art theory. If that in there is the portrait of Nefertiti, then it's the only honest portrait ever done of her; otherwise it's terribly inaccurate. I have my own theories."
"Oh yes?" Portia teased.
"Yes, and they're highly unscientific," Oscar replied. "Give me my pencil back and I'll tell you."
"I'm worried that drawing is a disease with you," Portia said, but she gave up the graphite, and Oscar continued, sketching the new position of Félix's hand, since it had moved from its previous position.
"I think whoever sculpted that bust -- that statue, when it was more than it is now -- must have been in love with her. Have you seen the other sculptures of Nefertiti? Huge, enormous head, big ears, grotesque chin. Either they're all wrong, or this one is. I think...I like to think that the woman in there is Nefertiti. But if it isn't, it's another woman's face placed over hers, and artists, when they improve, can only improve by using what they love."
"You should lecture," Félix said, surprising Portia.
"Lecture what?" Oscar asked with a snort.
"You should teach. You have the head for it."
"Nonsense. I'm an architect, not a teacher."
"Not yet," Félix said with a grin.
"Excuse me..."
All three of them looked up at the man who had approached the little table, who was looking nervous and speaking French with an American accent.
"Excuse me, I overheard..." he began, then fumbled for words. Oscar grinned.
"English easier?" he asked, and the man gave a sigh of relief.
"I understand it so much better than I speak it," he blurted. "I couldn't help overhearing. He's right, you sound passionate about it."
"I like art," Oscar said with a shrug. "Is there something I can help you with?"
"Uh, well, you said you were an architect, and I was wondering if you happened to have a business card. You're a lot less annoying than most, you see, and I employ architects all the time..."
Félix looked slightly alarmed, but Oscar shrugged.
"I'm on retainer right now. What's your area?"
"Mostly museums, actually, which is why I was so interested."
"Booming business?" Oscar asked sourly. The man grinned.
"It pays the bills."
"I don't generally carry cards anymore, but I can give you my contact information..." Oscar scribbled his name and Eugenia's telephone number, out of habit, on a corner of the sketchpad, tore it, and handed it to the man, who blinked.
"Oscar Shelley? Byron Oreglia's apprentice?"
Oscar grinned. "All my life. You know his work?"
"Yes! And of course yours. Then that means -- " the man turned to Félix and Portia. "You must be Félix Carvell and Portia Rainer."
Portia gave him a winning grin. "And you are?"
"Oh, my manners. Richard Breston-Smith," he said, offering her his hand. When she took it, he kissed her knuckles. Félix and Oscar shared a look.
"Thank you, Mr Shelley. I'll be in touch," he said with a smile. "Miss Rainer, Mr Carvell, a pleasure to meet you."
"Huh," Félix said, when the young man had gone. "It appears we have fans."
"I like him," Portia grinned.
***
After dinner that night, Anastasia abandoned them for a boy she'd met the night before, and who'd promised to show her the wildest time Berlin had to offer. Félix and Portia speculated that this might involve feathers, leather, and possibly even glue of some kind.
"Are you sure you don't want to come out with us, Oscar?" Portia called, from the bathroom where she was applying lipstick.
"Oh, more than," Oscar answered. "I've had enough excitement for one day. Are you sure it's wise, anyway?"
"No drinking, no drugs, and I promise to be back by two," Félix answered, from the other bathroom, on the other side of the living room.
"Mischief in stereo," Oscar sighed.
"What are you going to do, anyhow?" Portia inquired, tossing the lipstick into a small clutch purse and emerging to show off.
"Donna Karan?" Oscar inquired.
"Christian Dior, moron," she replied with a sigh.
"When did I become so uncool you wouldn't even date me if I asked?" Oscar said.
"Oscar, have you ever been cool enough to date me if you asked? What are you reading?" she added, taking the book from his hands. "Italo Calvino?"
"French translation. Trying to improve my vocabulary," he said, taking another book off the table. "English translation, for reference. And don't you dare pull that I'm-a-dumb-girl crap on me, Portia, because you have the same degree I do and I've caught you reading Alexandre Dumas."
"I tape fashion magazine pages into it," she said, with a sly grin. "Félix, step it up, you're in trouble when the girl is waiting on you."
"Fine, I'm coming," Félix called. "Come in here and look at something for me, would you?"
Oscar glanced at Portia, then rose and followed her into the bathroom.
"Oh my god," he said, covering his mouth with his hand.
"So that's where my spare bottle of foundation went," Portia said, staring at Félix's reflection in the mirror.
"Does it look all right?" Félix asked, touching his cheek. From the neck down, he looked all right, inasmuch as he ever did when he was going out: black nylon mesh shirt, leather cuffs, chain dog collar, bright red linen trousers. Oscar barely noticed the outlandish clothing, accustomed to it as he was. It was Félix's face that gave them both pause.
He had made the attempt to hide his bruises using Portia's foundation, with mixed results; his trademark eyeliner had smeared into the caked-on makeup, and Portia's skin-tone-matched makeup...didn't match. Not to mention his face was still swollen, making it unsymmetrical. He looked like a Pierrot who'd been crying.
"I don't think anyone will notice, in the club," he said uncertainly.
"You'd make a lousy transvestite, Félix," Portia sighed. "I'll go get the cold cream."
Oscar took Félix gently by the arm, as Portia left, and turned him so that they faced each other. He picked up the sponge Félix had been applying makeup with and rinsed it off, scrubbing where the makeup started, at Félix's jaw.
"Vanity, thy name is Félix," he sighed. "Believe me, the bruise will look a lot better than the cover-up."
"A reversal of your usual attitude," Félix said. "Ow, that bit's tender."
"Sorry. What do you mean?"
"You fix broken things, you cover the old waterstained walls with new wallpaper."
Oscar laughed. "I get rid of the mildew first, though. I don't just cover stuff up."
"Of course not. That was a cheap shot."
"Yes it was, but it's been a long day." Oscar accepted the jar of cold cream from Portia, then looked down at it. "Uh, how do I use this?"
Portia handed him a twist of tissue. "Dip that in and smear it around. Works a little like lava soap on paint."
"Analogies I can understand. Well done," Oscar said, using the cold cream to clean the last of the makeup from Félix's face while Portia wandered back out into the living room. "Close your eyes."
Félix obediently did so. Oscar wiped the smeared eyeliner away from both eyes with the delicacy of someone who has spent half his life around watercolour paintbrushes.
"Still think the bruises are great?" Félix asked, opening his eyes. Oscar didn't step back.
"Yes," he said quietly. "Very little could ruin your face, Félix."
Félix tilted his head, touching one finger to his own lips. "You don't want me to go out tonight, do you."
"Not with a faceful of badly done makeup," Oscar answered.
"Not at all?"
"I don't mind being alone."
"That isn't an answer, Oscar."
"Félix, are we going or not?" Portia called. Oscar, who'd been opening his mouth to say something -- he had no idea what -- watched Félix brush past him into the living room.
"Not tonight. I think Oscar wants to paint while it's still fresh," he said.
"You're just vain," Portia replied. "Maybe I can still catch Anastasia and her boy -- she said they were going to the hotel bar first. If not, I'll be back and cranky and will demand chocolate truffles."
"Better bring them with you then," Oscar replied, following Félix out. The younger man slumped into a chair under a lamp, crossing one leg over the other and gazing out at the lights of night-time Berlin.
"Take care," he said to Portia, who checked herself in the mirror, patted Oscar on the shoulder, and blew Félix a kiss as she left. Oscar quietly went into his bedroom, unpacking the small watercolour set and brushes he'd tucked inside a shoebox in his luggage. The paper block was under his shirts, and there were wineglasses in the kitchen he could use for water cups.
Seating himself at a table nearby, Oscar spread out his tools and opened the block of watercolour paper. He stared at it for a minute before bursting into laughter.
"What?" Félix asked, leaning forward. Oscar ripped off the top sheet, shaking his head.
"Portia left me a note, is all. She must have dug out the block this afternoon," he said. "It's nothing important. Stay there -- the light's good. Are you comfortable?"
"Immensely," Félix replied, resting his unbruised cheek on one hand. "How's this?"
"Perfect," Oscar said, spreading colour on the watercolour paper without even bothering to draw in lines first. Flesh tones first, then green overlying, purple, red, and deep blue; if he worked quickly, all the colours would run together nicely at the edges.
Facedown on the table, Portia's note lay forgotten.
Remember, Oscar, you told me painting = sex. Don't get carried away.
It was left out last time, but I've gone back and edited, and we want to say thanks again to la_rainette for letting us pick her brain about Berlin, and correcting our German (and occasionally our French!). Rebuilding Ozymandias and A Law Divine both owe her a lot.
Chapter Twelve
They ate lunch in the suite at the hotel, while Anastasia -- who was just waking up, having come home and to bed at six in the morning -- fluttered around Félix in a panic. She exaggerated his wounds, informed Oscar that she didn't think much of German doctors, and refused to eat because the sight of Félix was too disturbing. It was, on the other hand, a nice distraction from their own woes.
"Are you all right, Oscar?" Félix asked, eating more slowly than usual and wincing when he had to open his mouth too widely. He was working away at a massive dish of mashed potatoes and sausage gravy, with applesauce on the side. Portia had promised him ice cream if he ate it all, in the grand tradition of her parents, who had done the same to her when she'd had her wisdom teeth out.
Oscar, who had been sitting at the table with his fork stuck idly in a piece of steak, blinked. "Sorry, what?"
"You looked like you were dozing off with your eyes open," Portia said.
"Oh, no -- I was uh...thinking," Oscar replied vaguely. Anastasia giggled.
"Looked like the opposite," Portia remarked.
"You know Humphrey Bogart?" Oscar asked. Félix's brow furrowed.
"Not personally," Portia replied.
"I went to see him in Dark Passage on the big screen when I was fifteen," Oscar said. "I mean that's the way you have to see the old movies. They were doing one of those old movie marathons."
"Oscar, are you going somewhere with this, or just random thought associating?" Portia inquired.
"So you don't even see him for the first half of the movie, because he's not supposed to look like Bogart, he looks like some other guy, and then he gets plastic surgery."
"More men should have plastic surgery," Anastasia remarked. Portia stared at her.
"He spends a week in bandages and then Lauren Bacall takes them off and you see his face for the first time. There's Bogart," Oscar continued. "And it makes you really...aware of the shape of a face, for some reason. I don't even remember most of the plot after that."
"Because of Bogart's face?" Félix inquired.
"Because he has these really high cheekbones, I mean, ridiculously high, and two little triangles of shadow," Oscar said, touching his own cheeks. "Right here and here. Because there are hollows in his cheeks. I was taking drawing and we'd been doing faces, and I couldn't stop staring at the shapes in his face."
There was an expectant pause.
"Oh -- sorry, I was just thinking, I was doing that to Félix with his bruise," he said. "I mean it's really an amazing assemblage of color."
Félix touched his bruise, selfconsciously.
"It's not a thing, it's just, you know..." Oscar drifted off again. "Well, it's interesting, that's all."
"It's purple," Félix answered.
"Yeah, and all kinds of red and green...could I paint it?"
Anastasia giggled again.
"Paint it?" Félix asked.
"Yeah -- I've got my paint set in my bag, and my paper block. It'd be a great watercolor study,"
"Oscar, you didn't bring a second pair of shoes, but you brought your paints?" Portia asked.
"I didn't need a second pair of shoes, these shoes are fine," Oscar answered. "I might have needed my paints. And I sort of do, now, if Félix is okay with it."
Félix looked confused. "You like the colors?"
"Well, I think it would make a striking portrait. Think of it like Picasso and all the weird stuff he did."
"Oh, paint Félix like a Picasso," Portia said. "Both eyes on one side and his nose sideways!"
"Portia, that is a gross simplification of -- "
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, you're the artist, I'm just an assistant," Portia said airily.
"Listen, it'll just take an afternoon, maybe less," Oscar said. "Where would we go, anyway?"
"The museum," Félix answered. "It's quite famous. The bust of Nefertiti is there, you know."
Oscar put down his fork. "The real one? The one with only one eye?"
"Only one eye?" Anastasia asked.
"I can't even look at pictures of it without getting wigged out," Portia said.
"But the real thing wouldn't disturb you! It's beautiful," Félix insisted. "Ava Gardner looks just like her -- lovely cheekbones and a beautiful nose, just perfect. I went to see her with my tutor when I was twelve, and I fell in love."
"With Ava Gardner? She's a little old for you," Portia teased.
"We can go this afternoon, it'll be a nice quiet place to spend the rest of the day, and you may paint me tomorrow," Félix said magnanimously.
"Who's Ava Gardner?" Anastasia asked.
***
"It's had a very tragic history, you know, the Egyptian Museum," Félix said, as they sat at a cafe table, looking out at the Spree river that ran past Museum Island. Oscar had remarked, as they were crossing it, that they were on a Spree, and had been forbidden from talking by Portia. "It's been kept in a falling-apart building for years -- and the collection was kept somewhere else for quite a while. During the second world war..." he paused to take a sip of his drink, "...there was a fire that destroyed most of the objects."
"Hard going," Oscar murmured. "You survive two thousand years in a tomb and then some ass takes you and puts you in a museum, and you burn down with it."
The bitterness in his tone surprised the other two, but Oscar wasn't paying attention. He had a pocket sketchbook on the table and was idly drawing the river, the city beyond, and one of Félix's hands, which happened to be in his field of vision.
"Some always survives," Félix replied, gently. "Nefertiti survived. She was magnificent, wasn't she?"
"I can't get over the eye," Portia sighed. She glanced at Oscar. "What did you think?"
"Every perfect thing has its flaw," Oscar replied.
"Come on, Oscar, tear yourself away from art for a minute?" Portia said, taking the pencil out of his hand. He glared at her. "You must have had some kind of feelings about it. She's famous, and she's history."
"Give me my pencil."
"Not until you give an opinion," Portia replied. Oscar looked to Félix, who shrugged.
"Don't look at me, I haven't got a pencil."
"She's exquisite. Can you imagine?" Oscar said, turning his palms up and almost cupping his hands. "But she's not Nefertiti. Or if she is, she's only one version. I'm too educated," he said with a small smile. "I know what other pictures of Nefertiti look like -- I know Egyptian art theory. If that in there is the portrait of Nefertiti, then it's the only honest portrait ever done of her; otherwise it's terribly inaccurate. I have my own theories."
"Oh yes?" Portia teased.
"Yes, and they're highly unscientific," Oscar replied. "Give me my pencil back and I'll tell you."
"I'm worried that drawing is a disease with you," Portia said, but she gave up the graphite, and Oscar continued, sketching the new position of Félix's hand, since it had moved from its previous position.
"I think whoever sculpted that bust -- that statue, when it was more than it is now -- must have been in love with her. Have you seen the other sculptures of Nefertiti? Huge, enormous head, big ears, grotesque chin. Either they're all wrong, or this one is. I think...I like to think that the woman in there is Nefertiti. But if it isn't, it's another woman's face placed over hers, and artists, when they improve, can only improve by using what they love."
"You should lecture," Félix said, surprising Portia.
"Lecture what?" Oscar asked with a snort.
"You should teach. You have the head for it."
"Nonsense. I'm an architect, not a teacher."
"Not yet," Félix said with a grin.
"Excuse me..."
All three of them looked up at the man who had approached the little table, who was looking nervous and speaking French with an American accent.
"Excuse me, I overheard..." he began, then fumbled for words. Oscar grinned.
"English easier?" he asked, and the man gave a sigh of relief.
"I understand it so much better than I speak it," he blurted. "I couldn't help overhearing. He's right, you sound passionate about it."
"I like art," Oscar said with a shrug. "Is there something I can help you with?"
"Uh, well, you said you were an architect, and I was wondering if you happened to have a business card. You're a lot less annoying than most, you see, and I employ architects all the time..."
Félix looked slightly alarmed, but Oscar shrugged.
"I'm on retainer right now. What's your area?"
"Mostly museums, actually, which is why I was so interested."
"Booming business?" Oscar asked sourly. The man grinned.
"It pays the bills."
"I don't generally carry cards anymore, but I can give you my contact information..." Oscar scribbled his name and Eugenia's telephone number, out of habit, on a corner of the sketchpad, tore it, and handed it to the man, who blinked.
"Oscar Shelley? Byron Oreglia's apprentice?"
Oscar grinned. "All my life. You know his work?"
"Yes! And of course yours. Then that means -- " the man turned to Félix and Portia. "You must be Félix Carvell and Portia Rainer."
Portia gave him a winning grin. "And you are?"
"Oh, my manners. Richard Breston-Smith," he said, offering her his hand. When she took it, he kissed her knuckles. Félix and Oscar shared a look.
"Thank you, Mr Shelley. I'll be in touch," he said with a smile. "Miss Rainer, Mr Carvell, a pleasure to meet you."
"Huh," Félix said, when the young man had gone. "It appears we have fans."
"I like him," Portia grinned.
***
After dinner that night, Anastasia abandoned them for a boy she'd met the night before, and who'd promised to show her the wildest time Berlin had to offer. Félix and Portia speculated that this might involve feathers, leather, and possibly even glue of some kind.
"Are you sure you don't want to come out with us, Oscar?" Portia called, from the bathroom where she was applying lipstick.
"Oh, more than," Oscar answered. "I've had enough excitement for one day. Are you sure it's wise, anyway?"
"No drinking, no drugs, and I promise to be back by two," Félix answered, from the other bathroom, on the other side of the living room.
"Mischief in stereo," Oscar sighed.
"What are you going to do, anyhow?" Portia inquired, tossing the lipstick into a small clutch purse and emerging to show off.
"Donna Karan?" Oscar inquired.
"Christian Dior, moron," she replied with a sigh.
"When did I become so uncool you wouldn't even date me if I asked?" Oscar said.
"Oscar, have you ever been cool enough to date me if you asked? What are you reading?" she added, taking the book from his hands. "Italo Calvino?"
"French translation. Trying to improve my vocabulary," he said, taking another book off the table. "English translation, for reference. And don't you dare pull that I'm-a-dumb-girl crap on me, Portia, because you have the same degree I do and I've caught you reading Alexandre Dumas."
"I tape fashion magazine pages into it," she said, with a sly grin. "Félix, step it up, you're in trouble when the girl is waiting on you."
"Fine, I'm coming," Félix called. "Come in here and look at something for me, would you?"
Oscar glanced at Portia, then rose and followed her into the bathroom.
"Oh my god," he said, covering his mouth with his hand.
"So that's where my spare bottle of foundation went," Portia said, staring at Félix's reflection in the mirror.
"Does it look all right?" Félix asked, touching his cheek. From the neck down, he looked all right, inasmuch as he ever did when he was going out: black nylon mesh shirt, leather cuffs, chain dog collar, bright red linen trousers. Oscar barely noticed the outlandish clothing, accustomed to it as he was. It was Félix's face that gave them both pause.
He had made the attempt to hide his bruises using Portia's foundation, with mixed results; his trademark eyeliner had smeared into the caked-on makeup, and Portia's skin-tone-matched makeup...didn't match. Not to mention his face was still swollen, making it unsymmetrical. He looked like a Pierrot who'd been crying.
"I don't think anyone will notice, in the club," he said uncertainly.
"You'd make a lousy transvestite, Félix," Portia sighed. "I'll go get the cold cream."
Oscar took Félix gently by the arm, as Portia left, and turned him so that they faced each other. He picked up the sponge Félix had been applying makeup with and rinsed it off, scrubbing where the makeup started, at Félix's jaw.
"Vanity, thy name is Félix," he sighed. "Believe me, the bruise will look a lot better than the cover-up."
"A reversal of your usual attitude," Félix said. "Ow, that bit's tender."
"Sorry. What do you mean?"
"You fix broken things, you cover the old waterstained walls with new wallpaper."
Oscar laughed. "I get rid of the mildew first, though. I don't just cover stuff up."
"Of course not. That was a cheap shot."
"Yes it was, but it's been a long day." Oscar accepted the jar of cold cream from Portia, then looked down at it. "Uh, how do I use this?"
Portia handed him a twist of tissue. "Dip that in and smear it around. Works a little like lava soap on paint."
"Analogies I can understand. Well done," Oscar said, using the cold cream to clean the last of the makeup from Félix's face while Portia wandered back out into the living room. "Close your eyes."
Félix obediently did so. Oscar wiped the smeared eyeliner away from both eyes with the delicacy of someone who has spent half his life around watercolour paintbrushes.
"Still think the bruises are great?" Félix asked, opening his eyes. Oscar didn't step back.
"Yes," he said quietly. "Very little could ruin your face, Félix."
Félix tilted his head, touching one finger to his own lips. "You don't want me to go out tonight, do you."
"Not with a faceful of badly done makeup," Oscar answered.
"Not at all?"
"I don't mind being alone."
"That isn't an answer, Oscar."
"Félix, are we going or not?" Portia called. Oscar, who'd been opening his mouth to say something -- he had no idea what -- watched Félix brush past him into the living room.
"Not tonight. I think Oscar wants to paint while it's still fresh," he said.
"You're just vain," Portia replied. "Maybe I can still catch Anastasia and her boy -- she said they were going to the hotel bar first. If not, I'll be back and cranky and will demand chocolate truffles."
"Better bring them with you then," Oscar replied, following Félix out. The younger man slumped into a chair under a lamp, crossing one leg over the other and gazing out at the lights of night-time Berlin.
"Take care," he said to Portia, who checked herself in the mirror, patted Oscar on the shoulder, and blew Félix a kiss as she left. Oscar quietly went into his bedroom, unpacking the small watercolour set and brushes he'd tucked inside a shoebox in his luggage. The paper block was under his shirts, and there were wineglasses in the kitchen he could use for water cups.
Seating himself at a table nearby, Oscar spread out his tools and opened the block of watercolour paper. He stared at it for a minute before bursting into laughter.
"What?" Félix asked, leaning forward. Oscar ripped off the top sheet, shaking his head.
"Portia left me a note, is all. She must have dug out the block this afternoon," he said. "It's nothing important. Stay there -- the light's good. Are you comfortable?"
"Immensely," Félix replied, resting his unbruised cheek on one hand. "How's this?"
"Perfect," Oscar said, spreading colour on the watercolour paper without even bothering to draw in lines first. Flesh tones first, then green overlying, purple, red, and deep blue; if he worked quickly, all the colours would run together nicely at the edges.
Facedown on the table, Portia's note lay forgotten.
Remember, Oscar, you told me painting = sex. Don't get carried away.