02-19-2022, 01:40 AM
Chéri smiled more clearly as she followed him, pressing the top of his hand against his own cheek. “I figured as much. Your music probably belongs to the type that is made prettier by mistakes.” The thought just came out, without too much thinking -as usual-.
Chéri never thought about it the right way to talk about anything: the world of words was such a foreign territory, any form of verbal expression was mostly a hem on an already well woven fabric of movements, faces and inarticulate sounds. Everything that went beyond that was hard and became blurred, as if too far away from him to be properly studied. Chéri looked up and said “I have some songs poor people sing that I like. I don’t know if here they would be folk song, it seems that as soon as something isn’t in English it is immediately odd and no more music of the people.” He explained, having a ague idea of what folk might refer to “Why? Do you want to learn some of the music of my people?” He asked, as if she could have guess he was Basque.
Chéri nodded “I am not bothered by more people being there, I’m used to be watched. They might ge bored, but you pay them for that, no?” Ah yes, the very elegant subject of money. The illusion of wealth and status was slipping away -but then again, Chéri had openly admitted to being a performer, so it was probably gone already-.
Regarding the where, Chéri knew he had one, maybe two places that would accept him hosting whatever sort of situation and neither sounded appropriate for a lady, not even remotely, at least in his head.
And then Jane turned to the woman who accompanied her. Presumably, the conversation happened in English, so Chéri could not understand. A little bit tense, he waited, until finally she gave him good news. Chéri placed both his hands where he believed the heart was and bowed in gratitude, looking at her with enthusiasm. “Hurray! Now we just have to think of a place.” And in his case, of a name respectable enough that he could give, since they hadn’t been introduced at all and “Mr Chéri” was not going to do.
Chéri never thought about it the right way to talk about anything: the world of words was such a foreign territory, any form of verbal expression was mostly a hem on an already well woven fabric of movements, faces and inarticulate sounds. Everything that went beyond that was hard and became blurred, as if too far away from him to be properly studied. Chéri looked up and said “I have some songs poor people sing that I like. I don’t know if here they would be folk song, it seems that as soon as something isn’t in English it is immediately odd and no more music of the people.” He explained, having a ague idea of what folk might refer to “Why? Do you want to learn some of the music of my people?” He asked, as if she could have guess he was Basque.
Chéri nodded “I am not bothered by more people being there, I’m used to be watched. They might ge bored, but you pay them for that, no?” Ah yes, the very elegant subject of money. The illusion of wealth and status was slipping away -but then again, Chéri had openly admitted to being a performer, so it was probably gone already-.
Regarding the where, Chéri knew he had one, maybe two places that would accept him hosting whatever sort of situation and neither sounded appropriate for a lady, not even remotely, at least in his head.
And then Jane turned to the woman who accompanied her. Presumably, the conversation happened in English, so Chéri could not understand. A little bit tense, he waited, until finally she gave him good news. Chéri placed both his hands where he believed the heart was and bowed in gratitude, looking at her with enthusiasm. “Hurray! Now we just have to think of a place.” And in his case, of a name respectable enough that he could give, since they hadn’t been introduced at all and “Mr Chéri” was not going to do.
