Good Day [Therese/Public]

She was walking- hobbling down the hall, and away to somewhere. Antonio didn't care to know. He wasn't even thinking about it. It was too exciting how close they actually were again.

He came up behind her, grabbing her arm ever so slightly. It was easy to do. He was taller, and naturally a fast walker- while she was shorter, and hobbled like she was missing part of her foot.

"Comtesse...I wish you didn't run from me..." he smiled. He still didn't understand why she ran from him. But it was something that she should know did not please him very much. It was quite rude actually. But he didn't hold that against her. The Venetian said he might have offended her. So, it was a little understandable then. "I didn't mean to insult you. I hope I didn't."

"You're very beautiful to look at," He tried to seem as endearing as possible as he said it. Maybe she might not run away this time then.

(shoooort)

The door was closed. She would have to wait to get in. Which she minded very, very much. But before she could sit and see the damage to her heel or even pull at her jewelry in nervous impatience before her arm was taken and she heard a slightly familiar voice from behind her.

She was too shocked to reply, so she just leered at him with large, frightened eyes and tried to find a reason in his face to yell for help. He didn't hold any malice in his voice or his smile. She was about to let him off the hook as just wanting to apologize for his words, but then...

...Beautiful to look at?

Suspicious. "Th-thank...you...?" The compliment felt alien to her ears. "But if you're having a go at me... I-I don't think I find it very comical." There was no other logical explanation other that he was entertaining himself and those other two men at her expense.

"Having a go at you...?" He gave a soft and rather perplexed smile. He didn't even know what she meant. But if it was something she didn't find funny... Well, then he would not do it- whatever it was.

"I'm a painter... I didn't get to tell you- since you left." And he smiled again, as he reached for her hand. His accent made bad intentions seem so implausible a thing to come from his mind. His actions and expressions only accentuated that image. He had always been good-natured. Even in Vienna, where it was best to be bad-natured, he tried hard to be good. That was how he was raised. But people here, could be so bad. And she was used to living here.

"I would love to paint you... I- I'll pay you even! I'll give you more than other models make." He pulled out the coins from his pocket, again- the coins he had been trying to give to her earlier. Eagerly pressing them into her hands, his grin grew wider.

"Just- this is just for you to consider, please... I have more at home." Not much, but some. He was willing to spend some on her- though she didn't look like she needed money. Especially not with that giant ring. Maybe she would even buy a painting of herself, for her fiance.

He must also be rich- and if a rich man had one of his paintings...

"I haven't seen anyone like you. Not even our Russian friend back there- he's not even as beautiful as you."

"...Please...?"

The Venetian yawned to himself, watcing the two leave (well, it was only one left by this time). Now he needed some way to amuse himself while they were inside until they were chased off for harrassing the Comtesse. But what? There were plenty of women to look at in the area, but after tat he wasn't sure if he wanted to look at them for the rest of the day. . . Okay an hour at most. At least that's what he'd thought until he caught the eyes of a fair haired woman. He smiled at her, about to go an talk to her only to see the Russian coming back at a speed.

He'd literally only just walked over there, hadn't he? Had he been refused entry-- Not that BEpin would blame tem if they had, he would have done the same, really. But. . . There was no sign of the younger man.

"I knew it! I knew that woman was an imperialist spy!"

Imperialist spy? Yep, he was insane. Perhaps that was why he came back so quickly. He was afraid of being locked up in an asylum with all the other loopy people. Though he couldn't help but start feeling a little nervous around him, even more so when he started shaking him. But so far he'd proven not to be violent, so. . .

He dismissed the thoughts for a moment, looking over his shoulder at him. "Probably throw him out. He looks pretty sane, a bit dim, but sane. I don't see why he wouldn't he allowed out, it's just a psycologist or whatever it is they're called. Though if it does get too much for you and you want us to go in after him, I advise keeping silent."

Lev didn't see what sanity had anything to do with it.

"Psychologist? That's what they want you to think," he corrected, staring hard into the Venetian's eyes, his own somehow even wider than normal, "It's a trick, to get you to let your guard down, so that you'll reveal if you're working against the government. You think I sound strange right now, but it's because you don't know--the secret police is everywhere! Just waiting to ship guys like me off to Siberia--WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?" He exploded at two passerby, who ceased staring, but noticeably quickened their pace, looking frightened.

Finally releasing his (probably too tight) grip on the other man's shoulders, he fixed his gaze on the building once again, as if willing it to release their painter friend. Biting one of his fingernails in worry, he relented a little, agreeing, "Yeah... If we go in, we should keep a low profile. So that they don't suspect... But they might still recognize me." It was a risk he'd have to take.

Certainly, he did sound like he was missing more than one screw, now, but where he came from, there would have been some reason to what he was saying. People like him truly were not safe, and were followed and watched and taken in for questioning. And summarily punished. Fourteen of the Narodnaya Volya had gone this way, and he did not intend to join their ranks, no matter how dedicated he was to the revolutionary cause. The paranoia had stuck, but he'd never realized that it was now counter-productive, having removed himself from Russia.

"I'm going in," he decided, without waiting for the other man to respond. Opening the door nervously, he attempted to walk straight past the receptionist as sneakily as possible, but...no luck. It was hard to be sneaky when someone was looking right at you.

"Can I help you, sir?"

He froze, and smiled nervously, flashing the gap between his front teeth, trying to think of something to say. The receptionist looked suspicious.

"Are you one of our patients, here?"

"No!" He exclaimed, a little too defensively, "I'm just looking for--he just walked in, my friend, Herr...um..."

It struck him that he never caught the Tyrolean's name. Oops.

Well. His 'new friend' was certainly seeming less and less sane by the second. And now he was onto secret police? Fantastic. And he was scaring people, even better, but he couldn't help but smirk lightly at the passersbys, feeling little to no pity for them. At least if this guy had completely lost it, he was amusing.

"I don't think you sound strange, I think you are strange," Bepin corrected as he was finally being allowed his shoulders back, rolling them a bit to get rid of the slight pain in them, before looking over at the two have headed before continuing, "And I don't think randomly shouting at people on the street will help convince anyone of your own--"

The Venetian blinked at not seeing the man there when he turn back, a light from gracing his features once again. Honestly it was like dealing with children. Bepin was clearly the most level headed of them and yet they had both ran off before he could tell tem how unwise they were being. . . Wow, he was starting to sound like his father, he joked with himself, laughing under his breath and following in after the other man.

Well, so much for him staying quiet. It was tempting to just leave him and watch to see what happened, but that wasn't how one kept friends, now, was it?

Bepin took a few quick strides over to the man's side, grabbing him lightly by the shoulder and pulling him back. He smiled at the receptionist for a moment as he turned the Russian away from her.

"Ahh, excuse me friend here. He gets very nervous when speaking to people such as yourself, but we are only here to give Herr Schmidt, that young boy who ran in here a few minutes ago, something he forgot. It's very important we wont linger too long. My friend Sasha here has a bit of a phobia of hospitals or anywhere like them, you know?" he explained, having made up names on the spot and leading the taller man down the hall as he spoke and turning the corner before the woman could stop him.

She was a mortified that someone who thought she was beautiful had followed her to her psychologist. Having a purpose to be in the building and not being faculty meant one couldn't control their own faculties. She supposed she was better off than those that saw things that weren't there... But then again, how could she be sure things did or did not exist? If she saw everything normally, and was still unfixable... She would end up in the same place as those people that saw things. Or a convent-- but it was too quiet, too calm. She would be worse off.

She merely stared at the coins in her hand, not sure what it meant. It would be nice, to be painted as beautiful. Her fiancée had never seen her before. He was a widower-- he just needed a new wife. One that was presentable. She could send the beautiful her to him. Maybe it would give her peace of mind-- if only just a little. "Mm."

And if she was getting paid... "Ah-- okay. That... I'm interested. Where do you--"

There were the other two. "What... What are they doing here...?" No one but her parents and her lady's maid knew she came here. Now three more strangers did. And one had a rather loud mouth.

What luck that he'd managed to become acquainted with such a smooth talker--but how did he know how much institution-type places terrified him? Must have been a clever inference.

"Is his name really 'Schmidt'?" He asked in a whisper as they passed the danger, "And you know 'Sasha's not really a nickname for Lev--"

But he didn't get a chance to elaborate on what would have been an appropriate diminutive, for upon rounding the corner, their target was in sight. He was about to suggest to the Venetian that it may be prudent to take the woman as hostage, to guarantee their safe escape (no measures were too extreme, when dealing with these people), but she saw them and it was over.

"We're here for Schmidt!" He somehow managed to exclaim while still keeping his voice down (no need to draw the attention of whatever armed guards were surely there), grabbing the artist by the upper arm, "Come on, we have to get out of here--this place isn't safe." His eyes were wide with urgency.

He was almost quivering with anticipation by the time she finally answered him. And when she did he was relieved. So relieved. So relieved and excited and exhilarated and so full of joy. He grasped her hands together, and into his, smiling as wide as he could.

He wanted so much to paint her- and this this is just what she was going to allow to happen. He had relied on models, average models with average bodies and faces- he had relied on greys his entire time in Vienna. But now, now- he had a bright burst of colour in his collection. How he loved colours, he looked at her again. He could never get enough of looking at her. She was so flawed and so beautiful in little special ways, everytime he looked at her, it was like he discovered something new. And she became only more flawed and beautiful.

"I'm....I..." She didn't even finish her question, but he already had an answer- or he already wanted to have an answer.

But she mentioned his friends.

"We're here for Schmidt!"

He turned around quickly, introducing himself with another large, friendly smile.

Who was this Schmidt? It hadn't occurred to Antonio at all that he had failed to introduce himself. Things often slipped his mind- and this just happened to be another instance of that.

"Who is Schmidt....?" He verbalized softly, as his friend took hold of his arm. That hand let go of the Comtese's when his Russian friend expressed the urgency. He didn't see what the urgency was. Maybe it was this Schmidt character? But... Well... Why would they be here for him if he put them in danger? Well- Lev was a philosopher. It made sense to him. And things that made sense to him had a good chance at being more right than things that made sense to Antonio.

But really, since things were urgent, he rushed his eyes to the Comtesse again. One of his hands was still holding onto her's.

"You will come too...? I can take you to my room- err- my studio, if you would like."

It had probably been for the best that he hadn't been able to suggest that as Bepin would have turned on his heel and got the Russian put away in here. After all, that would make him dangerously crazy-- Not someone he wanted to be associated with. Nor did he want to be involved in a hostage situation. Though it had also meant he never had a chance to explain that he'd made up the names.

"We're here for Schmidt!"

"His name's not Schmidt," He said, not missing a beat, "it was simply the first name I thought of. . . And I would have been surprised if 'Sasha' was a nickname for Lev. I thought you'd prefer it if I didn't give your name."

And now they were both panicking over nothing, definitly like dealing with children. "Will you both calm down, you're going to draw attention to us, you know." Though now he had something he needed to try, and this was a golden oppourtunity, "You know the imperialist spies will find you easier to notice if you're running around panicking-- It's what they're expecting. If you are calm, you'll look just like everyone else and they wont spot you." Though in after thought, it could just make the other worse and have the entirely opposite effect from what he'd wanted.

Well, that threw Lev for a loop. If this wasn't Schmidt, then who was? Did Schmidt not exist? How distressing--he'd become worried and risked his life over something that didn't exist.

...What a powerful notion! What could this mean?

Mumbling something that vaguely sounded like "the Schmidt theory", his expression glazed over from deep thought for a moment as he rubbed his chin (man, he needed to shave--) in contemplation. Something was said about imperialist spies... 

"...What spies?" He waved a hand, as if to wave away the notion--for he'd become engrossed in a different one. Pulling out a pocketbook and a stub of a pencil, he began scribbling down notes furiously.

Bepin's plan to make him quiet worked...though probably not in the way he'd planned.

She didn't think 'Colorful' was how she would describe herself. Maybe colorful, in the way that when all the colors were mixed together on a pallete they made a sickly brown. That was more the 'colorful' she would agree with. Her clothes were vibrant (and now stained) but she preferred darker colors to not draw attention to herself.

Which was why she didn't want to continue to accompany them on their... Shenanigans. She couldn't afford to miss even one appointment-- time was ticking on her engagement period. Still... She would have liked to get her portrait painted by an artist. For money, even.

She opened the door and went half in. "I can't make it to spend... Spend time with you all today... But if you leave your information with the receptionist... I'll contact you later." She looked over the balcony to the two men at the bottom. That Russian was yelling again-- who was Schmidt? "...but they can't leave their's." And with that, she owed the door, grateful to be away from them finally.

"Who is Schmidt...?" Antonio asked again, still finding the question unanswered. They just made things more confusing... What was Bepin even talking about...? And what was Lev even doing? Did this all have to do with Schmidt in one way or another?

Was he a spy...?

Ah- he didn't have time to think much on that, though. The Comtesse was leaving them.

"Wait--," he called after her, but it was too late. He frowned, glancing back to his friends. Did she not like them? Well, she claimed she wanted to see Antonio again for the painting...

But a slight smile did creep out from his lips. He was going to get a chance to paint her.

"When I paint her..." he gave a firm pat on the back to both of his new friends. "I think you should come see it. She would like that, I'm sure." He shrugged, taking some steps forward to the receptionist. He wasn't really sure if she would like it, but, well- they were friends, so she probably would.

"Can you help me write my name and where I live for her... My writing isn't very good, I don't think." His reading and writing skills were far below average when compared to his intellectual friends. But, most of them had grown up in the city. Schools in the country were few and far between. And it was too costly to send a son to school for too long.

"And I don't know if I can spell where I live, sometimes..."

A little embarrassing to state, but it was true. These Viennese often thought of Antonio as stupid. His friends didn't think he was stupid, though! He knew they would understand.

[[ woah, so late, sorry. stuff went down irl. ;;; ]]

Well. . . It hadn't been entirely what Bepin had wanted, but the Russian was quiet, and this was good. Though from the looks of it it seemed as though he'd have to check whether or not he was familiar with the concept of lying-- But for the moment, he wasn;t going to complain. After all one 'child' quiet was better for him. Plus he'd need to retry this whole business with the other's fear of spies as a method of control later.

He was brought of his brief train of thought by the third member of their party patting him on the back. He blinked and turned to face him at the offer to come and watch him paint the nervous woman, a light laugh escaping his lips.

"Something tells me that she really wouldn't like it," He stated before allowing himself to yawn slightly-- serves him right for hanging around with these guys instead of getting that coffee, "But I would be more than happy to help you~ Especially since Lev, here, seems to be alittle distracted." He wouldn't admit that he may also have trouble spelling where the other lived if he did not know the area, but he would never admit it, even to himself. "But. . . I already suggested that your name is Schmidt, so you should probably tell me before we go over there. . ."

The Venetian trailed of for a second, digging through his pockets to see if he had anything to write on rather than asking that receptionist for some. He'd learned that once you lie to someone, you have to keep up that lie ntil you were sure they'd forgotten it-- Unless you could get away with altering the already false information. Fortunatly, he found a small scrap of paper (it looked like a receipt for something, but he couldn't really care less what it was for.)

"So. What are you called and where do you live?"