Vincent passes him by once he has rid himself of his coat. Without the loose silhouette of the Inverness to obscure it, he seems suddenly very narrow and almost gangly. Long. Slim. Flat, in the most appealing ways. Claude doesn't follow him with his eyes, busying himself with his small tour around the studio until he's lit the remaining five-six lamps, their shades a theatrical scale of colours. They will never win the fight against night, not at this hour, but they lessen the strain on the eye. It'll do.
"It is," he replies, shrugging out of his own coat and throwing it somewhat haphazardly onto the bed. Outside of rehearsals, he's never been an orderly person. Away from his mother for most of his life and a bachelor for the rest of it? Who should have taught him. Pointing towards the west-facing window, he adds - only slightly proudly, because on his rare Sunday off, he loves watching the masses assemble: "I have a perfect view of the Champs-Élysées as well."
Pavel and he used to go for strolls there. Over summer that year. Like lovers do, they had simply been less obvious in their courtship. Or so they had thought. Smile stiffening a little, Claude walks over to his wobbly kitchen table and picks out two crystal tumblers. Then, the cognac from the shadows underneath the counter. A fine 1865 Burguet that Marise had stolen from her father's cellar and given him for his birthday last year. It's still unopened. Carelessly he toes out of his shoes and pushes them aside with one foot while popping the cork.
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"It is," he replies, shrugging out of his own coat and throwing it somewhat haphazardly onto the bed. Outside of rehearsals, he's never been an orderly person. Away from his mother for most of his life and a bachelor for the rest of it? Who should have taught him. Pointing towards the west-facing window, he adds - only slightly proudly, because on his rare Sunday off, he loves watching the masses assemble: "I have a perfect view of the Champs-Élysées as well."
Pavel and he used to go for strolls there. Over summer that year. Like lovers do, they had simply been less obvious in their courtship. Or so they had thought. Smile stiffening a little, Claude walks over to his wobbly kitchen table and picks out two crystal tumblers. Then, the cognac from the shadows underneath the counter. A fine 1865 Burguet that Marise had stolen from her father's cellar and given him for his birthday last year. It's still unopened. Carelessly he toes out of his shoes and pushes them aside with one foot while popping the cork.