nicolaspicou
Listen to the murmurs...
The Crooner, Nicolas Picou. 28. Jazz Singer & Pianist. American.
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jacklambton:
Well not-hate is on its way to like. Shh Freddie. “Someone else?” Jack laughed goodnaturedly. “I apologize if I disappoint. I would make it up to you, if you’ll let me.” A little forward perhaps, but gentle all the same. He could only mean entertaining him, couldn’t he? And if it went that way, there was no harm in it. A stranger was only a someone else you hadn’t met yet.
“Well…” Jack thought for a minute. Now this was a valuable but tricky exercise. There were many, many things wrong with the book to his mind, but he was also always comparing it to the paragon of art that lived in his head. The thing Reg and Freddie and Kit had demanded he write before he died. “I think we spend far too much time with Kit, considering his general inaction.” It was true that he wished he’d given Ophelia more chapters. He now believed he’d been frightened to get too close. At the time, he felt he’d stolen enough from Nadja already, but it didn’t have to have been Nadja derived had it? Lazy, that’s what it was. “You just want to shake him sometimes, you know? Make a decision, get on with it.” There was a pointed self criticism in that. “He’s supposed to be a smart man. He should learn faster.”
Jack leaned back in his chair, studying the other man beyond the truly extraordinary good looks. This really was the pinnacle of self indulgent nonsense. He knew better, as hopelessly incorrigible as he might be.
Jack sighed. “I can’t keep this up. It’s mine.” He hid his eyes with his hand, in half-mock, half-earnest contrition. “The book, I mean. But I do hate it in parts.” he finished quickly, lowering his hand to rest on the soft napkin on the table. “But by the time you know how to fix it, it’s out in the world, you know? If you know how to fix it, which is a very infrequent luxury.”
Nicolas waved his hand dismissively at the other’s question, shaking his head. “No, no, not like that.” He didn’t want to come off cocky and say he was expecting him to be a fan... and, frankly, he would like to avoid the discussion about his career as long as possible, if this man didn’t already know him. “I guess that depends on what you have in mind.” If he was just going to make it up to him by buying his coffee, well, he wouldn’t say no to that.
The homme considered the stranger’s point for a moment, before shrugging. “I’m no literary expert, but I suppose I agree... I wish Ophelia was in it a bit more, so far, but I’m alright with Kit’s chapters too.” Truly, he just read for pleasure. He was no critic, and he doubted he ever would be. He’d gone through school, but his knowledge of the literary arts was nothing like his knowledge of music. “Sometimes smart ones are the ones who are the slowest, though. It takes longer to decide or absorb, but then they never forget. I think that can be more valuable sometimes... but maybe I haven’t reached section you’re talking about.”
Nico’s face changed to confusion at the other’s next words, blinking once. “You wrote it?” He asked hesitantly, eyes widening slightly as he quickly looked down at the book, before back up at the man. “Oh. I should have realized, my apologies.” Not that he’d introduced himself, or anything. “Creators always seem to dislike their work once it’s out though, right? You wait until someone gives their opinion of it, because until then, you only see its flaws.”
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camlambton:
Doesn’t seem so bad. An ambassadorial library, in a palatial Parisian townhouse? How droll. That American irreverence could have a kind of charm. (This far from a live war, anyway. Hadn’t been so amusing, then and there.) Still, Cam didn’t laugh; not out loud, anyway, as he brought up another glass. “I’m afraid the collection is rather terribly dry. Haven’t seen this much Latin since my schooldays. Almost as if they were trying to impress somebody.” Almost. Cam kept a smirk mostly to himself as he considered the bar, taking his pick. “And despite all appearances to the contrary,” what with the hiding, in the near-dark, at that, “I’ve no objection to company. So. As you were.” Wouldn’t do to be nosy enough to inquire as to why, exactly, Mr. Picou had wound up so far from the limelight. Not when Cam was doing the same.
Him and his good memory. Frankly, he often thought he might stand to remember a little less. Perhaps it was a matter of age, or agonizing insomnia; whatever the cause, Cam often found the past at his throat, far too close for comfort. And it arrived with names, yes. Names and faces.
Or pieces of faces, at least.
Cam half-nodded, the clink of the decanter keeping the hushed halls of Sidcup away. For now. “Brandy it is.” Nations and their burdens; a weighty subject. Especially on soil borrowed from a country still bristling with tonnes of matériel. Not to mention the corpses, so many mangled, fragmented, past knowing. Past returning. Past being found, at all. Such burdens. “That they do, certainly.” Yes, not to mention. Hardly appropriate chit-chat. Instead, Cam offered his guest that second snifter, and raised his own. “To a jolly good show.” He drank, appreciating it. The music, the nightcap? Both, sincerely. Then paused, eyeing the slow-ticking mantlepiece clock with a long drag on that cigarette. Tragically, time hadn’t slipped on while he wasn’t looking. It’d be hours more, surely, until he would be able to slip back to the townhouse for a late, late bath. And a spot of morphine, one of those tablets he’d managed to stock up on before leaving London. Had to mind his supply, in a strange town, with no certain sources as of yet. A whole other, pressing problem…
In the meantime, he didn’t have to heave himself back into the bustle quite yet. No need to rush. “Is there anywhere in particular you tend to perform? My mother’s quite the patron of the arts, these days. Always after the next best thing. Very generous, when she finds it.” As was her privilege and pleasure to be. “She stops by the city now and then, making her rounds. I’d be pleased to pass on a recommendation. And your card, if you’ve any on hand.” Honestly, Cam couldn’t guess as to her opinions on Picou’s particular style. Or jazz in general. Hadn’t quite caught on back home, not yet. But, so far as music went, Nicolas, here, might well be that next best. If the critics were to be believed. Having heard it for himself, he was inclined to agree. Not that his mother necessarily would. At the very, very least, though, the Countess would have a new sort of night out. Call it a dutiful son doing his bit to keep mum current.
Nico wasn’t usually an insecure person. He knew he was good at he did, that was never a point of worry or anxiety for him. He could perform. He’d been doing it since he was practically a child, for god’s sake - if he wasn’t good at it by now, he was really doing something wrong with his life. And yet, despite being perfectly confident in his ability, he was uneasy at this gig. It wasn’t that he didn’t know why, either. No, he knew. He was surrounded by people who may as well live on a completely different Earth from him. Playing in clubs was similar, sure, but this was a group of British aristocrats. Was there possibly anyone he had less in common with? “I haven’t either. My parents made me learn Latin in school, but I haven’t used it much since, if I’m being honest.” He wasn’t in a field where he needed to, though. As the other agreed that Nico could stay, he nodded once. “Thank you, Sir.”
God, how was he supposed to behave? Was he allowed to actually sit down before the other? Nico contemplated it for a moment, before finally moving further away from the doorway, towards where the general was pouring drinks for each of them. “I won’t pretend to know the sort that England goes through.” He said rather casually, not wanting to press about it. “But I thank God that France hasn’t followed suit and banned it too. Though, I’m sure the country would revolt if they tried.” He tried to joke as he obediently took the glass. He nodded at his toast and sipped at the brandy, giving him another small smile.
Ah, business. That was a better thing to talk about, less awkward. “I perform most Fridays at Cafe Étoile. Other than that, it’s here and there. My drummer is much better with knowing the schedule, I have to have it all written down in my calendar at home.” He usually looked over a week or so at a time, and every day he would glance at it again to ensure he wouldn’t forget anything. “Sure, I would appreciate that. I’m afraid I don’t have a card... perhaps I should. I’m not sure how many musicians have them made.” He admitted, sipping at the brandy again. He honestly doubted anything would come of this anyway, though - it wasn’t that he thought the other was lying, but manners and politeness were definitely things he would expect from a British general.
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nadjababineaux:
“Since November???” Nadja tried to think of all the nothing she had done since November. A lot of dancing. A lot of rehearsals for Sleeping Beauty. A lot of sticking her feet in as much ice as she could find. A lot of losing her mind, talking to her dog, watering her plants. “Oh, please, Nico, you’re fine. I’m just glad you’re back. And now I have an excuse to stay out after shows- I can come to hear you sing.”
There was a moment where she felt like she was eighteen again. That same energy and excitement coursing through her veins as the realization that she had her friend back in Paris. The Nadja before the heartache (though, it was still the Nadja after the trauma of the war) was a much happier, much more energetic girl, she had to admit. “I’m afraid I’ve become a bit of a shut-in recently. Lots of me in the studio dancing rather than being social.”
She stopped her prattling on for a moment to just look at him. To see what had changed. He’d grown older- obviously. So had she. She had been an awkward little duckling- well… she was still probably a duckling. She just was older, and was slightly more well known (and with fame, people had a habit of overlooking things). But he had the same warm energy about him that she’d grown so fond of. Some little memory lit up in her brain the longer she sat there, and a Cheshire grin settled into place on her face. “By the way, darling. You still owe me a dance.”
“Since November.” Nico confirmed with a bit of a sigh, hoping she wouldn’t be too upset with him. Moving really had been a whirlwind, it still felt like he had only just arrived, and he’d been there for more than half a year, now. “I suppose you can, if you won’t get in trouble with your... who’s in charge in ballet, a director? Choreographer?” He asked curiously. Even with all their conversations in letters, he didn’t seem to recall learning that information.
It was nice, talking to someone who wasn’t directly involved with his life. Sure, he talked to fans. He met strangers constantly, talked to his band and other musicians and performers... but that wasn’t the same. Nadja knew him first, and probably knew him much better than all the rest, save for Lucienne. “I would say I understand, but when most of your work takes place in bars and clubs, I’m afraid there’s no lack of social interaction.” He joked, leaning back on his hands.
And then, she was looking. He knew why, he’d done a moment of it himself when he saw her from afar. It had been a long time since they had seen each other in person, since they had any semblance of what the other looked like. “Do I have something on my face?” He teased gently after a moment, only to have her light up. He wasn’t sure if she had even heard him speak. “I do!” His grin matched hers and he let out a laugh, having completely forgotten. “I can’t dance like you though. Although, I don’t assume many can dance like you.”
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luciennepicou:
Roux the Day
@nicolaspicou
“Brown, you.” Lucienne growled at the pot as she stirred. She was used to making gumbo with her father, but somehow she always forgot how long it took for the stupid butter and flour mixture to darken to the beautiful caramel chocolate color that meant it would be perfect for the feast she and her cousin were about to make.
She turned around to eye him. “Nico, can you please take a turn? You get to stand still all night. It’s only fair.” It was a slight mischaracterization. She respected what he did profoundly, just as she did her father and her uncle and all aunties and uncles she had outside conventional blood. They were a music family. Always had been. But Nico was Nico. She got to make demands on him. That was how being the younger one worked.
Half of her wanted to march downstairs into L’Ortolan’s kitchen and ask if she was doing something wrong. She’d never made gumbo by herself before. Or by herself with Nico, for that matter. It felt like a strange rite of passage. Here they were, on the other side of the world, doing something they always did at home. Well, they usually didn’t cook at home because they weren’t the best at it. But the point stood. “So tell me a story.” She groaned. “I think you can fit a whole novel in before this gets to where it needs to be.”
It wasn’t like Nico never cooked for himself. He did, especially around breakfast, or lunch, which sometimes coincided depending on his sleep schedule... but he didn’t cook like this. Or, at least, he hadn’t since moving to Paris. When he was home in New Orleans, he would help out in the kitchen sometimes, but it wasn’t usually anything complicated. Stir this, flip that, get the biscuits out of the oven. A sidekick when there was no one else to turn to.
“I’ll burn it, Lou.” He said, immediately after his cousin’s request. “Besides, I’m kneading dough. I can’t do both at once.” He would have taken a turn at stirring the roux, though, if she hadn’t teased about his work. “And I do not stand still. My fingers move, pianos don’t play themselves.”
After pushing at the dough a couple more times, he was happy with the lump of dough in front of him. He grabbed the rolling pin and started rolling it out, groaning a bit as the dough stuck to it. “Flour, flour, flour...” He muttered, eyes darting around before he spotted it and reached in so he could actually dust the rolling pin with it. “A story?” He repeated, wrinkling his nose as he contemplated. “Did I tell you that Marcos forgot his trombone a few weeks ago? It was in the backstage room, locked up, it was safe. So in rehearsal, he tried to use a friend’s instrument, but it was beat up and wasn’t working for him, so he was singing his parts and miming the slide positions.” Nico chuckled, remembering the rehearsal. None of them were able to keep a straight face the entire time. “It’s not easy to pay attention when you hear him in the background, doo-ing his part.”
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Let’s see what’s on the meme-menu today - bon appétit!
As always, our muse-some meme sessions are not mandatory. To signal that you are accepting meme prompts from this week’s selection, please reblog this post. Tag your responses with #af.meme, and enjoy!
[borrowed from here]
A : AFFECTION. how does your muse show affection?
B : BOUQUET. does your muse like flowers? which ones are their favourite?
C : CHOCOLATE. does your muse like chocolate? which one is their favourite?
D : DATE. what is your muse’s ideal date? where / who with / etc?
E : EMBRACE. does your muse like hugs? what are their hugs like?
F : FLIRT. is your muse good at flirting? how do they flirt?
G : GIFT. is your muse good at gift - giving or do they struggle to get it right?
H : HEART. is your muse quick or slow to give their heart away?
I : I LOVE YOU. does your muse find ‘i love you’ easy or hard to say?
J : JEALOUSY. does your muse get jealous in a relationship?
K : KISS. is your muse a good kisser? why / why not?
L : LOVE. who does your muse love?
M : MOONLIGHT. what is your muse’s ideal date? where / who with / etc?
N : NAUGHTY. �� what is your muse like in bed?
O : ODE. does your muse have a way with words?
P : PARTNER. what does your muse look for in a partner? looks / personality?
Q : QUESTION. would your muse ask the big question or expect their partner to?
R : ROMANCE. is your muse a romantic or a cynic?
S : SWEETHEART. did your muse have a childhood sweetheart?
T : TRUE LOVE. does your muse believe in true love?
U : UNREQUITED. has your muse had their heart broken?
V : VALENTINE. how does your muse feel about valentine’s day?
W : WEDDING. would your muse get married? why / why not?
X : XOXO. does your muse use / like pet names?
Y : YOURS. does your muse get protective easily?
Z : ZZZ. how many people has your muse slept with?
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jacklambton:
It wasn’t gentlemanly to stare. It also wasn’t gentlemanly to obsess over your own work when it was in the hands of a very attractive man. But Jack had only ever been a gentleman in name only, hadn’t he?
He really had been minding his own business. The French launch of Patient Man was only a few days away. Barghest was misbehaving in translation again (There were really only so many words for claws, so he was having to get creative with the spirit of the thing.), so he’d decided to get some air, notebook in hand rather than bringing his precious manuscript out on a windy day. That was when he’d seen the nearly irresistible sight of an absolutely gorgeous reader of his work. He always wrote with Odette’s reactions in mind nowadays, but he just had to pick the stranger’s brain, didn’t he? Especially if he could do it in English.
“I apologize for staring, I just…” How did he put this? “I’m reading it and I absolutely hate the writing style in spots.” That wasn’t a lie. “And I can’t seem to put my finger on why.”
That was a half lie. He knew the book had problems, some of which was simply an issue of only looking at it with fresh, non-mourning eyes when it was already in galley, but others were more hidden from himself. Archie was a good friend and a fantastic editor, but outside eyes were always appreciated.
“Really, though, apologies for interrupting.” He gave the other man a quick once over. “ I’d hate to take up too much of your time.” Now that was a lie.
Oh, so it wasn’t a fan. Or, at least, if it was, he was trying to play it off like he wasn’t. He supposed that was a rather arrogant thing to think, that anyone looking his way had seem him perform... He should feel grateful, to be popular, really, instead of internally complaining about the dramatics of it all.
But, some days, it was just nice to get out and read a book without the attention, like he would get to if he was any other person. One who worked for a newspaper, or a restaurant, or a tailor. He wasn’t, though, he was a singer. He was a musician, one whose name was becoming increasingly popular in the papers, as jazz itself continued to gain popularity amongst the French. This musician was grateful, however, that there were other artists out there that could give him a much-needed distraction. The Patient Man was doing that, at least so far.
“Oh.” Nico said first, blinking as his eyes flicked back down to the book for a moment. “I don’t know much about that, I don’t hate it though.”
Tucking his bookmark into the novel, Nico closed the book, not sure if this was going to turn into a conversation, rather than just a few words in passing. “It’s alright, I assumed you were... someone else.” He wasn’t really lying, it was just that he thought his intentions would be different. Should he let the other excuse himself and walk away, or was a conversation about the book worth risking the peace he had with his coffee?
“What about it don’t you like?”
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camlambton:
Oh; the singer. The jazz singer. A star of the scene, he’d been told. And a surprise, between the usual cellos and clarinets. Not an unpleasant one. Cam had heard some of the stuff, before. During the war, while he liaised with their new, slow-starting allies from the United States. And around London, since. Very modern. Took some getting used to, perhaps, but catchy. A bit scandalous, or rather, depending on who you asked. And who was playing it. But with such a set to entertain, the Marquess - or his assistants, at least - truly had secured quite the line-up. It ought to be flattering, as welcomes went. And would have been, if he wasn’t entirely certain that his so-called colleagues couldn’t care less. His arrival was an excuse, not a reason. Of course, they’d never admit the facts of the matter. They didn’t have to.
The smoke he’d been pondering puffed out, with a faint, dry laugh. Wrong door. For Cam’s sake, certainly. “Unless you were after the library, in which case, you’ve found it. As for your element, I won’t presume.” Partly because Cam frankly hadn’t the foggiest as to what that might be; an American, abroad, with the skin this fellow was in, and so young as he seemed to be. Altogether, rather a mystery to the British gentry, and generals, both. Partly all that, yes, and partly that Cam was, himself, avoiding the same. His element. Major-General Arthur Camniel Kerr Lambton, MVO, GCB, and so on, was precisely where he belonged. In theory. Or he would have been, out there, anyway. And yet. Here he was. Scuttled away from the fuss, the rigmarole, the fawning. Abandoning his guests, or his ambassador’s, anyway. The height of impropriety.
Really should be getting back, on that note. But, first - a bit of that liquid courage wouldn’t go amiss. Pressing to his feet, Cam made his uneven way to the sideboard, flicking a bit of cigarette ash into the fire as he helped himself along on the mantle, as lightly as he could. “Mr. Picou, isn’t it?” It was. Nicolas Picou, he’d read, in the programme. Cam was rather good with names, despite what his men might have thought, on the Front. Shouldn’t have been such a shock. After all, he wrote the war diary, and the despatches, and the letters home, in the end. So many names. “Brandy? Scotch?” He inquired, briskly, taking a snifter from the rack. “Though, you Americans do prefer bourbon, don’t you? Or did, anyway. Before that ghastly Prohibition business set in…” Ghastly, yes. One shuddered to think. “My condolences.”
The more Nico spoke to Brits, it seemed more and more that they lived in a different world from the one he grew up in. He spoke English, sure, it was what he’d been taught in school growing up, and he thought that American English and British English wasn’t all that different... but with the mix of formalities and titles, it was like an entirely different language, one whose sentences he only seemed to understand half of. Sure, he knew all of these words, but had absolutely no idea where and when to use them, let alone know the faces each title belonged to. When he opened the door to escape the fan outside, he expected he would be alone in a strange room, not that he would be confronted with the very man this event was for. He had been doing rather well in conversation by copying the formality of others, but he was all on his own this time.
Nico let out a bit of a chuckle himself at the other’s words, nodding. Their lives were likely complete opposites, as different as people could be. And yet, he was mentally pleading with fate that he wouldn’t have to leave this room until that guest’s voice had faded down the hall. If he was lucky, this stranger would put up with him long enough that he could wait it out. “I wasn’t, actually, but it doesn’t seem so bad. That is, if you don’t mind my company.” He said first, trying not to appear as careful as he was being. “Of course, if you prefer to be left alone, I will excuse myself.” It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to do so anyway, he really didn’t want to get wrapped up in another conversation he couldn’t escape from... but that was exactly what he would get if he left now.
The singer stayed in place as the other started moving towards the sideboard, still not sure if he should bother staying in the room, or if he should be cutting his losses while he could and excusing himself. “Good memory.” He said genuinely as he guessed his name. Truth be told, it wasn’t hard to remember him in a group like this, but actually remembering his name was another thing. “I’ll take whichever you’re having, thank you.” He said first, before chuckling a bit. “Oh, we still preferred it. It just became much harder to come by naturally. Ghastly, indeed.” It hadn’t been a good time for New Orleans when it was announced, when it began to be put in place... especially his neighbourhood. But he was sure the other didn’t want to hear of such things. “Each country has their burdens, I imagine.”
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nadjababineaux:
Nadja hadn’t seen Nico in… well, far too long.
They mostly ‘saw’ each other in letters. It had been as such for a very long time- seven years of a long time. Letters that traveled all over, telling stories of one performance or another, of the latest news and ridiculous scandals that surrounded the world of live performance. But such was the life of performers. Rehearsals, contracts, performances- the only time they truly had to themselves was the time just after a show once they left the theatre, or just before one if they had a private dressing room. At least, that was her experience…
Nico smiled down at her, and Nadja slammed her book shut, abandoning it on the grass beside her before sitting up and reaching out a hand to her friend, managing to snatch a hold on a few fingers before gently tugging him down to sit with her. “Oh, please, sötnos, none of the Mademoiselle nonsense. Come here- I missed you! I didn’t know you were back- why didn’t you tell me????.”
There was a different time, a time just after the war where she’d met the man- an American in Paris. He’d only stayed a few months, but he’d very quickly became one of her dearest friends. She had always hoped she would see him again on French soil, not imagining him across an ocean. And there he was, staring back at her. A sort of childlike glee that she had not felt in a long time bubbled up and burned in her chest.
“When did you get back? Do you have a place to stay- if you need one, I have an apartment now- it’s a bit small, and the balcony is occupied by houseplants, and one chair is frequently occupied by a sleepy otterhound named Hugo, but I’d be happy to host….” She realized she was rambling and let out an embarrassed sigh. “Welcome home, darling.”
Nico had been so young when he met Nadja. The war had just ended, he was only twenty years old, and she was even younger than that. It felt like so much had happened since then, so much that they were only able to explain in letters back and forth, but somehow, they managed to stay in touch. They told each other about their lives across the world, about how things were going in the other’s city, and anything and everything else.
When the woman closed her book rather suddenly, Nico couldn’t help but laugh, his infamous smile gracing his face yet again. He opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could, she was grabbing at his hand and pulling him down to sit with her. He obeyed, sitting near her and letting out another chuckle at her question. “I’m sorry, I wanted to tell you. I’m afraid I left your last letter in New Orleans when I moved, and I couldn’t remember your address.” It was a lame excuse, really - he should have just bought a ticket for the ballet and found her afterwards, but he wasn’t certain that would work, anyway.
It seemed that his smile wasn’t going to leave his face for quite a while, if Nadja’s energy maintained itself much longer. She was just as he remembered, full of energy, simply a delight to be around. He was glad to see that her light hadn’t seemed to dim at all since he last saw her.
“I have an apartment, no need to worry. I stayed in a hotel, briefly, when I arrived, and found something rather quickly. I’ve been here since November... I really am sorry that I didn’t find you sooner. I should have made it more of a priority.” Seeing her now, he definitely should have. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, it was just that other things kept coming up.
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A Familiar Face
@inspecteurbrannon
There were few moments in Nico’s life, these days, that were like this. Calm, leisurely... quiet. He didn’t want to complain about success, of course not, and it seemed so overdone by performers anyway, but he had to admit - it was nice to eat a meal in public without being recognized. One might think a hat wouldn’t have that power, but a hat paired with a request to sit in the back of the restaurant? Much more effective.
He had planned to spend this part of the day alone. He had rehearsals, later, and had a gig the night prior, so rest was a much needed luxury. Really, he should be in his apartment, drinking tea and trying to avoid talking much, after the show he’d given last night, but he assured himself he would be fine. It was just a restaurant, he would only have to talk to the server. There wouldn’t be any issue there.
His food arrived and he’d made it through the entire meal without interruption, save for a request for a bit more water for his tea. He turned around once he was finished, eyes scanning for the server so he could get a bill, when his eyes landed on a familiar face. His eyes narrowed slightly, and his brow furrowed.
He knew him from somewhere. But where?
It was several moments of staring, quite intently in fact, before realization visibly dawned on his face. Pulling out his wallet, Nico left some money on the table, certain it would cover the cost, before standing from his seat and walking over to the other’s table. “Excuse me, m’sieur, I’m sorry to interrupt,” he started, “I recognize you from somewhere.” He continued, before pausing. Was he really doing the thing fans always did to him in public? “I apologize, this is rather strange.”
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Let’s see what’s on the meme-menu today - bon appétit!
As always, our muse-some meme sessions are not mandatory. To signal that you are accepting meme prompts from this week’s selection, please reblog this post. Tag your responses with #af.meme, and enjoy!
[borrowed from here]
What is your idea of perfect happiness?
What is your greatest fear?
What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
What is the trait you most deplore in others?
What is your greatest extravagance?
What do you consider the most overrated virtue?
How often do you lie, and why? Are you a good liar, or not so much?
Which living person do you most despise?
Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
What or who is the greatest love of your life?
When and where were you happiest?
Which talent would you most like to have?
If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
What do you consider your greatest achievement?
If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be?
Where would you most like to live?
What is your most treasured possession?
What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
What is your most favourite way to spend time?
What do you think is your most noticeable quality?
What do you most value in your friends?
Who are your favorite writers, artists, and/or performers?
Who are your fictional heroes? What makes them heroic, in your eyes?
Which historical figure do you most identify with?
Who are your heroes in real life?
What are your favorite names?
What is it that you most dislike?
What is your greatest regret?
How would you like to die?
What is your motto?
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A Cup of Gold
@jacklambton
The Patient Man. It wasn’t Nicolas’ favourite book, he was fairly certain of that, now that he was nearly halfway through - but it was good. The plot was interesting, the writing was fairly clever... and, well, he had been fairly glued to it since he picked it up a couple days prior. When he wasn’t performing, or practicing, or rehearsing, he had that book in hand. It was strange, really, that he was only halfway through, but he was a busy man.
He really needed to go grocery shopping. That was one of the first things Nicolas realized upon waking up, the morning after a late gig. He was groggy, and he probably didn’t look the freshest he ever had, but he managed to get himself looking presentable to society, and wandered out of his building.
Coffee.
He wasn’t hungover, not really, just a bit sensitive to the world around him. So, as he arrived at the cafe a few blocks away, he was happy to sit down at one of the tables, book in hand, and coffee already ordered and on its way.
After a minute or two, his cup of gold had been dropped off, and he reached for the cup almost immediately. He held the book in his left hand, while using his right to bring the cup to his lips, and occasionally turn pages. It was a pattern he continued for a while, and he was already two and a half cups in, when he became aware enough to realize that there were eyes on him. It surely had to be someone trying to decipher who he was - he got that quite often, nowadays, ever since a photo of him had been printed in the paper.
“May I help you?” Nico pondered, his right eyebrow raising ever so slightly as he lifted his eyes from the novel.
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nadjababineaux:
Sunday in the Park...
It wasn’t very often that Nadja got a day off.
Often wasn’t even a good word- the real word for her situation was ‘never’. Never got off, never took off- mostly for fear of getting into some sort of trouble with her managers and the opera house itself. Sick, tired, in pain- Nadja had performed and practiced in all sorts of conditions. There were days where she was expected to go to events with abonnes in order to line the pockets of producers and those in charge of the opera house. But every once in awhile, there was a day where one of those abonnes would cancel- where she wouldn’t have a rehearsal to go to or a performance in the evening. A day would suddenly become all hers.
Such had been the case when reading her mail that morning. A small note from Monsieur Henri Lenoir in his chicken scratch script telling her that he woke feeling poorly and would not be attending the races that afternoon.
What was surely a miserable day for Lenoir was a lovely one for Nadja.
Three books were thrown into a wicker basket along with a bit of fruit before Mademoiselle Babineaux practically waltzed down the streets of Montmartre, winding her way to Montparnasse and Parc Montsouris, where the warm grass and flowers waited for her like a welcome bed. That was where she made her home for the day, under the shade of a great tree, the sunlight filtering through the leaves and kissing her skin as she read. At some point (she really had lost count of the hour), a shadow fell over her. She heard the sound of someone clearing their throat, and Nadja blanched. Please not my manager, please not my manager….. She slowly peered around the edge of her book with a sheepish little smile.
“Bonjour…”
Nicolas’ days were a mixed bag. Sometimes, he was up early, he would go about his business in the late morning, maybe have rehearsal, and likely practice by himself at home for a while. Some days, however, he couldn’t do that. Sound checks in the early afternoon, followed by mountains of prep to be done with musicians he wasn’t familiar with. It wasn’t bad work, he didn’t mind it at all - but it certainly was long. Then, after the day full of busy work, prep, he had to get on stage for an hour or two and charm the citizens of Paris another night.
And then do it all over again the next day.
There was usually a day or two every couple of weeks, one where he didn’t have any responsibilities. They weren’t hard to come by, he could make more time, if he wanted to... he liked being busy. But, when he did find himself with a day with absolutely no commitments, he couldn’t help but feel relaxed. So, a walk in the park seemed like an appropriate thing to do, on one of these days.
Normally, Nico may go bug Lucienne on one of his days off. He’d have lunch at L’Ortolan, maybe run a few random errands, and read in his apartment. He would do that, except it was just too nice a day to waste it indoors.
Nico had really only just started through the park when he spotted a familiar figure, laying in the grass under a tree. He tucked his own book back under his arm, wandering over and looking curiously at the spine of the book to try and spot the title. He blinked, however, as he saw the ballerina look around her book, and right at him. The two of them had been friends for a long time, since his time in Paris immediately after the war ended, while he waited to be shipped out. Although, he was shocked to see her in the park. It was rare that they both had a free afternoon. “Ah, Salut, Mademoiselle Babineaux.” He said with a soft chuckle, a smile growing on his face. “I should have announced myself. Do you mind if I sit?”
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josettethejester:
Come Here Often?
@nicolaspicou
“But this is Paris, of course,” Josette said, droll as ever in the middle of a crowd-pleasing set, “and there’s almost as many strangers here as there are types of cheese. So, me being myself, and myself hates to be bored, I like to make up stories about strangers as they pass by.”
She paused for effect, ever so briefly. “They’re never happy stories, mind you. They’re tragedies that make me feel better about my own life. “ Again, the crowd roared. She puts on a cheesy grin and prances about the stage as she says, “All the smiling, hand-holding couples are just trying to put on a good show for the in-laws they’re about to visit.” Then, she sticks out her gut as far as it goes. “None of the pregnant women walking around were able to convince their boyfriends to stay. The children running around the streets, I consider them off-limits to my cynical daydreams, but only until they’re adults. Then they’re whatever I damn well say they are.”
After taking a sip of water, Josette shifts her weight onto one foot, a little tired but nonetheless as exhilarated as she is every performance. “We all have a sob story to tell, non? I certainly have mine, but I’ve spoken enough about myself. What about you all? What about…you?”
A fairly handsome man in the crowd catches Josette’s eye, and she realizes this may not be the first time that he has. “Why, Monsieur, I’ve seen you here before! So at least your sob story won’t be about you having shoddy taste in comedy. Tell me, what’s your name?”
A drink and a half in, and Nicolas was glad he decided to come. Usually, he went to Le Gnome Qui Rit with a couple friends. Bandmates, usually. However, it seemed that the rest of the band was busy, and with nothing else to do that night, Nico made the decision to go to the comedy club alone, for once.
It was a good decision. Josette was hilarious, as always, and Nicolas was enjoying the act, despite the fact that he had planted himself very far towards the back of the club. It was strategic, a trick he’d picked up soon after gaining popularity. Sneak in a few minutes after the show starts, sit near the back, in the shadows. That way, he could enjoy the show, without getting noticed by too many of the audience members. It wasn’t that he really minded being noticed - but it almost always caused some sort of disruption for the act. That was what he didn’t want to happen.
However, it seemed that on this night, he was going to be noticed. As soon as the comedian’s eyes landed right on him, he knew she was looking at him. There was no mistaking it - nobody right in front of him, certainly no one behind him, and he was the only one at his table.
A small chuckle slipped from his lips as she mentioned him being familiar, but then shrugged. “My name is Nicolas.” He told her with a smile, a few people around him already starting to whisper to their table-mates about whether it was him. It was dark, he was sure it would be hard to tell.
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camlambton:
gone to ground
Of course he hadn’t been about to discourage the ambassador, at all. Of course there was no reason, whatsoever, to object to such an honour as this. Of course it would be a jolly good time, and such a pleasure, really. Just the thing, to settle him in. Perfect.
Of course.
Which was why, after nearly four and a quarter hours into a night that refused to rush by, Cam had only just beat a strategic retreat from the swirl of guests and champagne and small-talk. Because it was all going so bloody perfectly, and he’d rather not put a damper on the mood by falling over. At least, not where anyone might possibly notice. Perhaps he’d been optimistic, leaving his stick in that new office for the evening. Optimistic, or vain. First impressions, and all. But there wasn’t much besides a stiff upper lip and a few glasses of bubbly holding all his fraying edges in place, and, shortly, that would cease to suffice.
So, Cam had found his escape: escorting a rather elderly grande dame to her car, and from there, back inside - not to the gardens and buzz and bumble of the crowd, but down the hall, limping softly along the marbled corridor to the library. Dim-lit, now. Entirely deserted. Dead quiet, or very nearly, with the door shut after him. A regular den, smelling of old leather, older books… fresh tobacco, as he slipped his lighter and case away into his mess jacket, those starry medals clinking as he sunk into one of the deep chairs by the fire, sprawling some, strings cut.
Until the slip of the latch announced someone, tugging everything tight again. Good God. Hadn’t even made it through a cigarette. Hardly started. Pushing himself aright, carefully - first impressions, and all - Cam turned across his shoulder. Just. “Oh, I beg your pardon…” Not especially; he hadn’t been in such a state of disarray. And he wasn’t the one wandering around, opening doors better left closed.
(They’d been so very afraid, the boys. Staring, then scattering away, as the silence crashed into all the gaping space that shout had left behind. So much bloody space. So long ago.)
But. Blowing smoke, Cam cleared his throat, a bone-china brittleness to it. Then, as was only proper, he nodded into the rest of the niceties. “How do you do? I certainly hope you’re enjoying yourself.” With any luck, they’d only stumbled in by accident, and they’d only stay long enough to leave. Why not? The party was obviously elsewhere.
It had certainly been a taxing evening. He shouldn’t be complaining, Nicolas knew that. He more than knew that: a gig at the Hotel Charost? He would never have expected he would be performing there, of all places, and for an event like this. More than that, he never expected that a group like this would hire a jazz performer. A string quartet, of course, they were out in another room - but never jazz. But, it was nice to see that they were broadening their horizons a bit, he supposed. Paris had always appreciated jazz more than many Americans.
The hotel was certainly a different environment than the clubs he was used to performing in. The acoustics were different, obviously - it was weird, singing in such a large space. But even more so than that, the people were different. Sure, in the clubs, everyone clapped between each tune, everyone chatted during the music, or they would get up and dance. It was all the same, that way. And perhaps someone who wasn’t so used to a more casual environment wouldn’t notice a difference, save for the level of attire: but, to Nicolas, it felt completely odd.
After their first set, the group had some time off. He was able to get of the stage, with the rest of the musicians, and head out for their break. Perhaps it was arrogant of him to think that some of the guests were following him, but that worry soon rang true when he heard his name called. He insisted to the band that they go have a smoke, he would meet them out there - it would be impolite for him to run off.
So, after far too long of chatting with some of the guests in the hallway, Nicolas politely excused himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to mingle with the people who enjoyed the performance, it was just that he couldn’t do it for too long, not without going out for a smoke first. He had just turned the corner towards the exit, planning on meeting his bandmates out in the gardens, but paused when he saw one of the particularly chatty guests from before.
Perfect.
The singer turned around again and headed back the way he came, letting out a sigh of relief when he came upon a closed door. Quickly, he opened it and slipped inside, only pausing again when he realized that he was intruding on someone.
“Oh.” He said first, before forcing a smile again - an act he was getting ever more used to. “My apologies, Sir, I must have the wrong door.” He bluffed, but as he turned to open the door again, he winced, hearing through the wood that the chattery guest had now moved onto that hallway. “I am. I may be a bit out of my element, though, if I’m being honest.”
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“The Fox” by Que Duong Featuring Lucien Laviscount with styling by Christiaan Choy and grooming by Kisha Augustine
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anneesfollesrpg:
「NICOLAS PICOU」
28 • PERFORMER • TAKEN BY TASHA
DIRECT FROM LE PETIT JOURNAL:
A charming smile, a silver microphone, and a voice like silk: it seems this was all it took for Nicolas Picou win the hearts of Paris. Mr. Picou has done us the kindness of returning, seven years after he served in the war with the Harlem Hellfighters, who brought his favoured form of jazz to France. If you have yet to hear him sing, you better hurry: tickets sell fast, and lineups go right out the door. Once you find your way in, you will surely be delighted by a mix of vibrant dance tunes, and sentimental melodies. When he is on stage, it is as if the audience knows exactly who he is – but in reality, there is little he has revealed about himself. Surely, someone so smooth must have secrets… and secrets are hard to keep in our city. Whether he brings you to your feet, or a tear to your eye, we are absolutely fascinated with this singer from the West.
ABOUT:
When Nicolas was a child, it was never called jazz. It was rag, and it was what he was raised on. With his parents both being musicians, and skilled ones at that, it was no wonder he showed musical talent. He started learning piano at a young age, and classical theory from his mother to go along with it. As his ambitions grew, his parents warned him as a child how difficult the life of a professional musician could be, and tried to steer him in other directions. Despite their efforts, it seemed he was in love.
The Picou family lived modestly. Despite being well-respected musicians of the community, they weren’t rolling in money. They could put food on the table, but they were grateful they only had one child to feed. Money was always a worry when Nicolas was growing up, so when he was a teenager, he proposed that he drop out of school to help. His parents were adamant that he would finish school as planned, but he found a way around that. He’d grown up in the clubs, watching the bands play, so he went to the owner and asked if he could help out somehow. Set up for the bands, clean up afterwards, and get something in return to bring home. He did this job for a while, before a band’s pianist was sick for the night, and he jumped in to help out. It became a common occurrence for him to play with bands when they needed an extra hand, and, when he was nineteen, he was invited to join one of the local groups for their tour.
It was during this tour that the United States made the decision to join the Great War. As soon as he was able to, Nicolas enlisted. However, instead of being sent back to Louisiana to join a regiment there, he and his band were sent to North Carolina with the New Yorkers. The training was hard work, harder labour than Nicolas ever had to do, but it was nothing compared to the war itself.
Nicolas’ unit was assigned to the French army in 1918, and his unit fought well. Men of Bronze, the French called them. The only reliefs he had were playing in the military band in the unit’s downtime, and writing letters home. After spending 191 days in the trenches, Nicolas was the only band member left of his New York tour.
It was bittersweet, returning home. The other soldiers in his unit were primarily from New York, they were already home; but he needed to return to New Orleans. Thankfully, his family was all safe, and Nicolas appeared to be relatively unharmed as well. However, he was haunted with everything he’d seen, sleep becoming hard to come by when he first arrived at home.
Sitting at a piano again took a long time, and even longer to get back on a stage. In the meantime, he worked as a labourer, or sometimes waited tables. Between being out of practice, and the guilt of leaving his fellow musicians behind in France, it took Nicolas nearly two years to perform again – but when he did, it was different. Instead of sticking to the piano, he began taking the microphone and singing as well, earning his share of head turns and nods of approval from the audience. His mother always told him he had a good voice, he took after her that way, you see, but it wasn’t until he started singing in the clubs that he realized it was more than a mother’s compliments.
People wanted distractions, that had always been Nicolas’ theory. It was certainly part of what kept him up there, flashing smiles at the audience and distracting even himself with what was now called jazz. In the years following, he became quite the name in New Orleans. One night after a show, a man flagged him down and told him he should go to Paris. It was a strange idea, one he was hesitant to consider – until it happened a second time, this time by a Frenchman who promised he could get Nicolas a few gigs in one of the Parisian jazz clubs.
Despite the war itself, Nicolas had fond memories of Paris. It was where he went after the battles ended, while they waiting to be sent home: it wasn’t so bad. Convinced it would be an adventure, Nicolas packed his bags. Almost exactly seven years since Armistice, Nicolas stepped back onto French soil.
CONNECTIONS:
The Sailor: You’ve played some rowdier places around Paris, and they seem to be a regular in such corners. You’re grateful for that, too - they’re clearly a fan, have a way of stopping trouble before it starts, and make for pretty swell company. They even helped you get a bit of work on the side, down on the quays, when you first arrived and times were tough. Maybe that makes you friends? Even if you’re not so sure about some of theirs…
The Sycophant: You’re a rising star, these days, and everyone wants to catch some of that shine. This new acquaintance has been hovering ever closer, lately; perhaps they and their whole society set can be a little much at times, but… hopefully their attention, and money, will help you hit ever bigger, brighter stages. This business, it’s all about who you know. There’s worse people to rub elbows with, you guess.
The Critic: They haven’t graced one of your performances with their presence - yet. Still, it’s easy to see why most of the artistic types in town are scared stiff of this one. Most. Not you. Not really. Okay, maybe a little, but they don’t need to know that. You’ve got what it takes, to make it here, to make it anywhere. Doesn’t matter what anyone says. Right?
Faceclaim & Pronouns: Lucien Laviscount, he/him
The Crooner is taken by Tasha, she/her.
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