Sentence The Fivehundredandfiftythird 

In a flash, Laszlo rushed up to Leonardo and began berating him: "it's wrong, Master, utterly wrong, it was never like that, there was never a long table like that and all of us sitting around it and , , , , ," he stopped, suddenly realising what he had said, and aware that every eye in the room was upon him; and he shook his head, vying with himself, trying to hold on the present, that he was Laszlo Licinic, a Romanian Artist/Poet and no longer, after the better part of two thousand years, Daniel bar-Malachi*, speech writer to the leader of The Disciples - 'they must think me mad, deranged, a lunatic,' and he took a step away, but was stayed by the hand of the Court painter, Leonardo – a man whose work Laszlo had admired, even though he disdained to emulate his style of painting, being a true Dadaist to the core, never happier that when using his soupbone to hurl dollops of paint at his canvas, and the true first ever to affix a walrus moustache to a print of Mona Lisa; "stay signor, let us talk – I perceive
that you have the soul of an artist," so they left the passel in the Upper Room, stepped out onto a balcony and talked; Leonardo was a man imbued with art and science and had interests in every field of human endeavour, and he also had a piercing eye and held Laszlo in his gaze and Laszlo talked, of course he did, he could not help himself: he told Leonardo of the Before, when only spirits filled eternity, forever orbiting The Creator, "who is The Creator? what is he? or she?" and Laszlo laughed, feeling suddenly free of all the memories and events of his hundreds of lives, of his eternal existence
before The Creation, of her knowledge of everything that he (and she) had ever experienced: the joys of sex, from both male and female perspectives, the terror and intensity and sheer wonder of childbirth, from both the mother and her child's perspective, the pain of dying, of old age, accident and war, and the bliss of returning to the company of the other spirits, safe in The Creator's hands (metaphorically speaking) until his next conception and reincarnation; he told Leonardo the truth of The Last Supper, which wasn't The Last and wasn't The Best either, of how all the Disciples got drunk, along with The Leader, but with the exception of Poor Judas, who had been ever destined to be The Scapegoat, "for every Movement needs a Scapegoat, just as every People need a Scapegoat, to blame for their difficulties, their troubles, their errors and their deaths," and Leonardo took it all in, through his eyes, his ears, his hands which continued to draw the story from Laszlo, though the light was going fast, while the party within the room was in full swing: the women from the kitchens had joined in, and so had several passers-by, including one who looked out at the two men sitting on the
balcony, drinking and talking, and Leonardo beckoned for her to step out and he introduced her to Laszlo as his model for Mary Magdalene, "for." he spoke freely in front of her, "she has all the experience of the Courtesan, accompanied by one of the finest minds I have ever encountered, from all the brilliant men and beautiful women I have spent days and nights with," and she winked at
Laszlo and held out her hand, and he took it and, with an apology to Leonardo – who said, "go with her, we will talk again in the morning," - followed her through the carousing, shouting, whispering, cheering, drinking, still eating, dancing and embracing crowd in the Room and up a flight of stairs to a bedchamber, where she drew him to her and wrapped her arms around her and said: "if you can entrance the Master as you have, for I watched you this past hour, and listened too, then maybe you will care to entrance me for the rest of this hot night," and she pulled off his clothes, discarded her own, and pushed him down onto the bed and climbed on top of him and Laszlo wondered if this was all a dream, but quickly found out that it was not!

(*See Sentence The Fourhundredandsixteighth)