Hammer and Chisel
There were two statues in Mattioli’s studio. One had Clarissa’s features; the other was covered by a gray cloth. The sculptor had collapsed into a chair, and his threadbare shirt only exaggerated the defeat in his posture. Kolm was holding the hammer and chisel at shoulder height on the statue and tapping. Shards and dust were falling from the marble.
“Where is she?”
“I hired her, but she left without a word.”
Kolm tapped again, only harder this time. He had started at the edge of the block but was now moving toward the already well-defined face.
“I’ve never carved a head like this one. The girl’s gone, and all I have of her is what you see there.”
Kolm seemed to have forgotten his purpose was to threaten, and had become enamored of the tools. He frightened me a little, so I decided to take advantage of that:
“They say every block of marble has a particular spot on which the life of the stone depends. Once you hit it, the marble will crack. How long until my friend finds that spot?”
Kolm aimed the next blow at the statue’s invisible heart. I jumped, sure the execution would be final this time. Mattioli didn’t bat an eyelid. He spoke with the wisdom of someone who has won or lost everything:
“I’ve had dozens of models, but none of them was still enough. Those hands that would rise up to brush away a fly; those eyes that would seek who knows what outside the window. Boredom, nerves, exhaustion. They thought they were being still, but I saw the silent dance: first the foot, then the elbow, and, when their own nakedness bothered them, the rapid breath or syncopated heartbeat. But then I found her, down in the basement, among the others at the Académie. My colleagues—those good for nothings—didn’t even see her because they don’t know how to look. I’ve been searching for her for years; I even wrote a book exalting her absence. And then suddenly there she was.”
We had searched for Clarissa as well, all through the house, even the basement and the attic. Getting around was no easy task; the hallways were blocked, not only by unfinished sculptures and paintings but also by the instruments Mattioli had used to pursue his ideal of stillness. As the search wore on, the artist began to explain the nature of his collection with a certain amount of pride. There were music boxes that caused momentary immobility, a seat fitted with metal brackets and belts, and bottles of narcotic drugs (which almost forced us to abandon the hunt because of the toxic cloud that filled the attic). In a corner we found a suit of armor made of iron bands that left sections of the victim bare. Bronze spikes in the most painful places ensured that the model would sit still.
There was only one place left to look. I walked toward the second statue and pulled off the gray cloth. Kolm had glanced there earlier but had mistaken her for a real statue. Clarissa was posed as before, only minus the lance and gold helmet. I kissed her icy lips and, in doing so, grew angry that her naked body was in full view. Behind the folding screen, in among easels and rolled-up canvases, was some clothing that might have been hers. I dressed her in silence. Clarissa didn’t seem to know where she was when she awoke, and I waited for her memory to make sense of the room.
She walked over to the work in progress and ran her fingers over the statue’s face.
“Did I do all right, Mattioli?”
“No one has ever done better. But now it will never be finished.”
“Then it will be just like me. I’m not finished, either.”
Not finding any warm clothes, I put my cloak around Clarissa and we left Mattioli’s house. At some point, Kolm disappeared without a word. He might have tried to say good-bye, but I only had eyes for Clarissa. A coach took us to the Académie des Beaux-Artes, but we didn’t go in right away in case Mattioli had decided to follow us.
I knocked repeatedly until the door was finally opened. The boy painter had been asleep and stared at me blankly.
“Arsit, this is the friend I told you about. You need to look after her until her father, M. Laghi, comes to get her.”
I handed him the amount we had agreed on that afternoon. It would have been easy to cheat Arsit; he seemed completely unaware of the value of money, but I felt sorry for the boy painter.
“I’ll use this opportunity to talk to her about art. I’ll tell her the story behind every statue, and I won’t even charge for it.”
Clarissa was awake now.
“Why did you bring me here?”
“You need to stay here until your father arrives. The abbot’s men will be looking for you both.”
“Why? What has my father done?”
“Nothing yet, but it won’t be long.”
“At one time I thought you’d rescue me from my father and help me escape. Instead, here you are turning me over to him. You call that love?”
Around us the crowd of statues seemed to grow larger and cast a disapproving murmur in my direction. Fingers and swords pointed at me. Arsit furrowed his brow in silence, as if he had to show a certain amount of indignation toward me and yet didn’t want to get too involved—as annoyed as any child by incomprehensible adult problems.
Clarissa disappeared among the statues, without a word, as if she knew her way, as if she were returning to her birthplace.
Arsit looked at me with wide eyes, slightly overwhelmed by the sense of responsibility. He counted the money—or pretended to count it—and then, as if accepting his position as king of that underground world, ordered me to leave with a wave of his hand.