Graven Images (7 page)

Wide-eyed, he listened to the beating rain, enduring each drop that struck the roof. He turned toward Marta, his wife, beside him. She was sleeping soundly, unaware of the weather, and he gazed at her with contempt. He himself had never found it possible to sleep on a rainy night.

Rain, after all, was the enemy of stone, pounding it finally into dust. And Zorelli was a stone carver by trade, a maker of monuments.

“Lolling in the doorway, letting in the cold.” Marta looked up from scrubbing the floor, sighed wearily, and shook her head. “Come now, Zorelli — will that keep us fed?”

The sculptor ignored her and surveyed the sky, while his cat, Angelina, coiled about his ankles. The storm had passed over the rooftops of Genoa. The cobblestones glistened, and the morning air was filled with the gaudy crowing of roosters.

“Is this any way to lure a patron?” Marta pleaded with her husband. “Unshaven, dressed in a filthy tunic, lurking about the doorway like a thief?”

A pair of mounted soldiers rode by. A fruit seller passed, pushing his cart. Zorelli looked down at Angelina, who cried and rubbed meaningfully against his legs. He stepped inside, searched the kitchen, and fed her the last scrap of cheese in the house.

“That cat of yours never lacks for food, but what of us?” asked Marta. “Already the mice have deserted the house. By tomorrow night, we’ll have nothing to gnaw on — unless, of course, you pick up your hammer and carve us a roast goose out of granite.”

Zorelli glared at her in silence, then turned and stormed into his studio.

Restlessly, he paced the room. He was a powerful man, broad-shouldered, proud-chinned, and he settled himself at last on a stool, took note of the spotless floor, and sneered. It should have been littered with chips of stone. There ought to have been granite dust in the air. But commerce was bad, Genoa’s harbor was still, and the mighty Boccas and Varentinos, whose fleeting features Zorelli had transferred to statues of imperishable stone, no longer had money to spare for his skills. Even the ruling Ferrantes, his grandest patrons, seemed to have forgotten him.

In disgust, he gazed at his idle tools. If no commission came his way today he’d be forced to return to work at the quarry, toiling once again beside his loutish father and his foul-smelling brothers. And yet, Zorelli reflected, he was an intimate of the high-born now. He’d strolled down the halls of the cultured and rich, arranged them in poses, engaged them in talk. He jumped to his feet and strode outside, shuddering to think of descending once more to the coarse, sweaty company of the quarry.

Aimlessly, he roamed the town, walking briskly in the chill autumn air. Down a side street he caught a glimpse of the plaza and his mounted statue of Lorenzo Ferrante, governor of Genoa, her leader in arms and great patron of culture. Zorelli paused, then marched ahead, savoring his link with the man.

He entered the swarming marketplace and erupted in a rage when a man bumped him in passing. After all, he was no worthless commoner like the rest — his customers were persons of influence. His wares were no melons or stinking fish, but immortality itself!

He picked his way through the motley gathering. Vendors bellowed. Pigs squealed. Beggars and thieves circulated like maggots. Zorelli was struggling to escape the crowd when all of a sudden a shout rang out. Chickens scattered, the throng parted, and Lorenzo himself, mounted on his steed, solemnly entered the market.

At last! thought Zorelli, straining for a view. In the midst of the rabble — a man worthy of stone!

Genoa’s governor towered above the crowd, peering ahead with hawklike aloofness. Gazing in reverence upon the great man, Zorelli noticed his black cloak and hat and knew he must be bound for the grave of his nephew, the infant Alessandro, to pay his yearly respects. Zorelli himself had carved the tomb for the child, who’d taken a chill one night and died.

Grimly, Lorenzo rode through the market. Zorelli longed to catch his attention, to be acknowledged and elevated above the rest. Like a sunflower, he slowly turned, devotedly facing Lorenzo as he passed, while the object of his veneration stared ahead, unaware of his presence.

The noisy bargaining resumed. Scornfully, Zorelli regarded the crowd.

Mayflies! he swore. Creatures of a day! Never would their paltry lives earn preservation in stone!

He threaded his way through the multitude, stopping to watch two women haggle with a vendor over the price of a fish.

Beasts! hissed Zorelli. Concerned only with eating!

With relief he fled the marketplace, exalted with his lofty perspective. And yet as he passed a bakery and inhaled the scent of freshly baked bread, he too felt a sudden pang of hunger.

Cursing his stomach, he emptied his pockets to pay for a roll and stormed away.

That night Zorelli paced his studio long after Marta had climbed into bed. A restlessness grew up inside him whenever he wasn’t swinging his hammer or exerting his files against stone.

He made up his mind to take a walk, stepped outside, and headed for the harbor. Angelina followed behind him.

“The night is black, is it not, Angelina?” The sculptor’s cat was black as well and had disappeared upon entering the darkness like a fish thrown back to sea.

“The moon has yet to rise,” said Zorelli. “But we know our way about, don’t we?”

Invisibly, Angelina followed beside him. It was late, and they were alone in the streets. Gradually the salt air grew stronger, and soon the two of them reached the docks and wandered out to the end of a wharf.

“The waters are still tonight, Angelina.” The waves lapped softly against the wharf. The few boats at anchor bobbed peacefully. Angelina sat and peered out to sea, sniffing the air with interest.

“And the stars!” The sculptor gazed up at the heavens. “Have you ever before beheld them so bright?”

“Never!” came a voice in reply.

At once Angelina hissed and fled. Zorelli whirled and found himself facing the flickering image of what seemed to be a man.

“A pox on the stars!” continued the voice. “
Too
bright for my liking. Aye, blinding, they are!”

Zorelli studied the speaker in wonder. He was short-legged and burly and missing an ear. Fitfully, he glowed and dimmed, as if he were made of starlight himself.

“You’re Zorelli, the stone carver, if I’m not mistaken.” His clothes were ragged and glimmered like their wearer, as if they were the dying embers of their former selves.

“And who — or what — are you?” asked Zorelli.

“What
am
I?” The apparition snorted. “Why, a ghost! What else did you take me for?”

Zorelli stared at the spirit in awe, his hands fluttering like moths. He wondered where Angelina had gone, and had he not been trapped at the end of the wharf he would gladly have fled as well.

“And what brings you — here?” the sculptor stammered.

“What brings me here,” said the specter, “is you.”

Zorelli stiffened. “What is it you want?”

“Your services, naturally.”

“What?” gasped Zorelli.

“I want to hire you. To fashion a statue.”

Zorelli gaped at the ghost in amazement.

“I’m prepared to pay, you understand.” He reached into a pocket and produced a coin purse.

“Twenty-five ducats now. Aye, and fifty more when you’re finished.”

Zorelli’s eyes lit. Seventy-five ducats! No more would he have to return to the quarry! He could live for months on such a sum. He found himself staring at the coin purse.

“How can I be sure that the money — is real?”

The specter grinned and shook the purse, causing the coins to jingle brightly in proof of their substantiality.

Zorelli smiled. “Well now!” he spoke up. “And what manner of statue had you in mind? Something for a garden? A nymph, perhaps?”

The spirit peered into the stone carver’s eyes. “I would have you carve the statue of me.”

“Of
yo
u
?” Zorelli froze in astonishment. He stared at the specter shimmering before him, a quantity of phosphorescence poured into the mold of a man.

“Naturally, I’m accustomed to dealing with the living,” Zorelli fumbled awkwardly. With growing revulsion he took note of the spirit’s missing ear, his crooked teeth, and the long jagged rip down the front of his doublet. Had warm flesh belonged to him, he might have been taken for a beggar or a rag merchant dressed in his wares, and suddenly Zorelli wondered if the man was worthy of salvation in stone or deserved forgetting, like most of humanity.

The sculptor turned his eyes toward the water.

“If I might be so bold,” he asked delicately, “were you a man of any —
influence
while you lived?”

“I’m afraid I was,” answered the specter.

Zorelli jerked in surprise and relief. The man was of more account than he appeared. Stone would not be misused.

“I thought as much,” mumbled the sculptor. He felt embarrassed at having asked the question and was flooded with a sudden respect for the spirit.

“Then again,” said the ghost, “if you don’t have the time —”

“Not at all!” Zorelli interrupted. “I should be honored, of course, to accept the task. Why, sitting at home I’ve a fine block of marble. What size of a statue had you in mind?”

“Life-size,” the spirit answered gravely. “I wish to be shown just as I was.”

“Fine!” The stone carver beamed at having found himself a patron at last. “Naturally I’ll dress you in the finest attire, whatever you —”

“No need for that,” spoke the phantom. “I want to be shown in the clothes I have on. Aye, just as I looked that night.”

Zorelli gaped at the ghost’s worn-out shoes, wretched doublet, and rat-gnawed cap. “A man of influence, dressed in rags? Surely a fine, turbaned hat at the least —”

“As for the pose,” continued the ghost, “see that you show me cradling an infant. Aye, and holding a cup to its lips.”

Zorelli digested his words in dismay. He was accustomed to depicting his subjects triumphant, with swords upraised, in the midst of great deeds. But a man feeding an infant in his arms?

The sculptor tried to compose himself. “Your child, of course —”

“Not at all,” barked the spirit. “And at my feet, carve out a cat. Scrawny, with no left ear — just like me.”

Zorelli started.

“A true friend, he was. Found him here by the water one winter, and as soon as I saw he was missing an ear — why, I knew we’d understand each other and get along just fine.”

Zorelli stood facing his patron, dumbfounded. His earlier enthusiasm had left, replaced by a strange unease.

“Of course, I’ll need to sketch you,” he said, as if hoping to talk the ghost out of the project. “Make studies and drawings, you understand.”

The spirit noticed the rising moon and seemed anxious to retreat from its light.

“Tomorrow night, then. Here. The same time.”

He handed the coin purse to Zorelli, who opened it quickly to inspect the money. By the time he’d assured himself and looked up, his patron had disappeared.

The sun rose, devouring the frost on the ground, and Zorelli rolled out of bed.

Suddenly he remembered the ghost. He wondered if he had dreamed of the meeting. Then he reached for his tunic — and plucked out the coin purse.

He darted to a window and examined the coins. They were gold. He weighed one in his hand. It seemed to be real enough.

He hid the purse, then rushed out the door and down the street to a bakery.

“A loaf of bread!” the sculptor called out, above the din of the other customers.

A sow-faced baker fetched him a loaf. Cautiously, the stone carver held out one of the coins he’d received from the spirit — and watched in wonder as the man snatched it up, quickly returned him his change, and moved on.

For a moment Zorelli stood there, speechless, staring at the coins in his palm.

“And what’s the matter with you?” snapped the baker. “A complaint with my counting?”

“Not at all!” said Zorelli.

“Step aside, then! Let the customers through!”

Smiling to himself, Zorelli scurried home.

“And where did you get money for bread?” asked Marta, eyeing the loaf in amazement.

Zorelli hungrily tore off a hunk. “Just where you would expect!” he replied. “I’m a sculptor. And I’ve been engaged by a patron!”

Victoriously, he marched into his studio.

“A patron?” Marta called after him. “Who?”

Zorelli stopped. She would never believe him.

“A man,” he faltered. “A man — of some note.”

He turned, relieved to find her absorbed in devouring a chunk of bread. Looking down at the piece in his own hand, he marveled that something so dense and substantial had resulted from so airy a being.

The sculptor filled his belly with bread, then sharpened his chisels one by one. He inspected his mallets, his rasps, his rifflers, his gouges and points, compass and square. Reverently, he cleaned his tools, then struggled with the block of marble, sliding it into the center of the room.

He gazed at it, patiently searching it for the proper pose of man, child, and cat. In his eyes the stone lost its solidity. It was fluid as quicksilver, a river of shapes. Pensively, he walked around it. From his stool, he stared at it for hours. He regarded it from near and far. And he waited for darkness to come.