The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy) - By Aidan Harte Page 0,55
the truth.
Jacques led him to a freshly swept corner bathed in the strong northern light. On a low turntable stood a precariously leaning pillar. It was taller than a man, taller even than Jacques, and covered with a sheet layered with wax cracked like distressed stone.
‘Who hunted your assistants away?’
‘Later, when I’m pouring metal, I’ll need men,’ said Jacques, looking at Fabbro penetratingly with dark pupils that shone through the thick slivers of flesh.
‘Nonsense,’ Fabbro chuckled. ‘A good salesman knows the value of suspense. I’ll bet every smith in Tartarus is dying to see what’s under that sheet.’
‘Craftsmen are interested in craft.’
Fabbro smiled knowingly. ‘As you like it, Maestro. Well, let me look at it.’
Jacques grunted and removed the sheet. He did it slowly, revealing first the smooth earthen clay fashioned into a paw, then a curling tail, a slender torso and finally the snarling jaw. The wooden armature that supported it broke the clay’s surface unceremoniously at various points – the neck, the back – but it was easy to ignore this and imagine the final bronze in place on the empty plinth.
Fabbro was gleeful. ‘This fellow will put his brothers to shame!’
‘They are decent sculptures,’ Jacques demurred, ‘in the old style.’
Fabbro laughed indulgently. ‘Please Maestro, no false modesty. You know very well this will tear flags all over Rasenna.’
Jacques shrugged and gently spun the massive turntable. He doused the lion with a water dispenser as it rotated. Fabbro was right: theatricality was part of Jacques’ art. Of course keeping the clay from drying was necessary, but a wet surface revealed the subtle modelling nearly as well as would the final polished patina.
Fabbro stalked around, pulling his beard and exclaiming, ‘Bravo!’ in a reverent whisper.
While the other three lions coldly gazed forward, this one would glower over passers-by. Its head twisted violently away from a body that trembled with tension and energy. Its scowl pulled ripples of flesh through its muzzle. Fabbro might be no connoisseur but he knew it was not merely the naturalistic rendering but the variety of description that made the sweet new style such a break with the past. He marvelled that the old artisans had been blind to these subtleties of contrast: the beast’s tense, compacted haunches and bristles of its mane were formed so the former appeared tough as stone, the latter soft as wool.
‘Madonna, it’s a wonder!’ he exclaimed at last. ‘So what’s next?’
‘Next I make a shell in which the caterpillar may sleep a while. After the clay dries I’ll crack the mould apart and, into the space where the lion isn’t, pour wax. But the wax is only a semblance of the butterfly; another little death is necessary. I correct the wax’s imperfections and, by a similar process, make a coffin more substantial. Pouring the metal’s the most difficult part.’
Fabbro had never heard Jacques talk so freely. ‘Tell me when you’re doing it. I’ll have Sister Isabella say a mass.’
Jacques indicated the boy hammering away. ‘Even if it goes perfectly, it will need a lot of chasing, sanding and polishing.’ He looked down levelly. ‘Can you pay the balance?’
Fabbro almost jumped. ‘You can’t have got through the first third!’
‘As you say, my studio is empty. I turn down work to give this commission my full attention.’
‘If it were my money, Jacques, there’d be no problem. I spend; ask anyone, that’s what I do. This commission, however, comes officially from the Wool Guild, a close-fisted bunch who wouldn’t thank me if I gave their gold away with nothing to show for it. These men, they know nothing of art. They’re used to dealing with low sorts – dyers, carders, pullers – and they assume all craftsmen are alike.’
‘We had Guilds in Francia too. They got rich selling craftsmen’s work and taxed them for the privilege.’
‘My dear fellow, you almost sound like a communard.’
‘Bombelli, don’t complicate things. You’re Prior of the Wool Guild.’
‘That I am.’ Fabbro laughed. To cover his embarrassment he looked up at the lion critically. ‘I think I’d prefer if he didn’t look quite so fearsome. Did I ask for that expression? No, I don’t think I did. Who wants to be snarled at on their way to work? We’ve wives for that. Why not give him a nice smile, regal, pacific? What say you?’
Jacques was watching the boy hammering. He turned slowly back. ‘I say you paid me fair for my work, but there’s not enough gold in Ariminum to tell me how to do it.’