Chapter Four The Performer #2
For a moment, his expression was stern when he looked, only for it to become acerbic when he saw it was me. “Mrs. Kameneva.”
I wanted to say something back, but the way he addressed me caught me off guard.
“I would have dusted off an extra chair for such an esteemed visit.” He leaned back on his stool.
“You can learn a lot by someone’s work.” I stood straight, looking up at the grand window that made a spotlight on the floor. “I wanted to see the art behind the man.”
“Weren’t you the one who said something about being left alone?” He raised a brow. “Hypocrite.”
I scoffed, glancing back at him.
He squinted with one eye closed, holding a small carving tool in his line of sight toward me.
“What are you doing?”
“Measuring.”
“Measuring?”
“Yes.” He lowered his hand. “I am working out the proportions.” He tapped the stone figure next to him with his tool.
The stone had no face, no hands, just a vague blocky form, but there was something about it that made it human in stature.
“Come closer.” He beckoned me. “At least let me give you a tour if you insist on staying.”
“How gentlemanly.” I made sure to draw out the words in a sarcastic trill. I stepped farther into the cave of the peculiar man.
The statues were taller when you stood next to them, giving each an intimidating stature. I planted myself next to Arkady as he looked up at his work in progress.
“What is it going to be?”
“A woman.” He tilted his head to the side. “I’m still blocking it out.”
“I see.” I must have been looking at him similarly to how he was looking at this block of stone. His clay-covered arms were crossed, and he was tapping one thumb anxiously against the hilt of his chisel.
Off to the side was another work in progress.
It looked like two vague forms of clay, presumably two people entangled in a scene.
Protruding from certain areas of clay, there looked to be rope, pins, and other material.
It wrapped around the figures and surfaced from under the clay to attach to the wrist of one of the raised hands.
“What is the rope for?”
Arkady peeled his gaze from the stone and to me before glancing at the clay sculpture. “To keep the position and form of the supportive material. I cut away and shave down the rope once the ceramics have dried more, in order to build up from the base before firing.”
I nodded and looked to the corner, where there was a giant form of bricks, unoriginal to the building. It was like a massive oven, a terra-cotta igloo with a large archway opening and an iron door propped open to expose the ash that was spilling onto the floor.
“What about that?”
“Hm?” Arkady followed my line of sight. “Oh, that’s a kiln.”
“I’ve never seen one so big.”
“Neither have I. I had to build it myself.” His chest puffed out proudly. “The downside is that it is expensive to fire. So it’s been a while since I’ve used it.”
“How do you use it?” I approached the structure, each click of my heels bouncing off the brick walls just to shoot back at my eardrums. It was intimidating on its own when it was inactive; I couldn’t imagine how it would be with a burning fire inside.
“How do you keep your sculptures from combusting?”
“Well, my sculptures are mainly organic matter on the inside and ceramic over the top, so they are hollow by the end of the firing process,” he explained, shoving his hands in his pockets as he stared up at the brick.
“How clever.” I leaned into the arch of the kiln, looking up at the blackened expanse above.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up, a hand by my nape.
I reached up, slapping it away as I turned.
Arkady leaned back, hands up in surrender. “Ah, flighty thing.”
“I am not a thing.” I brushed my hands over my garments, which had collected dust from his arm.
“Oh? Is that so?” He stepped forward.
“Don’t be cheeky.”
Another step forward for him, another step back for me.
“Cheeky?”
My back hit the brick of the kiln.
Arkady’s hands rested on the stones on either side of my body.
My face must have been a wild red, the heat making me wonder how the ceramics must feel when they were fired. Even when I looked away from him, I could still smell his cologne, feel his body temperature, hear—
“You seem agitated.” His voice was sonorous, like a freshly rosined bow across a cello. His eyes trailed down to my dress, fixating on the clay dust smudged over my skirt. “I can’t help but wonder if that is my doing.”
“Clever and receptive,” I gritted, staring up at him.
His eyes held a sharp wit that made sure you knew he was watching, a hawk ready to snatch a stray mouse. His skin and hair reminded me of natural clay, not dissimilar to the kind he used. How ironic that someone so alluring was such a sociopath, surely a narcissist at the very least.
“Why did you come?” His face was inches from mine, teasing the air around us with a sort of electric static that shocked me from my thoughts. “And don’t say it’s because you missed me,” he teased.
“You didn’t come to bed,” I breathed.
“I thought it would be rude, considering the circumstances.”
“No, you thought I would be easy. You were thrown off.”
“You aren’t what I expected. I’ll admit that.”
“I am not of your tastes?”
“I’m trying to be a gentleman.” He tilted his head to the side and glanced at my lips. “Unless it is the ungentlemanly types you like?”
His hands grabbed my hips.
“Stop!” I squeaked. My heart fluttered between my ribs like a startled cardinal. “You’ll leave prints!”
He raised one hand, gently trailing his finger along my cheek, the other smearing the clay dust up my waist. The heat of his hand lingered, but the hotness was faint compared to my own embarrassment.
“I wish I could capture the color of your cheeks when they’re flustered, it would make a perfect glaze. ”
My mouth dropped open to speak, but no words would manifest on my tongue.
“Dare I suggest that it is I who is not of your taste?” He retreated completely.
I swallowed hard, not knowing if it was difficult due to dust or apprehension.
He turned his back to me and approached his lonely stool next to the unfinished statue, sitting down to begin his work once more.
“I—I will see you at home.” I gathered my resolve once more.
He didn’t bother to look my way, though the last thing I saw was a flash of a smirk pulling at his lips, a mischievous glint in his eye showing more interest than he let on. Though, it was possible that analysis was a projection of my own desires.