Chapter Five The Artisan
Chapter Five
The Artisan
The air was dry like chapped palms over sherpa wool. The day was full of irritants, every event an abrasive particle. The barren air, my unpaid debts—even my wife—were nagging me today.
The embalming room was a cold basement, some cellar windows to let a smidge of light through. Despite the desolate, sterile appearance—there was so much opportunity for enlightenment.
As dreary as the atmosphere was, it was always a great source of inspiration. Bodies held secrets, and if they didn’t tell you before their passing, they would tell the mortician. I didn’t see a difference between a muse and an artisan.
Lately my creativity had run bare, scraping the bottom of the well. Client work kept me busy, but it wasn’t the same as being inspired. It had been months since I’d created for myself, and those were always the pieces that kept me afloat for a year or two.
“Let me see,” I demanded.
“Eager for someone who isn’t supposed to be down here.” Kostya clicked his tongue against his teeth as he finished cleaning his instruments.
I sloped my head back and took a deep breath before returning with a more agreeable tone. “May I please see now?”
Kostya frowned and pinched the edge of the white sheet covering a newly departed. “That’s more like it.” He paused and raised a critical brow at me. “You are not allowed to bring anything home this time. She has to stay here.”
“Christ, Kostya, I may be dead myself by the time you lift the sheet.”
My friend finally folded the sheet over, revealing a fair woman, gone before twenty-five. Beautiful, but the beauty stopped abruptly halfway across her face, as it was charred.
“I thought you said this one was in good condition to study.” I pulled the notepad from my jacket pocket.
“Well, she’s pretty, I never said she was in good shape aside from that. She has good muscle definition. Some freak field-labor accident upstate.”
I shook my head and pulled out the pen, beginning to look closely at the skin. I pinched the sheet, pulling it down more to expose her collarbone, her arm, her ribs, then to reveal more charring. Her hand was exceptionally striking, something so dainty covered in a stark singe.
I took a quick sketch of the different parts, but I found myself studying the way the texture changed from smooth to something like bark on the non-surviving parts, only a prominent portion of the bone structure escaping the fire.
She was technically beautiful, but something was missing. A certain vibrance. Perhaps it was because she was dead. I wouldn’t know. But, once again, I was going to be leaving the same as I came—uninspired.
“You know, we should take our wives out together sometime, parade the birds around town,” Kostya said from the opposite side, leaning on the metal slab.
“Sure, of course.” A few more notes jotted, and the loose lines around a few more forms.
“You don’t seem thrilled.”
“Doing the bear isn’t at the forefront of my mind lately.” I snapped the book shut.
“Have you spoken to her at all, or have you hidden yourself away in the studio?” His tone was teasing, but he wasn’t wrong.
“I have spoken to her, matter of fact.” I flashed an unamused smile.
“And she thought of you as decent after that conversation?”
I thought about it for a moment too long.
“That’s what I thought,” he snorted. “You know, having a partner isn’t so bad, even if you do not love her.”
“She’s aware the arrangement is mutually beneficial. I plan on going about business as usual.”
“Appearances matter, Arkasha.” Kostya sighed. “Especially since her family’s money is your lifeline. It couldn’t hurt to entertain.”
“We get along fine.”
“Enough to convince the public that both of you aren’t dabbling between other people’s legs?”
“Why do you care?”
Kostya combed his fingers through his neatly placed hair. “I know you are a decent man, I believe it, and I know you would rather be alone than surrounded by women—but that’s not what the public thinks. Certain occupations come with certain prejudices.”
“Why do you care?” I repeated.
Kostya circled the slab and slapped his hand firmly on my shoulder.
“Because I want the best for you, brother, and for you to be happy. The public isn’t very receptive to the poor, the underprivileged, or immigrants—of which you are all three.
Make an effort, and you will find both of you are happier.
I didn’t watch you claw your way through this life just to see you falter. ”
I brushed his hand from my shoulder but didn’t offer a counter.
He was right, and I knew it deep down, just not enough to validate verbally.
It had only been a few days, so my understanding of my wife’s routine was rudimentary at best. She went to bed early and didn’t wake up until noon.
A single bowl would be abandoned in the sink when I returned by nightfall.
It was always covered in a sticky, dried juice—I suspect from her apricots.
There were always apricots. Her quirks remained cryptic, but I digress.
It couldn’t hurt to spend more mornings in my new home while she slept.
At least I knew how much time I’d have to myself.
Kostya has been sleeping in later and later, even calling in late to work due to his colicky child.
It was disappointing to not see him as regularly, but a new, quiet home was just as nice.
The sofa was an improvement from the studio. The decorative pillows were barely used, still plush. There was a kink in the cushions, but it was coincidentally in the right place to support my aching back from the long days of questionable posture.
My roots were settling within my new domain.
It was cluttered, but in a charming sense that made you feel like each object was important, of practical or sentimental value.
A shrine of some kind. I suppose that would apply to most homes, but especially this one.
There was an enchantment to it like some hidden-away place to disappear inside for days.
Even the moths were beginning to appear friendly, though I was still working on a way to get rid of them.
There was clearly an infestation festering somewhere.
Even with the rough start to my marriage to a complete stranger, it could have been worse. Not as passive as I expected, but that wasn’t a problem. I thought she was a pretty thing; it was good to know she was sharper than a rock, duller than a true blade.
I like it here. I do. I promise. This will all work out.
A rasping sound at the front door disturbed my brief moment of contentment.
I sat up from the sofa, stretching my back before reaching for my coffee. By now, it tasted a bit like dust. I would have to clean at some point; it wasn’t like she would do it.
More rasping, quicker and louder this time.
They will wake the she-beast at this rate.
I abandoned the comfort of my seat and my less-than-impressive cup of coffee for the door, tucking my shirt properly before answering.
When I opened the door, a strange man stood expectantly, straight as a pin, snobbish as a bird.
“May I help you?” I raised a brow. “If you’re a solicitor, you’ve come to the wrong home.”
The middle-aged gentlemen looked almost amused, glancing to the side as if it was a cretinous remark.
“You seem to be the one in a place you do not belong.” He seemed well groomed, but not well mannered to the common man.
His dark hair was interrupted by stripes of a duller gray down the sides, but it was plain to see he was attempting to hide them with black salve.
His mustache was trimmed short and thin in an attempt to shave some years from his appearance, but it did nothing to hide the stress lines at the corners of his eyes and the way time had weighed on his features.
“I’m sorry, I believe you have the wrong home. This is four hundred forty-four.” I smiled politely, tapping the plaque on the door.
“I am aware.” He glanced past me, fiddling with a gold signet ring around his pinkie. “Is Miss De Villier home?”
“I don’t know about Miss De Villier, but Mrs. Kameneva is resting and not receiving visitors.”
“Oh, so you’re the new fool.”
“Possibly but unlikely, as I am not the one standing on the doorstep begging for entry.”
“Am I bothering you, good sir? Surely it was not my intention.” He smirked, exposing a collection of shifted teeth with tobacco stains at the roots. “I surely don’t mean to offend.”
“Not at all.” I closed the door behind me as I stepped outside.
With one step back, his chest puffed at my gesture. “Tell her I stopped by.” He held out his calling card.
Vincent Carlisle
Coroner’s Office of New York City
“I am under the impression she isn’t going to receive you.” I held the card, inspecting the small text.
“She will receive whoever comes.” He retrieved a cigarette from his lapel pocket and lit it in front of me.
“Is that so?” I lifted my gaze from the card, pulling out my own cigarette. “Mind me stealing a light?”
“It’s the least I could do for any poor fellow who falls between the jaws of Petronille. You’re going to need more than tobacco.”
I placed the paper in my mouth, and he flicked the wheel of his lighter, cherry-ing the tip.
“I appreciate the concern, Mr. Carlisle, but I am not new to the art of handling women,” I assured him with a nod.
“If you can say that so confidently, it is clear you don’t know her.” He blew a cloud of smoke in my face, stepping closer until we were nearly chest to chest. “You have my calling card now if you ever need her taken off your hands.”
I nodded cordially as if his words held any substance for me.
Then I held up his calling card, pressing it flat against my cigarette, and he watched as the ember ring grew until it was a piece of ash in my hand. “And now I’ve lost it, I suggest you find a way to get lost as well.”
The man’s eye twitched, a bruise to the ego.
But what could he do? It was not his house, daylight, in public.
His haughty expression faltered and turned to a brief flash of anger.
Against his undoubtedly impulsive thoughts, he decided not to act on them at that moment, stepping away and retreating from the front of the townhome.
What kind of trouble have you found yourself in, dear wife?