Chapter Ten The Artisan
Chapter Ten
The Artisan
In all my years, I have never woken up next to a woman.
Surely, I had my experiences, but no one stayed the night, and I never overstayed my welcome.
Even as she lay next to me, it was jarring. Like waking up from a dream and forgetting where you were. That was the risk of a good night’s rest, in a proper bed that wasn’t your own. Perhaps I was just used to sleeping on anything besides a bed, that was my problem.
Petronille’s chest rose and fell as gently as a spring morning’s breeze. She was so quiet, not dissimilar to the flutter of an owl’s wing.
I brushed my fingers through her silken hair, unable to sleep in the early-morning light.
Her perfume reminded me of clementines with a hint of vanilla, sweet and complex.
She was pleasant like this, no biting or snapping like the haughty hound she was.
Even in this calm state, I missed her quick wit.
Someone like me had to be with someone who sharpened the mind, for I was a knife and she was a water stone. Opposite but useful together.
Even as I was sneaking out of my own marriage bed, a new ache was forming. One of those moments you stop and think: If I fumble all my cards, this can all go away.
“Damn it,” I hissed once my fingers scraped the bottom of the bucket. No more clay, just slick.
Longer rods of steel were needed to prop up the weight. I stood atop the ladder, the last few chunks of clay slapped over the face of my new statue. Luckily, I had a fresh shipment, otherwise it would be quite bare bones for a while. A clumsy first draft, a haphazard form of clay.
A bark echoed from the outside, then another. The sharp yips smacked against the bricks of the yard before they were resounding clearly from the large warehouse entrance.
“Mr. Kamenev!” the man shouted, banging a fist on the doors, making them vibrate.
“Coming!” I shouted, tossing the bucket to the floor before hopping off the ladder. The rampant dog wouldn’t let up, barking and snarling before I even reached the door. Simple-brained beast.
I unlatched the bolt and opened the steel shutters, which released a deep moan as they reluctantly opened, rolling along the tracks of the floor.
The landlord stood outside, a stout man holding his insurance on a chain leash.
“I told you I’d be late.” I glanced down at the beast, the Doberman staring whale-eyed, his hair standing straight on his hackles.
“I need it today, I’ve been lenient with you lately.” The gruff man shifted his weight. Something told me this had something to do with the nights he’d been spending down at the docks. He’d probably spent his last coin on whores or booze.
“I told you the money from my wife would be coming after due. You said it wouldn’t be an issue.” I tried to keep eye contact, but the dog was pulling anxiously on his collar, desperate to get into the studio. I held out my leg, blocking the creature.
“Clancy!” he shouted, yanking the animal by the neck.
“Must be the food I left out.”
“I told you not to leave food in the warehouse. It attracts the rats.”
“I know, I haven’t had much time off. I’ll clean it. Just give me another day or two for the rent,” I explained, searching his expression for any give. “The wife is giving me a hard time.”
“Eh, women,” the man huffed as if he would know anything about women.
“I’ll bring the check to your front door,” I offered. “It should just be a little longer, before the next rent payment is due.”
He looked away to think about it, absently smoothing down the short hair of his beast. “All right.”
“I will see you in a few days. How is two in the afternoon?”
“Yes, but not a minute later,” he warned before yanking his dog around. “Come, Clancy.”
I nodded and smiled, plastering on the expression until the old man waddled off, mumbling to himself under his breath.
The knot in my stomach gave out as I turned the bolt again, locking myself away in my little haven.
One thing I enjoyed about my studio was that it was quiet. I felt like every other place made it hard to think. Here, I could control the layout, the cleanliness, who and what went in and out of my domain. My audience was blocks of clay or stone, crowded around to watch me make another.
Sometimes, they made me feel judged. Other times, I felt less alone.
Beside my recent project was a more feminine statue, still roughly blocked, but it was beginning to resemble a particular person.
Before I knew what I was doing, I gave the statue her eyes, her nose, her delicate hands, her single-portion breasts.
Her statue form stood quite proud but soft all at once.
Nothing about her was too much or too little.
I would expect something of a water nymph, or a woman from some myth chained away from the mortal world, for she was too valuable for the likes of them.
Pulling up my stool, I sat with my elbows on my knees. My forearms were already covered in dust and cracked, dried clay.
“What am I to do with you?” I mumbled to myself.
She didn’t reply, of course, but I wished she could.
My plans for her might have changed, but that was only because she’d proven to be quite a task herself.
I suppose it wasn’t the worst thing, as we now shared the same skeleton in our closet.
Perhaps she had the potential to be sculpted into something else.
“I swore I did this already.” Kostya spoke mainly to himself as he rustled through a drawer.
I studied the embalming-room walls, counting the drawers.
Behind each, there would be what was once a person, no doubt.
I visited Kostya at work frequently enough that his coworkers treated me like another peer, credulous and familiar.
Even if I came alone, they assumed the best of my presence, as if I were just here to fetch something for my friend.
“Would it be childish to blame imps for stealing my tools?” Kostya laughed nervously, and I heard some clanging from behind me.
“Yes, imps don’t exist, Kostya,” I droned, glancing over my shoulder at my flustered friend. His attitude was light, but I could see the sweat beading on his forehead.
“I know that, but I’m starting to believe,” he grumbled. “I must be more organized, I can never find the tools I need when I need them.”
“Invest in better drawers.”
“That’s not up to me.”
“Then simply be more organized.”
“What worm wiggled its way up your pants today?” Kostya approached the slab as he tied his smock.
Before I turned, I took a calm, steadying breath. I pivoted on my heel, then approached the slab as well. “Nothing. Irritated.”
“Why is that?”
“Landlord” is all I said, and he nodded as if he understood.
Kostya peeled away the sheet covering his new client.
On the slab was a woman. Half of her face was sloping a bit.
Kostya said the cause of death was some mystery illness breaking out on farms upstate.
It must be prolific if they were sending the bodies all the way to the city for evaluation.
What surprised me more was the lack of coverage in the papers.
I stood beside her, tilting my head. Her skin was a warm shade, a few beauty marks scattered across her neck and chest. Her dark hair splayed across the cold table.
Even with her warmth, the gas lamps drained her of any color that could have remained in rigor mortis.
Lately, none of them came close. She was beautiful, but she wasn’t perfect.
It was either a matter of quality decline, or perhaps my standards had changed. Art is nothing without a muse. If I couldn’t find another one soon, I might lose my touch. Or worse, I might turn to something else to find what I was looking for.
“Is this one good?” Kostya asked.
“No.”
“Really?”
“The left side of her face is too strong compared to the right. Her nose curves slightly to the left, and her lips are asymmetrical.” I moved around the table carefully. “She is too lean, and she is also too dead.”
“Well, that’s what happens when you use corpses as still-life subjects, Arkasha. They will look dead.”
I looked up so quickly that Kostya physically flinched. I didn’t need to say another word.
“You really are in a bad mood.” He pulled the sheet back over the corpse. “Not even the warmth of your own woman could thaw your stone heart?”
“Do not speak of my wife.”
Kostya glared, moving back to his desk. “You know, I’m breaking a lot of rules just by showing you bodies for your little art studies.”
I sighed and leaned against the table. “I know.”
“You should be nicer to me,” he grumbled, “and the corpses.”
“They are dead, Kostya.”
“It’s about respecting the deceased.”
“What is more respectful than memorializing them as art?” I raised a brow, pulling a cigarette from my pocket and flicking the wheel of my lighter.
Kostya glared at the sound of the light. “Not all art is respectful.”
I shrugged.
“Why not ask Petronille to pose for you?”
I didn’t answer, instead pulling a long drag from the cigarette.
“Hm. It seems your art is not respectable enough for her, then?”
“That’s not true.”
“Then why do you do this?”
“Performance anxiety. Old habit.” I shrugged, moving toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Studio.” I stamped my cigarette out on the concrete floor. “I need to finish something.”