Voltaire's Calligrapher (13 page)

“I need a model who’s not too imposing. She needs to be more of an outline; she should lack a little definition,” said one who looked extremely young, almost a boy, dressed in every piece of clothing he could find.

“You want a model who’s a little blurry, like when you’re drunk? Well, that’s easy enough to achieve, my young Arsit!” said his friend, a tall man with enormous hands who was surreptitiously sketching as he talked. He was using the girls without having to pay a cent, but his hands were so big it was impossible not to notice. “Look at that one, with the red hair; she’s perfect for a Gorgon.”

“They were better fed last year, Gravelot.”

“You weren’t even born last year.”

Arsit ignored him and tried to deepen his voice:

“They don’t know how to be still. Do you see them moving, Gravelot? What would Mattioli say if he were here.”

I asked who Mattioli was.

“Guido Mattioli, the sculptor. You haven’t heard of him? Where are you from?” the boy asked in disbelief. “You should read his book
The Life of Statues
instead of freezing to death here. Until you have, you won’t understand a thing about models. Mattioli is extremely
demanding when it comes to choosing his muses: he won’t tolerate the slightest movement.”

“To test them, he smears their breasts in honey and releases a swarm of bees: a real model must be able to remain indifferent,” Gravelot said, still drawing. The women who were left had now recognized his strategy and were hurriedly dressing.

“Before working on a sculpture, the model herself must be a statue,” Arsit explained. “In his book, Mattioli says: you must wrest the statue that’s in the woman to then wrest the woman hiding inside the marble.”

“Where can I find Mattioli?” I asked.

“Do you want him to teach you? He doesn’t take students.”

The boy painter smiled arrogantly. He liked knowing what others didn’t.

“I’d be happy just to watch him work.”

“I’ve never seen him, but they say he lives in a house at the end of rue des Cendres. Every now and then an outing is organized: the artists all file out of here on foot, watch him work through a window—never daring to knock on his door—and then they all leave. How many times have you gone to see him, Gravelot?”

“Three. The first time, Mattioli threw water at us; the second, rocks; and the third, a dead rat.”

“And you, Arsit? Haven’t you ever wanted to see him with your own eyes?”

“Let me offer you a piece of advice,” the boy painter replied gravely. “Keep your ideals where they are, just out of reach.”

We were the last ones there. Gravelot, with his enormous hands and feet, clomped up the stairs. Arsit stayed behind.

“What about you? Aren’t you coming?” I asked.

He didn’t reply, just turned his head and disappeared between a lion and a virgin with outstretched hands.

Gravelot took me by the arm.

“Leave him be. Arsit lives here. He was abandoned as a child and grew up among these statues. He rarely comes to the surface. Sometimes I bring him a plate of food and leave it on the stairs, as if he were a stray cat. Every Tuesday I shake as I come into the basement, worried I’ll find him as frozen as everything around him. He’s never painted or sculpted a thing, but he lives for art.”

Outside that world of statues, Paris was still very much alive. The streets were full of passersby who constantly changed direction, as if suddenly remembering something they had to do; the trees rustled even though there was no wind; not even the houses were still but shook with the passing of cars. And yet, as I approached rue des Cendres (so named because of a brick factory that used to blanket the street in ash), there were fewer people, and everything turned gray, still, and empty. I passed a dead beggar and a sleeping horse. Mattioli’s house, at the end of the street, was like something from a dream, the kind of house you only ever see from the outside because the moment you knock, you startle awake.

I found a window at street level and stretched out on the cobblestones. Through the dirty glass, I could see into Mattioli’s studio. His tools were on the floor; there was a folding screen at the back. Sketches of the model multiplied her figure countless times. The sculptor was working on a block of marble he had already transformed into the shadow of a woman.

Clarissa was off to one side: naked, white, perfect—more perfect even than the distant copy her father had made. She was gripping a gold helmet and a lance that rested on the floor beside her. She sat so still that, in contrast, the other Clarissa, the one born out of marble, seemed to be alive.

V
on Knepper was leaning over a delicate mechanism that resembled a musical instrument: glass pegs tightened very fine strings that would make a sound at the slightest touch.

“We need to find another way to make automatons talk. The human vocal system is extremely difficult to control. The slightest imperfection and the melody of the inanimate starts to play. One day I’ll resort to magic. I once read that Hermes Trismegistus could make a statue so perfect that life was inevitable.”

“A statue that comes to life must also then die.”

“Maybe the Egyptian sorcerers watched theirs weaken and expire and abandoned the method forever. Who knows, maybe their creatures reverted to statues, only this time they were abominable, or maybe they shattered into piles of marble shards.”

I picked up a hand that was on the table and tested it. The bones were made of black wood and the joints of gold.

“I found Clarissa,” I said nonchalantly.

Von Knepper’s hands leaped to my neck and he repeated his daughter’s name, as if it were a threat. He squeezed my throat with
professional rigor. I fought in vain for the air that would allow me to speak. In the midst of our struggle, we fell on the table. The tiny harp—future throat—fell to the floor, making a strange sound, like an animal cry. Heeding this plea, Von Knepper released me. I backed into a corner of the room.

“I don’t have her, but I know where she is. I saw her myself. I’ll take her somewhere safe today.”

“And do you think I’m going to just wait here, doing nothing, while you …?”

“You won’t be doing nothing. I have a job for you.”

I pulled a ball of paper from my pocket. The documents that change a country’s history, the secrets that send some to the throne and others to the gallows, aren’t safely tucked in folders and covered in wax seals. They’re wrinkled sheets of paper, dampened by the rain, that some insignificant person carries deep in his pocket, with coins, a penknife, and a bit of bread.

“This is the text the bishop is to write. Three envoys from Rome will be meeting with him the day after tomorrow.”

“Yes, I know about that meeting. I was told to make the final adjustments.”

“Those adjustments are written here.”

He read the page.

“You’re crazy. If the bishop writes this, his skull will become an inkwell and my blood the ink.”

“I understand the danger, but there’s no other way for you to see your daughter again.”

Disheartened, Von Knepper read the message over and over. It may not have been the thought of Clarissa that changed his mind but the message itself: after all, it was the truth.

“Once the new text has been written, you won’t able to come back here. At least not while Mazy remains in power.”

“I have somewhere to hide. I’ve spent my life living under
aliases, in houses rented for three months at a time. What about my daughter?”

I handed him a blank page.

“She’s here.”

He turned the sheet over and, seeing that it was blank as well, threw it in my face. I handed it back.

“It’s invisible ink. The message will appear in a little more than forty hours without you doing anything. Forget about using sulfur, alcohol, saltpeter, or any other thing you might think of; all you’ll find then is an illegible smudge. Keep your promise and the secret will be revealed.”

When I left Von Knepper’s, I walked to the Seine and quietly asked at a bookstore for
The Bishop’s Message
.

“Sold out,” the bookseller said. It was hard to know if he was telling the truth or was afraid I was an inspector.

Voltaire’s first message was already in print and was being passed from hand to hand all over the city. His second would soon be engraved on an iron plate and fill the bishop’s memory with forty-two words.

T
here were two statues in Mattioli’s studio. One had Clarissa’s features; the other was covered by a gray cloth. The sculptor had collapsed into a chair, and his threadbare shirt only exaggerated the defeat in his posture. Kolm was holding the hammer and chisel at shoulder height on the statue and tapping. Shards and dust were falling from the marble.

“Where is she?”

“I hired her, but she left without a word.”

Kolm tapped again, only harder this time. He had started at the edge of the block but was now moving toward the already well-defined face.

“I’ve never carved a head like this one. The girl’s gone, and all I have of her is what you see there.”

Kolm seemed to have forgotten his purpose was to threaten, and had become enamored of the tools. He frightened me a little, so I decided to take advantage of that:

“They say every block of marble has a particular spot on which
the life of the stone depends. Once you hit it, the marble will crack. How long until my friend finds that spot?”

Kolm aimed the next blow at the statue’s invisible heart. I jumped, sure the execution would be final this time. Mattioli didn’t bat an eyelid. He spoke with the wisdom of someone who has won or lost everything:

“I’ve had dozens of models, but none of them was still enough. Those hands that would rise up to brush away a fly; those eyes that would seek who knows what outside the window. Boredom, nerves, exhaustion. They thought they were being still, but I saw the silent dance: first the foot, then the elbow, and, when their own nakedness bothered them, the rapid breath or syncopated heartbeat. But then I found her, down in the basement, among the others at the Académie. My colleagues—those good for nothings—didn’t even see her because they don’t know how to look. I’ve been searching for her for years; I even wrote a book exalting her absence. And then suddenly there she was.”

We had searched for Clarissa as well, all through the house, even the basement and the attic. Getting around was no easy task; the hallways were blocked, not only by unfinished sculptures and paintings but also by the instruments Mattioli had used to pursue his ideal of stillness. As the search wore on, the artist began to explain the nature of his collection with a certain amount of pride. There were music boxes that caused momentary immobility, a seat fitted with metal brackets and belts, and bottles of narcotic drugs (which almost forced us to abandon the hunt because of the toxic cloud that filled the attic). In a corner we found a suit of armor made of iron bands that left sections of the victim bare. Bronze spikes in the most painful places ensured that the model would sit still.

There was only one place left to look. I walked toward the second statue and pulled off the gray cloth. Kolm had glanced there
earlier but had mistaken her for a real statue. Clarissa was posed as before, only minus the lance and gold helmet. I kissed her icy lips and, in doing so, grew angry that her naked body was in full view. Behind the folding screen, in among easels and rolled-up canvases, was some clothing that might have been hers. I dressed her in silence. Clarissa didn’t seem to know where she was when she awoke, and I waited for her memory to make sense of the room.

She walked over to the work in progress and ran her fingers over the statue’s face.

“Did I do all right, Mattioli?”

“No one has ever done better. But now it will never be finished.”

“Then it will be just like me. I’m not finished, either.”

Not finding any warm clothes, I put my cloak around Clarissa and we left Mattioli’s house. At some point, Kolm disappeared without a word. He might have tried to say good-bye, but I only had eyes for Clarissa. A coach took us to the Académie des Beaux-Artes, but we didn’t go in right away in case Mattioli had decided to follow us.

I knocked repeatedly until the door was finally opened. The boy painter had been asleep and stared at me blankly.

“Arsit, this is the friend I told you about. You need to look after her until her father, M. Laghi, comes to get her.”

I handed him the amount we had agreed on that afternoon. It would have been easy to cheat Arsit; he seemed completely unaware of the value of money, but I felt sorry for the boy painter.

“I’ll use this opportunity to talk to her about art. I’ll tell her the story behind every statue, and I won’t even charge for it.”

Clarissa was awake now.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“You need to stay here until your father arrives. The abbot’s men will be looking for you both.”

“Why? What has my father done?”

“Nothing yet, but it won’t be long.”

“At one time I thought you’d rescue me from my father and help me escape. Instead, here you are turning me over to him. You call that love?”

Around us the crowd of statues seemed to grow larger and cast a disapproving murmur in my direction. Fingers and swords pointed at me. Arsit furrowed his brow in silence, as if he had to show a certain amount of indignation toward me and yet didn’t want to get too involved—as annoyed as any child by incomprehensible adult problems.

Clarissa disappeared among the statues, without a word, as if she knew her way, as if she were returning to her birthplace.

Arsit looked at me with wide eyes, slightly overwhelmed by the sense of responsibility. He counted the money—or pretended to count it—and then, as if accepting his position as king of that underground world, ordered me to leave with a wave of his hand.

T
he one hundred copies Hesdin had printed were soon sold out among the Pont Neuf booksellers, where a whole community of obsessive readers went in search of forbidden words. Most of them were spies, paid by the Church or the police to obtain texts and study them. Even innocent readers wanted to join their ranks, as this assured them unrestricted access to books and the money to buy them. In exchange, they simply had to add a title to the Index every now and then. There was no higher prestige than the sparkle of the flames; they only increased the mystery surrounding a book—and its price.