figure gradually being revealed.
And yet, Zorelli reminded himself, the man was acquainted with the wealthy Boccas, and the cultured Varentinos as well. And he certainly hadn’t lacked for money. Perhaps, he reasoned,
all
ghosts looked as grubby as this one — even the ghosts of the great.
He tried to drive the specter from his mind, picked up his hammer, and returned to work, musing on the power he possessed to fix the world’s memory on a man for the length of the life of stone. Pounding, scraping, sanding, polishing, he gloried afresh in his ability to rescue his subjects from oblivion, securing for himself, parasitelike, a portion of their immortality.
Day by day the hammers became lighter, the chisels smaller, the files finer. Chipping gave way to grinding, then sanding, each tool removing the marks of its predecessor.
And then, one day, the statue was finished.
“Tell me, what do you think, Angelina?” Zorelli picked her up and approached the figure who held a cup to an infant, watched by a one-eared cat. “Come now, let me hear your opinion.”
Desperately, she jumped from his arms.
That afternoon the stone carver hired a pair of horses and a wagon, and with the help of three other brawny men loaded the statue into the back. When evening fell, he snapped the reins and headed down the road to Rompoli.
The night was still, the wintry air bare. The sky overhead was littered with stars. For an hour he drove among frost-stricken fields, wondering just where it was he was headed — when suddenly he sighted a shimmer ahead.
“Well met!” said the ghost, grinning as he approached the wagon. “You brought the statue, then?”
“There in the back.”
“Fine!” said the spirit. “Finally! Aye, a great relief it’ll be.”
He climbed aboard, glowing unreally, as if he were but a magician’s illusion.
“How much farther?” Zorelli asked.
“Oh, we’ve a bit of a ways,” said the spirit.
Zorelli gave the reins a shake, sharing none of his patron’s good cheer. He glanced at the ghost’s filthy attire and shuddered at the thought of how his patron must have stunk while he was alive. Even in stone such a man would draw flies. And yet, he claimed to have been of some importance. . . .
“You mentioned before your connection with the Boccas,” Zorelli spoke up hesitantly. “Engaged in the spice commerce, didn’t you say?”
“That’s right,” his companion answered back.
“Master of the countinghouse, were you? Or captain of a ship, perhaps?” The sculptor smiled hopefully.
“Not likely. The competition was my job.”
“The competition?”
“Right,” said the spirit. “Making sure no other pesky traders reached port with a load of pepper before us.” He reached absently for his missing ear. “And trying to stay alive in the bargain.”
The smile deserted Zorelli’s lips. He studied the specter. Was he speaking of foul play? Naturally, he’d heard of such things. But the polished Boccas? The thought was absurd.
Nervously, Zorelli clutched the reins, guiding the wagon down the road toward its unknown destination.
“I recall that you mentioned working with Vito Varentino as well,” he spoke up. “Employed in matters of state, I believe.”
“Aye, matters of state,” said the ghost.
Zorelli smiled respectfully. “Of what sort, if I may be so bold?”
“Finding out,” said the spirit matter-of-factly.
“Finding out?”
“That’s right,” the ghost replied. “Whatever the old man wanted to know. Listening behind doors, searching rooms, paying the servants for what they knew. Aye, he kept me busy, he did.”
Zorelli stared at the specter in shock. Varentino, the renowned thinker and statesman — secretly engaging spies? Surely this mist of a man was lying. And yet, the sculptor asked himself, why should a ghost depart from the truth?
“Turn off to the left there,” commanded the spirit. “Aye, that’s where my poor bones be.”
“Your bones?” said
And yet, Zorelli reminded himself, the man was acquainted with the wealthy Boccas, and the cultured Varentinos as well. And he certainly hadn’t lacked for money. Perhaps, he reasoned,
all
ghosts looked as grubby as this one — even the ghosts of the great.
He tried to drive the specter from his mind, picked up his hammer, and returned to work, musing on the power he possessed to fix the world’s memory on a man for the length of the life of stone. Pounding, scraping, sanding, polishing, he gloried afresh in his ability to rescue his subjects from oblivion, securing for himself, parasitelike, a portion of their immortality.
Day by day the hammers became lighter, the chisels smaller, the files finer. Chipping gave way to grinding, then sanding, each tool removing the marks of its predecessor.
And then, one day, the statue was finished.
“Tell me, what do you think, Angelina?” Zorelli picked her up and approached the figure who held a cup to an infant, watched by a one-eared cat. “Come now, let me hear your opinion.”
Desperately, she jumped from his arms.
That afternoon the stone carver hired a pair of horses and a wagon, and with the help of three other brawny men loaded the statue into the back. When evening fell, he snapped the reins and headed down the road to Rompoli.
The night was still, the wintry air bare. The sky overhead was littered with stars. For an hour he drove among frost-stricken fields, wondering just where it was he was headed — when suddenly he sighted a shimmer ahead.
“Well met!” said the ghost, grinning as he approached the wagon. “You brought the statue, then?”
“There in the back.”
“Fine!” said the spirit. “Finally! Aye, a great relief it’ll be.”
He climbed aboard, glowing unreally, as if he were but a magician’s illusion.
“How much farther?” Zorelli asked.
“Oh, we’ve a bit of a ways,” said the spirit.
Zorelli gave the reins a shake, sharing none of his patron’s good cheer. He glanced at the ghost’s filthy attire and shuddered at the thought of how his patron must have stunk while he was alive. Even in stone such a man would draw flies. And yet, he claimed to have been of some importance. . . .
“You mentioned before your connection with the Boccas,” Zorelli spoke up hesitantly. “Engaged in the spice commerce, didn’t you say?”
“That’s right,” his companion answered back.
“Master of the countinghouse, were you? Or captain of a ship, perhaps?” The sculptor smiled hopefully.
“Not likely. The competition was my job.”
“The competition?”
“Right,” said the spirit. “Making sure no other pesky traders reached port with a load of pepper before us.” He reached absently for his missing ear. “And trying to stay alive in the bargain.”
The smile deserted Zorelli’s lips. He studied the specter. Was he speaking of foul play? Naturally, he’d heard of such things. But the polished Boccas? The thought was absurd.
Nervously, Zorelli clutched the reins, guiding the wagon down the road toward its unknown destination.
“I recall that you mentioned working with Vito Varentino as well,” he spoke up. “Employed in matters of state, I believe.”
“Aye, matters of state,” said the ghost.
Zorelli smiled respectfully. “Of what sort, if I may be so bold?”
“Finding out,” said the spirit matter-of-factly.
“Finding out?”
“That’s right,” the ghost replied. “Whatever the old man wanted to know. Listening behind doors, searching rooms, paying the servants for what they knew. Aye, he kept me busy, he did.”
Zorelli stared at the specter in shock. Varentino, the renowned thinker and statesman — secretly engaging spies? Surely this mist of a man was lying. And yet, the sculptor asked himself, why should a ghost depart from the truth?
“Turn off to the left there,” commanded the spirit. “Aye, that’s where my poor bones be.”
“Your bones?” said
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