Ali Smith - How to be both

The 9th was a boy dressed as Justice: he sat at the foot of the throne: he was holding such a heavy-looking sword in the air that when the platform stopped he tipped sideways, knocked into the big set of scales in front of him and nearly toppled off the platform: but he didn’t, he righted himself by thumping the point of the sword off the floor of the cart: he shifted the fallen-forward fabric of his costume back up over his shoulder, used a graceful foot to tip the upended scales back to an evenness, got his breath and stuck the sword in the air again: everybody who saw it happen shouted hurray and clapped their hands, at which Justice looked mortified cause of the grimness on the face of the portly man who’d come to stand at the side of the platform facing the empty throne.

This man was glinting with gems: he was why we were here, he was the kindly generous charismatic Borse d’Est, the new Duke of Reggio and Modena, the brand-new Marquis of Ferara (and a pompous self-regarding fool, Barto said telling me the story doing the rounds of all the rich families who weren’t Ests, about how the kindly generous charismatic Borse had been giving the Emperor gifts over many months so that everyone would know he was kindly generous and charismatic and above all much more of a gift-giver than his brother, the last Marquis, who’d known a lot of Latin, lived a quiet life then died: on the day Borse first heard that finally the Emperor was to make him Duke of Modena and Reggio (though not yet of Ferara, damn it) his attendants had seen him jumping up and down by himself in the rose garden of the palace of fine outlook squealing like a child the words over and over I’m a Duke! I’m a Duke! ).

There were gems all over the front of him: they caught the sun like he was wearing lots of little mirrors or stars or was covered in sparks: the biggest gem, bright verdigris on the front of his coat which was vermilion, was near as big as one of his hands by which he’d been led to the front of the platform, to Justice, by a very small boy-angel (swan-feather wings, very fresh off the swan cause there was still red seepage and a shine of gristle at the bone where it met the white of the fabric on the boy’s back).

Most illustrious Lord, the angel said now in a high clear voice.

The crowd in the wide square quietened.

The portly man bowed to the angel.

You see seated before you God’s own Justice, the angel said and his voice rang thin as a handbell above the heads of the people.

The portly man turned from the angel and bowed with great ceremony to Justice: I saw Justice not dare bow back: the too-heavy sword wavered above them both.

The angel squeaked again.

Justice who for so long now has been forgotten! Justice who has been held for far too long in blind contempt! All the rulers of the world have closed their eyes to Justice! Forgotten and disdained since the deaths of her guardians, the wise ancient statesmen of a better time! Justice has been so lonely!

The boy dressed as Justice brought his other hand to the handle of his sword and with both hands stopped it wavering.

But rejoice cause today, illustrious Lord, Justice is dead! the angel said.

There was a shocked pause.

The angel looked stricken.

Today illustrious Lord, the angel said again. Justice is. Dead.

The portly man stayed bowed: the angel’s eyes were shut, screwed up: the boys on the cart stared straight ahead. A courtier started forward from the rows of horses at the back of the platform beyond the empty throne: the portly man, without looking, raised his hand away from his side just a touch and the courtier saw and reined his horse in.

Still from his low bow the portly man mumbled something in the direction of the angel.

— Dedicating, the angel blurted. This seat. To you! Today Justice lets it be known to the world that above all others she favours — you! Justice bows — to you! Justice in her purity even declares that she is enamoured — of you! And rejoice again, cause Justice invites — you! To take the seat left empty by the deaths of the great wise ancients. The last just rulers of men. Cause Justice says, illustrious Lord, that nobody could fill this seat justly till now! This seat was empty and remained empty — till you!

The portly man, the new Duke, straightened up: his front glinted: he went to the angel: with his hand on the boy’s shoulder he turned him square on so they both faced the platform.

The boy dressed as Justice still holding the sword with 2 hands let go with one of his hands momentarily to gesticulate towards the empty throne then brought that hand back to the sword handle quick as he could.

The new Duke spoke.

I thank Justice. I revere Justice. But I cannot accept this honour. I cannot take such a throne. Cause I am merely a man. But I am a man who will do my best by my Ducal vows all my life to merit Justice’s honour and approval.

A moment of silence: then the crowd below us went wild with cheering.

Pompous arse, Barto said. Pompous Borse. Stupid crowd of fools.

I was inclined to join the cheering myself which was persuasive and echoed round the great square: also I’d heard that Borse was a man who liked to give gifts to favoured painters and musicians and I didn’t want to think so badly of him and sure enough the crowd seemed to hold him in favour and could such a festive crowd be so very wrong? The noise the people made in his honour was huge and the new Duke was so modest: the dressed-up boys on the cart looked soaked through by the noise of the crowd like they’d just been driven through a waterfall.

Only the angel with the swan wings didn’t look relieved: from above them as the new Duke bowed again to the crowd and the crowd went on cheering, I could see a redness at the angel’s shoulder and neck like the minium pigment which is a red that soon turns to black, it came from the hand of the new Duke gripping it hard enough to leave an imprint on it: but it is a hard thing in the world, to be modest, and must probably result in bruises for somebody somewhere along the line.

Come on, Barto said. We’re going hunting.

We drove to Bologna.

At the house of pleasure in his home city Barto was already so well known that 3 girls came towards us saying his name and taking turns to kiss him before we even got through its outer doors.

This is Francescho, he’s fresh from the egg. He’s my dear, dear friend. Remember, I told you. He’s a little shy, Barto said to a woman I couldn’t quite see cause she shimmered and the rooms were dark and full of so many women as dishevelled and disarrayed as enchantresses and there was a rich smell, God knew what of, and rich colours and carpets everywhere, underfoot, on the walls and even up there soft-coating the ceiling perhaps, though I couldn’t be sure cause the sweet dirty smells and air and the colours and presences made my senses spin and the floor act like ceiling as soon as we came into the inner rooms.

The woman had me by my hand: she took my coat off my shoulders: she tried to take my satchel from me but it had my drawing things in it: I hung on to it with one arm still in the sleeve of the coat.

She put her mouth to my ear.

Don’t be scared, boy. And look, don’t insult us, your pockets and purse’ll stay full, only ever minus what we’re worth or what extra you’d like to give us, you’ve my word on it, there are no thieves here, we’re all honest and worthy here.

No, no, I said, it’s not, I, — I don’t mean to –

but in the saying of all the words in my ear she’d near-carried me in her arms, she was powerfully strong and it was as if I’d no will of my own, to the door of another room, made me light as a leaf and swept me in like one and shut the door behind us, I could feel the door at my back but through a lace or a curtain or some thin carpet-stuff.