Rupert Thomson - Secrecy

‘But let us put all that aside.’ Sinking down on to a chair, the Grand Duke eyed me from beneath his heavy lids.

I took hold of the muslin and pulled it in such a way that the girl was gradually revealed. The Grand Duke’s plump lips parted, and he gripped the arms of his chair as if frightened he might be swept away. His knuckles had whitened over the lions’ paws. Not wanting to break the spell, I stood quite still.

Finally, the Grand Duke rose to his feet. He advanced on the reclining figure cautiously, on tiptoe. She appeared to have made a child of him. He stopped beside her, one hand wrapped around his mouth and chin.

‘But this is perfect,’ he murmured.

Only then, as the air rushed out of me, did I realize I had been holding my breath. I hadn’t betrayed him or embarrassed him. I wouldn’t be required to defend myself.

‘This is better than I could ever have expected.’ He turned away, and the look he gave me when he reached the far side of the room could almost have been mistaken for pity. ‘You’re a master.’

‘For weeks, Your Highness,’ I said, ‘I worked on nothing but the colour of her skin.’

‘I can imagine.’

I had used a wide range of pigments, I told him, some organic, some man-made. I had used lead-white for her face. Gold-leaf too. And champagne chalk from Northern France. I had used smalt and malachite for her armpits, dragon’s blood and fustic for her thighs.

‘But the texture was no less important,’ I went on.

I had experimented with Turkish wax, which had a vivid orange-red colour to it, and wax from Madagascar, which was sandy brown and alluringly aromatic. I had imported wax from Senegal, but it smelled so pungent that I found myself recoiling. I had even worked with wax extracted from cabbages and plums. I had adulterated my waxes with fine resins, animal fats, kaolin, ochre, marble dust, and tallow. After hundreds of hours of trial and error, I had produced a wax the like of which had never been seen before, a wax both tactile and resilient, a wax as fleshy as flesh itself.

The Grand Duke was nodding. ‘She looks so real. If she were to sit up, or turn over, or even speak, somehow I wouldn’t be surprised.’ He laughed in disbelief at what he was saying, then seemed to shiver. Was he after all aware of a transgression of some kind? ‘Remind me how long this has taken.’

‘More than a year.’

‘It was worth the wait.’

I thanked him.

‘One thing.’ With a thoughtful expression, he moved back towards the girl. He seemed bolder suddenly, and more complacent, as if in the brief moments he had spent on the far side of the room he had become accustomed to her existence. As if, by removing himself, he had taken ownership. The speed of the transition startled me, but perhaps it illustrated his sense of prerogative. As the Grand Duke, he was used to receiving extraordinary gifts. I watched as he traced the dip in the muscle of her upper arm, the slow curve of her jaw. ‘Could you give her some hair?’

‘She already has hair,’ I said. Then, feeling foolish, I added, ‘On her head.’

‘But not,’ he said, ‘elsewhere …’

I found myself staring, but he was gazing up at the domed ceiling.

‘I used to play in here when I was young,’ he said. ‘I would hide from Bandinelli.’

‘He was your tutor, wasn’t he?’

‘My mother likes to say he was the one who made me what I am.’ The Grand Duke smiled bleakly, then looked beyond me, at the girl, and in a different voice, one that was far more practical, he said, ‘It should be real hair, from a woman.’

‘Of course.’ I hesitated. ‘But otherwise you’re satisfied?’

‘Satisfied? I’m astonished. Overwhelmed.’

His voice was trembling, and tears had welled into his eyes. It was my turn to look away.

I promised to make the necessary modifications as soon as I could.

The Grand Duke nodded. ‘I’ll see that you’re handsomely rewarded.’

I murmured that his approval was all the reward I needed, then I bowed and left the room.

I opened Faustina’s bedroom shutters a few inches to let some cool air in. The afternoon sun fell through the gap and lay on the floor like a thin, bright strip of brass. I wouldn’t normally have risked visiting Faustina in the daytime, but her uncle had travelled to Livorno to receive a shipment of spices from the south of Spain. Also, since I had successfully delivered the Grand Duke’s secret commission, I had begun to feel more confident. There was no reason, I thought, why his good will might not extend to cover every aspect of my life, including my unorthodox relationship with Faustina. Before too long, we might have privileged status, if not actual immunity. Though everything was forbidden in Florence, anything was possible.

I turned from the window and sat down on the edge of the bed. She was lying on her back with nothing on, the linen damp and crumpled.

‘So how much did he give you?’ she asked.

I told her, and saw her eyes widen.

‘Some of which I’ve already spent,’ I said, ‘on you.’

When I first arrived, we had kissed and then undressed each other, and the present I had brought had been forgotten. Now, though, I took a wide, flat box out of my bag and handed it to her.

She sat up on the bed and lifted the lid. Inside, under crisp sheets of tissue paper, was a cream silk gown with lilac petticoats. She took a quick breath and fell quite still, her face filled with light reflected from the dress. ‘I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.’ She leaned over and kissed me again. ‘But I’m too hot to try it on just now. Do you mind?’

‘Of course not. In fact, I need you to stay as you are.’ I reached into my bag a second time, producing a pair of scissors. ‘You remember the favour I asked you about?’

Faustina leaned back and looked at me drowsily, one hand cushioning her head so I could see the small round bone on the inside of her elbow. ‘What favour?’

‘I asked if I could have some of your hair.’

‘That’s right. From the private places.’

I nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what it’s for?’

‘I can’t.’

‘What if I tried to guess?’

‘You couldn’t.’

She rolled on to her side, cheek propped on one hand, and watched as I produced three tiny packets, each of which I had labelled in advance: ARMPIT HAIR (LEFT), ARMPIT HAIR (RIGHT), PUBIC HAIR.

‘You’re very well prepared,’ she said.

‘Where should I begin?’

She touched her left armpit. ‘Start here,’ she said, then she moved her hand down between her legs. ‘And finish here.’

I bent over her and laid the blades of the scissors flush against her skin.

She drew the air in past her teeth. ‘That’s cold.’

‘Do you trust me?’

She nodded.

I began to cut the hair, which was straight and dark, though not as dark as the hair on her head. The smell that rose out of her armpit was delicate and bitter, like chicory.

‘It tickles,’ she murmured.

‘Try not to move,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

Once I had removed all the hair from her left armpit, I folded the packet shut. Faustina altered her position on the bed. As I started work on her right armpit, I could feel her watching me with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. It was as if I had an obsession, and she had decided to indulge me. Not so far from the truth, perhaps.

The right armpit was soon finished. As I moved down her body and knelt between her legs, Faustina turned her face to one side. I bent over her pubic mound. The blood rushed to my groin. Faustina had closed her eyes, and her breasts rose and fell with every deep, slow breath. From where I crouched, between her knees, she looked foreshortened, reduced to a succession of erotic places. Clitoris, nipples, lips. I wondered if she could sense my erection. Trying to ignore it, I began to snip at the dark inverted triangle.