Free Secrecy by Rupert Thomson Page A

left without them. What kind of woman abandons her children? It’s not natural. But perhaps she saw too much of me in them. Perhaps she couldn’t bear to be reminded of her dreaded marriage …’
    Once again, I thought of Ornella Camilleri. In Naples, two years after my flight from Siracusa, I had started writing to her. I must have sent a dozen letters, but I only ever received one brief reply. She thanked me for thinking of her, and said she regretted that our friendship had ended. She admitted she hadn’t stood up for me; she hadn’t been strong enough, she said, to swim against the tide. Then came the news I suppose I should have been expecting all along: she was going to marry my brother, Jacopo. I crushed the letter. Dropped it on the floor.
She was going to marry Jacopo
. I walked out on to my terrace. It was summer. The sea showed as an upright strip of blue between two salt-stained buildings. Further to the east, the dusty slopes of Vesuvius lifted against a hot white morning sky. Behind me, I heard the letter crackle as it began to open out; it hadn’t finished with me yet. Back indoors, I spread it flat on the table. Searching between the lines for traces of what she might once have felt for me, of what she might still feel, I realized she had believed the story that had gone around. Everybody had believed the story. I rested my forehead on her short, cold sentences. That was as close as I would ever get.
    Looking up, I saw that the Grand Duke had also retreated into himself, and I decided to take a risk.
    ‘It seems to me, Your Highness,’ I said, ‘that we’re not unalike, you and I. We’ve not been treated kindly.’
    He appeared to wake from a deep slumber. ‘Really, Zummo? You too?’ He gripped my shoulder. ‘I knew it all along, somehow.’
    The rain had stopped. A pink light filled the square.
    ‘I have a proposal,’ the Grand Duke said. ‘Well, actually, it’s more of a request.’
    I told him I was at his disposal. He only had to ask.
    ‘This is highly confidential,’ he said. ‘It must remain between us.’
    ‘You have my word.’
    ‘I want you to make a woman.’
    ‘A woman?’
    ‘Out of wax.’
    I was reminded of the dream I had had on my first night in the city. That long walk through the gardens, the sudden accusation . The mysterious closed hand. I stared at the Grand Duke’s profile, then down at my shoes. Why would he ask such a thing?
    ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said. ‘This isn’t where your talent lies. This is beneath you.’
    I tried to keep my face expressionless. Don’t reveal anything. Let him talk.
    ‘Forgive me,’ he went on, still looking out into the square. ‘I shouldn’t be asking this of you. You’re a great artist. You have enough ideas of your own.’
    ‘A woman,’ I murmured.
    ‘Yes.’ Encouraged by the fact that I had spoken, he turned to me. ‘Life-size. Reclining. In her natural –’ His right hand began to caress the air. ‘A kind of Eve. Don’t you see? This is a chance for you to create something of extraordinary beauty.’
    I could think of nothing to say. My thoughts had scattered, like sheep startled by a thunderclap.
    ‘Who knows, you might even find it a challenge. It sounds so simple, doesn’t it – a woman – and yet …’
    Stepping away from the window, the Grand Duke began to talk faster, and more persuasively. As an artist, he said, surely it was my duty to push at the boundaries of my talent, even if it involved neglecting what I might think of as my strengths. I should dare to venture into territory I had not imagined. Come face to face with the unknown. He had happened on the kind of argument he had been looking for, one I would find it hard to take issue with, and one that would also, conveniently, free him from any awkwardness or embarrassment. With the lightest of touches, he had managed to transfer all the responsibility and pressure to me – and he knew it. As he moved back towards me, the corners