Free Secrecy by Rupert Thomson Page B

of his mouth curved a little, then hid in the soft pouches of his cheeks. His hand reappeared on my shoulder, more stealthy now.
    ‘Make her,’ he murmured. ‘You won’t be sorry.’
    I told him I would do my best.
    As I turned to go, he spoke again. ‘Take all the time you need. But remember –’ And he placed a plump, jewelled finger against his lips.
    Not until I was walking down the slope that led away from the palace did it occur to me that I had forgotten to ask about the cockerel.

     
    A few nights later, I left my lodgings and set off towards the river. The temperature had dropped sharply; the cold air scalded my lungs. Crossing the Piazza del Gran Duca, my boots crunched on dozens of irises that had been dumped on the ground, their purple petals frozen, crisp. I came out on to the Lung’Arno. The top of the embankment wall was encased in ice. The river lay beyond, flat and dark and still.
    I turned to the west. My thoughts circled back to my conversation with the Grand Duke. My first instinct had been to view his proposal as a test or a trap, and even now that several days had passed I still felt I might have blundered by not saying no. It would have been so easy. The Grand Duke himself had provided me with the perfect excuse. All I had to do was to agree with him: I just don’t think I’m the right person for the job. Or craftier, and less obstructive: It’s not
beneath
me, Your Highness, so much as
beyond
me. And then I could have looked for someone who could take the work on in my place. To have disappointed the Grand Duke, though – that would also have had its consequences.
    It was a delicate situation.
    The Grand Duke hadn’t felt the need either to explain or to justify his request, but, knowing what I knew about his marriage, I thought I understood. He wanted me to provide him with a woman who would not despise him, or torment him, or wish him dead. A woman he could worship with no fear of ridicule or rejection. All the same, the idea teetered on the brink of the illicit – and this from a man who visited six or seven churches a day, a man who, if the gossip was to be believed, spent so many hours in prayer that the prints on his fingertips had worn away … In the end, though, I didn’t think I could refuse. I was in Florence at his personal invitation. He was paying me more than I had ever been paid before. He had even given me a workshop, free of charge. I was in his debt – in every sense. He had talked to me openly, and I had listened. As a result, he was drawing me deeper into his private world. And yet …
    While I no longer suspected him of trying to tempt me into activities that were dubious or unlawful, I kept returning to the dream. What had the Grand Duke been holding in his hand? What
could
he have been holding? I simply could not see the whole of the picture. For that reason, perhaps, I still felt the commission was fraught with danger. If I made this woman for him – this Eve, as he had called her – would I not be putting myself in a vulnerable position? He had emphasized the need for absolute discretion, but what if the whole thing came to light? I knew what I would do if I were him: I’d act the innocent.
It was Zummo’s idea. I’m not sure what he was playing at. Trying to corrupt me, I suppose. I should have known. Those Sicilians, they’re not like us.
I would be held responsible, and in the current climate, which was so repressive, so quick to judge, I would be lucky to escape with my life.
    At the same time, I couldn’t ignore the fizzle of excitement in my belly. The apparent simplicity of the commission was deceptive. To create something that was pure surface. To make it vivid. It was diametrically opposed to the work I usually produced. Not a trace of putrefaction or disease. Only youth and health. Only beauty. My skills would be tested as never before, just as the Grand Duke had suggested.
    I kept veering – now this way, now that …
    All thought of sleep