Breath and Bones (56 page)

At that moment, the curtain closed again, much more swiftly than it had opened. Everyone started to chatter excitedly. Myrtice could not make out a word, and she and Viggo said nothing. She wondered if he were as hot with embarrassment as she; certainly his face was red, and he stared forward as if he could not bear to meet her eyes.

When the drapes parted again, there was another nude woman. This one had her back to the audience, and all they could see of her figure was that expanse of flesh, quite broad—as broad as Myrtice's—ending in an insolent cleft where she sat. A large Negro maid held the long blond hair off to the right, as if to make sure no one could overlook that place where her back divided; there was also a small bronze Cupid lifting up a glass in which the people of the audience could see the naked woman's face and neck. Her plump red lips were smiling.

“
Venus at her Mirror
,” said du Garde's voice. “Painted between 1613 and 1615, this large picture ees rightly considered one of Rubens's master-works . . .”

When du Garde was finished with that one, he described another; there
were no more moths, and the living canvases began to succeed one another so rapidly that their spell did not break between partings of the curtain. The audience was enchanted.

Myrtice could hardly bear to look, and yet look she must. It became clear that all of the “works” were composed of women, and all of them in some stage of undress: chalky white statues and bright rosy oil paintings, even a few works of bronze and gold—how did Charles Martin du Garde make the women look like metal?

“
The Three Graces
, by Antonio Canova, 1814. This marble sculpture is a most winsome rendition of a popular
thème
. Note ze sweet elegance with which Aglaia, Goddess of Splendor, whispers her secrets to Euphrosyne, Goddess of Rejoicing—or ees she about to bestow a sororal kiss upon the cheek? Handmaidens to Venus, the Goddess of Love, these three daughters of Jupiter . . .

“Salt cellar, by Benvenuto Cellini. Cellini, a goldsmith, fashioned this intricate cellar on a mythological conceit between 1540 and 1544. The figures are Neptune, God of the Sea, and the Earth Goddess . . .”

That was a most remarkable work indeed. The gold bedazzled the gaze, and Myrtice stared as if mesmerized. It seemed the Earth Goddess was holding her breast in a gesture of abundance, contrasting with the god's spiky trident. Yes, a
male
figure, nude but for a small drape in the lap—and then Myrtice blinked, and she realized that he, too, was impersonated by a woman. Here in the realm of art, one could not trust one's eyes at all, even in the most basic matters of perception.

Near the front of the room, Edouard sat with his hat in his lap and his hand on a fiery red watch fob. As was his habit in moments of distress, he worried away at the fob—while at the same time feeling irritated that, long after he'd expressed a desire for such a thing, Life's Importance had produced a rope of Famke's hair, and Wong had used it to replace the worn-out one. Edouard was most uncomfortable. How could all these spectators, some of them ladies, allow themselves to be assaulted with the sight of so much flesh? Even if it were in the name of art, this display was obscene. After all, these were not really works of paint and stone or even wax,
but actual women undraped upon the stage, and there was no purpose for their deshabille other than the audience's entertainment. Yes, it was appalling. Edouard blamed this Charles Martin du Garde—whose accent was quite obviously as sham as his art. What must people think of the French now? Particularly as so many of the unlucky artists were of that nation. He himself had been lured by the promise of seeing the world's masterpieces life size; but here was no
Mona Lisa
, no
Infanta
, no
Liberty Enlightening the People
, and those figures were not likely to appear among this bunch.

“
Etude de nu
, by Paul Gauguin. A simple tableau of an unclothed seam-stress was painted during the artist's exile in Copenhagen, Denmark . . .

“
Bathers
, by William-Adolphe Bouguereau. This splendid picture, completed only two years prior to the present date . . .”

Two years ago, Edouard had still been experimenting with electricity while workmen cleared the land for his hospital. Precious Flower had been recovering from the disease she'd picked up in her horrible crib. The magnificent old lion, centerpiece of his father's menagerie, had still been alive. And he had not heard of Famke Ursula Summerfield Goodhouse or of the painting that had brought her to him; and, he told himself as the red drapes parted yet again, he had been happy.

While du Garde extolled the beauties of yet another full-bodied woman in a bath, Edouard admitted that this trip to San Francisco had been a mistake. He had found nothing worth bringing to Hygiene: Few artists painted canvases large enough for his needs, for one matter; and for another, most of those pictures were either military in subject or, like these women on stage, utterly unsuited to a hospital, even one that prescribed frequent immersion for its patients. He had become so depressed he did not even look at the mail that the two remaining maids dutifully forwarded from Hygiene. Wong the butler, who had accompanied his master on this trip but naturally was not allowed in auction rooms, galleries, or performance halls, made no bones about the fact that he was at his wits' end.

“You buy something,” he said. “Plenty good paint here.”

But even under this duress, Edouard could not bring himself to buy; and after interviewing all the major gallery owners and calling upon the best-known artists in the city, he was preparing to leave empty-handed. Yes, he decided as he looked at the large blonde woman caught climbing into a tub, in this very moment he was giving up; tomorrow he would go home.
He could always move a potted palm or two from the glass house down to the hospital; they would make a striking show against that troublesome blank wall.

So the unfortunate whim that had led him here to the living waxworks had brought an unexpected benefit. Edouard had made a decision: Clearly, it was most appropriate that he depart as soon as possible, both from the Thalia Festival House and from San Francisco itself.

Edouard peered down the row of men to his right and left, all of them in thrall to what they had convinced themselves was art. He could not squeeze past without disturbing them and drawing unpleasant attention to himself; he would have to bide his time, wait for an auspicious moment. So he shrank down in his seat, pulling his collar up nearly to his chin and veiling his eyes with thick lashes.

And now,” trumpeted the voice of Charles Martin du Garde, “ze work that has inspired admiration for more than two thousand years, ze single most perfect female form ever captured in stone.”

The audience leaned forward. This was du Garde's most famous representation, and they were hot for the viewing; but the professor refused to satisfy them just yet. He left his listeners to stare at red velvet folds undulating in the current of their breath while he exposed the history of the piece they were about to view.

“In 1863, a French archaeologist unearthed over one hundred pieces of marble on the Greek island of Samothrace. At ze great Louvre museum, he was able to assemble those bits of stone into the figure you are about to see here. Posed as if to adorn the prow of a
grand
stone ship, zis magnificent statue once stood on the cliffs overlooking Samothrace Harbor—although,
triste
, her arms and head disappeared so long ago that we have no record to show what they were. Instead, we must gaze and imagine what might have been, as I give you . . .” He paused, allowing them and himself to savor this moment. “. . . Winged Victory.”

At last, the curtains parted, the gaslights dimmed, and the audience vented a collective gasp.

There was utter silence as the diamonds reflected upon a young woman's
breasts and hips and legs. Hers was in fact a nearly perfect form: perhaps a shade too slender for the current tastes, but exquisitely proportioned. There was something to say, too, for the aesthetic pleasure of seeing the skeleton beneath the flesh clearly. Victory was veiled in a sort of shift, but it was so thin and clinging that the outlines of nipples and the deep stop of a navel were clearly visible, before the veiling thickened slightly over what appeared to be a private region completely bare of private hairs. So arresting was this vision that one scarcely saw the arms were stumped before a pair of massive, ragged wings, and the lack of a head hardly registered. A shape this lovely had no need for a face—indeed, some might say its beauty was heightened by the sense of what was not there. One could not but imagine the act of violence that had robbed Victory of her laurels, and one treasured her the more for her fragility.

In the stage wings, Du Garde parted the red velvet backdrop and watched his creation weave her silken spell over the audience, as she had done this week running. To be sure, a few among the audience appeared to be alarmed, as if this were the most outrageous sight of the evening; these, it was clear, must be parsons and schoolmarms who had wandered in by mistake. Far more were staring outright, trying to catch the flutter of ribs that would prove
this
statue, at least, was alive; and feeling somehow triumphant when the chest stayed still, as if they had willed a creature of stone into being. How, they wondered, was it possible to produce a woman with no arms or head? And how was it possible for such a woman to be so beautiful?

Eventually, those who were properly susceptible to beauty stopped asking themselves how it had come to be and merely let it hold them in in its spell.

Regrettably, not everyone present was such an elevated soul; for, suddenly, the tide of attention turned. Down toward the front, a man dressed in black had got to his feet and was stumbling toward the aisle, floundering on knees and hats and angry whispers. He tripped and nearly fell before catching himself on a stout woman's shoulder. A whiskery man stood up and began taking him severely to task.

The stout woman shrieked out at the audience—“That man—
assaulted
me!”

“Patience, my friends!” Du Garde's voice quavered, as if the disturbance beyond the footlights put him in dread of an outright riot. The stage wings were filling with models eager to see the spectacle among the seats. “There is one final representation of the evening, the most
magnifique
of them all . . . ”

The man in black began to rush, stumbling over more legs and feet, nearly falling into a lap or two but keeping his hands in the air. A watch fell from his pocket and swung like a pendulum on a reddish rope.

“Friends, friends!” called du Garde. “There is more to come!”

A wave of outrage against the man in black swept through the audience. The artful spell was broken; they began to move, and the diamond sparkle swept crazily over faces and shoulders and coiffures as they became suddenly aware of what the beauty before them consisted of: Everyone was conscious once more of plain nakedness, even unto what each of them had under his or her clothes.

“I've been touched, too!” exclaimed another woman. Some ladies and gentlemen got to their feet and followed the masher toward the door.

As if this were their cue, du Garde's curtains swished shut—but not before one or two of the spectators saw, faint but distinct, the swell of Victory's breasts as she took a most definite, mortal breath.

It is an odd thing, but everyone who disappears is said to be seen in San Francisco. It must be a delightful city, and possess all the attractions of the next world
.

O
SCAR
W
ILDE

With shaking hands, Famke pulled the black bag off her head and took a deep gulp of air. If she had had the capacity for irony, she would have recognized it here: She had never felt so vulnerable in her life as when she posed as the statue called Winged Victory. In front of hundreds of eyes, she was blind in her hood, naked but for her paint; if the audience decided to storm the stage, she would be completely at their mercy.