Nefertiti (9 page)
'This is a great deception.' Hope leaped up
i
n my heart.
‘Y
our task is not yet done. It is hardly begun. And there is little time. Call upon what you need. Find her.' There was a look of exultation on his face, not just relief. 'This body is rubbish. Dispose of it.' And with that he swept from the room.
Khety, Tjenry and I looked at each other and stood up. Tjenry put his hand to his damp brow. 'This is too much excitement.' He laughed a little, embarrassed by his fear.
'How did you know that?' said Khety, gazing at the body.
I shrugged. I did not say how little I had had to go on in gambling our lives. The body before us was beautiful, perfect even. What detail had redeemed us and proved my strange hunch right? Then I saw a little white scar like a star in daylight on the belly, where a mole, perhaps, had been removed. That was all it had taken to save us for another day. But then the questions crowded into my head. Why had someone murdered a woman who looked exactly like the Queen? Why set such a sophisticated false lead? And where was Nefertiti herself?
Out of habit, I checked through the folds of the robes. Inside, near the heart, my fingers closed on a small object. I drew it out and found in my hand an ancient amulet, worked in gold and decorated in lapis. It was a scarab. The dung beetle, symbol of regeneration, whose offspring appeared as if from nowhere in the mud. The scarab that every day pushes the sun back into the light from its night in the Otherworld. Unusually the underside was inscribed not with the name of the owner, but with three signs: Ra, the sun, a circle with a dot at its centre, then 't', and then the hieroglyph of a sitting woman beside it. If I read it correctly it said: Raet. The female Ra.
I slipped the amulet into my pocket. It felt like a clue, or a sign -indeed the only one I had, apart from this faceless girl whose appalling death had in the end saved my own life. If only I could understand what was in front of me. I turned to look again at the body on the table.
'Right, here are the key questions. Who is she? Why does she look so like the Queen? Why is she wearing the Queen's clothing? And why has she been mutilated in such a desperate way?' Khety and Tjenry nodded, sagely.
'Who makes all the images of the Queen? All those strange statues?'
'Thutmosis,' said Khety. 'His workshops are in the south suburb.' 'Good. I want to interview him.'
'Also, there is a reception this evening to honour the first of the arriving dignitaries for the Festival.'
'Then we should attend. I hate parties, but it might be important.'
I ordered Tjenry to remain with the body and organize security. 'Khety will relieve you later tonight.' He gave me a jaunty salute.
Khety and I made our way out to the embarrassing, cranky chariot. Over the jarring argument of metal and stone I said, 'Tell me more about this artist.'
'He is famous. Not like the other image-makers. Everyone knows him. And he's
very
rich.' He gave me a significant look. 'And how do you find his work?' Khety paused. 'I think it's very . . . modern.' 'It sounds like you think that's a bad thing.'
'Oh no, it's very impressive. It's just...he shows everything. People as they are, not how they ought to be.' 'Isn't that better? Truer?' 'I suppose so.'
He didn't sound convinced.
The south suburb was residential. Here were substantial estates hidden behind high walls, houses with large floor areas surrounded by what seemed to be walled gardens, granaries, stables and workshops. There was space between the dwellings for privacy, although most of it was spilling over with building materials and sometimes rubbish. Over these walls one glimpsed interesting plants thriving by virtue of the wells and water channels: tamarisk, willows, miniature date palms, persea trees, fashionable pomegranate bushes with their red crowned fruits and impossibly messy honeycomb of sour pips. And flowers: sky-blue cornflowers, poppies, daisies. The buildings too spoke of great affluence: stone lintels, most inscribed with the names and titles of the owners; extensive timber pergolas with vines; large courtyards and grounds.
'Mahu has a house in this part of the city,' offered Khety. 'Also the Vizier Ramose.'
'It is where the members of the elite live?'
'Yes.'
'And is it always this quiet? It's practically religious.' 'Noise is disliked.'
The absence of human life was disconcerting, and the hush felt haunted, as if the place were a town of rich ghosts.
Khety knocked on the door of what seemed a house as substantial and silent as most of the others in the street. Eventually we heard footsteps, and an immaculate servant admitted us. Once inside, however, a hidden world of activity revealed itself. Across the court-yard, with its trees and benches surrounding a circular water-pool, came the faint chink-chink-chink of many chisels tapping away on stone. There were suggestions of activity in other rooms too: calls for help or of appreciation; someone whistling. The servant disappeared to announce us.
Eventually, a bulky figure appeared in the passageway and walked towards us. He was a big man in every direction, his round, curious face like a dish set with blue eyes and a thinning cloud of red-brown hair. He yawned as he showed us through the main house and into a secondary courtyard. Down the length of the south side was a row of little studios and workshops, all busy with figures at work, tapping, chipping and painting.
'You keep quite a large staff, I see.'
'It's hard to find enough good craftsmen to fulfil the demand. I had to bring most of them down from Thebes,
and
their bloody families. The rest I was able to recruit locally or from the delta towns. Sometimes I feel like I'm single-handedly supporting the economy of a small country.'
In the north-east corner of the plot stood another building which turned out to be his workshop, containing a large open space with rooms and passages leading off it. Light entered directly from the clerestory windows below the raised roof. He bellowed at his students and apprentices to leave and they hurried out obediently. On large tables and stands severa
l works were in progress, recog
nizable body parts - fingers, hands, cheeks, arms, torsos - appearing from the hewn stones criss-crossed with rough black marks. But I was truly amazed to see, ranged along a shelf that ran the full length of the walls, countless white/grey plaster casts of heads -young, middle-aged and old, various classes - so detailed, so truly lifelike: the bristles of the chin, the delicate eyelashes of a girl, the warts and spots of an old woman; the wrinkles of time, the lines of character - all perfectly reproduced. Each head had its eyes closed, as if dreaming together of another world, a far-world beyond time.
'I see you take an interest in my heads.'
'They are so lifelike, one wonders when they will open their eyes and begin to speak.'
He smiled. 'They might have interesting things to say to us.'
We sat together on a gilded bench in the corner of the room. Drinks were brought to us. Thutmosis sipped slowly and carefully from his cup, and I sipped from mine. A rich, deep red. Khety replaced his on the tray. I savoured mine, even though it was still early in the day for wine.
'From the Dakhla Oasis?'
Thutmosis turned the jar towards him and read the marks. 'Very good. Do you mind if I sketch you while we talk? My hands are only happy when they are working.'
He began to draw, his eyes roving over my face, his brush appar-ently working quite independently, for he never checked the marks he was making. First I asked him about his relationship with the Queen.
'Can I call it a relationship? She is my patron, and, sometimes, muse.'
'What does that mean?'
'She is my inspiration. I cannot put it better than that. I am the maker of her images, which is to say, with her consent I have the honour to embody her living spirit in the materials of stone and wood and plaster.'
'I think I understand.'
'Do you? It is a perpetual mystery to me.'
'Perhaps you could explain, in layman's terms, how it all works. The creative process.'
Thutmosis sighed, and continued to sketch. 'The Queen believes it matters to work from life. In the past, makers have been limited to embodying the virtues and perfections of the dead. Why? All those works are simply respectful copies, only remotely connected to their inspiration in life. All those enormous statues, so epic, so political, and so very uninspiring - unless you consider awe the only emotional response of value in art. And no doubt they were fat and crass and silly as people, but lo, here they are, with the physiques of gods, all muscle and wealth and contempt! Let's be honest, it's limited. Don't you think?'
He put aside his sketch and, shifting his position, began another. I was becoming an artist's model. I was starting to feel uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Yet I was curious to see how he had portrayed me.
'But you don't work that way?'
'No, I cannot. It turns the image-maker into nothing more than a social servant. The artist is completely anonymous. The work is formulaic, generic. Nefertiti is right: these are the dead forms of the past. You see, my ambition is not to
describe
a living form, but to
create
it. And I believe that in the unimaginable future, those who still worship at these images will know that this was
him,
this was
her,
and no other. At the very end of time, human beings, whoever they are, will still look upon Akhenaten and Nefertiti and know them for who they were. Now
that's
eternal life.'
He looked at me expectantly, hoping I would join him in his enthusiasm. I sipped my wine.
'May I ask how you proceed to create an image of the Queen? Where do you start?'
'We would have private sittings over many hours, many weeks. She would sit here and I would work directly from life. A life study.'
'And you would talk?'
'Not always. I would not assume her wish to converse, and also
I cannot chat when I am working. The concentration is intense. It sounds pretentious to say so, but one is barely in the world. Time passes swiftly. Suddenly the light will be fading, there will be more grey hairs on my head, the Queen will be smiling at me, and there under my hands - a likeness. An image. A form.'
Which was all a clever way of not answering my question.
'And the Queen, how does she pass this time?'
'She thinks, she dreams. I love that. To recreate her in the act of thinking, the mystery of the mind in motion...'
'So you do not recall what you talked about? Or how she seemed at the last sitting?'
'She was very quiet.'
'Unusually so?'
He looked directly at me. 'Yes, I would say so.' 'And what were you working on?' 'A superb bust. My finest work, I think.' 'May I see it?'
He put down his sketching and considered my request carefully. 'Do you have the proper permissions?'
'I do,' I said. 'I can show them to you if you wish.'
'No-one has seen this work in progress except the Queen herself. She would not wish it to be made public. It is a private piece. It is so newly finished that she had not yet had time to send for it, before...'
'Yes?'
'What do you think has happened to her? I fear the worst. Everyone is saying she has been murdered.'
'I do not know. But everything you tell me might help. Anything.'
I watched him carefully. There was a sudden, intense look of pain on his face.
'I sensed she felt she was in some kind of danger.' 'What do you mean?'
He paused, and looked at his restless hands as if they were two highly trained animals. 'A woman of her intelligence, her power, her beauty, her position . . . her popularity.'
'Is popularity a problem?'
'It is when you become more popular than your husband.'
Dangerous words. He looked at me, acknowledging the trust he was placing in me.
'It was Akhenaten himself who sent for me to investigate the Queen's vanishing.'
He gave me a quick look but said nothing more.
'It would help me greatly if I could see this latest work.'
'Would it? I see it might. Yes, if it helps. I'll do anything I can.'
We moved deeper into the heart of the house. Here it was cooler. Permanent shadows lay upon the walls and floors. At the un-distinguished door of what seemed a simple storeroom he stopped, broke the seal and untied the cord from the bolts. He pulled open the door, which was heavily built within a stone frame. He lit a lamp and we entered.
Inside, the room was lined with wooden or stone shelves, its walls constructed of stone blocks. The air was dry, dusty. Beyond the little penumbra of the lamp the room disappeared into pitch black. He lit sconces, and gradually, one by one, in the flickering light, dim shapes - cowled under sheets, some on shelves, others as big as human beings, children or adults - crowded the room. I felt I was in the Otherworld itself. Thutmosis set the lamp on a shelf and brought down one of the shapes. Reverently he set it upon a small circular table. Then deftly he slid the sheet off the form and revealed to us - a wonder. He revolved the table, showing us the figure from all angles, enjoying our astonishment.
I knew her at once. The hair was worn bold, under a dark blue crown. It gave her an exceptional authority. The poise was intelligent, powerful, self- possessed, with a remarkable equilibrium and purity. The skin had a bloom of life as if capable of changing expression, with the pale clarity of someone who lives always within the affluent protection of shade. High cheekbones, and a face of grace and sensibility. The lips red, strong, intense. And one eye: wide, complex, searching, proud, touched with a sense of humour so subtle as to appear and disappear as one looked into it, while the other remained as yet unpainted. And something else, too: hints of pain flecked through the power of the gaze. A secret of sadness, perhaps even suffering, it seemed to me, held in their depths. Did I imagine it? Could plaster and paint and stone reveal so much?
'Does that help?' Thutmosis asked. Yes. I'd know her anywhere.'
I could see he was pleased by the intensity of my reaction. 'And did she see it complete?'
'No, the eyes were missing. She was due to sit for the eyes. I always leave the eyes until last.'
The eye.
It stared at me, into me, through me. That haunting smile. As if she was already living in eternity. I hoped not. I would not be able to bring her back from there.
The sculptor spoke again: 'There are other works here. Perhaps you would like to see them?'
I nodded, and he went about the room slowly drawing off the sheets to reveal image after image of the Queen. A life story figured in stone: a younger woman, her face less complete, less composed, but alive with the beautiful hesitant power of youth; the young mother sitting with her first child in her arms; Nefertiti on her inauguration day, coming into her power, into thi
s new version of herself; a com
panion piece to a statue of her husband, her natural beauty a strange contrast to the weird, elongated proportions of his face and limbs. I moved among the images, seeing her from every angle, the lamp in my hand revealing the changing aspects of her many faces in the shadowy world in which they were kept. Khety remained by the door, as if afraid to walk among the living dead.
'What materials do you use to create these marvels?' I asked.
'Limestone, mostly. Plaster. Alabaster and obsidian for the eyes.'
'And the colours? How do you achieve them? They're so vivid, so alive.'
He stood behind the image, pointing with his finger, almost but not quite touching the surfaces. 'Her skin is a fine limestone powder mixed with even finer red ochre, an oxide of some metal. The yellows are sulphide of arsenic, beautiful but poisonous. The green is a glass powder with copper and iron added. The black is charcoal or soot.'
