The Sensualist

by Barbara Hodgson

  Helen didn’t answer right away. Of course, Fabrica, fabrication, the making of. Her own translation, fabric, had been too facile.

  “Is something the matter?” he asked.

  “No, nothing. It’s just that I thought Fabrica meant fabric as in cloth.”

  “Sure, why not?” he smiled. “Fabrication, a place of manufacture, fabric, it all has meaning, has it not? What is the difference if there is meaning? So, as I asked, there is no problem with this woodcut?”

  “It involves all of the woodblocks supposedly destroyed in the bombing of Munich,” she answered. “This possibly would have been pulled from one of them. After the bombing,” she added.

  “I haven’t studied much the early anatomists,” Arany said, rubbing his chin. “I specialize with the plastics from the seventeenth century to more recent times.”

  “Pardon?” She interrupted him. “What do you mean, plastics?”

  “The waxes, you saw her.”

  His English was deteriorating fast, but she caught on. “The wax models?”

  He nodded. “I continue with Vesalius. I remember, we add this to our collection last year. It is not authenticate, I don’t believe.” They both looked at it more closely. Úr, that was the word for mister. It didn’t sound right. Helen refocused on the conversation, her agitation fading now that they were discussing the woodcut.

  “Did Martin explain why he was interested in the destruction of the woodblocks?”

  “No, I do not believe he did. It sounds just like digging up old histories. Old, that is, but not old enough to be a fascination. Although he ask me if I buy any Vesalius recently. I show him this.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asks me exactly when I bought it, from whom, how much I pay for it. Frankly, these are not informations that I can freely give out. I tell him this. I am able to specifically tell him the date, however, 16 March of last year. So we have it almost one full year.”

  “And he didn’t tell you why he was asking?”

  “No. I am very busy at the time and did not pursue the matter further.” He looked at the piece again, this time even more closely. “It looks real. There is some question about its authentication?” He looked at her. “I am still not understanding your involvement beyond your concern to find your husband.”

  “Do you know Friedrich Anselm?” Helen tried another direction.

  “But of course! Your introduction is from him!”

  “I mean personally. Met with him, had dinner with him. Are you friends?”

  “Friends,” mused the director. “Perhaps. We certainly share many of the same interests, and I have much respect for his collection. The art world would be a better place, however, if he permitted the photog-raphy.”

  “I stayed with Herr Anselm for three weeks while I looked for what might have happened to Martin, my husband, and I helped him with his cataloguing. It was very eye-opening. I don’t believe I mentioned that my area of specialty is anatomical art.”

  “No, you did not, although I make some assumptions of your knowledge. Is it by accident that Mr Evans is researching anatomical art for his story?”

  “It seems to be. I was completely unaware of his assignment until I arrived in Vienna,” she thought for a second, “just over four weeks ago. I immediately went to his newspaper’s offices and searched through his documents: telephone messages, notes, scraps of paper, anything to give me a hint of where he might be. You see, I’m not the only one wondering what’s happened to him. His newspaper editor in New York, his parents, none of us have heard a thing since the beginning of December.” She was now drifting through the rest of the exhibit in the wake of Arany’s restless stride.

  Stefan Arany’s sympathies exceeded even his abundant energy. He sloughed off his next appointment—”just bureaucracy!” he laughed, and took Helen out for lunch. At his command the bounty of Hungary appeared, and their heavy wooden table, already crammed with linen, silver, and crystal, smack in the middle of the most raucous restaurant that Helen had ever been in, groaned under the weight of noodles, sour cream, paprika, peppers, and wine. “We Hungarians are happy only when we’re eating,” Arany admitted, “so we eat all of the time!” He smacked his lips as the waiter filled Helen’s bowl with a thick, succulent gulyás.

  Aromatic steam rose up from the soup, promising, with its fragrant spices, delicate hints from the east; and with its rich pungent heaviness, comforting sustenance from the west. Hungary’s world sprang from its food. Who had any need for culture or intellect, when seduced with such pure physical pleasures? It was the pleasure of a rich presentation and sublime smell. Maybe Anselm had been right when he had claimed that she saw with her body, but it was certainly taking her the long route to find out.

  Between mouthfuls of food, sips of wine, and appreciative bleats, Helen and Stefan Arany continued to discuss the missing woodblocks. Although he had professed to know little to nothing about Vesalius, he filled in more details about the anatomist’s life and work.

  “Vesalius, it seems, pilfers corpses and hiding them in his room for his own perusal when he is a student at the University of Paris. A man with this kind of dedication and knowing the state of anatomy in France, it does not take him long to surpass even his professors, to make enemies of them, perhaps—I am thinking now of the professor Jacobus Sylvius, a bitter fight in later years—and give him his swelled ego. It took even less for him to step on some important feet as he pointed out errors and mocked antique ideas. He has been professor of surgery in Padua and broke tradition by dissection of the bodies for the students rather than, as is the practice up to this point, simply conducting the session from a, uh, high chair, no, elevated throne, leaving the actual dissection to a—” Arany chewed on the missing word.

  “To an assistant?”

  “Yes, assistant.” He traced the oval outlines of a typical dissection theater onto the table cloth. “He published his Tabulœ Anatomkœ Sex in 1538 when he had only 24 years, not his first book, but his first anatomical book; an undertaking intending to supply accurate diagrams for his students.

  “I won’t ask you if you have ever seen a copy; I would not believe you if you said you have. Maybe the only known original is in Glasgow. You know Glasgow? You have not seen this one, have you?” His voice trailed off, doubt mixed with possibility.

  “No,” Helen shook her head.

  “No,” he echoed, “of course not. I myself have a fondness for the Tabula Sex. It was illustrated by the Venetian painter Jan Stephan van Kalkar. I should specify: Kalkar was trained in Venice; he was also a Flemish. We call him Kalkar, but that is wrong. His name is really Jan Stephan—Kalkar is only the name of his town.

  “The illustrations were clumsy; no, let us say crude. They remind me of myself.” He leaned back in his chair and threw his arms out, a classic specimen awkwardly rendered. “Kalkar had 39 years when he created the Tabula Sex images. Not a young man by any means. He would have 44, no 43 years, when he completed the drawings for the Fabrica. Four years is not a long time to improve your mastery to such degrees. And there was too much jump to breach the stylistic differences between the Tabula and the Fabrica. But, you know perhaps, of the 6 drawings in the book, only 3—the skeletals—are by this Kalkar. The other 3 are by Mr Vesalius himself. He has many talents, yes?

  “But I continue. At this time Galen, the Greek anatomist from the second century, remains the invincible authority on the human body, and to question Galen is to challenge the ‘Holy Writ’ of anatomy. Vesalius, he always vows his dedication of and admiration to Galen’s principles, patiently build up a body of work that corrects many of the Galen errors never correct in the interceding 1400 years. It is important to remember,” stressed Arany, demonstrating with an expansive and even grin, “that at the time of Vesalius, there are still misconceptions about simple things, like the number of teeth in a human mouth. In spite of the best tries on the parts of anatomists like Leonardo da Vinci to finish the controversy, it is possible to s
till find physicians declare that the human beings have anywhere from 16 to 28 teeth. Sometimes, it is conceded, they have 32.”

  Helen ran her tongue around her mouth, taking inventory of her wn teeth. When she came to the lower premolars she remembered the elevator man in von Ehrlach’s building. How amazed the anatomists of the 16th century would be to find a man who had a pearl for a tooth! What stories they would have related to an unsuspecting world. Would the example have ended up in an anatomy book as a case study?

  Arany spoke on. “I am interesting that the Tabula Sex perpetuates a number of Galen errors. Perhaps,” continued Arany, “Vesalius isn’t yet comfortable to contradict anatomy’s spiritual father. But by the time the Fabrica and the Epitome are released he has quietly correcting over 200 mistakes. Although a good many remain.”

  Helen’s mind again wandered, this time to the little old man in the pension. The man whose bones had forgotten their own names; the man who could immediately define Vesalius’ errors. She shook her head almost imperceptibly; bones don’t need to be put right, bones know where they go. The gesture stopped Arany’s patter.

  “Do you disagree with me?”

  “No, not at all,” protested Helen. “You just reminded me of someone who mentioned this very thing to me. Please go on.”

  He continued. “So, Galen has declared that the heart is full of pores through which blood pass. Vesalius contradicts him, but not until the second edition of the Fabrica. Also, Galen has written that the body is full of ‘Pneumas,’ also named spirits: that is, the brain is filled with the animal spirit, the liver with the natural spirit, the heart with the vital spirit, but when Vesalius cuts open, let us take, for example, a brain, he looks at it and finds it full of grey matter. It appears that no one else, an exception perhaps of Leonardo, has been truly looking. Galen is confused certain processes by those of animals, probably from his dissecting of animals and then projecting the results to the human body. Not that Galen’s work is not valuable. We know that he writes perhaps three hundred books, but few survive owing to a fire in the library at Alexandria where they are stored, and the destruction, by his own hand, of countless manuscripts. What we do know lives by the Arabs—physicians and scientists such as Avecenna and Albucasis. On the other hand, because of the high esteem with which his work is held, he is accused of holding off the progress of medicine for over 1300 years.

  “Vesalius publishes the Fabrica for the serious scholar and the Epitome in the same year for anyone. The Epitome is now extremely rare,” he added, almost as an aside. “You see, it is what is known as a flap book. We cut out the bits and then hinge them on to the base image in order to create a kind of three-dimensional study. Folding back the skin to find the organs; folding back the organs to find the blood vessels; and so on. These books rarely survive as they are so fragile.” Whoever had assembled the layers of the human head in her own box had written all about this, but she hadn’t taken it in. As with the Latin words on the title page, she needed someone to repeat it, so that she could absorb it through several senses.

  “For an observant man like Vesalius it is easy to contradict the errors of the past. But it does not mean that he is popular for it. After the publication of the Fabrica and the Epitome, he retire from teaching, some say he is chased out; but whatever. He leave Padua and join the court of Charles Five as the imperial physician. Well, he may or may not be the imperial physician, I do not remember. The terrible thing, again speculation, is that he seems to have burn his notes, sketches, work in progress, in a fit of rage that follows the publication of his great books. His scholarly peers crucify him—I go too far—call him names, maybe; his work is scorned, old friends renounce him; but his work attracts attention all the same and eventually recognizes for what it is—a landmark in every way. But you know all of this, I am sure; here, have some more wine.” As he reached for the nearly empty bottle, a waiter rushed over and poured out the remaining drops. Arany signaled for a new bottle.

  Helen starting to demur, checked herself and gave in to the intoxication. It was getting to be a habit. Arany’s dizzying use of past and present tense to relate historical events added to the agreeable buzz in her head. “You told me you knew little about Vesalius.”

  “I do not know very much, but I am interesting in people who are rocking the boat. This is why your husband now is interested me. I have to admit, perhaps I already have, that I have little time for him when we first meet. So demanding. And he talks so much. Is this how journalists work, by asking questions and then to talk so much that there is no opportunity to supply an answer?” He laughed. “And now it is I who talk so much. How about you, do you ever talk? Remind me what your voice sounds like.”

  As she started to speak, the waiter arrived with the new bottle of wine. She paused, forming new questions, and watched as the waiter uncorked the bottle, and Arany tasted the fresh wine.

  He smacked his lips. “So fat, so nourishing!” Without waiting for her to speak he continued, “You know, of course, that Vesalius is married?” Helen shook her head. “No? How does he find the time to marry, you ask? And to have a child. In 1544 he marries a lovely Flemish lady named Anna van Hamme and not so long after they have a baby, also an Anna. This year that he marries is the year he goes to the court of Charles Five, and then, I think, twelve years later becomes doctor for Philip Two. For this he goes to Spain. I do not know if Anna goes with him. I know they do not live all the time together. He writes in 1561, a critical book on Fallopius. You know Fallopius?” Helen nodded. “Good. He is very important. This is his last book. Then he is run out of Spain. Someone says that as Vesalius dissects a cadaver the heart is still beating. The Inquisitors?”

  “The Inquisition?”

  “Yes, the Inquisition have problems with this. Vesalius goes to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage without his Annas. He comes back, stops on Zanté and, poof, dies of the plague or some such thing. Not a nice end for such a man.”

  Helen brought the discussion back to the woodblocks. “Is there any importance to the controversy surrounding the actual cutting of the woodblocks? I understand that a dispute raged for some time about whether the artist was Kalkar or the great Titian himself.”

  ‘ ‘The great Titian, himself!’ Yes, you have an opinion, I think? This is where your friend Friedrich would help. He is the authority on artists. Did you not ask him this question?”

  “Friedrich Anselm was reluctant to talk about the Vesalius woodblocks. He would just drift off, or change the subject, or,” she laughed, “take the high road and insult me for some petty thing. One thing you must understand is, I didn’t feel altogether comfortable staying at his house. I’m not sure why I agreed to it, except that I couldn’t afford to stay at a hotel in Vienna for three weeks, waiting for you to come back.” They smiled at each other. “You see how popular you are?” His smile broadened even more. God, she said to herself, I’m flirting. Stop it.

  “I don’t seem to be doing a very good job of getting to the point. First it was the distractions of the museum, now it’s this wine going to my head. What I really need to know are these two things: first, is there any controversy surrounding the Vesalius woodblocks that would warrant an investigation? Something to do with the original artist? Something to do with where they were during the bombing? Something to do with an alteration or alterations done to them during the course of time? And if you don’t know, do you know someone who does? Second, where, if anywhere, did you advise Martin to go next?” She picked up her glass, took a sip, then grabbed a piece of bread, swept it ceremoniously across the dregs of cream and gravy on her plate, and stuffed it satisfyingly into her mouth, washing it down with another sip. Not sip, too precious a move, a gulp.

  “Such simple questions. Why did you not ask me in the first place? We could have saved all of this nonsense about going to lunch, which is clearly an inconvenience for you!” Arany had been admiring all along her overt appreciation of the meal. “Do you not feed yourself very well? Is this your fi
rst meal in some time?”

  “Since I arrived in Vienna, I sometimes think, Mr Arany, that I have never eaten in my entire life. That each meal is the very first one. But we’re sidetracked again. My answers, please!”

  “Okay, to business. First of all, I am not myself aware of any controversy surrounding the woodblocks leading an investigative journalist on a trail crossing Europe. The discussions about whether Kalkar or this great Titian was responsible is a heated one, I can admit, but limited to, at most, a few hundred aging, bald heads in stuffy offices. Just ask yourself, how many people even know his name Vesalius? Come here, one moment, please,” he called to the waiter, asking in Hungarian and translating for Helen, “Do you know about Vesalius?”

  “Vesalius what, sir?” the waiter asked.

  “Andreas Vesalius. I will hint. He is Belgian.”

  “Hmm, Andreas Vesalius,” mused the waiter.

  “I have heard of him,” said another diner, an earnest young man, eavesdropping from the next table, his buttocks rocking from cheek to cheek at this opportunity to practice English. “He plays out dreams in the newspaper. Every week, a new match in black and white squares.”

  “You must mean chess, not dreams?”

  “He is a chess player, then?”

  “No, he is not. He is an anatomist.”

  “An anatomist? Sprays and perfumes?”

  “Not an atomist, an anatomist. Bones and blood vessels…”

  “Ah, mandibles and maxillas!?”

  “Yes! You have got it.”

  “Hmm, well why does he have a chess column in the paper?”

  “It must be another Andreas Vesalius. Thank you,” he dismissed the waiter and nodded graciously to the diner. “You see what I mean. I must look that column up.” He shook his head in disbelief.

  “As for the chance that the woodblocks are moved before the bombing? Is that the next speculation?” Helen nodded. “I cannot know. But it is a provoking idea. So you think that when the library is bombed, that the woodblocks escape destruction and are hidden. What proof have you?