“Exactly. The wax and pins—those nails that keep the core from shifting—are inside this,” he explained, patting the next object in line, an anonymous lump of plaster similar to, though smaller than, the one we had loaded into the motor. “The mould is heated to drain the wax, then the bronze is poured in to take its place. When it’s cool, the mould and core are chipped away.”
In the next blank lump, the funnel opening and the holes were filled to the top with dark metal. Then came Sara, freed from her plaster womb, in metal duplicating the Surrealist figurine: nails, head, and octopus-like sprues, rendered now in immortal bronze.
The penultimate shape was recognisably Sara, but in dull metal, with holes where the nails had been pulled out and rough stubs where the sprues had been sawed away.
And finally, the finished piece showing Sara for the ages: serene, intelligent, glowing with some inner joke. That one was signed, with a firm Rafe A at the lower edge.
“That is a beautiful piece of work,” I told him.
“I was pleased with it,” he admitted. It was a surprisingly humble reaction, from a man given to preening.
“I love the surface of bronze. This one has such warmth, and depth.”
“Ah, well, that’s an art in itself. Several arts, one might say—welding, chasing, sanding, patina. I believe in craft, wholeheartedly, but I know my limits, and I know that a good bronze is a collaborative effort. So I sent this “Sara” to Paris and had my own patineur work on her. He’s an old madman who’s breathed far too many fumes in his life, but no one does a finish like his.”
This, too, was an unexpectedly generous admission, that another man might do something better than Rafe Ainsley, but there was no doubt that his Paris madman had created a surface equal to the sculpture itself. One could almost feel the warmth of Sara’s skin.
The artist roused himself from his contemplation of the work. “God, I have to get on with things, there’s a lot to do.”
“Let me help.”
Naturally, his first impulse was to turn me down. A girl, hauling heavy loads? Then he looked at my mannish clothing, practical shoes, and short hair, and I could see him reconsidering.
“I’m strong, and I can drive. No? Well, never mind. It was just a thought.”
As I’d hoped, my backing away triggered his pursuit. “I admit, that would be helpful. The local man I had—well, you maybe heard. About Niko.”
“I did. It’s sad, he sounded like a nice fellow.”
“Yes. And helpful. I was counting on him, and now…well, I’d hoped Gerald and the others might lend a hand, but I suppose it sounded too much like work.”
I ignored his bitterness, and said in a chipper fashion, “I won’t be as good as your local chap, but what can I do?”
He led me further into the converted stables, and revealed the scope of the next day’s pour: a surprising number of waiting forms, some of them the same short, anonymous plaster bucket-moulds, others taller and more closely shaped around their bases and sprues. All had funnel shapes in the top, with thick layers of wax protruding from the plaster.
I was distracted by half a dozen other, more finished pieces. These looked nothing like the Sara-head, but depicted dream-like creatures that were both human and mythic. Like men being born from a rock—or Caliban emerging from his cave. They were all rough, in design and in finish, with a sort of primitive masculinity about them, more assured and less avant-garde than his conversation had led me to believe.
I liked them, very much.
My admiration convinced him that I might be a worthy partner in his day’s efforts. We finished loading the car and motored through Antibes with his precious cargo, pulling in to the yard of an ancient stone building that bore the sign Fonderie Ferrant—which was rather like finding an English place called Smith’s Smithy. Inside was a surprisingly modern gas furnace alongside the tools of a Medieval alchemist, from cauldrons to crucibles.
I stifled my curiosity in favour of diligence, carrying in as many of the moulds as he did. When I had proved my worth by dropping neither plaster nor my air of eager worship, Rafe decided to trust me with his list of tasks.
I made two prompt and trouble-free deliveries: the first, of wine, drinks, and snacks; the second, of borrowed tables and chairs. Once those had been safely conveyed, I ventured a more sensitive offer. “There are still quite a few moulds at your studio. I could bring them, if you like? Otherwise, you’ll still be here at midnight.”
He hesitated, taking in a scrape on my hand and the wear and tear on my clothes.
“I can see how valuable those things are,” I reassured him, “and I promise that if there’s anything remotely heavy, I’ll have the gardener help me.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t let him touch them! The man’s an idiot.”
“No, fine, he won’t come near them. Anything heavy I’ll leave for you to make a last run. Okay?”
After enduring a lot of reluctant grumbling and unnecessary instruction-giving, I got back behind the wheel and pulled on to the road.
The gardener was no idiot, and any person as skilled as he in trimming shrubs, pulling weeds, and crafting props around new trees had trustworthy hands. If I told the fellow how tired I was, and gave him a sizeable tip for doing the work on his own, it would leave me free to search Rafe Ainsley’s quarters from rafters to root cellar.
An hour later, the car was packed—with considerably more attention to padding than I’d have given—and I’d seen what little Ainsley had in his desk drawers. Nothing in the way of detailed bank statements or business letters—but then, this was his temporary summer home, so no doubt he’d left his important paperwork in Paris.
I did find a large unsealed envelope he was planning to post to himself at an address in the Montmartre district. Most of the contents were personal: photographs of friends here on the Riviera, including Sara and Gerald Murphy under the fringed umbrellas of an outdoor restaurant; half a dozen small sketches of what looked to be the gears of a clock; three well-travelled letters with casual news from American friends—and a receipt from the Antibes branch of a large bank with offices in Paris, London, and New York, recording the cash deposit on the previous Monday of a little over 100,000 francs. The precise equivalent of 5,000 US dollars.
Could anyone have that much cash without being involved in something shady?
I put everything back in the envelope and returned it to where I’d found it. Guillaume the gardener was moving around in the workshop next door. The car must be nearly full: time to finish up.
I ran my hands over the high shelves and my eyes over the remaining surfaces, untidy but showing the regular attention of brooms and mops. Rafe was the sort who left plates and cups where they lay rather than carry them to the kitchen—or, God forbid, wash them himself—but also the sort who did not trust servants with things that mattered to him. With that thought, I let myself into the workshop. Guillaume was in the process of manoeuvring a form through the open doorway.
“I think I can fit everything in this load,” he said in his cheerful Marseilles accent.
“You sure? I don’t mind making another trip.”
“If I can use the front seat?”
“Absolutely.”
He gave a nod and went out, leaving me to look at the room.
Here, some degree of tidiness had made inroads. There were a few crusted plates on one of the work-benches and an overflowing ash-tray, but the floor had been clumsily swept, and some of the piles removed. Plaster dust lay on every surface—I shuddered to think of the state of Rafe’s lungs—but his tools were arranged rather than abandoned, and his sketches and notes were inside a collection of filing boxes. Not that the shelves weren’t laden with odds and ends: mallets and snips; various spools of wire; two shiny steel cocktail shakers like the one I’d washed in the Murphy kitchen; an entire basket of cogs, from tiny to the siz
e of my palm; and a coffee tin containing nothing but monocles. The hotchpotch brought to mind the Duchamp-like “readymades” in the Murphy kitchen. Perhaps these belonged to one of the studio’s earlier inhabitants?
The doorway went dark just as I squatted down in front of a work-bench. I turned, and gave the gardener a smile. “Dropped something.”
“Shall I—”
“Oh no, thanks, I’ve got it.”
But I hadn’t. Instead, I pretended to be interested in a random scrap of paper. When the room dimmed again with Guillaume’s exit, I stretched down for the small object I’d seen gleaming from an abandoned pile of sweepings, overlooked by an inexpert broom.
I wiped the dusty thing against my trouser leg, opened my palm, and looked down at one of the earrings I had last seen in Mrs Hudson’s bedroom.
I felt a thump of alarm, but then my eyes—trained, after all, by Sherlock Holmes—searched out the differences, and to my relief I found that no, it was not the same. Similar, yes, in shape and material, but this stone was a lighter purple, and the filigree, a less complex pattern. It could have come from the same workshop, but it was not hers.
The room darkened again. I straightened, slipping the object into my pocket. “I’m finished here, if you—oh. Hello.”
Not Guillaume: a tall, slim figure with a precisely drawn beard.
Count Vasilev glanced around the workshop, ignoring its admittedly untidy occupant and giving no reply to my greeting.
“Are you looking for Rafe? Sorry, I’m Mary Russell, and you’re Count Vasilev, I believe? I saw you at Gerald and Sara’s party the other evening, though we weren’t introduced.”
At my accent, for which I summoned my plummiest tones, his eyes snapped onto me for a rapid reappraisal. I looked like the help, but I spoke like an English blue blood. And if I had been at the Murphys’ party, where there had been a clear lack of serving girls, that made me—
“Good afternoon, Miss Russell,” he said, taking a formal step forward.
“It’s ‘Missus,’ and I won’t shake your hand since mine’s so dirty. I’ve been helping Rafe get ready for his demonstration tomorrow.”
“That is most generous of you.”
“Oh, the others enjoy sitting on the beach, but sometimes I like to be useful. Are you coming to Rafe’s demonstration?”
“I have been invited, yes.”
“I’m so looking forward to it—sounds fascinating. Have you been to one before? A ‘pour,’ that is?”
“I have. And found it hot and loud but as you say, fascinating.”
He looked about to take his leave, so I asserted my most vivacious and chatter-filled persona, to convince him that bronze was not the only interesting thing in the room. “You prefer the final product, I see. Well, I’ve been helping load up the moulds that Rafe will be working from, and I have to say, who’d have thought a bunch of lumpy plaster things would end up beautiful statues like those?”
I nodded towards the work-bench collection of Caliban-figures, and nearly missed the expression on his face—surprise—as he seemed to focus on the sculptures for the first time. Had he simply not noticed them? The room was not that dim, even for someone coming in from the sun. It almost looked as if he hadn’t thought of them as beautiful—but if he didn’t enjoy Rafe Ainsley’s work, why commission the pieces? Rafe might have been lying, or at least exaggerating, about the patronage. Or perhaps the Count’s surprise came from the idea that objects of power could be judged beautiful?
More likely, the aristocrat couldn’t believe that a cheerful, grubby young female would have both perceived and commented on the quality of the artist’s work.
I gave him a grin, to confuse him further. “I’m absolutely parched for a cup of tea. Do you suppose Rafe has such a thing? Oh, he must—no Englishman living abroad depends on foreigners for his tea. Come, you must be thirsty, too. If nothing else we can get you a glass of water.” I practically forced the Count towards the living quarters, nattering on about the hot weather and how difficult it was going to be to return to London and whether or not the Hon Terry had worked himself up yet to ask where the Count had his suits made since I knew he was wondering…
By this time the kettle was on and my Russian captive was settling into a chair with his glass of water, looking a bit stunned.
“Sara tells me you’re thinking of moving to America? I’m half American. I’ve lived on both coasts—in Boston when I was tiny, and in San Francisco for a while. Do you know either of those cities?”
It took him a moment to register that the conversational ball was in his court. “Yes. That is, I have been to Boston, for a few days. A pleasant town. I have not been to California.”
“So you’re thinking of moving to Boston?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
I sat down, so as to deliver an expression of sympathy face-to-face. “Sara tells me you have a daughter who is ill. I’m very sorry about that. You’re going to America to be with her, I understand.”
“I—yes.”
“Good. Family is everything. I lost mine, when I was young, so I can understand. Does she have good doctors, there in America?”
“She does. A woman doctor—did you know there was such a thing? She is happy, and doing as well as can be expected.”
I thought his daughter’s illness sounded as much psychological as physical. But then, a child who has lost every family member but one to the guns of a revolution was sure to have psychological problems, whether she had lung disease or not.
“I’ve known some very good women doctors. I expect you find it hard to choose between a daughter and Europe. Although I can’t say I think this golden age Sara and Gerald are living in will go on much longer.”
This remark triggered a reaction at last. “You are right, it will end, and soon. I have told Gerald not to bring his affairs to France, but to leave them in America, where they are safe. The War is not over. This peace will give way. The Communists will not be satisfied until they have eaten their way to the ocean. And possibly beyond.”
The thoughts had made his fine features go taut against the bone: his friends, his family, his Czar, and his world, trampled into history.
The wash of cold reality silenced me. He gave me a sad and apologetic smile. “And now I have ruined your day. Mrs Russell, forgive my careless mood. Thank you for the water. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow at Ainsley’s demonstration. Au revoir.”
And he left.
I became aware that the kettle I had laid on the hob was boiling madly, so I made myself a cup of tea—yes, Rafe had all the makings to hand—and sat at the table with it, thinking about Bolsheviks and endings and dead families and how one went about building a new one.
The thought of Bolsheviks reminded me of the earring I had found on the floor, and I dug it from my pocket.
The thing was misshapen, the soft gold twisted near to flat, as if a foot had come down upon it. And yet the clasp was shut. Either it had not fallen from a visitor’s ear, or, if it had, someone had found it, retrieving it by shutting the clasp—then had carelessly let it fall to the floor again.
The door-knob rattled, and I rose, casually sweeping the earring back into hiding.
“Madame, the car is finished. May I offer any further assistance?”
“Thank you, Guillaume, I’ll be right there.”
I returned the milk to the icebox and put my cup in the sink, and went to admire the gardener’s careful workmanship. He’d done a better job of it than I would have, and I happily peeled off a number of banknotes, handing them over with my thanks. When he protested, I told him solemnly that I was hoping to buy his silence, since I’d promised Mr Ainsley I would do it all myself. Guillaume laughed, agreed to hold my secret to the death, and pocketed the money.
I locked up with the key Rafe had given me, and headed back towards
the foundry.
Rafe’s plaster moulds made for odd companions in the motorcar, rather like driving a nest filled with massive eggs—plus a couple of hungry fledglings, their plaster mouths raised to the sky. My companion in the front was of the type that had been built up, rather than poured into a bucket. This one was nearly five feet tall, and it had taken both of us to manoeuvre it into the front seat.
If I hadn’t allowed Guillaume to do most of the heavy lifting, my arms would be dead and my back bent double. No wonder the torsos of sculptors came to resemble inverted triangles.
The sun was going down when I reached the Fonderie Ferrant. Light spilled through the wide double doors on the front. When he heard tyres on the forecourt, Rafe hurried out, leaning over the car door before I had turned off the engine. What he saw satisfied him, although actual praise was more than he could manage.
“You took your time.”
“I didn’t think you’d want me to rush things.”
“You had enough blankets?”
“The gardener borrowed some from the house, just to be sure. I didn’t think that big one should be without support in its middle.” Guillaume and I had propped it as tenderly as a splinted leg. Rafe could find nothing to complain about, and let me help him extricate the pieces.
The foundry was not a large building, but it had undoubtedly stood on the road for centuries—it still had a blacksmith’s anvil, which showed no trace of rust though it was mounted on a log that might have been cut when the Sun King was on the throne. At some point in the building’s past, there had been a fire, leaving blackened walls and a roof, considerably newer than the rest, but even these repairs had sheltered metalworkers for generations. It had the kind of brutal beauty formed by long years of harsh labour, where everything necessary was there to hand, and superfluous items had long since been discarded.
This main room was designed to give clear ground for moving tureens of liquid metal so hot that a splash would maim. Its two work-benches were mounted to the walls, as were the ironmonger’s display of equipment hanging from hooks and prongs hammered between the stones. The floor, too, was of stone, with traces of pale sand in the seams, and the only thing protruding into the middle was a large, low metal trough, several feet away from the gas furnace, with that same coarse, golden sand in the bottom. Against the wall, tucked under a work-bench bristling with clamps and vices, stood a row of metal buckets, also filled with sand.
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