The Gargoyle (44 page)

Marianne Engel shook her head. “Not interested in travel right now.”

“Right. Too busy looking after Crispy, here,” Jack said. “Christ, Marianne, it’s a great paycheck and you’re going to let it pass you by. When art meets charity, it’s bound to be a fuckup.”

Marianne Engel gave Jack a big hug, saying a few words in my defense, but mostly she just giggled at Jack’s bluster. This only made Jack angrier. “Remember when you brought Bougatsa home?” she said. “He was a stray, too.”

In our supposed previous life, I’d given Marianne Engel a stone angel that I had carved—the one that sat on her bookshelf—while in this life she’d given me a stone grotesque that she had carved. The symmetry is much like the reversal of our jobs: back then, she had been the one who worked with books and I had been the one who worked with stone.

That observation is academic, I suppose, but my reaction to the idea of her carving me was entirely visceral. It’s flattering when an artist wants to do you, of course, but it also made me feel awkward to contemplate that my hideousness would be so permanently captured. For the first time, I understood the fear savages have, that cameras will capture their souls along with their images.

“How would it work?” I asked. “What would I have to do?”

“You wouldn’t have to do anything,” she answered. “You would just have to sit there.”

The reply made me think of our conversation after she forced me to apologize to Sayuri, when she had said that I would need to “do nothing” to prove my love to her. I didn’t understand what she had meant, but if
this
was what she had been talking about, how could I turn her down? “Okay, I’ll do it.”

“It’ll be nice to work from life for a change,” she said. “I’ll finally get to put the form
into
the stone, instead of pulling it out.”

She started to remove her clothing and I asked what she was doing. She always carved nude, she said, and was not about to change now; did I have a problem with that? I answered that I didn’t, but I really wasn’t so sure. There was something about her unclothed body that affected me, the ex–porn actor and prodigious seducer of women, in a way I could not quite comprehend. There was something so raw and disarming about her nudity….

But I could not tell her what to do in her own home. As soon as she was undressed, she pulled the pressure garments from my body and ran her fingers over the folds of my burned flesh, as though her fingers were memorizing a path. “I love that your scars are so red. Did you know that gargoyles used to be painted in bright colors to help their features to stand out?”

She walked over to one of her creatures and ran her fingers over it, just as she had been touching me moments earlier. As I watched her hands move, I imagined how a river runs perfectly over a stone for a thousand years. She pointed out the deeply carved lines under the eyes of one of her beasts. “See how the features are undercut to emphasize shadows, to create depth? The parishioners looking up at the gargoyle, they can’t even see these details.”

“So why do it?”

“We work also for the eyes of God.”

Being carved made me feel more naked than any porno, and that first sitting was made bearable only by its shortness. I could take off my pressure garments for only fifteen minutes at a time, a limit that Marianne Engel always respected. It didn’t matter that the work would progress slowly; I was confident that we would have years to complete me.

At the end of each session she would show me the progress she’d made and we would talk about whatever was on our minds. On one occasion she mentioned casually, while stubbing out a cigarette, “Don’t forget that we’ve got a Halloween party coming up.”

This was the first I had heard about it, I said.

“No, it isn’t,” she said. “Last year in the burn ward I promised we’d go, remember?”

“That was a long time ago.”

“A year is not a long time, but I’ll make you a deal. Would you agree to go if I told you another story?”

“About what?” I asked.

“I think you’ll really like this one,” she said. “It’s about Sigurðr, my Viking friend.”

O
f all the places in which a boy might find himself orphaned, ninth-century Iceland was among the worst. Sigurðr Sigurðsson’s parents had arrived with the first wave of Norse immigrants and decided the land had a strange beauty that would be suitable for raising a family. But when Sigurðr was only nine, his father disappeared on an ice floe and, not long after, his mother went to sleep never to wake up. The boy took over the family land and resolved to make his way in life, but he failed: he was just too young, and soon found himself scavenging a living from the dead whales that washed up on the shores.

In truth, it was not a bad skill to possess: the flesh was used for food, the blubber for lamps, and the bones for any number of household items. All these things, Sigurðr could trade to support himself. Still, he felt there was something missing from his existence; even as a child, he knew it was not enough to carve a life out of the carcasses of the dead, and he longed to be strong and valiant.

So, when not cutting apart beached whales, Sigurðr dove. On the edge of a fjord, with the entire ocean stretched in front of him, he would take a moment as the world around him seemed to disappear. Then his legs would push him up into the air and there would be a moment of brief weightlessness when the battle between sky and sea was deadlocked, and Sigurðr would—just for this one beautiful moment—imagine himself floating near Valhalla.

But the sea always won, and the boy would cut the air like a dropped knife. The water rushed up to meet him, and when he sliced through the transparent surface he felt as if he’d come home. Down he would go, searching for the bottom, before emerging from the ocean with the feeling that he’d been cleansed. But the feeling never lasted.

When he played with the other boys, because there was still a little time for this, he always felt one step removed from them. He liked to wrestle and run just as they did, and he even enjoyed drawing a little blood in a sporting contest, but there came a time when all the other young men found young women with whom to wrestle. Sigurðr, poor Sigurðr, remained content to wrestle only with the boys, and soon people started to wonder why he didn’t seem to have the slightest interest in taking a wife.

Sigurðr took to spending his evenings in the local tavern in an attempt to display his manliness, but try as he might to keep his eyes fixed on the breasts of the waitress, his gaze would invariably wander to the hairy knuckles of the bartender. From there, his eyes would go to the strong curve of Höðbroddr’s buttocks and then, always, they would settle upon one man, a little older, named Einarr Einarsson.

Einarr was a block of granite disguised as flesh, with a massive chest and thick forearms that could tame a man—or so Sigurðr liked to imagine. Einarr’s eyes reminded Sigurðr of the icy water into which he dove, and his flaming hair was like the passion in the younger man’s heart. Einarr was by trade a carpenter, but he was also a Viking.

The two men had a passing acquaintance, inevitable given the sparse population, but little contact until the evening that Sigurðr summoned his courage and headed over to talk. He stuck out his chest farther than usual, lowered the timber of his voice, and laughed only his most masculine laugh. Still, it did not take long for Einarr to see that it was not a man who sat before him, but a lost boy.

There was something about Sigurðr, so pitiful and yet so hopeful, that touched Einarr’s better impulses. He knew the boy had lost his parents, and he had seen him wandering the shores with bags of dead whale. Rather than dismiss the boy, he listened, and when Sigurðr said embarrassing things—and there were plenty—Einarr simply nodded. He saw no need to insult someone whose life was already difficult enough.

That evening in the bar was the first of many. Their relationship was a strange fit, but somehow a good one, because Einarr appreciated that aspect of Sigurðr’s character which his Viking companions lacked. The young man, though not particularly intelligent, had moments in which he longed for something better. Sigurðr did not want to destroy, he wanted to create—but he didn’t know how. He often spoke about how wonderful it must be for Einarr to build things from wood. While Einarr only grunted, inside he agreed—it
was
a good thing that he did for a living—and he also thought that perhaps this boy could do better for himself, if only he had a little guidance.

Soon Einarr proposed that Sigurðr assist him in the carpentry shop, and the offer was accepted with excitement. It would not be an apprenticeship, per se, because there was never any suggestion that Sigurðr would eventually set out on his own, but it would be a fine way to fill out his days. Sigurðr’s heart was beating more quickly than usual the first time he arrived at Einarr’s longhouse.

The dwelling was typical of the Icelandic style, constructed from the materials at hand. Rough stones had been laid in as foundation around upright posts of timber, and the walls were turf-sod with birch branches for infilling. Einarr proudly displayed one feature that was not common: in a corner of the longhouse, he had dug a trench that ran under the wall from a nearby stream. It was not even necessary to go outside to get clean water, because all one needed to do was lift the floorboards and dip in a bucket.

Every inch of the place was piled high with wood: some native to Iceland, some imported from Norway, and some that had washed up on the coast. All had to be kept inside so it was dry enough to work. On the walls hung dozens of irons, files, rasps, knives and chisels, and there were shelves to house the oils used to finish the woodwork.

Nearly all the benches, shelves, and even farming implements were carved with intricate designs. Sigurðr ran his finger gently along the twisting grooves of one such object, a cradle sitting near a wall. From the four corners of its body, posts extended upwards; each was a dragon’s neck with a head that fit perfectly into the parent’s hand so the child could be rocked to sleep.

“It is for my boy, Bragi.”

Sigurðr knew that Einarr was a father and that he was married. He didn’t need to be reminded of these facts. “It’s good,” he replied, then pointed to a barrel overflowing with thin wooden cylinders. “What are those?”

Einarr pulled one out and held it in front of his face, looking down its length, before handing it over.

“I have no particular skill with a bow, but tooling a shaft straight and true is another matter altogether.”

“Einarr is showing off, is he?”

A woman, cradling an infant sucking at her tit, had come into the house unheard. Her eyes were an even brighter blue than Einarr’s and her hair, swept back with a colorful headband, had streaks of bright blond where she had bleached it with lye.

“You must be Sigurðr. It is good to meet you finally.”

“This is Svanhildr,” said Einarr. “My anchor.”

“Ah, your steadying influence, then?” asked the wife.

“No,” answered the husband, “that which is dragging me down.”

Svanhildr slapped him hard across the shoulder, and Einarr reached out his own hand—not to strike in return, but to cup the baby so its balance was not lost.

“The lucky little one,” said Einarr, “is Bragi.”

Svanhildr handed the child over to her husband, adjusted the treasure necklace around her throat, and closed her apron-dress. A chain of keys around her waist rattled in time with the many ornaments of her necklace and, as a result, her every movement was musical. She slapped her husband once more, tunefully, before taking the child back into her arms. From the look on her face, this was a woman pleased with her life.

The man and boy worked through the afternoon—mostly, Einarr demonstrated the uses of the tools—before Sigurðr returned home after declining Svanhildr’s invitation to dinner.

The following day, when Svanhildr answered the longhouse door, Sigurðr handed a sack to her. “I brought shark,” he said.

“How very kind,” she said, politely exaggerating the bag’s weight. “I will ferment it, and you will eat it with us when it is ready.”

In the pause that followed, Sigurðr blurted, “It’s good to find dead whales, but sharks are also useful.”

“Yes. Come in.” She kicked aside a stray piece of lumber. “That is, if you can find room among these logs. Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a forest.”

Again the men spent the day together; this time it was the maintenance of the tools that was explained. When Svanhildr extended another dinner invitation, Sigurðr accepted. She served chicken stew with seaweed and, as the men ate, she rocked the dragon cradle until Bragi fell asleep.

They sat around the longfire until late in the night, smoke drifting through the vent in the ceiling. Svanhildr heated a small cauldron of ale and when the men’s frost-cups neared their dregs, she would dip the ale-goose into the cauldron to refill them. When Sigurðr commented on the brew’s excellent taste, Svanhildr explained her secret lay in the combination of juniper and bog myrtle. “It is often said that a man’s happiness depends on the quality of his food,” she explained, “but in Einarr’s case it’s more the quality of his alcohol.”