Cold Tuscan Stone by David Wagner (best books to read in your 20s txt) 📕

me of any possible appointments. I don’t suppose he told you who the man was.” Rick shook his head. “Well, life must go on,” said Landi, his wiry smile returning. “Do you have time for a visit to our workshop now? I think that Graziella can handle the store for the moment, and my wife is in the back if she needs help. Shall we?”

“By all means.”

It did not appear that Landi was suffering in his grief.

***

Powdered stone dust floated through the air and covered everything, its dull white softened by the light of the florescent lamps hanging from the ceiling. Large blocks of stone lay scattered around the floor, like some of the ruins Rick knew well in Rome. Finished sculpture stood on the shelves, and unfinished pieces were clamped firmly on the wooden tables. Five men wearing long coats and folded paper hats stood at work stations around the shop, but only the nearest of them looked up when Landi and Rick entered. The others were too intent on their labors. In the dusty haze of the room there was little to distinguish the workers from their work; had it not been for their movement, the men could well have been mistaken for crudely carved gray statues.

The sound of machinery had been audible on the street, but now it was so loud that Landi had to raise his voice to be heard. The main culprit was a large lathe at one side of the room which was shaving a trunk of alabaster about three feet long. Landi shouted that the piece would be sliced into thick discs which would then be carefully made into bowls or dishes. He pulled a flat plate from a nearby shelf to demonstrate the nearly-finished product. It was already thin but would be made even thinner, he said, allowing light to shine through it. They moved to a heavy wooden table where another worker was chipping away with a small chisel at a cherub about two feet tall. An assortment of other chisels in various sizes and angles were loosely arranged on the table, their wood grips shiny from years of use. The man held the tool in his right hand and slid it over the pointed index finger of his left, like a small pool cue, softly grinding the alabaster to open a space between two of the angel’s toes.

Landi did not identify the first two workers, but the man at the third table was introduced as Signor Malandro, the foreman of the shop. Rick saw that the coat he wore was a different color, a light blue in contrast to the dirty white on the other men, no doubt to indicate his foreman status. Even in the smallest of work groups rank was important. Otherwise the foreman didn’t appear much different from the others, though the blue of his coat showed more dust. The man’s hands were thick and rough, the hair under the newsprint hat a dark gray, though it could have been stone dust rather than natural color.

Malandro’s unshaven face and hollow eyes took stock of the visitor with a long stare before he turned silently back to his table. Rick wondered for an instant if the man knew he was the last to see Canopo alive, and was somehow holding him responsible. Malandro was carefully making marks with a thick pencil on a large block of stone, but it was too early in the process for Rick to even guess what form this piece would eventually take. Landi, with a louder shout, asked his foreman to give the workers a break. Putting down his pencil, he walked over to each of the workers, tapped them on the shoulder and signaled with a chop of the hand to stop working. They were soon seated at various wooden stools, half of them lighting cigarettes. All sat silently, but only Malandro watched the two men who had interrupted their work routine.

“There, that will allow us to talk,” said Landi in a relieved tone. He went on to describe the work in the various corners of the room. This shop, he said, specialized in more traditional styles, the kind of sculpture turned out by Volterra’s artisans for thousands of years. Bowls, human figures, vases. Designs were mostly classical to appeal to buyers who wanted something with a clear Italian look to it. Other shops turned out nontraditional alabaster art, both practical and whimsical, but since Rick had mentioned Etruscan-style items, he wanted to bring him here. Was his assumption correct?

“Yes it was,” Rick replied. “This is certainly the kind of thing that would interest the gallery. How much of it is done by hand, and how much by machine? Handmade pieces would certainly be more attractive to our customers.” Rick thought how easy it was to slip into his role, and he was enjoying the challenge.

“Well, as you can see it is a combination of both, but when it gets to the final stages, it is mostly by hand. We save time, and of course expense, by using machines to get the stone into the general shape required, but then it is small drills and a lot of old-fashioned chisels which create the final contours. We can use sanding machines up to a certain point, but in the end handrubbing is the only way to bring out the brilliant shine from a perfect piece of alabaster.”

He walked with Rick to a corner table holding a rectangular slab whose surface was decorated with classical figures in bas-relief. Two women in diaphanous gowns danced under a tree, while a hoofed satyr sitting between them played a double flute. The scene was framed by garlands of leaves and fruit.

“This work started from a piece of alabaster cut to size using that large mechanical saw over there. Then its figures were shaped with small electric drills, but mostly the worker used chisels whose design and function have not changed for centuries. Many of the techniques go