Cosmocopia by Paul Di Filippo

Author:Paul Di Filippo
Language: eng
Format: mobi, azw3, epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2014-09-02T00:00:00+00:00

6. Artists and Models

CLIMBING THE COOKING-REDOLENT STAIRS to Arbogast’s apartment, Crutchsump vented an unusually self-indulgent expression of her weariness in the form of a deep trembling sigh. Her feet ached from tromping all about Sidetrack City in search of bones. (Today she had been as far as the Zolah stockyards, seeking whatever bones might be cadged from backdoor transactions with shifty employees.) Her hands still smelled faintly but distinctly of carnal muck and rot, although she had indulged in a bath of livewater before venturing here. And she had sprained her left wrist pulling the carcass of a guyan from a ditch.

But, she reminded herself, all her daily labors would be repaid once more in full, as they had been daily for the past six months, when she opened the door to Arbogast’s studio.

Two noisy children, their cauls colored in the bright shades favored by the young, rushed past Crutchsump on the stairs, and, avoiding them, she banged her sore wrist against a railing.

“Ow! Watch out!”

The unrepentant children laughed and raced on. Crutchsump vowed that if she ever had children, she’d be a better mother—or, less probably, father—than the parents who had failed to instill respect in these urchins.

At Arbogast’s door, Crutchsump knocked out of courtesy, but then let herself in. Had she waited, the preoccupied master and apprentice inside might have taken forever to answer.

Beneath grimy skylights that dimmed the twinned sunlight, the central workspace now boasted a second cushion for apprentice ideator, next to the master’s seat. Both cushions were occupied.

Arbogast held his tranche high, wielding it deftly, as Lazorg managed with a fair degree of success to mimic the master’s movements. On the tip of each tool, a sizable blob of nacre was assuming the unmistakable shape of a clandestini, from the points of its horns to the barbs of its tail. The little models were more or less evenly matched in fineness of detail, albeit exhibiting differences of style.

“That’s right,” urged Arbogast, “impress your will upon it! Every ounce of recollection and sympathy and zeal! And listen to your gut brain!”

Lazorg faltered in his making. “You keep saying that, but I still don’t know what you mean!”

“Your gut brain, your gut brain! What kind of infant are you?”

Suddenly the incomplete ideation fell, abortive, from Lazorg’s tranche. He dropped his tool on the cushions and angrily jumped up.

“I’m not an infant, damn you, Arbogast! In my own world, I’m a master! There’s no one more accomplished at my style of painting! Not even that pretender, Rokesby Marrs!”

Imperturbable, Arbogast unhurriedly completed his own ideation, and the perfect image of a clandestini fell to the receptive pillows, bearing the unmistakable Arobgast imprimatur. Only then did the master stand.

Rather than take umbrage at Lazorg’s impatience and bad temper, Arbogast laid a friendly hand on his pupil’s shoulder.

“I acknowledge your past, Lazorg. You’ve shared with me a fascinating story, these past six months. You’ve almost succeeded in making me imagine what ‘painting’ could be. But you have to face the reality of your current situation.

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