“The next day he was in his studio, holding the smallest of his chisels, and pretended not to hear the king when he entered. Satisfaction and envy fought each other in the king’s face as he looked at the marble foot that appeared from under the great piece of cloth that covered most of the statue. ‘Almost finished, master sculptor?’ His voice rang through the high room. The artist turned around and wiped the dust from his brows. ‘It’s hard to tell, my lord. It’s not finding the shape that’s the hardest, but bringing it forth.’ A deep frown wrinkled the king’s brow. He walked toward the statue and reached out to remove the cloth, but the sculptor blocked his way. ‘Forgive me, but it isn’t finished yet.’ The ruler of the island turned away with a hurt look on his face. ‘But how long will it take, master?’ he asked. The old sculptor thought for a while and finally said: ‘It could be days. It could be months.’ The king gasped for air, like a fish out of water. ‘But with a chisel like that!’ he roared. The artist looked at it and nodded. Then he said: ‘My lord, how do you rule your country? With an army, or with a few well-placed servants?’ The king stared at him for a while, then left the dusty studio, muttering as he went.”
I drink my tea. This is the sign. Eleven staring faces suddenly remember their Cokes and juice. Behind the raised glasses the smoky arabesque of Nur’s Marlboro Light ascends.
“Days, weeks went by, and every time the king visited the sculptor’s studio, the old man was hacking away with a chisel no bigger than a teaspoon. And every time, the king, snorting with rage, returned to the great hall, where he would yell at his master onion peeler or the royal sock mender. The king’s mood gradually worsened. He’d lost his appetite and nights he lay awake, even though the beautiful girls sat around his bed and sang and softly strummed the strings of their lutes and lyres. And when he finally, after hours of tossing and turning, closed his eyes, he invariably saw the pale marble figure from the studio floating through the dark corridors of the palace, till it was quite close, which was when he saw that it was faceless.
“It was autumn and the painted trees on the pillars shed their leaves; the sky on the ceiling of the great hall turned gray and moved like a sea of lead.
“One day the old sculptor asked his son to join him. It was a windy day and they sat on the wide windowsill, looking out over the bay that lapped at the foot of the palace walls and stretched out into the sea.
“‘Listen, boy,’ the father said. ‘The king will throw in one of his dungeons, or worse, once the statue is finished. I have designed a scheme to save us, however, but it will fail unless you do exactly as told.’ The boy nodded and listened to his father, who began to tell his plan.
“A few days later the artist sent word to the king that he was ready to show his work. The king, three of his most loyal servants trailing behind him, hurried through the palace corridors, his robes streaming. His dignity didn’t allow him to run, but that was what he really wanted to do. The windows of the studio were hung with heavy curtains. A few chandeliers shed their light on a figure that was almost completely hidden by a curtain hanging from a cord between two walls. The king and his servants stopped abruptly when they saw all this. The sculptor raised his hand and cried: ‘Right there, Your Majesty. Not any farther!’ The king’s face clouded over. ‘My statue, master sculptor,’ he said. ‘Show me my statue.’ The artist nodded and said: ‘Our statue, my lord, and you will see it. But alone. Send your servants away, so that you will truly be the first one in the world to see the most beautiful woman.’ The king stared long and hard at the sculptor, then sent his companions away. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and curtly nodded. The sculptor accompanied him to an armchair and the king reluctantly sat down. ‘No more dallying, master. Show me the statue.’ The old man nodded, stepped back, and bowed his head.
“The curtain opened slowly and the white contours of the marble took shape in the shimmering light of the candles. The king sighed. ‘You’ve outdone yourself, old man,’ he said. He nodded for some time. ‘It’s almost as if it is alive.’ He closed his eyes, stretched out his left hand in the direction of the statue, and murmured something in a strange tongue. The curtains at the windows started to move, as if a sudden gust of wind had entered the room, and the fabric that hung on both sides of the statue tugged at the cord. The king pressed the fingers of his right hand against his temples and kept uttering unrecognizable words. The statue shivered, and a soft moan seemed to escape from the marble.
“The studio was in a turmoil now: chisels moved across the floor, pieces of cloth billowed, flames roared above their candles. The king braced himself in his chair and shouted a word.
“Suddenly there was stillness in the air. The statue looked about and bowed its head. ‘Where is my master?’ it said, after a while. ‘Here!’ the king cried. ‘I am your master.’ The statue shook its head. ‘I am your master!’ the king roared.
“The sculptor stepped out of the shadows. His son stood next to him, holding a rope that seemed to disappear in shadows overhead. The statue turned to the old man and held out its arms. ‘What is this?’ the king
