The angle of the nose and the shape of the cheeks had to be perfect.
The length of the neck
and the slope of the shoulders had to be exact.
The swell of the thighs and the turn of the ankles had to be precise.
Glass jars of
vegetable pigments sat scattered across the work table in between
eggshells and crumbs of almond meal.
Black truffles were
sliced into perfect little disks and set as irises into the small
spheres of marzipan. He laid almond paste eyelids over each one then
fringed them with spun sugar lashes. A river of caramel streaked her
marzipan hair with golden lights.
As if the magnificent
marzipan statue itself was not enough, he then went to work with the
pigments and his brushes. Lovingly he brought out the apples of her
cheeks and the cherries of her lips. He rouged her elbows and knees
and the delicate curve at the base of her throat between her
perfectly carved collarbones.
In a flurry of color,
the lifeless statue began to look like something more, something
warm, something vital.
At long last, as dawn
streaked the faraway hills and he lay down to sleep right there on
his workbench. As his heavy eyelids slid closed, he gazed upon her
face in the warming light. She looked so serene and quietly joyful.
It was good to have
company at long last.
The rapping on the
door roused him. It was late in the day and the clouds had rolled
in, bringing a steady rain.
She stood huddled
under the meager awning, her pack clanking with copper.
Double-boilers and simmering pots chimed their familiar songs,
muffled by the sturdy canvas. Her little cap was falling askew; wet
tendrils of hair clung to her face like amber vines and water dripped
into her dark eyes.
She knocked again,
certain that she could see a figure by the window silhouetted by the
unmistakable light of a well-tended fire. Someone had to be home.
At long last the heavy
oak door whispered open on well-oiled hinges and she was met
face-to-face by a pair of inquisitive brown eyes. Perfectly
milk-chocolate brown those eyes were. She could not hide the smile
of delight that came to her face and he grudgingly stepped back to
allow her entry. The little cottage was charming, it was neat and
trim and filled with the most amazing confections of marzipan she had
ever seen. But something was missing.
While he busied
himself making a pot of tea for his guest, she meandered into the
front room and stared at the statue. He was blushing sheepishly when
he came upon her marveling at his creation. He opened his mouth to
speak, but she pressed one cocoa-stained finger to his lips and
laughed softly. He caught her hand and gazed at it, streaked with
rich red-brown as it was. It was her turn to shyly look away.
Over tea, she showed
him her cooper pots and her precious jars of cacao nubs, worth more
than gold.
Over tea, he showed
her his pigments and cunning copper molds wrought into every shape
imaginable. He escorted her to the orchard where the almond trees
grew.
She wondered aloud of
perhaps the cacao plant might thrive there among them.
He ventured that it
might be worth the chance to try.
The heat of the fire
had to be perfect.
The nibs had to be
ground until they made a paste as smooth as silk.
The stirring had to be
done all day, all night. All while the marzipan-maker slept.
And then she took it
to the statue, carefully coating every surface with chocolate. When
he woke, he watched her, wondering why, but never asking her. She
worked slowly, painting and drenching until he left her to her task.
And then her task
began.
Beneath the dark
glaze, the angle of the nose and the shape of the cheeks were
perfect.
Beneath the mahogany
coating, the length of the neck and the slope of the shoulders were
exact.
Beneath the rich
chocolate, the swell of the thighs and the turn of the ankles were
precise.
But the little
chocolatress was no where to be found. And surprisingly, he found
that he was saddened. The perfect statue was no longer good company,
it mocked his lonesome soul.
He gripped its
outstretched hand and the cocoa butter immediately began to melt.
His fingers brushed the pale wrist beneath, leaving ivory streaks
that revealed a strange sight.
Was that a flicker of
pulse there below the finely crafted blue veins he had so
painstakingly drawn?
Recoiling, he watched
a shiver move through the figure before him. Little by little the
chocolate shell cracked, raining slivers of confection across the
hardwood floor. He reached out himself to pull free the mask of her
face, the flawless, impeccable face that was somehow changed and
somehow all the dearer than before.
She raised her spun
sugar lashes and regarded him with eyes as dark as truffles, and rich
as the roasted husks of almonds. She shook free her hair the color
of a river of caramel.
When he kissed her
lips, they did not taste like marzipan, they did not taste like
cocoa.
They were sweeter
still.