Silhouette in Scarlet Read Online Free PDF Page A

before photography provided a cheap, convenient method of portraiture. I had not realized anyone still practised
it, and I was impressed by the examples the little grey man spread out. The outlined profiles, black on stark white mounts, captured an astonishing degree of individuality.
    ‘For so beautiful a lady I make a special price,’ the artist murmured. ‘Twenty kronor – if she will permit me to keep a copy for myself.’
    Leif shifted position and made grumbling noises. I disregarded them. I wasn’t especially anxious to hear what he had to say, and besides, my curiosity was aroused.
    ‘It’s a deal,’ I told the artist.
    His tools were the simplest imaginable – a pair of sharp scissors and a sheet of black paper. I gave him a profile, and watched out of the corner of my eye. After one long, measuring
survey, he began to cut, the paper turning smoothly in his hands as he clipped, without a pause or a second look at me. It was an astonishing performance, a demonstration of the art in its most
difficult and refined form of free-hand cutting. Less-skilled cutters worked from a shadow outline or a mechanically produced tracing of the profile. The little grey man was the latest, perhaps the
last, practitioner of a unique and dying art form.
    After an interval of less than three minutes he gave a grunt of satisfaction, laid the black outline against a piece of thick white cardboard, and held it up.
    It was me – I mean, I. I hadn’t realized my chin was quite so prominent, but it was unquestionably my chin. He had even managed to suggest the slightly dishevelled state of my hair
and the presence of the scarf that held it back from my face.
    Twenty kronor was dirt cheap for a display like that, but I couldn’t resist showing off. ‘Edouart only charged a shilling,’ I said with a smile.
    The artist had leaned down to open his briefcase. He came up so fast he almost cracked his head on the table.
    ‘You know Edouart?’
    ‘The greatest freehand cutter of all time, right?’
    ‘Yes, yes, he was the master.’ His face came alive. The tight, precisely chiselled lips parted eagerly. ‘I have studied his methods – his manner of holding the scissors,
for example. It is necessary to work quickly, very quickly, to capture – ’
    Leif cleared his throat. ‘Have you finished?’ The man’s face lost its animation. ‘Yes, of course. I beg pardon . . .’ Hastily dabbing mucilage on the back of the
silhouette, he fixed it to the cardboard and gave it to me.
    ‘You cut two at the same time,’ I said, as he repeated the process with the second portrait.
    ‘By folding the paper one obtains greater stability.’ He would have said more, but another cough from Leif stopped him. Eyes downcast, he began putting his materials away. I groped
for my purse, which was on the floor by my chair. My fumbling seemed to annoy Leif; he reached in his wallet and counted out twenty SEK. His manner was that of a surly patron tipping a servant. I
found it thoroughly offensive, and as the little man rose, I said warmly, ‘Thank you. It is a wonderful work of art and I’ll always treasure it. Will you do me the favour of signing
it?’
    Leif – unforgivably – laughed. The cutter’s face turned a dull red. The signature he produced was an unintelligible scrawl. I thanked him again, profusely. As he walked away,
the waiter came with our drinks.
    ‘Has this man annoyed you?’ he asked.
    ‘Quite the contrary.’ I showed him my portrait, and he grinned.
    ‘It is clever. I have not seen such work except in a museum.’
    ‘Then the artist is not an employee of the cafe?’ I asked.
    ‘No, no. We allow such people if they do not bother our customers. Most often they are singers or tellers of fortunes. This is original, at least . . . Do you wish to dine here? We have an
excellent smorgasbord.’
    ‘Fine,’ I said. It was a nice little cafe, very atmospheric, with dark beams and rough stone walls, and I figured I