The Fan-Maker's Inquisition

In memory of my father,
who trusted me with
Justine;
I was sixteen.

To Virgil, in friendship;
to Jonathan, to
plaisance
.

Sections of this novel were first published in
Conjunctions
. The author wishes to extend her thanks to Bradford Morrow, Tracy Brown, Sandra Dijkstra; to Guy, for the de Gouges library; to tireless, gentle Cath.

There is no explosion except a book
.

—Mallarmé

—A fan is like the thighs of a woman: It opens and closes. A good fan opens with a flick of the wrist. It produces its own weather—a breeze not so strong as to muss the hair.

There is a vocabulary attendant upon fan-making. Like a person, the fan has three principal parts:
Les brins
, or ribs, are most often of wood;
les panaches
, or, as courtesans call them, the legs, are also made of wood, or ivory, or mother-of-pearl (and these may also be jade: green—the color of the eye; rose—the color of the flesh; and white—the color of the teeth); the mount—and this is also a sexual term—which is sometimes called
la feuille
, or the leaf (another sexual term, dating, it is said, from the time of Adam)—the mount is made of paper, or silk, or swanskin—

—Swanskin?

—A fine parchment made from the skin of an unborn lamb, limed, scraped very thin, and smoothed down with pumice and chalk. The mount may be made of taffeta, or lace, or even feathers—but these are cumbersome. A fan trimmed with down has a tendency to catch to the lips if they are moist or rouged. A paper fan can be a treasure, especially if it is from Japan. The Japanese make the finest paper fans, and the most obscene. These are sturdier than one might think. Such a fan is useful when one is bored, forced to sup with an ailing relative whose ivory dentures stink. It is said that the pleated fan is an invention of the Japanese and that the Chinese collapsed in laughter when it was first introduced to China. The prostitutes, however, took to it at once.

—Why is that?

—Because it can be folded and tucked up a sleeve when, having lifted one’s skirts and legs, one goes about one’s business. Soon the gentlemen were sticking theirs down their boots—a gesture of evident sexual significance. Once I saw a fan from India: The
panaches
were carved to look like hooded cobras about to strike the naked beauty who, stretched out across the mount, lay sleeping. That was a beautiful fan.

—Earlier you referred to the three parts of the person. Name these.

—The head, the trunk, and the limbs.

—Exactly so. Please continue.

—Little mirrors may be glued to the fan so that one may admire oneself and dazzle others. It may be pierced with windows of mica or studded with gems. A telescopic lens may be attached to the summit of a
panache;
such a fan is useful at the theater. The Comtesse Gimblette owns a fan made of a solid piece of silver cut in the form of a heart and engraved with poetry:

A red fan is a symbol of love; a black one, of death, of course.

—When the fan in question—the one found in the locked chamber at La Coste—was ordered, what did Sade say, exactly?

—He came into the
atelier
looking very dapper, and he said: “I want to order a pornographic
ventilabrum
!” And he burst out laughing. I said: “I understand ‘pornographic,’
monsieur
, but
‘ventilabrum’?
” “
Aflabellum
!” he cried, laughing even more. “With a scene of flagellation.” “I can paint it on a
fan,”
I said, somewhat out of patience with him, although I have to admit I found him perfectly charming, “on velvet or on velum, and I can do you a
vernis Martin
—” This caused him to double over with hilarity. “Do me!” he cried.
“Do
me, you seductive, adorable fan-maker, a
vernis Martin
as best you can and as quickly as you can, and I will be your eternal servant.” “You do me too much honor,” I replied. Then I took down his order and asked for an advance to buy the ivory. (Because of the guild regulations, I purchase the skeletons from another craftsman.) Sade wanted a swanskin mount set to ivory—which he wanted
very
fine.

—Meaning?

—The ivory of domesticated elephants is brittle because the animals eat too much salt. Wild ivory is denser, far more beautiful and more expensive, too. For pierced work it cannot be surpassed. Then the mount needed thin slices of ivory cut into ovals for the faces,
les fesses
, the breasts…

—This request was unusual?

—I have received stranger requests, citizen.

—Continue.

—The slivers of ivory, no bigger than a fingernail, give beauty and interest to swanskin and velum—as does mother-of-pearl. I am sometimes able to procure these decorative elements for a fair price from a maker of buttons and belt buckles because I have an arrangement with him.

—Describe this arrangement.

—I paint his buttons.

—Continue.

—The making of buckles and buttons is not wasteful; nonetheless, there is always something left over, no matter the industry. I also use scraps to embellish the
panaches
—not where the fingers hold the fan, because over time the skin’s heat causes even the best paste to soften. But farther up, the pieces hold so fast no one has ever complained.

—And this is the paste that was used to fix the six wafers to the upper section of the…mount?

—The same. Although I diluted it, as the wafers were so fragile.

—The entire fan is fragile.

—So I told Sade. He said it did not matter. The fan was an amusement. A gift for a whore.

—Some would call it blasphemy. Painting licentious acts, including sodomy, on the body of Christ.

—We are no more living beneath the boot of the Catholic Church, citizen. I never was a practicing Catholic. Like the paste that holds them to the fan, the wafers are made of flour and water. They are of human manufacture, and nothing can convince me of their sacredness.

—Your association with a notorious libertine and public enemy is under question today. Personally, I don’t give a fig for blasphemy, although I believe there is no place in the Revolution for sodomites. But now, before we waste any more time, will you describe for the Comité the scenes painted on the fan. [The fan, in possession of the Comité de Surveillance de la Commune de Paris, is handed to her.] Is this the fan you made for Sade?

—Of course it is. [She examines the fan, briefly.] It is a convention to paint figures and scenes within cartouches placed against a plain background or, perhaps, a background decorated with a discreet pattern of stars, or hearts, or even eyes—as I have done here. In this case there are two sets of cartouches: the six painted wafers, well varnished, at the top, and the three large, isolated scenes beneath—three being the classic number.

—And now describe for the Comité the scenes.

—There is a spaniel.

—The girl is naked.

—All the girls are naked, as are all the gentlemen. Except for the Peeping Tom hiding just outside the window.

—And the spaniel.

—He is dressed in a little vest, and he carries a whip in his teeth.

—His master’s whip?

—His master’s whip.

—And the…master is in the picture, too?

—Yes! Smack in the middle. It is a portrait of Sade with an enormous erection!

—As specified in the agreement?

—Exactly. “Have it point to the
tight
!” he said. “Because if I could fuck God right in the eye, I would.” And he laughed. “Point it right for Hell,” he said. So I did.

—The Comité is curious to know about your continued service to the Marquis de Sade.

—I paint pictures for him, and I—

—What is the nature of these pictures? Why is he wanting pictures?

—Because he is in prison! He has nothing before his eyes but the guillotine! All day he has nothing to occupy his mind but executions, and all night nothing but his own thoughts.

—Explosive thoughts.

—Yes. Those are his words: “explosive thoughts.” He has told me that the pictures serve not only to amuse and occupy his mind. They also enable him to follow the itinerary of his madness—for he believes he is going mad and has little else to do but be the observer of his own destruction. “My head,” he told me, “will be rolling soon.” He was
not
referring to the guillotine. “If I didn’t have your pictures,” he said not long ago, “my skull would explode under the pressure of my imagination, and this tower splattered with blood and brains.”

—Do you believe such a thing possible?

—Of course not. The walls splattered with blood and brains is a description of how he feels. He also says his head is an oven, an oven so hot it burns everything that goes into it. He says, “My daydreams are all char and smoke. The stench of my own thoughts makes it impossible to breathe.”

—At this point, I would ask you to read aloud this letter—the first of many—taken from your rooms on the night of the eleventh.

—[Taking up the letter:] Ah! The one I call “A Cup of Chocolate.”