Deep in the lower galleries of the Uffizi, a marble statue of Narcissus gazed into his mirrored pool. The statue was one of the museum’s minor treasures. Not only was the life-sized figure exquisitely carved; curators also pointed out that its bent-over posture marked a startlingly original advance in Renaissance composition.

Narcissus’s eyes were blank, but his limbs glistened and his rosebud lips were carved in a perfect pout.

At one point the statue had adorned the personal chamber of James I, at another the bedroom of a pope.

Now, thoroughly cleaned and restored, Narcissus waited among the other stone figures. The room was organized thematically: “Greek Statuary—Males—Nude.” It was a quiet gallery, where few tourists visited, despite the impressive dimensions of musculature on display.

But this afternoon Narcissus was going to have a visitor. The panicked sounds of Frederick Fabreigh’s footsteps were rapidly approaching the room.

Crying, then laughing, then crying again, Frederick staggered through the museum’s galleries, often dashing headlong through clusters of aristocratic tourists. Mothers clucked nervously and pulled their children out of his path, but Frederick didn’t notice.

He had seen The Stable Boy. He could still see The Stable Boy. He could not see anything else.

When he fled England with his wife, Frederick thought he would never again have to face that seductive servant—the man who had taken Frederick’s life in his hands, tortured and transformed it.

Then he saw The Stable Boy smoldering at him from inside a gilded frame on the Uffizi wall. Those eyes, the cruel twist of his upper lip, the falling curls of hair, the luminous skin, the ... the ... well, that, in all its bold tumescence. It was surely him. He had seen the waves of shock pass through Felicity’s body when she glimpsed the painting, and then he had seen the painted Stable Boy take possession of his living wife all over again.

All of their attempts to escape—Britain left behind, their manor falling into decrepitude––all for nothing. The Stable Boy had not been left behind. He was a stowaway, right there in Frederick’s loins. And now the stowaway was stirring.

Panting heavily, Frederick thrust himself through the doorway of the statue gallery and, with an anguished cry, fell to the ground. He tried to improvise poetry to calm himself; his artistic endeavors always had a pacifying effect:



“What mighty trunks to stables are transformed,

My life, my wife, and dignity thus scorned,

And soon to sully stable floors—”



No good! The poetry would not come. Frederick let out a choked scream and pounded the ground with his fists. So many days the verse had flowed out at the slightest suggestion, and here, now, when he needed it most, nothing. The poetry would not come.

Frederick’s teary eyes traced vaguely over the thrashing bare thighs of Laocoön and his sons, trapped like Frederick in snake-like coils of desire.

Frederick needed release. Without release he would go mad.

He pushed himself to his feet and, chest heaving, examined his options. The room was crowded with chiseled torsos, the rippling biceps and trim hips of demigods and Olympians. Frederick felt his mouth go dry. Some of the youths lacked heads or arms, but that hardly mattered. He stumbled from one statue to the next, his hands pawing desperately at the frozen flesh. They were perfect. So firm—so cold.

Frederick moved through the room in a frenzy, his heated lips leaving small patches of spittle on the marble limbs. He found himself in front of a massive statue of Alcibiades, the Athenian hero. Alcibiades’s cloak billowed behind him, framing the proud thrust of his hips and the jaunty angle of his spear. With a whimper of admiration, Frederick sunk to his knees and prepared to offer worship.

But Frederick’s eager grasp proved too rough for the ancient carving. Alcibiades’ crucial member broke off in his hand. Frederick eyed it with interest for a moment, then cast it aside with a curse. It was too small.

He eyed the spearhead. Too pointy.

The pressure was building up inside him, but Frederick, surrounded by stony nudes, had still not found the proper receptacle. Then, at last, he spotted Narcissus, fetchingly bent over a mirror designed to represent a pool of water.

Frederick was blind to the allegory. He approached the statue from behind, his attention focused on Narcissus’ welcoming curves.

With a moan of ecstasy, Frederick thrust his aching loins against the statue’s marble haunches. He seized the Narcissus’ shoulders and ground himself against the stone. “So beautiful,” he grunted, as he stroked Narcissus’ hairless chest. “So... smooth.” With a free hand, he loosened his belt and let his trousers drop around his ankles. The contact with the frigid marble made him groan in agony.

In the next gallery, two American tourists paused to gawk at Frederick through the open doorway. Frederick’s pasty body jerked against the marble form of Narcissus. Frederick was making a high-pitched, keening sound. Narcissus regarded his reflection complacently.

The two tourists looked at each other, appalled.

“You know what that is?” one of the men hissed. “That there is statutory r—”

“Let’s vamoose!” his companion interrupted, pulling him toward the exit.

Frederick noticed nothing. He was nearing the brink of bliss, and finally the poetry was coming, streaming out of him in waves.



“In long lassoes from the long lake the waters flow full,

Covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand,

Rising! Flowing! My big strong ashplant!

Spent, it ceases, flows purling, widely flowing,

Floating foampool…



In the wake of his shuddering poetic release, Frederick wandered hazily out of the museum. He nodded genially to every tourist he passed. They eyed him nervously. “I will find you,” Frederick whispered to himself. “Oh my Stable Boy, I am ready.”

Some hours later, after the Uffizi had closed, a custodian peered into the gallery of Greek nudes. He sensed something was wrong. Alcibiades had been violently castrated—but the custodian had seen that coming. No, it was something else. He crept further into the room. Was this one of his unlucky days? He approached the statue of Narcissus, paused, and reached out his hand. The custodian let his fingers brush, very gingerly, against the marble leg. It had happened again.

He shuffled off to find his mop.