O+F | Page 7

one, and handed it
to Oliver. "The guest gets the clean glass." He washed one for himself
and filled them both. "Cellini," he toasted.
"Pavarotti," Oliver responded. "And other great Italians. Did you know
my mother is Italian?"
"Some people have all the luck."
"Yeah," Oliver said. "She was a singer when she was young."
"Probably cooks, too," George said.
"Yeah."
"Jesus, Olive Oil."
"She's coming through this weekend. She and Paul, her husband. They
go to Quebec every year."
"Good eating in Quebec."
"You bet," Oliver said. "She likes to dress up. They have a good time."
"Wow," George said. "I don't think my mom has bought a dress in
twenty years. Says she's too old for that foolishness."
"My mom is too old, but it doesn't stop her." He looked at the furnace.
"So, what are we doing?"
"We're set," George said. They crossed the loft, and he handed Oliver a
propane torch. "I'll turn on the gas at the main tank. You light it.
There's the blower valve." He pointed to a round handle mounted
between the blower and the pipe that led to the furnace. Oliver lit the
torch and knelt by the furnace. George stood by the propane tank.
"Hope this works. You ready?"
"Do it."
George opened the line, and Oliver angled the torch tip down into the
furnace. Nothing happened for several moments. There was a
whooshing sound, and George said, "Holy Mama!" A blue flame, the
size of a beach ball, was bouncing under the wooden ceiling joists.
Oliver concentrated. Air. He reached back and grabbed the blower
valve, twisting it counter-clockwise. Almost immediately, the blue
flame lowered. He continued opening the valve. The flame pirouetted

irregularly down an invisible column, drawn toward the furnace.
"Air," he shouted. "Not enough air until it got way the hell up there."
"Keep going," George said.
The flame reached the top of the furnace and began to whirl in a tight
spiral. It plunged inside, roaring and spinning at high speed. The floor
shook. "Jesus," George said.
"It's like a Goddamn bomb," Oliver said.
George put an ingot of bronze into a carbon crucible and gripped the
edge of the crucible with long tongs. He lowered the crucible to the
bottom of the furnace. "Put the top on," he said. Oliver lifted and
pushed the top over the furnace. The roaring became muffled,
contained. It felt safer. "Nice going, about the air," George said. "I
thought we were going to burn the place down."
"Physics," Oliver said. George looked down through the hole in the top.
"Nothing yet." He stood back. A few minutes later the ingot began to
slide toward the bottom of the crucible. "There she goes," George said.
"It's working." He opened the door of the kiln, and, using a different set
of tongs, extracted the flask. He set the flask, glowing cherry red,
upside down in a flat pan of sand. He shut off the gas and unplugged
the blower. "The top," he said, handing Oliver a pair of heavy gloves
and pointing. Oliver worked the top over one edge of the drum, tipped
it down, and rolled it onto three bricks.
George reached into the furnace with the long tongs. He lifted the
crucible from the furnace and walked with careful steps to the flask.
Holding the lip of the crucible over the flask, he tipped his body to one
side. The bronze poured like golden syrup into the hole where the wax
had been, quickly filling the mold.
George lowered the crucible back into the furnace. After the roaring, it
seemed unusually silent. "Intense," Oliver said. "Now what?" George
picked up the hot flask with the second pair of tongs and dropped it into
a bucket of water. There was a burst of sizzling and bubbling, and it
was quiet again.
"The temperature shock weirds out the investment. It changes state--to
a softer stuff that we can get off the bronze." George poured the water
into his bathtub and refilled the bucket with cold water. "Still hot," he
said.
They drank wine while the flask cooled. When George could hold the

flask, he pushed the investment out of the cylinder and chipped at it
with a screwdriver. A hip appeared. "The Flying Lady," Oliver said.
"Damn!" George said, chipping and prying. Gobs of oatmeal colored
investment fell away. "Not bad!" George held up the Lady and the heart
on their bronze tree. "We cut them off and
polish. . ."
An hour later, filled with wine and a sense of accomplishment, Oliver
walked up Danforth Street. The bronze heart was solid and heavy in his
pocket. He warmed it in his hand, feeling the O, the plus sign, and the F
over and over again, a mantra said with the ball