Did he think of himself that way,as Hans Holbein the Younger,standing yawning in the mirror?He looked a little longer than usual,then built up his bowl of pearled foamand began to shave.He’d ordered a corpse, it was on its way.Fished from the Rhineand he’d asked for a ripe one.There was a horse, a horseman,a long rope, a corpsehauled onto the riverbank,a running bowline tossed casuallyaround an ankle. The long ropethen tied to the saddle witha gentle word or two for the horse,a dirt-caked Friesian named Samuelwho misunderstood and began galloping.As Hans shaved thoughtfullybeneath each nostril—the horseman left standingat the river—this Samuel ranas only a confused horse couldup the wet stone road,into and through town,dragging the tethered corpsewhich leaked water and bangeddisturbingly on the corners of buildings.It went on for a while.And because we believein poetry and uncanny timing,it was precisely as Hans arriveddownstairs and stepped outonto the front stoopthat this Samuel showed upin a dash and braked—a kind of sideways hockey-stop—which brought the corpsearound nicely (albeit abruptly)to the bare and bony feet ofthe clean-shaven Holbein. Hans Holbein the YoungerThe Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb, 1521–22