Art of Murder

by Jose Carlos Somoza

  'You got scared over nothing,' her mother told her, running up when she heard her cry out, and folding her into her arms.

  Dawn was painting the deep indigo of the roof a lighter blue. Clara blinked, and the images of her dream dissolved in the light streaming on to her walls. Everything around her was as it should be, but inside she still felt the swirling memory of her distant childhood, that 'scare over nothing' in the attic of their house in Alberca, a year before her father died.

  The alarm clock had gone off: half past seven. She remembered her appointment in plaza Desiderio Gaos with the mysterious Mr Friedman and leapt out of bed.

  Since becoming a professional work of art she had learnt to look on dreams as strange instructions sent by an anonymous artist inside us. She was puzzled as to why her unconscious had chosen to place this piece from her life long ago on to the board again.

  Perhaps it meant that the door to the attic was open once more.

  And that someone was inviting her in to confront horror.

  4

  Paul Benoit's eyes were not violet, but the lights in the room almost made them look it. Lothar Bosch studied them, and not for the first time knew he had to tread carefully. Where Paul Benoit was concerned, it was always wise to be cautious.

  'Do you know what the problem is, Lothar? The problem is that nowadays everything valuable is ephemeral. I mean that in days gone by solidity and the ability to last were what gave value: a sarcophagus, a statue, a temple or a canvas. But now everything of value is consumed, used up, disappears - whether you're talking about natural resources, drugs, protected species or art. We've left behind the era when scarce products were more valuable precisely because of their scarcity. That was logical. But what's the consequence of that? Today, for things to be more valuable, they have to be scarce. We've inverted cause and effect. We tell ourselves: Good things are rare. So let's make sure bad things are rare, and that will make them good.

  He paused and stretched out his hand almost without looking. The Trolley was ready to hand him his porcelain cup, but his gesture took her by surprise. There was a fatal hesitation, and the head of Conservation's fingers knocked against the cup and spilled some of the contents on to the saucer. Quickly and efficiently, the Trolley substituted another saucer and wiped the cup with one of the paper napkins she was carrying on the lacquer table attached to her midriff. The white label hanging from her right wrist described her as Maggie. Bosch did not know Maggie, but of course there were many ornaments he had not come across. Although she was kneeling down, it was obvious Maggie was very tall, probably almost two metres. Perhaps that was the reason why she had not become a work of art, Bosch reflected.

  'Nowadays there's no money in buying or selling a painting on canvas,' Benoit went on, 'precisely because they are not consumed quickly enough. Do you know what the key to the success of hyperdramatic art has been? Its short shelf life. We pay more, and more readily, for a work that lasts only as long as someone's youth than for a work that will carry on for a hundred or two hundred years. Why? For the same reason we spend more during the sales than we do on a normal shopping day. It's the "Quick, it'll soon be over!" syndrome. That's why our adolescent works of art are so valuable.'

  Perfect result the second time, thought Bosch: the Trolley was carefully following Benoit's movements, and he helped by carefully grasping the second cup she held out to him. 'Try some of this concoction, Lothar. It smells like tea, and tastes of tea, yet it isn't tea. The thing is, if it smells and tastes like tea, to me it is tea. But it doesn't make me nervous and it soothes my ulcer.'

  Bosch caught hold of the delicate imitation porcelain cup the Trolley was offering him. He looked down at the liquid. It was hard to make out its real colour in the funereal violet light of the room. He decided it might be violet as well. He lifted it to his nose. It was true, it did smell like tea. He tried it. It tasted like nothing on earth. Like caramel liquidised with cough medicine. He stifled a grimace and was pleased to see Benoit had not noticed. Better that way. He pretended to drink some more.

  The room they were in was part of the MuseumsQuartier. It was large and rectangular, soundproofed and dotted with violet-coloured lights: in the ceiling the lights were a soft purple, in the floor a cobalt-blue colour, while the square wall lights were a pale lavender, so that they all seemed to be floating in a violet fish tank. Except for the Trolley, there were no other ornaments. The far wall of the room was like a TV gallery. Ten closed-circuit monitors were grouped together; they were all switched off, and reflected crescent moons of violet light.

  Sitting in front of them were Willy de Baas and two of his assistants. They were about to begin the psychological support session held every Saturday night. This came under the Conservation department, which Paul Benoit was directly responsible for. It was obvious De Baas felt nervous at having his boss breathing down his neck.

  With an expression of pure pleasure, Benoit put the cup back on its saucer. He licked his lips and looked across at Bosch. The wall lights made his pupils look red; his bald patch glowed like a cardinal's cap, and his feet and the lower half of his trousers gave off violet gleams.

  'All of which explains why what happened to Deflowering is so dangerous, Lothar. Adolescent works of art like that are extremely valuable. Fortunately, we have managed to keep the news quiet in Amsterdam. Only those at the highest levels know about it. Stein made no comment, and Hoffmann could scarcely believe it. And, of course, they haven't informed the Maestro. 'Rembrandt is due to open on 15 July, and some of the canvases are still being stretched or primed. So the Maestro is unreachable. But it's said heads will roll. Not yours or April's of course ...'

  'It was nobody's fault, Paul,' Bosch said. 'We were just caught out, that's all. Whether it was Oscar Diaz or not, it was a good plan, and they caught us out.'

  'The thing is,' Benoit insisted, holding out his cup for the Trolley to refill it, 'that we have to make sure it's we who find him. We need to interrogate him ourselves - the police wouldn't know how to get all the information we need out of him. You understand, don't you?'

  'I understand perfectly, and we're working on it. We've searched his apartment in New York and his hotel room here in Vienna, but we haven't found anything unusual. We know he's a keen photographer and likes the countryside. We're trying to find his sister and mother in Mexico, but I don't think they'll have much of interest to tell us.'

  'Didn't I hear he had a girlfriend in New York . . . ?'

  'Yes, by the name of Briseida Canchares. She's Colombian, an art graduate. The police don't know about her: we preferred not to tell them, and to look for her ourselves. Briseida met Oscar in

  Amsterdam a month ago. Several of Oscar's colleagues saw them together. She got a grant from Leiden University to study classical painters and lived there from the beginning of the year, but she's vanished too ...'

  'That's a remarkable coincidence.'

  'Of course. Thea talked to her Leiden friends yesterday. Apparently, Briseida went off to Paris with another boyfriend. We've sent Thea there to see if it's true. We're expecting news from her at any moment.' Bosch wondered whether Benoit would be offended if he realised he was not going to drink any more of his horrible concoction. He carefully concealed the cup under his left hand.

  'We have to find her and make her talk, Lothar. By whatever means necessary. You do realise the situation we're in, don't you?'

  'Yes, I do Paul.'

  'Deflowering was going to be sold at Sotheby's in the autumn. The sale would have made even the sports pages. Headlines like: Naked teenager sold at auction; The most valuable adolescent in history . . . well, the sort of nonsense you always find on the front pages . . . except, that in this case, the nonsense would have been accurate. Deflowering was the most valuable piece in the 'Flowers' exhibition, and we haven't found a replacement. The offers we were receiving were far higher than those we got in the past for Purple, Marigold or Tulip. In fact, the bidding had already started. You know how we l
ike to play people off against each other.'

  Bosch nodded as he pretended to take another sip of tea. All he did was wet his lips.

  'You'd be astonished if you knew how much people were willing to pay for the monthly rental of that work,' Benoit went on. 'Besides, I knew how to put pressure on the most interested collectors. Deflowering had been very sad recently. Willy thought she might be entering a depression, but I had an idea of how we could use that to our advantage.' Benoit's eyes glinted triumphantly. 'We spread the news that the cost of psychotherapy would make the rental of the painting even more expensive. And then any buyer had to bear in mind that the work was only fourteen and so needed to go out, travel, have fun, buy herself lots of things ... in short, that they would have to spend a fortune if they didn't want to pay three times more for a restoration. Stein told me it was a masterstroke.' He pursed his lips and rolled back his eyes in a typical gesture. Bosch knew he was listening to echoes of the praise he had received. He loves reminding himself of his triumphs, thought Bosch. 'In two years we would have recouped the cost of the work from the rental fees alone. Then we could have negotiated a replacement, if the Maestro had agreed to it. The original canvas wouldn't have been so young any more, so we'd have got rid of her. But there would have been another one. We'd have had to lower the rent a bit, of course, but we could have used the difficulty we found in substituting the original to cream off another substantial profit. Deflowering would have gone down in history as one of the most expensive works of art ever. But now . . .'

  The TV monitors started to hum, and came alive. The support session was about to start. De Baas and his assistants were ready to hear complaints from works with problems. Benoit did not appear to notice: he was pursing his lips again, but this time his expression was far from triumphant.

  'But now all that's down the drain .. .'

  One of De Baas' assistants gestured towards the Trolley. It would have been no use trying to shout at her, because the Trolley was wearing ear protectors, as all ornaments did to prevent them hearing any private conversations. The Trolley got delicately to her feet, padded barefoot across the violet floor carrying the teapot and cups, and began to serve De Baas tea. Who could Maggie be, Bosch suddenly asked himself; from what remote part of the world could she have come, and with what remote hopes? What was she doing naked in a room like this, her head shaved, wearing ear protectors, her skin painted mauve with black flourishes, and a board strapped to her waist for a table? He would never get an answer, because ornaments did not speak to anyone, and no one ever asked them anything.

  'What I'd like to know, Lothar,' Benoit suddenly said, 'is if all this might be some kind of ... if there's any suggestion it might have been staged.' As he said this, he waved his right hand in the air. 'Do you follow me?' 'You mean that...?'

  'I mean could it all be a ... I shudder even to say it... a piece of theatre?'

  Theatre.' Bosch echoed him.

  At that precise moment the face of Jacinto Moteado appeared on the TV monitors. This was the first work to have asked for support, and had obviously just had a shower and washed the paint off. The smooth skull and primed skin, devoid of eyebrows and lashes, stood out against a black background. The eyes were as expressionless as milky marbles. The label around the neck was just visible.

  'Buona sera, Pietro,' De Baas said cheerfully, speaking into the microphone. 'How can we help you?'

  'Hello, Mr De Baas.' The voice of the Italian work boomed out through the loudspeakers. 'The usual problem. The dioxacine brings me out in a rash. I don't know why Mr Hoffmann insists on using it for the indigo on my arms .. .'

  Benoit only followed the conversation between De Baas and the canvas for a moment. Then he spoke to Bosch once more:

  ‘Yes, a piece of theatre. Let me explain. At first sight, Oscar Diaz is a psycho-whatever, isn't he? He's looked after the painting several times and while he was doing so, he was getting his kicks imagining how he was going to destroy it. He plans everything carefully, and decides to make his move on Wednesday night. He is the van driver, but instead of heading for the hotel, he goes to the woods. There, he's got everything prepared. He forces the work to read an absurd text and records her voice, then slices her up and performs his crazy rituals, whatever they might have been. That's the theory, isn't it?'

  'More or less, yes.'

  'Well now, just imagine it was all stage-managed. Imagine that Diaz is no crazier than you or I, and that the recordings and all the sadistic paraphernalia are a piece of theatre aimed at throwing us off the scent. To make us think it was the work of some serial killer when in reality it was our competitors who paid him to destroy the painting just before the auction.' He paused, raised an eyebrow. 'You used to be a policeman, Lothar. What do you make of the idea?'

  Ridiculous, Bosch thought to himself. Fortunately for him, he did not have to conceal his thoughts as he had done the cup to prevent Benoit guessing what he was thinking.

  'I find it hard to accept,' he said finally.

  'Why?'

  'Because I simply cannot believe someone was capable of doing that to a girl like Annek simply to spoil our multi-million dollar sale, Paul. You have more experience in that area, but . . . just think - if they wanted to destroy the canvas, there are a thousand quicker ways of doing it ... and even if they wanted to imitate a sadistic act, as you say, there are other ways to go about it... she was a fourteen-year-old girl, godammit. They cut her up with . .. with a sort of electric saw ... and she was still alive while they were doing it...'

  'She was not a fourteen-year-old girl, Lothar,' Benoit corrected him. 'She was a painting valued at a starting price of fifty million dollars.'

  'OK, but. . .'

  'Either you see it that way, or you'll be on completely the wrong track.'

  Bosch nodded. For a few moments all that could be heard was the dialogue between De Baas and Speckled Hyacinth.

  'Dioxacine helps create a deeper violet-blue colour, Pietro.'

  'You always say the same thing, Mr De Baas ... but it's not your arms that itch the whole time.'

  'Please, Pietro, don't get so upset. We're trying to help you. I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll talk to Mr Hoffmann. If he says the dioxacine is essential, we'll find some way to anaesthetise your arms ... just your arms - what do you think? ... It could be done.. .'

  'Fifty million dollars is a lot of money,' said Benoit.

  At this, Bosch's semblance of calm evaporated. He stopped nodding and glared at Benoit.

  'Yes, a lot. But just you point out to me the person capable of doing that to a fourteen-year-old girl in order to spoil our million-dollar auction. Point that person out to me and tell me: He's the one. And let me look him in the eye and see for myself there's nothing but money, works of art and auctions on his mind. Only then will I admit you're right'

  A clink of china. One of De Baas' assistants was putting the empty cups back on the Trolley, who was waiting on her knees to receive them.

  'Of course I'm not saying the person who destroyed the canvas was a Saint Francis of Assisi, if that's what you mean .. .'

  'He was a sadistic bastard.' Bosch's cheeks flamed a colour that the lights in the room turned to a deep maroon. 'I can't wait to lay my hands on him.'

  The two men fell silent. 'Getting mad with Benoit won't get you anywhere,' Bosch told himself. 'Calm down.' He glanced over at the screens. The canvas was busy agreeing with De Baas' advice. Bosch remembered that Speckled Hyacinth was displayed with the right calf lifted over the shoulder and the head resting on the sole of the foot. He could not imagine himself twisted into such a contortion for even a split second, but Hyacinth put up with it for six hours a day.

  Bosch realised Benoit was also looking at the screens.

  'My God, what it takes to conserve these works. Sometimes I dream of destroying them, too.'

  Hearing words like this from the Head of Conservation took Lothar Bosch aback. Benoit often spoke harshly when there were no canvases or luxury
ornaments who could hear him, but he did not usually show any weakness. At least, not in public. He gave the false impression of being a gentle old age pensioner one could trust. His bald, round head looked like an anti-stress ball: you looked at it, and it seemed you could squeeze it to help you relax. In fact, it was he who squeezed yours without you being aware of it. Bosch knew that before joining the Foundation he had been a private clinical psychologist in an upper-class district of Paris, and that his previous profession was very useful to him in dealing with the canvases. A very special therapeutic coup had led the doctor to change jobs overnight. Valerie Roseau, a young French canvas Van Tysch had used to paint his early masterpiece The Pyramid, had one day refused to continue to be shown in the Stedelijk. This provoked a multi-million dollar crisis. Valerie had been in treatment for years for her neurosis. The specialists knew this was at the root of her refusal to be exhibited, and tried all they could to cure her. Benoit adopted a different strategy: instead of trying to cure Valerie's neurosis, he convinced her to carry on in the museum. Stein immediately offered him the post of Head of Conservation.