Art of Murder

by Jose Carlos Somoza

  The Walden twins were born to be paintings. It was no accident that the only thing they had succeeded in doing in their lives was to stay still in a corner and allow humanity to heap abuse on them. They were two buddhas, two statues, two contented and unchanging beings. They were insured for an amount considerably greater than most of Van Gogh's creations. They had endured a lengthy calvary of being expelled from schools, sacked from jobs, of prison sentences and loneliness. The public, the same humanity as always, still looked on them scornfully, but the Waldens had finally understood that art can be born even from scorn.

  There was still one question: Was it them? The killer of Helga Blanchard and her son had still not been found. Tell me, please: Was it them?

  'When the answer to that question is known, our price will go down,' one of the brothers told a well-known German art critic.

  So their stupid red-faced grins stay in place, their cheeks are like round bruised apples of rouge, and their eyes gleam with the memories of past orgies.

  By now they had finished getting dressed and groomed, and put themselves in the hands of a larger than normal security team.

  'That's Art for you, Miss Schimmel. Art with a capital "A" I mean ... The request doesn't come from me, it comes from Art, and that means you have to fulfil it.' Hubertus winked at his brother, but Arnoldus was listening to music on his Walkman and didn't notice. 'Yes, a platinum blond ... I don't care if that's hard for you to arrange for tonight... we want a platinum blond, Miss Schimmel... don't argue, silly woman ... bzzz ... bzzz ... I'm afraid I can't hear you, Miss Schimmel, there's a problem on the line, I'll have to hang up.' Hubertus' tongue flicked in and out of his tiny lips with reptilian grace and speed. 'Bzzz ... bzzz ... I can't hear a word, Miss Schimmel! I hope you can find a platinum blond. If you can't, you'll have to come up yourself ... wear a mac, but nothing else underneath ... Bzzzz ... I have to hang up! Auf Wiedersehenl'

  *Who were you talking to?' asked Arnoldus, turning down his music.

  'That stupid woman Schimmel. She's always causing problems.'

  'We ought to complain to Mr Benoit. They should throw her out’

  'She should be begging on a street comer.' 'Or working as a whore.'

  'Or they could chain her up, put a collar on her, give her an anti-rabies shot, and hand her over to us.'

  'No, I don't like puppies. I don't like cleaning up dog poo. Tell me, Hubertus .. ‘

  'What, Arnoldus?'

  'Do you think we're happy?'

  For an instant, the two brothers stared up at the dark roof of their van, where the bright cyclorama of the Munich night was flashing by.

  'It’s hard to tell’ said Hubertus. 'Eternity is a huge tragedy’ 'And it lasts forever’

  Shimmering, quivering, the windows of the Wunderbar hotel were reflected in the van's shiny paintwork as it drew up at the front entrance. The four guards took up strategic positions. Saltzer, the leader of the squad, motioned to one of his men, who poked his head into the van's open back door and said something. Hubertus ceremoniously deposited his massive bulk on the pavement, in front of a row of tasselled porters. Arnoldus got his jacket pocket caught on the door handle. He pulled as hard as he could, and the pocket ripped. Too bad: he had about a hundred more made by the same tailor, and he could always wear one of his brother's if need be.

  The security agent used a remote control to switch on the lights in the entrance hall to the suite. Background music emerged from dark corners like a sinuously elegant dark fish.

  'All clear in the hall, over’ he said, talking into the miniature microphone beneath his mouth.

  The living area contained a heated swimming pool, a bar and the painting by Gianfranco Gigli. A promising disciple of Ferrucioli, he had unfortunately died of a heroin overdose two years earlier. Thanks to his death, the few works he had completed (androgynous masked figures dressed in ballet dancer costumes) had soared in value. This Gigli work lay on the floor next to the swimming pool like a silky black panther. The mask had only the absolute minimum of features drawn on it. The entire work was embroidered by the shifting web of light made by the reflections on the surface of the pool. There was a smell of noble woods, and the temperature in this part was much more agreeable than in the rest of the suite. 'All clear in the living room, over.'

  The agent's voice echoed from the labyrinth of rooms in the suite. Hubertus had walked over to the steel bar counter and was serving himself champagne. Arnoldus was trying unsuccessfully to reach down to his shoes. He wished one day he could touch his toes. His failure spoilt all his good humour.

  'I'll never understand,' he began in a surprisingly quiet tone (he never raised his voice), 'why Mr Benoit doesn't provide us with appliances to help us when we're on tour. I've had an arseful of all this effort I have to make.'

  'Arses are round,' Hubertus said, refilling his glass. 'In some people, they are two circles; in others, only one. Bernard's arse, for example ... is it one or two?'

  Luckily, Arnoldus could easily get his shoes off without needing to use his hands, and he did so. His trousers also came off after simply undoing a button.

  'Hubert, do you mind lowering the lights on that wall? They're shining straight in my eyes.'

  'If you moved, they wouldn't bother you, Arno.'

  'Please...'

  'OK. I don't want to argue about it.'

  'All clear in the sauna, over' a distant voice moaned.

  'Haven't you finished yet, Bernard? We're expecting someone, you asshole.'

  'All clear in Bernard, over.'

  'All clear in Bernard's little asshole, over.'

  The security agent did not even look at them while he checked the living room once more. Their cruel jokes had long since ceased to have any effect on him. He knew why they were so impatient, but he preferred not to think about it. He did not want to have to imagine what would happen in that room when their visitor arrived.

  The visitor was almost always accompanied by an adult. If he was a little older, he might come on his own, disguised as a bellboy or a waiter so as not to arouse suspicion. But the normal thing was for him to be with an adult. Bernard did not know what happened afterwards, and did not want to know. Nor did he know when the visitor left, if he did leave, or how and where. That was not his responsibility. The problem . . . the problem comes from ...

  It's not that Bernard has moral scruples. It's not that he thinks he's doing something wrong by carrying out orders. He likes working for the Foundation. He earns more than he would anywhere else, his job is not difficult (as long as there are no complications) and Miss Wood and Mr Bosch are ideal bosses. Bernard hopes to save enough to be able to leave work and the city, this and all other cities. He wants to go and live in peace in some remote spot with his wife and small daughter. He knows full well he will never do it, but he thinks about it all the time just the same.

  The problem with works like the Monsters, thinks Bernard, is that they can never be substituted. If the Walden twins were not there, who could replace them? Their biographies were essential to the painting just as light and shade were to a Rembrandt. Without their past, Monsters would not be worth a cent: it would not have given rise to all the rivers of ink, all the tonnes of computer bytes; whole books, or encyclopedia entries would not have been written about it; there would have been no TV debates, or ferocious arguments among theologians, psychologists, legal experts, educators, sociologists and anthropologists; no one would have tried to throw shit at them; there would not have been a whole legion of imitators; and nor would there be the astronomical profits generated by the exhibition loans the Van Tysch Foundation made to the world's most important museums and galleries. And that old Hollywood director, Robertson, would not be counting the days until Van Tysch made up his mind to sell the work.

  Monsters was the goose that laid the golden eggs. The bad thing was, the goose knew it.

  'All clear, over and out.'

  'Leaving so soon, Bernard?' 'Don't you like us any more?'


  'Of course he likes us, Arno. Bernard's little arse sighs for us.'

  Whistling a show tune, Bernard shut the soundproof door between the living room and the hallway. He breathed a sigh of relief. His work was over for the night: Monsters, one of the most valuable works in the entire history of art, was safe and sound. And fortunately, he could no longer hear the twins.

  As soon as art becomes divorced from moral considerations, it's on a slippery slope, thinks Bernard. Why can't the Maestro understand that? There are things which can't... which should not ever be turned into art, he thinks.

  'I'm going to have a shower,' Arnoldus said. 'I'm still sticky with paint. I hope you haven't drunk all the champagne, Hubert.'

  'Of course not, of course not. How could you think I'd be so fucking inconsiderate?'

  There's steam in the room: why don't you turn the temperature of the pool down a bit?'

  'I like it hot, hot, hot. Mmm.'

  Arno flapped his arm dismissively, and walked down the corridor to their luxurious bathroom. The shower taps were turned on, then came the sound of his castrato voice singing an aria.

  Hubertus tested the water with his fingers. It was an enormous, circular pool. That is what they had demanded. The Walden brothers adored everything round. Everything that was geometrically in tune with their anatomies. Psychologically in tune with their preferences: the juvenile works from The Circle, for example. One of their favourite fan clubs (they had thousands of fans all over the world) was called The Circle of Monsters. They sent the brothers their round stickers with slogans defending artistic freedom of expression and attacking intolerance.

  With Arnoldus' fight with the opera in the background, Hubertus bent forward into the water, and floated off like a buoy that has lost its moorings. His yellow neck label floated on the turquoise water, tugged along by the blubbery cylinder of flesh. In the centre of the pool, Hubertus Walden felt like the Primordial Egg, the solitary Ovule at the supreme moment of fecundation. The water was the same depth all round: if he stood up, it came to just above his belly. Grandpa Paul did not want there to be the slightest chance of them drowning. He half-closed his eyes, sunken in the rolls of fat like a pair of signet rings, as the shimmering light of the water dissolved into white stripes. It was fantastic to live surrounded by luxury, to be caressed by the waves of that immense tank heated to just the right temperature. He wondered if the head of naturally platinum blond hair would reflect up to the ceiling when the light from the walls fell directly on to it.

  His brother was massacring another aria in the bathroom. As he listened, Hubertus thought what an abject, perverse, cowardly and vicious person Arnoldus was. He hated him profoundly, but could not live without him. He thought of him the way he did his own inner organs: as something intimate, unavoidable, repugnant. At primary school, it was Arno who was always getting into trouble, but both of them were punished. 'If one of you is to blame, the two of you will pay,' Miss Linz used to say, eyes shining. And that was how it had been all his life: with their father, the judges, the police. That fat, soft, sickly creature singing out of tune in the bathroom (although still without raising his voice) was the one who had led Hubertus astray. Wasn't it Arnoldus who had thought up the plan to amuse themselves with Helga Blanchard and her son?

  A quell'amor ... quell'amor die palpito ...

  He remembered it all only in fragments, as though wrapped in golden mists, almost like a fascinating sweet: the mother's eyes widening in terror, hmmm, the ear-splitting cries, the small agonising hands...

  ... Dell'universe . . . Dell'universo intern ...

  ... flashes of fragile flesh, hmmm, mouths opening in perfect circles, a roundness drained of blood .. .

  ... Misterioso, misterioso altero ...

  At first it seemed as though they had messed up again. That amateur painter working with his easel near Helga Blanchard's house had seen them. But the defence lawyer with dandruff had been extraordinary. What had looked as though it could be the end of their lives had suddenly become a wonderful fresh start.

  The serpent biting its own tail. The perfect circle. What a beautiful harmony the circle is, especially when it doesn't move, when it's dead or paralysed and a finger can slip easily all round it. And what a great man Bruno van Tysch was. Thanks to him they led the life they dreamed of, and beyond that a good chunk of immortality, too. How marvellous it was to be a work of art.

  He turned round in the warm velvet.

  It was then he noticed that the Gigli work had moved.

  ... Croce e delizia ... delizia al cooor ...

  Drops of water in his eyes blurred his vision. He rubbed them. Looked again.

  Croce, croce e delizia, croce e dclizia ... dclizia al cooor ...

  The painting, a flexible shadow in a black mask with the silhouette of a fencing master in mourning, was walking slowly over to the bar. It moved so naturally that at first Hubertus thought it must simply want a drink. But it can't! he realised all of a sudden. It's a work of art! It's not allowed to move!

  'What are you doing?' he asked. He raised his voice so high the question ended in a squawk.

  The Gianfranco Gigli work did not reply as it walked round behind the bar, bent down and got something out. A small case. Then it came back round the bar, sat behind Hubertus' back, and snapped open the metal clips on the case. They sounded like gunshots in the almost completely silent room (ah, aaahhh-ah-aaaaaaahhh came Arno's tremolo voice from the bathroom).

  Hubertus thought about calling his brother, but hesitated. His curiosity kept him silent. He heaved his massive bulk to the edge of the pool. The Gigli was fiddling with something on the table. What could it be? Something it had taken out of the case. Now it was putting that to one side and picking up something else. It did everything in such a delicate, gentle, clean way that for a moment Hubertus approved. There was nothing he enjoyed more than the subtle delicacy of shapes: a ballet dancer; a young boy; an act of torture.

  He concluded it must be an alteration Gigli had called for. Perhaps the artist had decided to make the work into a performance. At any rate, it must be something to do with art. Anything goes where art is concerned, nothing has its own intrinsic value.

  Things are art just because, because artists say they are and the public agrees. Hubertus recalled a work by Donna Meltzer entitled Clock, which was attached to the wall and moved round by the hour, except that the artist had decided that it would lose ten minutes a day, and by the end of a fortnight would come to a complete stop. Paintings do not always have to do the same thing. Some evolve according to a pre-established plan their creator has devised. So this one? It had changed. It must have fresh instructions. What was the symbolism behind that? Our mechanised society (which would explain the strange appliances it was laying on the bar)? The symbol of authority (a pistol)? The mass media (a portable recorder and a miniature video camera)? Violence (a set of sharp instruments)? Maybe it was all of those. Whatever Gigli wanted. After all, he was the painter and the only one who ...

  Suddenly, he remembered that Gianfranco Gigli had been dead for over two years.

  A heroin overdose - they had told him so in the hotel when they showed him the painting.

  deliziaaa aaaal cooooooooor . . . ah-ah-ah-ah-aanaaaaaahhhh ...

  Hubertus stood quite still, hands on the marble edge of the pool and his body covered to the waist by water. Trails of it trickled like ants down his head and upper body. He looked like a wax mountain starting to melt. Could a work of art alter itself after the death of its creator? If so, was the result a posthumous work or a fake? Strange questions.

  Then all at once Hubertus stopped worrying about what the Gigli figure was doing (Who cares what it's up to?) and felt a brutal rush of happiness. The sensation shot through three trillion molecules of body fat and produced a whirlwind in his mind similar to a powerful orgasm. He was overjoyed at being part of such a complex world, an existence that only rarely (if ever) could be explained or described in words, the secret,
unending golden well-spring, the select circle they all belonged to - the Gigli painting, Van Tysch, the Foundation, the twins themselves and a few other chosen ones (well OK, let's leave the sad Gigli figure out of it, because it has to renew itself to stay up-to-date), the marvellous life which allowed them to indulge their fantasies and to become the stuff of fantasies for others. Even the fact of being so enormously fat was an advantage in this world. To be as monstrous as a monster, Hubertus understood, could go beyond the limits of everyday reality and become a symbol, the res of art, an archetype, philosophy and meditation, theories and debates. Bless you, world. Bless you, world. Bless your power and possibilities. Bless all your secrets as well.