Art of Murder

by Jose Carlos Somoza

  The Gigli painting appeared to have finally completed its preparations, whatever they were. It turned round calmly and headed off for another point, another destination inexorably chosen by a dead artist. Hubertus watched it expectantly. Where? Oh, to where are you directing your harmonic footsteps, divine, radiant creature? Hubertus Walden asked himself.

  Overcome with planetary harmony, it took him a moment to realise that the work was heading for him.

  When he was a child, Arnoldus was attacked by a tiger.

  Infallible, precise, powerful, deadly. A black tiger with glinting eyes born of his dreams. It was his nightmare, his childhood terror. He would cry out and wake up Hubertus, and then inevitably the tiger would turn into his father's belt as it flew through the air and lashed his naked behind over and over again. CI didn't mean to cry out, papa, please believe me, I couldn't help it.') The only thing their father hated was when they shouted. 'Do whatever you like, just don't shout,' he always told them: it was his constant obsession.

  Unlike his brother, Arnoldus did not believe he had been compensated for his past. He thought that life was a commerce owned by someone different every day, which never pays you back if you have overpaid. It was true they were immensely rich now. They were considered a work of art of incalculable value. Mr Robertson, who might well become their new papa, loved them: Arno knew that Mr Robertson would never think of thrashing him with his belt if he heard him cry out in the middle of the night, while the bitter saliva of his worst nightmare slid down his chin. Now they were adored, respected and admired as great works of art. But could this new life give them the happy childhood they had not had? Was the worldwide reknown they now enjoyed retroactive? Could it transform their bad memories into good ones? No, it did not even change ways of behaviour. As an adult, Arnoldus still did not raise his voice. The tiger was dead, and so was his father, but life never gives anything back.

  Listening to his brother splashing in the pool, Arnoldus wrapped a towel round his massive waist and began a belly dance in front of the mirror. Given the part of his anatomy involved, these dances were for Arno something more than a mere pastime: they became a kind of subtle attempt to understand the universe. The low, pseudo-Egyptian whistle that accompanied them came from his own lips, and he clicked his fingers as he gyrated. Oh, dulce huri? me complaceras esta noche? Looking at his porcelain fingers - he thinks as he sways his belly first one way, then the other - no one would suspect the presence of the huge bag of foul intestines hanging from its centre, that hungry anaconda curled up in a sack, that thick ship's rope covered in lard. How was it possible to be so fat? My God, what have you done to me? His mother told him she screamed (or was it his father?) when she saw them come into the world, when she saw their fantastic beauty, those creatures born with more flesh than her flesh. 'Aaagh!' Mrs Walden had cried. Their father (so she said) was equally horrified, and scolded her:

  'Don't shout, Emma. Yes, they are monstrous, but don't shout, please. Above all, don't shout...'

  Arnoldus Walden's vast pan-anatomy waddled its way down the lengthy corridor between bathroom and living room. He was still absorbed in his thoughts. He could no longer hear his brother's splashes. Did that mean that Platinum Blond had arrived? Had his brother broken his promise and started without him? Oh Hubertus, despicable being, the worst of all, vulgar, vile. Perverse mammoth, cruel bear. His brother loved to blame him for everything, and to claim he was responsible for all the good that happened to them. Arnoldus woke up every day trying to change. Trying to be more friendly, more human, more obedient (seriously, please, believe me) but, when he looked round at his brother, hatred oozed from his pores like flames from a ball soaked in alcohol. Having to stare at this reflection of himself disgusted him so much that he sometimes felt like smashing the mirror. Oh, yes: it was Hubertus who turned him into a horrendous being. Hubertus who pushed him down towards the abyss, forced him to dream of atrocities.

  Take Helga Blanchard and her son, for example. Arnoldus had tried time and again to explain to Hubert that they had never done that family any harm. They had not even met Helga and her sweet son: it had all been a false memory planted in their minds by Van Tysch, a shadowy colour added to their bodies. 'Something like original sin,' was Arnoldus' way of explaining it. The shadow of an offence they had never committed, and which by that very token they would never be able to forget, because there is nothing more indestructible than things imagined. Perhaps they were not even guilty of the crimes they had done penance for in jail. After all, painting is itself deception: you think you can touch that fruit bowl, that bunch of grapes or the nymph's swelling breast, but when you stretch out your fingers you are brought up short, you realise that what looked like spheres are only circles, what looked like volume is a flat surface, the fingers' desperate desire to squeeze and fondle is left unassuaged. Arnoldus had a suspicion that the two of them were one of the Dutch painter's most successful illusions. Come to me, monstrous canvases, and I'll make you into an optical illusion.

  The Maestro had been so clever in painting that terrible lie on their minds that his brother Hubertus had been completely taken in. Hubert really believed they had done it. Worse still: he believed that Arnoldus was the one deceived! 'You want to blindfold yourself with that explanation so you can forget what we did, Arno,' he used to tell him. And he added: 'But we really did what we did. Do you want me to refresh your memory? ...' It was so unpleasant that Arnoldus no longer even tried to argue about it. What use was there trying to tell Hubert he was the one mistaken, that they had never committed such an atrocity, that it was all the product of Van Tysch's sublime art?

  He looked down at the signature on his right ankle: BvT. A new worry had been preoccupying him for some time. Could Van Tysch be responsible for the hatred, the ferocious antipathy he felt towards Hubertus? Had he tried to awaken the Cain within him so that he could paint it? Be that as it may, the

  Maestro was not very concerned about them any more. He had lost interest in them. It was said he was about to sell them.

  Perhaps it was best to forget about Van Tysch and even about Hubertus, and to enjoy himself while he could.

  He opened the door and entered the living room.

  'Here I am, Hubert. I hope you haven't—'

  He stopped in his tracks. There was no one in the pool. In fact, the whole room looked deserted.

  Tut, tut, this isn't very polite of you, Hubert.' Arnoldus looked all round him. The suite was like an endless basilica: columns, a domed ceiling; stone walls; indirect light; a long sacrificial altar in the shape of a bar counter ...

  It took him a second to spot the trail of liquid just to his right, a small trace of a darker colour on the fitted carpet, a trail of water from the pool, some god or other's zigzagging piss on the floor. Twisting his massive neck, Arnoldus followed it. At the end of the trail, belly in the air (a perfect sphere), lay his brother.

  And standing next to his brother was a slight, masked creature: the black tiger of his infant terrors, his lithe, devouring nightmare.

  When it leapt on him, Arnoldus - like an obedient child - did not cry out.

  4

  An isosceles triangle of light. Legs apart.

  Time for a break,' said Gerardo. 'Afterwards we'll try another effect.'

  Clara closed her legs and the triangle disappeared. She was standing with her back to the two men, facing the window, her hair a flaming red, her body edged in rays of sunlight. She was painted in pink and ochre tones, with highlights of ivory and pearl. Her spine, the perfect 'V of her lumbar region and the fleshy cross of her buttocks were a natural earth colour. Gerardo and Uhl had chosen these tints after careful study of the lines they had painted on her skin. They gave her a porous swimsuit and a colour cap, which she put on in the bathroom. Her primed skin and hair absorbed the colours perfectly, there was no need for varnish or fixing agents. Gerardo warned her that all the colours were provisional, and that they could all be modified over the next few days. So were
the colour of her eyes - brilliant emerald green - that he had painted with a corneal spray, and the deeper pink lip outline he had drawn on her face. Finally, with gloved hands he swept her wet hair up into a small bun. When he threw the gloves into the wastepaper basket, they spattered the floor with drops of fake blood. 'You're done,' he said.

  Clara left the bathroom and walked towards the living room, trailing the smell of oil paint in her wake. The first thing she did was to examine herself in the mirror. She could see the figure they were aiming at beyond the sketch: a young girl by Manet, tall, slender, red-headed, and with muscles clearly distinguishable from one another, but not violently so: as if drawn by an expert. In the sunlight, her hair was a shiny haemorrhage. She liked what they had done. She wished this was not just a sketch, that the unknown work they were painting with her would be exactly the same.

  They had set up a video camera on a tripod and a powerful photographic studio spot, but to begin with they filmed her adopting different positions in natural light. It must be a beautiful day outside, Clara thought, as she stared at the open window in front of her, but in the room, with its cream walls and parallel lines of the floor, everything was bathed in a bright glow, as if she were inside a prism. She longed to have some free time to be able to explore outside.

  'Your food is in the kitchen,' Gerardo told her.

  She walked carefully back to the bathroom in order not to crack the paint on her body, and put on one of the robes hanging on the door. She usually liked to wear something when she had been painted so she would not spoil it while she ate or rested.

  In the kitchen, a surprise was waiting for her. Her food tray was in the same place as the previous day, but this time Gerardo was sitting opposite her. He was taking the top off a pizza he had heated in the microwave. So it seemed they were going to eat together. She wondered where Uhl was, and why he had not joined them. She guessed there must be serious disagreements between the two men. Throughout the morning, this had been obvious from their raised voices, terse orders, and long periods of uncomfortable silence. It seemed obvious to her that Gerardo gave in to his older colleague, either because he admired him, or perhaps simply because Uhl was a rung higher on the Foundation ladder than he was. Clara decided it was best to be discreet.

  She sat down and pulled the plastic cover off her tray. Her meal consisted of two triangles of sandwich with some kind of mayonnaise at the edges, grapes, wholemeal bread, margarine, cream cheese, a salad, a herb tea and an Aroxen juice with added vitamins. Before she picked up a sandwich, she took her prescribed pills with a sip of mineral water. Gerardo was busy devouring a slice of pizza.

  They started to chat. He praised her quiescence, and asked who her teachers had been. She told him about Cuinet and Klaus Wedekind, and of the week she had spent in Florence working as a sketch for Ferrucioli. She could only eat very slowly, nibbling small pieces of sandwich, because the oil paint on her face pulled at her jaws, and she did not want to spoil it. As she was spreading a thick layer of margarine on the bread, she tried out a smile with her freshly drawn lips.

  'Don't be mean. Tell me what you're doing with me.'

  'Painting you,' replied Gerardo.

  She stifled a laugh, but insisted.

  'No, seriously. I'm going to be one of the works in the "Rembrandt" collection, aren't I?'

  'I'm sorry, sweetheart, I can't tell you.'

  ‘I don't want to know which figure I am, or the title of the painting. Just tell me if I'm going to be a "Rembrandt". '

  'Listen, the less you know about what you're doing, the better, right?'

  'OK. Sorry'

  Suddenly she felt embarrassed at having insisted. She did not want Gerardo to get the impression she thought he was more malleable than Uhl, easier to get artistic secrets out of.

  They fell silent. Gerardo was playing with the top of a bottle of Coca-Cola he was drinking. He seemed out of sorts.

  'Did my question upset you?' she asked concernedly.

  His reply cost him a great effort, as though it was a difficult but unavoidable question.

  'No. It's just that I'm a bit annoyed .. . not with you though, with Justus. The same old thing. I told you he has a very special character. I know him well by now of course, but sometimes I find it hard to take ...'

  'How long have you worked together?'

  Three years. He's a good painter - I've learnt a lot from him.' He looked towards the bright midday of the window. In profile, his face still seemed very attractive to Clara. 'But we have to do everything he says. Everything.'

  He turned to look at her, as if those last words concerned her much more than him.

  'He's in charge,' he added.

  'He's your boss.'

  'And yours, don't forget.'

  Clara nodded, rather disconcerted. She did not know quite how to interpret what he had just said. Was it a warning? A piece of advice? She recalled the strange examination Uhl had given her the day before. When Gerardo said she had to do everything Uhl ordered, was he only talking about painting?

  She finished the slice of wholemeal bread and picked up a grape in her shiny pink fingers. Seeing the curtains at the kitchen window, she remembered what had happened the night before. To change topics, she decided to mention it.

  'Listen, there's something that...'

  She stopped, and pushed the pips out of the grape. Gerardo stared inquisitively at her.

  'Yes?'

  'Oh, it's nothing really.'

  That doesn't matter, tell me anyway.'

  He leaned towards her, elbows on the table. He seemed genuinely interested. Clara was touched by his apparent concern, and decided to tell him everything.

  Tast night there was someone prowling outside the house.

  Once when the timer went off I saw him looking in through the window. Then he vanished.'

  Gerardo was staring at her.

  'Don't tease.'

  'I'm serious. It scared me to death. I went to the window and couldn't see anyone, but I'm sure I didn't dream it.'

  That's strange...' Gerardo stroked his moustache and chin in a way Clara had already noticed. 'There are no other people round here, only farms the Foundation owns.'

  'But I'm sure I heard footsteps close to the window.'

  'And you went over but didn't see anyone?'

  'Aha.'

  The young painter looked thoughtful. He pushed around some pizza crumbs. Under the shirtsleeve at the top of his left biceps, she caught sight of a tattoo.

  'Maybe it was someone from Security. They sometimes patrol the farms to make sure the canvases are all right... Yes, I'm sure it was someone from Security.'

  'Are there canvases in the other farms then?'

  ‘You bet, sweetheart. We're full. Lots of canvases, lots of work.'

  The thought that it might have been someone from Security reassured her, and did not seem at all unlikely. She was about to ask more when a shadow appeared between the light and them. Uhl had come into the kitchen. Clara realised something was wrong almost before she saw him. The painter was staring at her, face twisted with disgust, and muttering in unintelligible Dutch.

  'What's he saying?' she asked.

  Before Gerardo had the chance to reply, Uhl did something extraordinary. He took hold of the lapels of Clara's robe and tugged at them with all his might. His movement was so violent and unexpected that he pulled her to her feet, and she knocked the chair over. Uhl grabbed the robe belt and untied it. Clara's quivering breasts were exposed.

  'Hey, what are you doing?' shouted Clara.

  Gerardo had also stood up, and appeared to be arguing with Uhl. But it was obvious that the older man was winning. Stunned rather than angry, Clara closed the robe over her body. She could see that some of the paint on her stomach was smudged.

  'No, no. Take it off,' Gerardo snapped. Take the robe off?'

  'Yes, take it off. You're not supposed to be wearing anything, OK? The colours are very sensitive and could be damaged. I should h
ave told you before. Justus is right. I...'

  Uhl interrupted him, slapping the wall impatiently right next to Clara's head, as though to hurry her up.

  'What's the matter?' she said indignantly. 'What kind of behaviour is this? I'm taking it off, dammit! See?'

  Uhl snatched the robe from her and stormed out of the kitchen. Clara was fuming.