Art of Murder

by Jose Carlos Somoza

  The lunch was in fact a small feast. Benoit had not missed a trick: eel and dill soup with strands of seaweed, hock of venison done in nutmeg with vine leaves and a herb and chicory salad, followed by a dessert that looked like the clues from a recent crime: a bilberry and raspberry mousse in a buttermilk sauce, all of it prepared by a catering company that supplied the Atelier daily. Before and after the meal, Benoit carried out the ritual of his medicines. In total he took six red-and-white capsules and four emerald-coloured pills. He complained about his ulcer, claimed he could not eat anything at all, and that when he did he had to take all the medicines as a precaution. Despite this, he also tried the Chablis and the Lafitte that the Lockhead figures elegantly placed before him on the Table. As it breathed gently, the Table made the wine bottles sway. Bosch ate little and hardly touched the wine. He found the atmosphere in the office stifling.

  They talked of all they could mention out loud in a room full of a dozen people besides themselves (even though the silence made it seem there were just the two of them): about 'Rembrandt' and the discussion with the mayor of Amsterdam about installing the curtain structure in the Museumplein; about the guest list for the opening; about the increasingly likely possibility that the Dutch royal family would visit the Tunnel before the official opening.

  When the conversation languished, Benoit stretched out his hand to the Ashtray's inverted backside and took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the big golden dish balanced between the buttocks. The Ashtray was obviously masculine and was painted a matt turquoise colour, with black stripes running down his shaven legs.

  'Let's go to the other room,' Benoit said. 'Smoke isn't good for paintings or ornaments.'

  You're a master of hypocrisy, Grandad Paul, thought Bosch. He knew Benoit had decided from the outset they would have a further talk in private, but wanted his works of art to think he was doing it so as not to bother them while he smoked.

  They went into the next room. As Benoit shut the heavy oak door, he began to speak almost without a pause.

  'Lothar, it's chaos out there. This morning I met Saskia Stoffels and Jacob Stein. The North Americans want to suspend things. Financing for the new season is at a halt. They're worried about the Artist, and they don't like the massive withdrawal of Van Tysch works. We've been trying to sell them the idea that the Artist is a European problem, a local question. We've explained that the Artist is not for export. He operates in Europe and only in Europe. But they reply: "Yes, yes that's fine, but have you caught him yet?'"

  He stubbed out the cigarette in a metal ashtray. It was a perfectly normal cheap ashtray: Benoit only spent money on flesh and blood ornaments. While he was talking, he took a small aerosol out of the inside pocket of his immaculate Savile Row jacket.

  'Do you have any idea what it costs to run this company, Lothar? Every time I have a finance meeting with Stoffels the same thing happens: I get vertigo. Our profits are huge, but the gap is even more enormous. And as Stein was saying only this morning, before we were the pioneers. But now .. . My God.' He opened his mouth, pointed the aerosol at his throat, and squirted a couple of times. He shook the spray violently, then squirted another dose. 'When Art Enterprises started up in 1998, we said it wouldn't last two years, do you remember? Now it's the sales leader in America, and has a monopoly in the choice sector of California collectors. And this morning Stoffels told us the Japanese are doing even better. Believe it or not, but Suke's turnover in 2005 was almost half a billion dollars more than the Foundation and Art Enterprises combined. Want to know how?'

  'Ornaments,' replied Bosch.

  Benoit nodded.

  'They've hit us hard, even in Europe. Nowadays there is nothing, absolutely nothing as good as Japanese human artefacts. The worst of it is that European craftsmen are relying on the Japanese to sell their work. That wonderful Curtain in my office, for example: have you seen how perfect it is? ... Well, it's by Schobber, an Austrian craftsman, but it's distributed by Suke. Yes, that's right... It may sound odd, but I just wish that the Artist were part of Suke. If we could link that crazy psychopath to Suke, it'd be the perfect way to stop them .. . but we won't be that lucky.'

  He put away the aerosol and held a hand in front of his mouth. He breathed out and sniffed. He did not seem happy with the result, or perhaps his ulcer was playing up again. Bosch could not be sure. Benoit sat down and remained silent for a while.

  'These are difficult times for art, Lothar, difficult times. The figure of the solitary artistic genius still sells, but independently of the artist. Van Tysch has become a myth, like Picasso, and myths are dead even when they're still alive because they no longer have to create to sell; all they have to do is sign the ankle, thigh or backside of their works. Yet their works are still those which sell the best, and consequently are the most important. Which means the death of the artist. And that is the destiny of art today, its inevitable goal: the death of the artist. We've gone back to Pre-Renaissance days, when painters and sculptors were regarded as little more than skilled craftsmen. So the question becomes ... If artists are no longer needed for art, but are still essential for business, what are we to do with them?'

  Benoit had the habit of asking questions without expecting any specific answer. Bosch knew this and waited for him to go on.

  This morning Stein suggested something odd: that when Van Tysch goes, we'll have to paint another one. Art will have to create its own artists, Lothar: not in order to be art, because it doesn't need them, but to make money. Nowadays anything can be a work of art, but only a name will have the value of a Van Tysch. So we'll be forced to paint another Van Tysch, to create him out of nothing, endow him with the proper colours and let him shine in the world. How did Stein put it? ... Let me remember the exact words he used ... I learned them by heart because they seemed to me ... Ah, yes. "We have to create another genius to guide humanity's blind footsteps, someone at whose feet the powerful can continue to lay their treasures" ... Fuschus, that was wonderful.' He paused for a minute and frowned. 'But it's some task, isn't it? Creating the Sistine Chapel will always be easier than creating Michelangelo, won't it?'

  Bosch nodded vaguely.

  'And how is your investigation going, Lothar?' Benoit asked, suddenly changing the subject.

  Bosch knew the moment had come when Benoit would demand replies to his questions.

  'It's not. We're waiting for the reports from Rip van Winkle.'

  Don't trust anyone, April Wood had warned him. Tell them we're at a standstill. From now on, it's up to the two of us.

  'What about April? Where is she?'

  'She had to go urgently to London. Her father's worse.'

  It was true that Wood had been obliged to return to London at the weekend because of her father's state of health. But she had told Bosch she would be working from there. Not even he knew what sort of work she meant, but it seemed obvious to him that she had already worked out her plan for a counterattack. Bosch put his trust in her plan.

  He said goodbye to Benoit as quickly as he could. He needed a few moments' rest. At the door, the Conservation director stopped him, as he squirted his throat again with the halitosis spray.

  if you can, stir up the BAH people a bit. They're putting on a carnival for the week of the opening. The police say there may be five thousand of them from several countries. That would be good for us.'

  The BAH was one of the international organisations most bitterly opposed to hyperdramatic art. Its founder and leader, the journalist Pamela O' Connor, accused artists such as Van Tysch or Stein of human rights abuses, of child pornography, white slave trading, and degrading women. Her accusations were listened to, and her diatribes sold well, but no law court would uphold her claims.

  ‘I don't think they'll let off any fireworks, Paul,' Bosch said. 'Pamela O'Connor's people seem to have got tired even of writing pamphlets.'

  ‘I know, but I'd like you to irritate them a bit, Lothar. We need a whiff of scandal. Everything is against us for
this opening, even the title. Who on earth thinks Rembrandt is important nowadays, apart from four or five cretins who specialise in ancient art? Who is going to pay to come and see a homage to Rembrandt? The public will come to find out what Van Tysch has done with Rembrandt, but that's different. We're expecting lots of people, but we need to at least double the numbers. The queues have to reach the Leidesplein. A fight between members of the BAH and our security people would be ideal. . . We put journalists in the right place, there'll be photos, news reports . . . the fact is, groups like BAH are very useful. Would you believe it, but Stein has even suggested that we secretly finance them?

  Bosch could believe it.

  'Do whatever you can to raise the temperature,' Benoit said with a wink.

  Til try to think positively,' Bosch replied.

  He left without even mentioning to Benoit the topic that most worried him: the presence of Danielle in the exhibition.

  The young woman standing next to the tree is wearing only a short white robe tied at the waist, hardly enough protection to go out into the street in or remain still in the open air. But other things about her appearance are more fascinating. For example, someone has drawn eyebrows, lashes and lips on her face with a paintbrush, and her hair is a shiny mahogany and smells of oil paint. The skin visible to us - her face, neck, hands and feet - has an artificial sheen, as if it has been covered in plastic. Yet, however strange her appearance, there is something in her gaze - something which has nothing to do with the mask of paint or her absurd clothing, a deep-seated trait that was there before she became a drawing, a figure, and is still there for us to see in the depth of her eyes - which would perhaps lead us to pause and try to get to know her better. A child would be fascinated by her body's marvellous colours. An adult would be more intrigued by her gaze.

  The man standing opposite her is one of this century's best artists; in the future he will come to be regarded as one of the greatest of all time. Knowing this, we might expect his features to be touched by his celebrity. He is a tall, slender man of around fifty. He is dressed entirely in black, and has a pair of glasses dangling round his neck. His face is long and narrow, topped by a shock of jet-black hair that is going white at the sides. He has a deep forehead, furrowed with lines. Two darker lines, as if reinforced by pencil, make up his eyebrows. His eyes are large and dark too, but are slightly hooded, giving the impression his gaze is half-hidden, and could always see more. He has a prominent, straight nose. The curve of his lips is defined by a fine moustache and neat chin. His cheeks are completely clean-shaven. If we try to subtract his features from our memories of his photos and interviews, from what we know about the man they reflect, and think about it carefully, we will come to the conclusion that no, there is nothing extraordinary about his face, it is we who add whatever may be special from what we know about him. He could easily be the doctor I visit, the murderer once seen fleetingly on TV, the mechanic who hands me back my car after a service.

  He has not spoken to her directly as yet. He gave some instructions to Uhl in Dutch which Gerardo had quickly translated. She was to put on her robe and go with him: the Maestro liked painting in the open air. They left the house in silence, with Van Tysch walking in front of her. The temperature that Friday afternoon was excellent, perhaps a little cool, but Clara did not mind. Nor was she worried about having forgotten her sandals. She was far too nervous to bother about such details. Anyway, although the gravel stuck to her feet, she was used to going barefoot. Van Tysch opened the gate, and Clara rushed to get through before it closed behind him. They crossed the lane and walked across the grass until they came to the Plastic Bos Gerardo had shown her the day before. Rays of sunlight filtered beneath the low branches, like golden brushstrokes from a drawing pen. Van Tysch came to a halt and she did the same. They stood looking at each other for a few moments.

  The Plastic Bos spread like a puddle of water in the midst of the small pine wood. Twenty metres long and six metres wide, it was marked out by eleven fake trees which differed from the real ones because they were prettier and because their leaves made a sound like hail when the wind rose. Clara did not object to the plastic wood. To her it seemed to go with the rest of Holland, the country of landscapes by Vermeer and Rembrandt; of towns for elves like Madurodam, with tiny houses, canals, churches and monuments all built to scale; of dykes and polders where land has been created by the human will in its eternal struggle with the sea. She stood on the soft silicone grass carpet, next to one of the trees. The sun shone straight into her eyes, but she tried not to blink.

  She wanted to have her eyes wide open, because Van Tysch was only three metres away from her.

  'Do you like Rembrandt?' was the first thing he said, in fluent Spanish.

  His voice was deep, majestic. In the theatre of ancient Greece, voices like his represented Zeus.

  ‘I don't know his painting very well,' Clara replied. It was hard to get her yellow, primed tongue around the words.

  Van Tysch repeated the question. It was obvious her reply had not satisfied him. Clara looked inside herself, and spoke with complete sincerity.

  'No,' she said. "The truth is, I don't like him.'

  'Why?'

  'I don't know. But I don't like him.'

  'Nor do I,' the painter unexpectedly said. 'That's why I never get tired of looking at his paintings. We have to confront what we don't like time and again. His painting is like a trusted friend: it offends us because it tells us the truth.'

  His voice sounded weak and tired. Clara thought he must be an immensely sad man.

  'I'd never thought of it like that,' she murmured. 'That's a very interesting way of looking at it.'

  Then she thought Van Tysch had no need of any praise from her, and bit her lip.

  'Is your father dead?' he asked all of a sudden.

  'Pardon?'

  He repeated the question. At first it seemed strange to Clara that Van Tysch should change the subject so abruptly. But she was not in the least surprised that he knew details of her life. She imagined the Maestro must investigate all the canvases he took on.

  'Yes,' she replied.

  'Why do you get so frightened at night?' 'What?'

  'When my assistants woke you up by making a noise outside your window. Why did you look so terrified?' 'I don't know. I was frightened.' 'Of what?'

  'I don't know. I've always been afraid of someone breaking into my house at night.'

  Van Tysch came up to her, took hold of her chin, and tilted it as if he were examining a jewel in the light. Then he stepped back again, leaving her head leaning over to the right. The sun's rays were garlanding the tree branches. The atmosphere in the plastic wood was damp, like a prism, so that the sunlight refracted in drops of pure colour.

  She thought he was studying her pose, but she could not be sure.

  'My mother was Spanish,' was his next comment.

  These brusque changes of topic were apparently normal in any dialogue with him. They did not bother Clara.

  'Yes, I know,' she said. 'And you speak very good Spanish.'

  Once again she realised how stupid her praise must sound. But Van Tysch went on as if he had not heard her:

  ‘I never knew her. When she died, my father tore up all her photos, so I never even saw her. Or rather, I only saw her in the drawings he made of her. They were watercolours. My father was a good painter. So I saw my mother for the first time thanks to his paintings, which means I'm not sure he didn't make her more beautiful than in real life. And to me she looked very, very, very beautiful.' He had pronounced the three 'verys' slowly, making a different sound each time, as if trying to discover hidden meanings in the word by pronouncing it differently each time. 'But perhaps it was all due to my father's art. I've no idea whether the watercolours were better or worse than the original, I've never known or had any wish to know. I did not know my mother, and that's that. Later on I came to understand that is normal. I mean it's normal not to know.'

  He paus
ed and came up to her again. He moved Clara's head in the opposite direction, but then appeared to change his mind and pushed it back to the original position. He stepped away, then drew near again. He put a hand on the back of her head and bent it forwards. He put on the reading glasses hanging round his neck and studied something. Then he took off his glasses and walked away once more.

  'Your father must have died young, too,' he said.

  'My father?'

  'Yes, your father.'

  'He died at the age of forty-two of a brain tumour. I was nine at the time.'

  'So you didn't know him either. You've seen images of him, but you never really knew him.'

  ‘Yes, I did a little. By the age of nine I already had some idea about him.'

  'We always have some idea about things we don't know,' Van Tysch replied, 'but that doesn't mean we know them any better.