Art of Murder

by Jose Carlos Somoza

  He knew that, unlike his room, Van Tysch's 'zone' in the New Atelier was empty. Stein liked to live surrounded by luxury, and had decorated his dining room according to his own tastes with paintings, ornaments and utensils by Loek, Van der Gaar, Marooder and himself. More than twenty adolescents, some of them motionless, others following choreographed steps, were breathing in the room, and yet the silence was immense. Only Stein appeared alive.

  He was going over all he had to do in his mind. By now, all the paintings should be in position inside the Tunnel, waiting for the Maestro. Tine opening was scheduled for six, but Stein would not be there: Benoit would take his place and look after all the dignitaries. His own presence was needed elsewhere, where he also had to look after an extremely important person.

  Fuschus, power was another kind of art, he thought. Or perhaps a handicraft, showing the ability to control everything. He had been a real master at it. Now he had to surpass himself. It was a very delicate moment, perhaps the most delicate in the Foundation's entire history, and he had to be up to it.

  All at once his secretary Neve appeared at the far end of the room.

  Even though he was well aware that the expected moment might happen at any time, the announcement that it had truly arrived made his faun's features relax into a happy grin. He stood up leaning on the Table, producing nothing more than a slight quiver from the four silvery girls - and a blink from the one on whose thigh he had been resting his foot - and made for the door.

  His visitor stood fascinated for a moment in the doorway, staring wide-eyed at all the warm bodies decorating the room. This was soon followed by a beaming smile and a shake of Stein's hand.

  'I'd like to welcome you to the Van Tysch Foundation,' Stein said quickly in fluent English. 'I know you understand English perfectly. I wish I could say the same of my Spanish.'

  'Don't worry about that’ replied Vicky Lledo with a smile.

  24.26.

  Miss Wood had been sitting on the lawn for more than three hours. She had opened one of the fruit juices she kept in her bag and was taking slow slips and staring up at the clouds. It was a

  tranquil spot, just made to shut one's eyes and rest in. Somehow it reminded her of her house in Tivoli: the same summer soundtrack, with birds singing and dogs barking in the distance. Victor Zericky's house was small, and its apple-green fence showed signs of having been repaired by an expert hand. The garden was full of flowers: an ordered arrangement of plants trained by human hand. The house was shut. It seemed there was no one in.

  The old man in the house next door had told her Zericky was divorced and lived on his own. Miss Wood suspected this was his way of telling her he had no fixed timetable, but came and went as he pleased. Apparently, Zericky was in the habit of going away for days on trips to Maastricht or The Hague to collect information for his work as a historian or simply because he felt like stretching his legs and finding new paths along the banks of the Geul.

  ‘Im not saying it to put you off, 'added the old man, who had hair like marble and cheeks as pink as if he had just been slapped, but if he doesn't know you're here, I'd advise you not to wait. As I told you, it could be days before he returns.'

  Miss Wood thanked him, went over to her car, and leaned in at the driver's window.

  'You can go wherever you like, but be back here at eight.'

  The car pulled away. Miss Wood looked for a suitable spot, sat down on the grass, and leaned her back against a tree. She could feel the rough grooves of the trunk through her thin jerkin; she devoted herself to the difficult task of letting time pass by.

  She had nothing else to do anyway, and she had never minded waiting if it was essential to her work. In fact, she rather enjoyed this parenthesis of birdsong and perfumed breeze. She finished her drink, put the empty carton in her bag, took out another one. She only had two left, but she needed to drink liquid. She felt increasingly weary: her eyes were drooping behind the dark barrier of her glasses, and from time to time she almost nodded off. She could not remember how long it was since she had eaten anything solid - two days perhaps, or even longer - and yet she did not feel at all hungry. Yet she would have paid a fortune to have a full thermos of coffee with her. She was hot. She took off her jerkin and left it on the grass. But then in her sleeveless dress she felt chilly.

  It did not occur to her to wonder whether Zericky might not come at all. The fact was, she had let her mind go blank. All she knew was that she would wait there until she could wait no longer. Then she would go back to Amsterdam.

  She sat drinking more juice while the breeze ruffled her hair.

  16.20.

  'Nothing to report, sector two.' 'Situation normal, sector three.' 'Nothing, sector four.'

  As he listened to this litany from the guards through the loudspeakers, Bosch was not even thinking of the Artist. Instead, he had been reflecting on circuses. As a child he had seen very few, because his father Victor did not like them. Going to the circus was not the best way to make use of the means available. But willy-nilly, all children visit a circus, and Bosch had eventually got to see one, too. When he was there, he did not enjoy it: from the dangerous acrobatics to the wretchedness of the caged tigers, from the meringue-faced clowns to the magicians' packaged tricks, it had all seemed to him a sorry and sad affair.

  Now here he was in another circus. The attractions were different, but there was an audience, tents, magic tricks and wild beasts. And it all seemed to him just as sad.

  He was sitting inside one of the two Portakabins taken over by Security. There were six trucks on either side of the Tunnel, parked in places that allowed them free access to the recovery and rescue vehicles. Each pair of these trucks was occupied by a different department: Art, Conservation and Security. They had set up closed-circuit TV monitors in the Portakabins to supervise the parts of the Tunnel where works were being exhibited, as well as the entrance, exit and the central square where the paintings were to be picked up. Portakabin A covered the first six works in the first arm of the horseshoe. Portakabin B was in charge of the other seven; it was parked near the Van Gogh museum, and this was the one Bosch was seated in.

  The cameras trained on the Museumplein showed a spectacle that would doubtless have Paul Benoit rubbing his hands with delight, thought Bosch. There was still an hour and a half to go to the opening, and the line of shiny umbrellas already reached round the Rijksmuseum and as far as the Singelgracht. Some people had been waiting in the same place since dawn or the previous night, standing in front of the first security barrier, ticket in hand. The police had set up a barricade all along Museumstraat and Paulus Potterstraat to prevent trouble. Despite this - and once again, to Benoit's delight - there was trouble in both places: members of BAH and other groups opposed to HD art were waving banners and shouting slogans against the Foundation. Adjacent to the Tunnel, in the area occupied by the television crews, several presenters were unfurling their microphones.

  In violent contrast, the Tunnel monitors were filming in silence. Some works had already been installed, but in the case of others like Christ the process had not yet been completed. Bosch watched the play of light and shade as Gustavo Onfretti was crucified. They had spent more than four hours attaching him to the rectangles of painted wood by means of something like transparent hoops. Onfretti had to stay in the exact position Van Tysch had painted, which was very demanding. By comparison, the 'descent' would be easy. Flashes from his near-naked body glinted on the TV screens as it was caught in the torch beams.

  'Who would want to spend six hours a day like that?' commented Ronald, who was watching the Christ monitor. Ronald was overweight and at times like these stuffed himself with doughnuts. An open box of them lay near his screen, and he was busy bidng into one. Part of the sugar frosting had fallen on to his red card.

  Sitting in front of The Feast of Belshazzar monitor, Nikki smiled.

  it's modern art, Ronald. We don't understand it.'

  'But this is meant to be classical art,
' protested Osterbrock, the man looking after Danae, as he pressed various switches in the seat opposite Bosch. 'After all, they're Rembrandt paintings, aren't they?'

  The Portakabin's narrow central aisle was full of Foundation personnel coming and going. Bosch could not help observing them. He looked at all of them, those he had known for some time and those he did not know at all; at Nikki, Martin, Ronald the doughnut-eater, at Michelsen, at Osterbrock. He studied their smiles, their routine gestures, their voices. All of them had been through identity checks before they joined the team, but Bosch watched them as though he were watching a shadow moving in the midst of motionless shadows. Then he turned to look again at the monitor showing the front of the long queue outside. 'Where are you? Where are you?'

  That same morning Europol had received a description of Postumo Baldi. Bosch had sent it to them through the proper channels, to some extent using members of Rip van Winkle. Soon afterwards, he had begun to get information.

  The Naples police did not know of his whereabouts. Those in Vienna and Munich had not found any trace or sample of body fluid or hairs at the scenes of the crime which compared with their data. All the clues they had found were from disguises or artificial substances. There was not a single organic residue, only plastic and cerublastyne. As though the Artist were a doll. Or perhaps a canvas. Europol was going on with its tireless search on computers all over the world. They were looking for clues that might link Baldi to some place or event. They were checking hospitals and cemeteries, reports of minor offences, crimes committed by others, unsolved cases. The Missing Persons Bureau had tracked him from Naples to Van Obber and Jenny Thoureau, from the house he was born in (since demolished) and his parents - mother's current whereabouts unknown - to the last hotels he had stayed in during 2004. But that was where all tracks ended. At the end of that year Baldi had abandoned his job as a portrait in the house of Mademoiselle Thoureau without explanation, and from that moment on, the earth had swallowed him up. A lot of people thought he must be dead.

  In spite of the air conditioning which filled the interior of the Portakabin with a throbbing, unending supply of cool air, Bosch could feel the sweat coursing down his back. Postumo could be one of the faces he was looking at. Baldi could be any of them, he was infinitely interchangeable. In himself he was nothing more than the air a knife slices through as it strikes its blow: invisible, but vital. His eyes were mirrors. His body, fresh clay.

  The Young Girl Leaning on a Windowsill seemed to be staring back at him from her distant pedestal shown on monitor number nine. It was his niece Danielle whom Van Tysch had chosen to recreate that particular Rembrandt painting. The chiaroscuro lighting had not yet been switched on, so Danielle did not stand out from the darkness of the Tunnel. Bosch could not even see her face.

  There he is,' someone said behind his back, startling him.

  The speaker was Osterbrock. He was pointing to the monitor that showed the people entering the Tunnel from Museumstraat. A dark stretch limousine was gliding towards the entrance. Its image disappeared as it passed through the first police barrier.

  'It's Van Tysch,' said Nikki. 'He's come to give the finishing touches to the paintings.'

  'And to switch on the chiaroscuro,' added Osterbrock.

  Bosch wondered where Miss Wood might be. Why on earth had she decided to leave all of a sudden? Did she want to keep well out of the way?

  He did not think that was the reason. He trusted her. He could not trust anyone else.

  He wished the exhibition was already over. Or at least that this day (this interminable day when the hours dragged by as though drenched in oil) would end as soon as possible.

  26.45.

  Clara wished the day would never end.

  She was crouching by the side of a pond of still waters, surrounded by trees and shadowy scenery. Everything smelled of paint, everything was rigid. This was the background to Susanna Surprised by the Elders. Clara was completely naked, painted in dense tones of rose, ochre and cadmium red, with streaks of deep mahogany. Her face was reflected in a mirror placed in the base of the plinth, invisible to the public. This was all she could see clearly, but even though she could not see them, she could sense the presence of the Elders behind her back, petrified, monstrous chimeras, mountains tilting towards her body, cliffs of oil paint.

  She had just been put into place and had still not reached quiescence. Time passed like the people flowing round her (technicians and workmen, security agents): something that went by without touching her. Yet she could tell that the exhibition had not yet opened because the chiaroscuro lighting had not been switched on.

  At a certain moment, a silhouette moved out of the public gangway, leapt over the security rope, and walked towards the plinth. Behind it came an entourage of legs. Something important was going on. Two dark shoes came to a halt beside her colour-stiffened thighs. She heard again that distant, grave voice, the fluent Spanish like a tolling bell.

  'Keep looking at yourself in the mirror.'

  It was like an electric shock. She obeyed, of course.

  So it was true the Maestro gave all the works a final check, just as Gerardo had told her. The shadow flitted from figure to figure, giving instructions to the Elders as well in words she could not make out. Then the shoes came back, like strange patent leather animals, mysterious sharks with polished snouts sniffing at her body. A moment's pause, then they turned away. All that was left were echoes. Then the enchanted silence.

  Clara went on contemplating the distant cameo with its painted features.

  17.30.

  The darkness was complete.

  'What now?' Bosch asked nervously, staring at his screen. 'Why don't they light the stupid lamps?'

  'They're waiting for Van Tysch to give the order,' Nikki replied.

  'It won't be long now,' said Osterbrock.

  They turned back to the monitors. A silhouette stood out from all the others, motionless, back to the camera. Torch beams picked it out fleetingly.

  'The great panjandrum,' Ronald moaned, devouring the image with the same eager hunger as he polished off his doughnuts.

  Every moment needs its setting, thought Bosch. This was a world in which valuable things had become solemn. And all solemnity requires a setting, a ritual, and lofty personages up on podiums admired by fascinated, open-mouthed people. Nothing can be done naturally: artifice, some degree of art is always necessary. Why not light the lights? Why not let the public in? After all, it was only a question of pressing a few buttons. But no. This is a solemn moment. It has to be registered, collected, recorded, made eternal. It has to be long-drawn-out.

  'They're taking photos of him,' Nikki commented, chin in hands. Bosch noted a dreamy tone to her words.

  Van Tysch had been illuminated by a slanting spotlight: he was an island of light in five hundred metres of twisting darkness. He had his back to the camera. His kingdom was not of this or any other world, thought Bosch. His kingdom was himself, all alone, in the middle of that glittering lake. Shadowy sorcerers blessed him with their magic rays.

  The painter raised his right arm. Everyone held their breath.

  'Moses parting the waters.' Ronald displayed his sarcasm once again.

  'Well, something's not working,' Osterbrock said, 'because the Tunnel is still dark.'

  'No,' Martine cut in, leaning over his shoulder. 'The signal is when he lowers his arm.'

  Bosch looked across at all the screens: they were dark. He was worried that the Tunnel was in darkness for so long. The 'great panjandrum' had demanded it. Before the start of this sabbath, the witches had to honour him with their will-o'-the-wisps. Then when the photo and filming session was over, Satan would lower his paw and his very own inferno would start, his abominable, fearful inferno, the most terrible of all because no one knew it for what it was. Because the worst thing about hell is not knowing if you are already in it.

  The arm descended.

  The three hundred and sixty filaments designed by I
gor Popotkin lit as one, their light-filled mouths yawning. For a moment, Bosch thought the paintings had disappeared. But they were still there, only transformed. As though a majestic brush had endowed them with just the touch of gold they needed. The paintings were burning in an ill-defined bonfire. Framed by the TV screens, they looked like classical canvases, but with figures that had depth and volume, had been given a life of dimensions. The backgrounds stood out, the mist took on the air of a landscape.

  'My God,' said Nikki. 'It's more beautiful than I could have imagined.'

  Nobody replied, but the silence seemed to contain tacit approval of her words. Bosch did not agree.