Art of Murder

by Jose Carlos Somoza

Fine, Lothar, fine, you stupid man. You've proved they might be here. So now, where are they?

  There were five different buildings in the Old Atelier. They could be in any of them. He'll have taken them to the workshops, Bosch reasoned. That's the safest place. But that was not much help either. The workshops were spread over five floors and four basements. For the love of God, which one would they be in?

  Think, you old fool, think. A roomy, quiet place. He needs to make recordings. And there are three figures ...

  His men were examining the back of the van. It was empty, but it was obvious that a short time before there had been a painting there.

  The goods lift,' Bosch suddenly muttered.

  He was still short of breath, but ran towards the lift shaft.

  'If he parked here, it was so he could use the goods lift. That goes down to the basements, so there are four possible floors for us to search. He could be in any of them.'

  He stopped to look at his men. They were all young, and all looked as bewildered as him. Their hair was streaming from the rain. Bosch himself was amazed at the assured way he gave orders and deployed his men: two of them were to search the third and fourth floors; Wuyters and he would take the second and first basements. Whichever group found them first would contact the others by radio. First and foremost though they were to protect the art work: if they had to take urgent action, they should.

  ‘I don't know what he looks like, or if he has others with him,' Bosch added, 'but I do know he is a very dangerous individual. Don't give him any chances.'

  The goods lift opened. Bosch and his men piled in.

  They had all pulled out their weapons. Wuyters had a small Walther PPK as a backup, and Bosch asked him for it. Feeling the familiar weight of the metal 'L' in his hand, Bosch hesitated. He wondered how good his aim was nowadays: he had not used a gun in years. Should he ask for help? Reinforcements? Call April? His mind was a flaming wasps' nest. He decided there was no time to lose. It was up to them. They would have to find the Artist and stop him.

  The goods lift moved off agonisingly slowly.

  21.51.

  The beginning and the end, she thought. The beginning and the end were there, and she was staring at them.

  At that moment she would have loved to have been able to count on Oslo's opinion, but she understood that poor Hirum would take a long time to speak, or even to think coherently, after seeing something like this. Faced with this work, Hirum Oslo would hardly have been able to do anything more than stand open-mouthed, eyes wide, for much longer than she did.

  ‘It's almost finished,' murmured Stein, clouds of vapour coming from his mouth. 'What's missing is the destruction of Susanna, of course. When Baldi sends it, the paindng will be complete.'

  What could it be compared to? wondered April Wood, blinking at the sight. What landmark in the history of art was anything like it? Guernica? The Sistine Chapel? She walked slowly around it to be able to take it all in: it was spread out on the floor. The

  Pieta? The Demoiselles d'Avignon? A border, a limit, a point beyond which art changes altogether? The moment when the first man dipped his fingers in paint and drew an animal on the wall of his cave home? The moment when Tanagorsky got up on a platform and shouted to an astonished public I am the painting'?

  She twisted her mouth, collected some saliva, swallowed. Her heart was beating at a different rhythm to the slow passage of the seconds in the numbingly cold room, a crazy, unhinged rhythm.

  Neither she nor Stein dared disobey the silence for several seconds.

  They were in a room measuring about eight metres by ten, that was completely sealed, soundproof and at a set temperature. This was controlled from outside, and was several degrees below zero, giving the room the appearance of a mournful butcher's freezer. The ceiling, walls and floor had all been lined with turquoise-blue steel. The dim white light came from a track of small spotlights on the ceiling. They were all pointed at the man on the floor, who seemed to be floating in a frosty lake.

  The man was Bruno van Tysch. He lay completely naked flat on his back, arms stretched out above his head, ankles crossed in a pose that immediately recalled the crucifixion. He was painted ochre and blue from head to foot. The veins at his ankles and wrists were slashed; as she peered more closely, the deep cuts were plainly visible. It was easy to see what had happened only a short while before. The coagulated blood around each extremity formed a dense pool of red on the blue of the floor, which made it look as though Van Tysch was nailed to his own blood. Several large rectangular objects, flat as mirrors, were placed around the body. There were three of them: one on the right-hand side, another on the left - arranged so that their bottom edges met close to the painter's ankles - and the third across the top of his head, touching the hands. But they were not mirrors. The rectangle to the right of Van Tysch showed Annek Hollech's body full-size, naked and labelled, placed in almost the same pose as the painter, torn apart in ten places by the ten cuts of a blade. On the left, there was the image of the Walden brothers in a similar pose, and similarly destroyed. These were not simply video images: the burgeoning mound of the twins' stomachs rose above Van Tysch's body like bloody twin peaks. April Wood supposed they must be some kind of virtual image that did not need a visor. The red of the paintings' wounds, and the gleaming, scarlet, real red at Van Tysch's wrists and feet, formed a whole that contrasted with the flesh tones of the four dead bodies. The backgrounds (a lawn for Annek, a hotel room for the Walden brothers) had been cleverly merged in a uniform turquoise that appeared to continue the floor of this strongroom. The tableau had an incredible symmetry and a mysterious but undeniable beauty. Any sensitive observer would immediately think of some kind of all-incorporating idea: the artist and his creation, the artist and his testament, the immolation of the artist together with his works. There was something almost sacred in that naked family with arms and legs outstretched, torn apart and still. Something eternal. The horizontal panel, much larger than the others and still dark, broke up the harmony. That must be where - thought April - the images from the destruction of Susanna are to go.

  'Don't ask me to explain it to you,' said Stein, seeing her expression. 'It's art, Miss Wood. I don't think you'd understand it. And it's not for the artist to try to explain it either—'

  At that moment another unexpected voice interrupted his. April Wood almost jumped in terror at this unforeseen outpouring of underground words amplified to an inhuman degree. It was Annek Hollech. Gentle harmonies by Purcell underscored her trembling words.

  'ART IS ALSO DESTRUCTION.'

  A brief pause. Then the solemn strains of a baroque funeral march.

  'IN THE BEGINNING, IT WAS NOTHING ELSE, IN THE CAVES THEY ONLY PAINTED WHAT THEY WANTED TO SACRIFICE.'

  Another pause.

  April Wood's hair was standing on end. She was shivering as though an unending line of ants was crawling over her.

  In the mirror, Annek's image seemed to have changed. Still naked and hacked to pieces, her face appeared to be moving. That was where the voice was coming from.

  'THE ARTIST SAYS . . .'

  Stein and Miss Wood listened to the rest of the recording in respectful silence.

  When Annek had finished, her face turned back into the hollow mask that was part of her corpse. Immediately afterwards, a chorus of angels seemed to transform the tearful, floating features of the Walden brothers: they came to life and spoke into the air as if saying a prayer or a sacred incantation. Again, neither Stein nor Miss Wood felt they could interrupt them.

  When at last the twins subsided into a blood-filled silence, Stein said:

  'Van Tysch insisted on having the canvases' original voices, although we improved the quality in our studio. They're programmed to start up every so often, twenty-four hours a day, every day'

  The art that survives is the art that has died, April Wood thought. If the figures die, the works survive. Now she understood. In this posthumous work, Van Tysch had found a way to convert
a body into eternity. Nothing and nobody could destroy what had already been destroyed. Nothing and nobody could put an end to what had already been ended. The inhospitable electrically controlled cold would ensure this work lasted forever.

  His work. His last work.

  *Van Tysch prepared Baldi ...' she murmured. In that room, where every sound was an unwelcome guest, her voice was almost a scream.

  Stein agreed.

  'Step by step, ever since 2004, in secret. When in 2001 he painted him in an unimportant painting, Figure XIII, he realised at once that Baldi would be the perfect material for his last great work. He used to call him his "paper". "I write and draw on Postumo, Jacob", he told me, "I make notes and develop my plan for my life's last work.'"

  Stein glanced at Miss Wood through the blue-tinged darkness of the room. They were both enveloped in vapour, as though their spirits had decided to leave their bodies but not to stray too far.

  'Fuschus, there's no need to look like that. We couldn't tell you anything, could we? If you had known something, you would have collaborated with us of course. But then the work would have been yours to some extent as well. And you're not an artist, April. Not an artist, nor a canvas’ he added. April Wood could detect the cruel way he insisted on these words. 'We had to do everything without involving you, because this was our work, not yours.'

  ‘I understand,' she said.

  'No one else knows about it: not Hoffmann or anyone else in the Foundation. I myself only learnt of it a few months ago. Bruno brought me here and explained it all. He showed me this room, and the shape the work would take when it was complete. This won't be the first time, he told me, that a work demands such a sacrifice from artists. Nor will it be the first time that a painter wants to destroy his best works before he dies. He had planned everything perfectly, down to the Christ's momentary distraction in the "Rembrandt" exhibition. He knew the police and his own security department would have taken a lot of precautions. But he had faith in Baldi: he'd trained him carefully to turn him into the perfect tool, into the paper on which he could draw his greatest work. I told him I agreed with him, but I was upset that Deflowering and Monsters had to be destroyed. "They're your best paintings, Bruno," I said, "the ones you love most, the ones that represent the most for you." "That's precisely why I'm doing it, Jacob," he replied. "They're my beloved creations. I'm doing this out of love." He asked me to help him with the final brushstrokes. Everything was meant to finish today, 15 July 2006, the four hundredth anniversary of Rembrandt's birth. As you know, artists like to close circles. Rembrandt was born on this day, Van Tysch died on this day. I told him yes, I would help him. Fuschus, of course I did .. ‘

  All at once, to April Wood's utter amazement - she was expecting anything but that - Stein burst into tears. It was an unpleasant snivelling sound, as if he had caught a sudden cold.

  ‘I said I would, and I would have said the same a thousand and one times over... a thousand and one times ... "Here's your poor Jacob," I told him. "You can trust him, he's like your own reflection" ... Today everything was to be finished. That's what he said "everything is to be finished" ... I helped him paint his own body and ... and all the rest. I won't deny it was the most difficult order to obey of all the ones I've received from him ...'

  He dried tears April Wood could not see with the back of his hand. She thought that Stein might be telling the truth, but not the whole truth. There was a screenplay, and he was following it. Van Tysch was about to be substituted, and his desire to die with his last work suited you fine, Jacob. I bet you've already chosen the artist who will take his place ... I wonder who the lucky person is ...

  A small stand was placed on the floor next to the work of art. While Stein was still sobbing, April Wood went over to it. The card on it, illuminated by a small lamp, had one word on it in Dutch, English and French.

  'Shade?'

  Stein nodded.

  ‘I took the liberty of naming it. .. Van Tysch did not want to give it a name, but untitled works do not pass into eternity ... Do you know how it occurred to me? Van Tysch insisted there had to be only a little light. And his last words were: "Jacob, remember the light. The most important thing in this work is the shade." And he repeated it several times, each time more faintly: "the shade, the shade, the shade ..." When he died, the word dissolved in his mouth. So I thought it would make a good title ...'

  'What about her?' asked Miss Wood.

  She pointed to Murnika de Verne's body. Van Tysch's secretary was lying in a distant, even darker corner of the room. Perhaps she had merely fainted, but Miss Wood surmised she would not be alive for much longer, because the thin black dress with slits up the sides could not protect her from the extreme temperature in this ghastly cold storage. Her legs were bent under her, her face entirely covered by a dishevelled mass of hair. She looked like a doll tossed away by a careless child.

  That's where she'll stay,' said Stein. 'In fact, Murnika is part of the painting, too. Shade is a work bringing everything together, the greatest ever created, because Van Tysch wanted us all to be part of it. Not just Murnika, but you and I as well, Baldi and the destroyed canvases, their families, the police who are searching for Baldi, the meetings of Rip van Winkle, all the ornaments present at those meetings, the entire "Rembrandt" exhibition including the Christ, of course, as well as all the works in "Flowers" and "Monsters", and the other Van Tysch canvases which had to be withdrawn ... and beyond those, the artists and models, all the art works in the world that considered themselves part of this, as well as any member of the public who had ever looked at a hyperdramatic painting. The whole of humanity. That was the reason for leaving a copy of the recordings beside the destroyed bodies: Van Tysch wanted us all to be involved as amazed, unwilling figures in the work. Shade is the only example of stained art that Van Tysch has produced, Miss Wood and each of us is its material. We'll have to keep it concealed for a while, of course, but the day will come when we make it known to the world ... and then people will react ... Just imagine the horrified or astonished faces, the surprised looks, the ears terrified by the voices of the paintings speaking from their corpses, the painter immortalised by his own death ... This is the centre of the work, of course, but every one of us is part of it. Can't you see how the room is getting bigger? Can't you see how infinitely large it is becoming ... ?'

  Then, following a short silence in which neither of them did anything other than stare into each other's eyes like two chess players, or a single person looking into a mirror, Stein went on:

  'There may even be a book written about it. Then it would no longer be necessary actually to see the work to become part of it: all you would have to do is read it and react.'

  Yes, react, thought April Wood, acknowledging that in this respect at least, Stein was right. She herself had already reacted. She stared at Shade knowing it to be Van Tysch's greatest work, perhaps the greatest, most sincere work of all time. Her artistic awareness told her so, her passion told her so. To give up on Shade signified not only giving up on art but on the obscure meaning of life as well. A part of April Wood's soul, an unexplored territory that had nothing to do with her coldly calculating brain, understood the Maestro's intentions, his way of 'crossing out' his 'beloved creations' in the same way his father crossed out his drawings, his way of cancelling the debt he owed to his past and seizing every last nuance of his own creative suffering ... Shade was a liberating work. Through it and his death Van Tysch was showing her how to break free of her bonds and escape all her memories. All her memories. I understand. I understand you, she wanted to say to the Maestro. I understand what you mean. Seen in this way, the destruction of Deflowering, Monsters and Susanna was not only comprehensible, but necessary. The world, as Stein suggested, might never understand it: but then the world never understands the miracle of a terrible genius.

  For the first time in many years, April Wood felt happy. Her eyes shone, and her breathing, in the freezing atmosphere of the room, came ever more q
uickly.

  She suddenly felt a vague sense of concern.

  'Where is Baldi now?'

  She looked down at her watch as Stein did the same.

  'It's almost ten. If everything has gone according to plan, Baldi will be in the Old Atelier, carrying out his instructions. As you can imagine, he has to avoid falling into the hands of the police. No policeman could understand this. They're all paid employees, just as you are, but they are much less open than you are. They would start talking about crimes and guilty people, justice and prison, and all the art that a work like this encapsulates would mean nothing to them. They would be capable of.. . they would be capable of ruining it. Of leaving it unfinished.'

  Miss Wood felt increasingly concerned. Stein raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I have to tell Bosch,' said Miss Wood.

  'Bosch is no problem,' Stein replied. 'He has no idea where Baldi has taken the painting. At ten o'clock sharp everything will he finished ...'

  'I prefer to make sure.'