Art of Murder

by Jose Carlos Somoza

  'And now, listen to me,' Robert Wood had said, in a cool, level voice. 'You must never do things properly. You must do them perfectly. Don't forget, April. To do something properly is to do it badly. Because if you let yourself be defeated by little things, you'll immediately lose out in the big ones.'

  You were right, and I should have understood that earlier.

  She began the lengthy process of getting dressed.

  You also used to say: 'Perhaps you think I like making you suffer, April, but all I want to do is make you understand you have to give everything to art. A little sacrifice is not enough. You have to give everything. Art is voracious.'

  As an adolescent, she had not been able to understand this. It was only later she realised it was true. Art demanded everything because, in return, it offered you eternal pleasures. What were physical bodies compared to that? Bodies die a lingering death in hospitals, punctured by rubber tubes, or are beaten to the point of tears with leather belts, but art survives in the remote regions of the untouchable. April had eventually understood and accepted this. Until now, everything had gone well. Now though she was confronting a fearful problem, a gigantic imperfection. But she would emerge triumphant.

  You're very clever whoever you are, Artist or model. You're good, I'll give you that. But I am better. I swear that I'm going to stop you destroying another canvas by Van Tysch. I swear I'm going to protect Van Tysch's works with all my strength. I swear I won't allow another of the Maestro's works to be destroyed. I swear I'm not going to make any more mistakes .. .

  Blouse, trousers, her inseparable sunglasses, her short hair with a neat parting on the right. She had managed to get dressed.

  She thought about what she was going to do next.

  The critics were no use, that was obvious. Had critics ever been any use for anything? A good question, but not the right moment to try to answer it, Miss Wood told herself. The Maestro himself was no help. Yet she did not think it wise to reject the plan out of hand. They had to choose one of the works. And they could not take too many risks: the painting they chose had to be the one the Artist was most likely to target.

  There was only one thing in her favour: she knew that the two works destroyed up to now had been directly related to Van Tysch's life, to his past. There was no reason to think it would not be the same with the third. It could well be the Christ, but she needed proof. Something to tell her her choice was not wrong.

  She had to find out more about Van Tysch's past. Perhaps there was something in it which could provide the link to one of the 'Rembrandt' works.

  She picked up the phone and dialled a number.

  She had already made her mind up. She would use the only means open to her to delve into the Maestro's past.

  7

  The worst thing about being a luxury ornament - thinks Susan Cabot - is that you have to be constantly available. Paintings generally have a strict timetable. That is a definite advantage, even though a lot of them have to work more than ten or twelve hours a day But ornaments and artefacts have to be ready to go anywhere at any time, whether it is day or night, whether or not it is raining, or whether they feel like it or not. And when you've been shut up for a fortnight, it's worse still.

  She had got the call early that morning. She was not asleep: she was lying in bed with the light on (not her light, but the bedside lamp, an ordinary, non-human lamp) and smoking. She did not usually smoke a lot, but recently she had been overdoing it, perhaps because she felt so nervous. In fact, she had good reason to do so. She had been shut up in rooms like this one for more than two weeks now, cut off from the outside world. They were in small hostels used as store houses for ornaments, run by trusted Foundation employees. Food and everything else they might need was brought to them. Susan had a TV, books and magazines (curiously, there were never any newspapers - she wondered why, and guessed that those in charge thought newspapers might be dangerous). And, of course, she had all the accessories she needed for her work, including a ton of cosmetic and hygienic products, boxfuls of them almost every day. They included revitalisers, exfoliants, moisturisers, firming lotions, conditioners and polishers. Not forgetting the hypothermics, the hyperthermics, skin protectors, retexturisers and desensitisers. And the spare bulbs, too.

  Susan was a Lamp designed by Piet Marooder. She needed bulbs.

  She had imagined the phone call so often that when it finally came, she could hardly believe it. It was early on Friday morning. Bells from a nearby square lent the long-awaited moment a strange solemnity.

  'Oh, shit.'

  She leapt out of bed, stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, and after she had washed her face decided she would do. She chose a blouse and a pair of jeans, but of course did not put on any underwear. She checked she had all she needed in her bag. She still had a few minutes to spare.

  The woman who had come to fetch her was small, and spoke with a French accent. As Susan climbed into the back of the passenger vehicle, she recognised several of the women she had worked with in the Obberlund.

  It took so little time to reach their destination that she suspected they must be in The Hague or another city close by. It was still before dawn when they clambered out into the cool morning air and made their way into a beautiful big classical building {running, running everywhere, like an army). They assembled in the big main room, where they were given instructions. They would be wearing ear and eye protectors. At least it's better than being shut up any longer, Susan consoled herself.

  An hour later, and she was ready. She stood in a corner of the room in her usual position: right leg raised, with the luminous sphere attached to her ankle; left leg bent at a right angle, her backside in the air. The pose meant her genitals were in full view of everyone, but the first thing a Lamp learns - inevitably - is not to feel ashamed. She was switched on at half-past nine. Out of the corner of her eye she could make out Opphuls Chairs, and a huge Lamp by Dominique de Perrin made up of a man and a woman which had just been installed on the ceiling. This must be a very important meeting.

  Susan's pose meant she was staring at her own thighs. She was thinking of her boyfriend. His name was Ralph, and he was a Mordaieff Chair. At that very moment, Ralph might be somewhere in Europe having to put up with the weight of someone important enough to sit on him. Because of their work obligations, Ralph and Susan only rarely saw each other, even when they were in the same room. She did not envy him: she had been a Chair as well, and she preferred to be a Lamp and hold up a light rather than a person. Her father, a South African engineer who worked in Pretoria, had wanted Susan to study and have a brilliant career. How about four hundred watts, Daddy? Is that brilliant enough for you?

  Shortly before half past eleven, a young woman came up to her. It was not the small woman with the French accent or, fortunately, the stupid klutz who had been in charge of them at Obberlund. This one bent down and placed the protectors on her. The world of senses was closed to Susan.

  The only non-human thing in the room (which was not very large) were the heavy pair of red curtains, beyond which the twin skyscrapers of The Hague were visible in the distance. Bosch was the last to arrive. He sat on a free Opphuls Chair, and leaned his elbows on its sweaty hands and tense arms. The Chair was breathing under his backside. It was a strange feeling, like sitting on a barrel floating in a calm sea. The piece of furniture was naked, and bent like a hinge on the floor, arms and buttocks raised. A small leather top was placed on them. The Chair's raised legs provided the backrest. The models who were Chairs were strong, and athletically built. They were painted brown, and were perfectly trained. They could be of either sex. Judging by the shape and size of its upper body, Bosch's Chair appeared to be male. Bosch tried not to move too much or to make any sudden gestures: he had sat quite frequently on Chairs of different ages and sexes, but had always been polite and respectful.

  A select naked silver service was circulating around the room. They were Silverware by Droessner. They were aged between fifte
en and eighteen, and at first sight were all female, unless they were transgender pieces - which Bosch did not rule out. They had been covered from head to foot in a layer of liquid mother-of-pearl, on which Droessner had traced a subtle filigree of bluebirds perched on branches or settled in nests. There were birds on breasts, backs, on buttocks and on abdomens. All the Silverware was wearing ear and eye protectors, which left them deaf and blind, but even so their work was faultless. They moved round the room in a never-ending circle, like an Escher drawing, carrying small trays with food and drink. After a certain number of predetermined steps, they came to a halt in front of each guest and bent over with their tray. The guest was free to accept the offer or not. The only thing he or she was not allowed to do was to touch them. Precious silverware is not to be touched, thought Bosch, not even here.

  A Silverware leaned over in front of him, and Bosch chose what looked like a martini. As the ornament was moving on, another one arrived from the opposite direction. Their trays bumped into each other, and the two of them immediately moved apart, continuing on their blind way like ants whose antennae clash in the long file back to their nest. There was a bisexual De Perrin Lamp on the ceiling, and other Lamps, almost all of them female, shone in the corners of the room. There were Tables and Trolleys, too. Bosch wondered who was paying for all this expensive decor. Cohesion funds again?

  Jacob Stein and April Wood were the most notable absentees. Apart from them, the whole of the 'crisis cabinet' was there. Head Honcho, still apparently fascinated by the sweets Tray, quickly summed up why they were there, with a spectacular announcement:

  'Rip van Winkle has captured the Artist with a margin of error of less than 0.05 per cent. To be precise: 0.05.'

  'Could you translate that for those of us who have studied humanities?' Gert Warfell asked.

  Head Honcho launched into a complicated explanation. Fifteen suspects had been arrested, five of whom had passed to a higher level of suspicion. According to the information Rip van Winkle had, one of these was almost certainly the Artist. The other ten had been eliminated. Once they had determined which of the five was the one they were looking for, they would eliminate the others. The Artist would be interrogated thoroughly until they were certain he was not withholding anything at all. After that they would discover all the ramifications and eliminate them. Then they would eliminate the Artist. And finally, Rip van Winkle would eliminate itself.

  'We will be the last to be eliminated. Let's be precise. We will eliminate ourselves, because once all this is over, the crisis cabinet will be disbanded, Rip van Winkle will go back to sleep, and we will never meet again. Besides, to all intents and purposes, we have never met,' he finished. And stuffed another handful of caramels into his mouth.

  'That's good news,' said Miss Roman. Bosch could not tell whether she was talking about the elimination of the Artist or of Head Honcho. Miss Roman's Chair was masculine: the strong, tight dun-coloured buttocks bearing her weight were clearly visible from where Bosch was sitdng.

  'Have any of them confessed?' Gert Warfell asked, leaning forward. He was constantly fidgeting, and Bosch could see his varnished seat tensing his muscles as Warfell shifted around. ‘I mean, any of the five suspects.'

  'Three of them have said they were guilty. That doesn't mean anything of course, but it's more than we had a fortnight ago.'

  That's amazing news,' Benoit said enthusiastically. 'Don't you think so, Lothar?'

  'What information have the five suspects given?' Bosch asked, ignoring Benoit.

  Head Honcho had stretched out his hand to take a glass of whisky. The Ornament paused for just the right length of time, then continued on its cautious, blind way. Light from the Lamps was reflected on its nacreous buttocks, making them look like some fabulous bird's eggs.

  'For the moment that's confidential,' Head Honcho replied, it will be provided in subsequent reports, once we've assessed it.'

  'Let me put it another way. Have any of the suspects said anything they could only know if they were the Artist?'

  'Lothar is trying to say he doesn't trust Rip van Winkle,' observed Sorensen.

  Bosch protested, but Head Honcho did not seem to attach any importance whatsoever to Sorensen's comment.

  The interviews are taking place in various European cities, and I don't have all the information to hand. But we are not torturers, if that is what is being suggested: was ask questions before we shoot. No information has been obtained by force.'

  Bosch was far from convinced that this assertion was true, but he preferred not to challenge it.

  'So we can say the problem has been dealt with,' Warfell exclaimed.

  'Only just in time,' said Sorensen. 'The opening is tomorrow.'

  'Mr Stein will be very pleased, I'm sure,' Benoit said, eyes shining, as though congratulating the whole of humanity.

  'I was hoping to sort this out as soon as possible, so I could go off on vacation,' Harlbrunner's booming voice roared. The Chair squashed beneath his tonnage was, as far as Bosch could tell, a girl.

  The meeting was adjourned. As the crisis cabinet members used the hands of their Chairs to stand up, Benoit turned to Bosch and asked whether he would mind having a few words when they got outside. Bosch minded a lot, not only because of his appointment with Van Obber that afternoon, but because the last thing he needed at that moment was to talk to the Head of Conservation - but he knew that he could not refuse. Benoit suggested they talk in the Clingendael park. He said he really liked the Japanese garden there. They went in his car.

  Neither of them spoke during the journey. An architectural kaleidoscope of The Hague flashed in through the tinted glass of the car windows. This was where Bosch had been born, although he had lived in Amsterdam from early childhood. He briefly wondered if anything of The Hague was still in him. He thought that perhaps there was something of The Hague everywhere in the modern world. Just as in M.C. Escher's etchings, his native city contained another one inside itself, which in turn contained another, and so on to infinity. The Madurodam was a scale model of Holland, 'the smallest biggest city in Europe', as his father used to say. The Mesdag Panorama showed a painting 120 metres in diameter, also to scale. In the Mauritshuis you could get a glimpse of the past thanks to the Holland the great masters had painted. And if it was HD art you were looking for, any collector would find ten official galleries, and four times as many private ones, as well as the Gemeentemuseum and the brand-new Kunstsaal. There were legal adolescent art galleries like Nabokovian or Puberkunst; the clandestine utensils in Menselijk; the public art-shocks offered by Harder and the Tower; the animarts in the Artzoo. And if you felt like taking photos, where better than in the garden of Het Meisje in Clingendael? Fake cities and real human beings disguised as works of art. If you spent a day in The Hague you could end up confusing appearance and reality. Maybe it was because he had been born there - thought Bosch - that his mind seemed always shrouded in mist, as if he could not distinguish any boundaries.

  Clingendael park was full of tourists, even though the increasingly heavy clouds threatened an unpleasant surprise before the evening was out. Benoit and Bosch began to stroll down the avenues, hands behind their backs. A slightly chill breeze lifted the ends of their ties.

  ‘I read recently in Quietness,' Benoit said, 'that an exhibition of retired canvases is being organised in New York. There have already been several successful sales in the United States. It's Enterprises that is financing them, of course. And the writer said it was a stroke of genius, because what else could an old-age pensioner do but sit in some corner or other looking at people and having them look at him? Stein doesn't like the idea much though, because he's not really interested in old canvases, but I'm sure it will soon catch on in Europe. Just imagine all the old folk who can hardly live on their pensions all of a sudden finding they are multi-million dollar works of art. The world is spinning round, Lothar, and it's calling on us to spin with it. The question is: do you accept the invitation, or do you step o
ff and watch it go by?'

  This was not a real question, so Bosch gave no reply. When they came to a small clearing, they saw several girls rehearsing postures in front of Nonsense by Rut Malondi. Bosch guessed they must be students learning to be canvases. Of course, unlike the original, none of them was naked or painted: that would have been illegal. The law allowed the work of art to be exhibited with no clothes on in public places, but the students were only ordinary people, and were not allowed to do so. Bosch could see how they longed one day to leave being a person behind. He thought that perhaps Danielle felt the same.