'Where do you think Baldi might be now?' he asked gently.
'I don't know,' Van Obber shook his head. 'I don't know.'
'As far as I know, he abandoned a portrait you made of him for a French art dealer, Jenny Thoureau, in 2004. Was that typical of Baldi? To leave a work in the lurch before the date stipulated in the contract?'
'No. Baldi fulfilled all his contracts.'
'Why do you think it was different this time?'
Van Obber raised his head to look at him. His eyes were still glistening, but he had regained his calm.
'I'll tell you why,' he murmured. 'He got a more interesting offer. That's all there is to it.'
'Are you sure of that?'
'No. It's just a suspicion. I haven't seen him again, or heard any more about him. But I repeat - the only thing that interested Baldi was money. If he quit one work, it was because they offered him a better one. I'm sure of that.'
'An offer to be another painting?'
'Yes. That's why he left. Naturally, I wasn't surprised: I was a loser, and Baldi was too good for me. He was destined for something much better than to be a Van Obber painting.'
Bosch thought this over for a minute.
'That happened two years ago,' he said eventually. 'If Baldi walked out to become another work, as you say, where is that painting now? Since the Jenny Thoureau portrait his name hasn't been seen anywhere...'
Van Obber said nothing. This time it did not seem his mind had strayed off into distant recesses: it was more as if he were considering what to say.
'He's not finished,' he said all of a sudden. 'What?'
'If he hasn't appeared, it's because he's not finished. It's logical.'
Bosch thought about what Van Obber had said. An unfinished painting. That was a possibility neither he nor Miss Wood had thought of. They were following two trails in their search for the Ardst: either he was still working, or he had left the profession. But until now neither of them had even considered he might be working in a painting that was not yet finished. That would explain Ms disappearance and his silence. A painter never shows his work until it is complete. But who could be devoting so much time to painting Baldi? And what kind of artwork were they trying to create?
As Bosch was leaving, he heard Van Obber's voice again from the armchair.
'Why do they want to find Postumo?'
‘I don't know,' Bosch lied. 'My job is just to find him.'
'Believe me, it's better for everyone that Postumo has got lost. Postumo is more than a simple work of art: he is art, Mr Bosch. Art. Pure and simple.'
He stared up at Bosch with his exorbitant, sick eyes and added:
'Which means that, if you find him, be careful. Art is more terrible than man.'
When Bosch left Van Obber's house, a grey, ceaseless rain covered the city. Delft's beauty was melting in front of his eyes. He wished with all his heart that Rip van Winkle had really arrested the Artist, but he knew they had not. He was convinced that, whether or not it was Postumo, the criminal was still on the loose and was ready to spring into action during the exhibition.
8
The Artist went out into the street at night.
It was raining in Amsterdam, and the weather was on the cold side. Summer had been put into abeyance. All the better, he thought. Hands in pockets, he walked under the distant light from the streetlamps, letting the rain cover him with a fine spray like a flower. He crossed the Singelgracht bridge, where the lights were making garlands in the water and the drops of rain were tracing concentric circles, and walked on until he reached the Museumplein. He strolled past the area containing the silent Rembrandt Tunnel. The police guarding the entrance glanced at him without paying any particular attention. He looked like a perfectly ordinary individual, and that was how he acted. He could be a man or a woman. In Munich he had been Brenda and Weiss; in Vienna, Ludmila and Diaz. Only on the inside was he a single person. He reached the far end of the horseshoe and continued on his way. He reached Concertgebouw square, where the most important concert hall in Amsterdam stood. But now the music had finished, and everything lay silent. The Artist did not cross Van Baerlestraat. Instead, he turned right towards the Stedelijk, and began his return journey towards the Rijksmuseum. He wanted to explore and check everything. His progress was blocked by metal fences marking out an area reserved for van parking. He leaned on one of the fences and stared into the night.
A small 'Rembrandt' poster was tied to a lamppost a little further on. The Artist stared at it through the drizzle. The Angel's hand was opening in the darkness.
He read the date on it: 15 July 2006. The next day.
The fifteenth of July. Exactly. Tomorrow will be the day.
He moved away from the fence, turned down Van de Veldestraat and walked on. The rain eased off as he made his way back to the Singel.
Tomorrow, in the exhibition.
Everything around him was dark and unlovely.
Only the Artist looked like pure beauty.
Fourth Step
The Exhibition
I am not concerned about exhibition.
BRUNO VAN TYSCH Treatise on Hyperdramatic Art
'I should win easy', said the Lion.
The Eighth Square, at last!
LEWIS CARROLL Through the Looking Glass
09.25.
When Lothar Bosch awoke, Postumo Baldi was in his bedroom.
He was standing three metres from his bed, looking at him. The first thing Bosch thought was that he did not seem particularly dangerous. He's not dangerous, he told himself. The second thing he realised, with precise, terrible intuition, was that this was not a dream: he was wide awake, it was daytime, it was his house on Van Eeghenstraat, and Baldi was in his bedroom, naked, staring at him thoughtfully. His appearance was that of a skinny adolescent with protruding bones, but his gaze was full of beauty. Despite everything, Bosch was not afraid of him. I can overcome him, he thought.
At that point, Baldi began a graceful, silent dance, a whirlwind of light. His thin body danced all round the room, then returned to its initial position, and the world seemed to come to a halt with him. Then he started to move again. And stopped a second time. Fascinated, it took Bosch some time to realise what was going on: he had fallen asleep with the virtual reality visor on while watching the 3-D images the Foundation had taken of Baldi when he was fifteen years old.
Bosch swore, switched off the machine and took off the visor. The bedroom looked empty, but Baldi's iridescent after-image still floated in the air. The brightness outside the window was that of a rainy day: the day the 'Rembrandt' exhibition was to open.
The images had not helped Bosch clarify things a lot. Van Obber had not been exaggerating when he had said Postumo was 'fresh clay': a hairless, smooth creature, a beginning, a human point of departure, the start of all shapes.
Bosch got up, refreshed himself in the shower, and chose a sober dark suit from his wardrobe. At half-past ten he would have to be with the vehicles parked round the Tunnel to supervise the launch of the security operation. Now he was in front of his mirror struggling to fix his tie properly. He had got the silk folds wrong yet again. He could not remember having been as nervous as this since Hendrickje's death.
He's never attacked at an opening. You ought to calm down. Perhaps he isn't even in Amsterdam. Who says April Wood is right? Perhaps he's already handed himself over at some Munich police station or other. Or maybe ... stupid knot. .. Maybe Rip van Winkle really have caught him . .. Get a hold of yourself. Think positively. For once in your life, think positively.
All at once he heard the pitter-patter of rain. He went out onto the terrace: the Vermeer landscape had started to change into a Monet. The raindrops had begun to meld together greens, ochres, the reds and whites.
OK, so the rain's here.
As he finished dressing, he allowed himself a last thought for Danielle. He did not want to pray, even though he knew that, contrary to what religion teaches, not only the Devi
l but God himself can create temptation. Nevertheless, he improvised a short prayer. He did not aim it at anyone in particular, beyond looking up at the lowering clouds. She's the only one who has nothing to do with any of this. Protect her. Please, protect her.
After that, he went downstairs. It was going to be an exhausting day, and he knew it.
He had at least succeeded in throttling himself properly. His tie was correctly knotted.
09.29.
Gerardo took a pinch of burnt yellow colour and brushed it onto Clara's cheek.
The Maestro is going to check all the paintings this afternoon before the opening.'
‘I thought he wasn't going to come again.'
'He always likes to have a last look before he leaves. Stay still now.'
He chose a very fine brush and painted her lips with a layer of weak vermilion. She saw him smiling only a few centimetres from her face. He looked like a miniaturist bending over a book of prints.
'Are you happy?' he asked her as he dipped his brush in the paint again. 'Yes.'
The assistant took off Clara's haircap, uncovering a shock of mahogany red curls. Gerardo dipped his brush again, and returned to her lips.
'I'd like to go on seeing you after all this is over. I mean, after you've been bought.' He paused, dipped a finger in some kind of solvent, and scraped at the corner of her mouth. 'Because you must know you've already been bought. You'll be sent to the home of some millionaire collector or other. But I'd like to go on seeing you. No, don't talk. You mustn't talk now.'
His words were as gentle as the brushstrokes he was using to outline her. She felt as though he were kissing her all over.
*You know what they say. That there can't be any relationship between a painting and a painter, because hyperdramatism doesn't allow it. Well, that's the theory anyway.' He lifted off the brush, dipped it in the paint, came back to her, wiped with a rag, painted another line. 'But with me things will be different, because I'm a very bad painter, sweetheart. That will compensate for you being such a good painting.'
The assistant interrupted Gerardo and spoke to him in English. They talked briefly about the exact tone of the shading on the sides of Clara's body, and consulted the Maestro's written instructions. Then Gerardo bent towards her lips, and stood observing them closely for a while. He did not seem satisfied. He disappeared from her field of vision, then almost immediately reappeared, his brush dripping red.
Clara was lying on her back on a small bed in one of the rehearsal rooms in the basement of the Old Atelier. She had been brought there early that morning to be finished and placed in the Tunnel.
'We have to be careful,' said Gerardo; 'thousands of people are going to see you today.'
He brushed gently twice against her upper lip. It was like the touch of a butterfly's wings.
'I don't want to hurt you,' he went on. 'I would never hurt you. But I thought that.. . keeping my feelings to myself would not help me do things any better. I'm more serious than you give me credit for, sweetheart. No, don't talk.' He lifted the brush off as Clara opened her lips. 'You are the work. I'm the only one who can talk. You are in the painting.'
He dipped the brush, and caressed her again with a lighter shade of red.
'I've also heard that a painter often falls in love with his work. I think that's true. But in my case there's something strange: I think I have painted myself as well to some extent. I mean to say that I've been pretending. Sometimes I even think I'm not who I think I am. Every day I get up, look at myself in the mirror, and thank my lucky stars. But things aren't that simple. Look at this moustache and beard.' He plucked them as he spoke. 'Are they a painter's, or are they paint? I've believed it for a long while now, without wanting to look any further, without wanting to see. What is there beyond all this? someone might ask. Well beyond it, there are people. I don't look on you as a painting. I can't see you as a painting.'
He dabbed at her lips to remove a blot. They looked at each other for a moment. As she stared into his huge, twinkling eyes, a strange thought that had already occurred to her several times flashed through her mind once more: maybe Gerardo was not such a poor painter after all; maybe he simply did not want to paint Susanna. The figure did not appeal to him. What he wanted to capture in her face was not the sorrowful gleam or the horrified sense of shame, not that 'canvas of horror and pity' described by Van Tysch. Gerardo wanted to capture her for what she was. Clara Reyes. To regain her, cleanse her, give her light. He was the first ardst she had met for whom she was more important than his own work.
Uhl came in. He said they were being too slow, and that they should start painting her back. The three of them helped her to stand, and she lay down on her front.
The process went on, but this time in silence.
20.30.
'Edenburg, miss,' the driver said.
The scenery in the background to the River Geul, in southern
Limbourg in Holland, was out of this world. Woods and valleys glittered in the splendid summer sun, interspersed with rectangular wooden farmhouses. Edenburg appeared almost out of the blue as they came round a bend, at the end of the highway: a mound of steep-roofed houses dominated by the majestic presence of the castle where once upon a time Maurits van Tysch had worked as an art restorer. Miss Wood knew Edenburg. The interviews the painter had conceded her had been brief and tense. Van Tysch had never been concerned about the security of his works: his only duty was to create them.
Miss Wood knew it was raining in Amsterdam, but here in Edenburg there was nothing but sun, warmth, and groups of tourists bearing cameras and road maps. The car advanced slowly along the narrow cobbled streets, which retained all their old-world charm. A few curious passers-by stared at the luxury vehicle. The driver spoke again to Miss Wood.
'Are you going straight to the castle? If that's the case, we'll have to leave the centre of town and take the Kasteelstraat.'
'No, I'm not going to the castle.' She handed him an address. The chauffeur (a polite, attentive southerner who was anxious to keep the 'lady' happy, and who wore a fixed smile despite having to wait almost half an hour for her plane in Maastricht) decided to stop and ask a local the way.
The idea had occurred to her the night before. She had suddenly remembered the name of the man Oslo thought of as 'Bruno van Tysch's best childhood friend': Victor Zericky. She thought it would be a good idea to begin her visit to Edenburg by calling on him. She had called Oslo that same night, and he had been quick to supply her with the historian's address and telephone number. Zericky was not at home when she called to set up an appointment. Perhaps he was away. But she was confident she would see him.
The driver was having an animated conversation with an assistant from a tourist shop. Then he turned to Miss Wood.
'It crosses Kasteelstraat.'
11.30.
Gustavo Onfretti made his way into the Tunnel surrounded by security guards and personnel from Art. He was wearing a padded suit and the usual yellow labels. His body had been painted in ochre and flesh tints. Thin layers of cerublastyne lent his face a certain similarity to the Maestro, but also to Rembrandt's Jesus Christ. I'm both of them, he thought. He was one of the last paintings to arrive, and he knew it was going to be hard to get into position.
He was to be crucified six hours a day.
Wrapped in a winding sheet that smelt of oil, Onfretd walked along the ramp in the darkness to reach the part of the Tunnel where the cross had been set up. It was an artistic cross rather than a real one: it had several devices designed to make his pose less painful. Even so, Onfretd was sure that no device could spare him all the suffering, and this intimidated him a little.
But he had accepted his chalice. He was a masterpiece, and as such was prepared to suffer. Van Tysch had worked on him for a long while in Edenburg so there would be no mistakes. Of any kind. Everything had to be perfect. As he was signing him the previous day, the Maestro had looked him straight in the eye. 'Don't forget, you are one of my mo
st intimate and personal creations.'
This sincere declaration gave Onfretti the strength to bear all he knew awaited him.
13.05.
Jacob Stein had finished his lunch and sat facing the neat lines of the coffee cup. The Table was solid, one of his own designs. It was made up of a glass top held up by harnesses on the shoulders of four kneeling adolescents bathed in silver. A frieze encircled the entire table, creating swirls between the different figures. The adolescents were almost exactly the same height, but the one on the far left corner was a little taller, which meant the surface of the dark, steaming coffee in the cup was slightly askew. Of course, like all the other decorations in the room, the Table was an illegal piece of furniture worth billions. Stein was absent-mindedly leaning his foot on a silver thigh.
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