Art of Murder

The figure seated behind the desk is a mature, thickset man. He is wearing an immaculate dark-blue suit with a red label attached to the top jacket pocket. He is sitting at the centre of a V-shaped desk, with three framed photos on one side of it. The light streaming in through two high windows behind him emphasises his bald patch, surrounded by tufts of white. There is a certain nobility to his features: blue eyes, aquiline nose, thin lips, and wrinkles that show the inevitable passage of time but give him a distinguished look. He appears to be listening closely to what he is being told, but if we observe him more closely, perhaps he is only pretending to concentrate. He is tired and worried, and cannot really take in what he is hearing, so he is barely following it. His head aches. And on top of all this, it's Monday. Monday 3 July, 2006.

'What's the matter, Lothar? You seem lost in space.'

Alfred van Hoore (the man speaking) and his colleague Rita van Dorn were studying him wide-eyed. At that moment (or until the moment Bosch went into his trance) they had been discussing the best distribution of security agents among the guests at the press viewing of the 'Rembrandt' collection on 13 July. Van Hoore thought extra protection was needed for Jacob Wrestling With the Angel, the only work from the collection due to be shown that day. The two agents on each side of the work were not enough – in Van Hoore's view – to prevent someone in the front row from leaping on to the plinth with a sharp instrument and damaging Paula Kircher or Johann van Allen, the two canvases who made up Jacob. He was arguing for another two agents to be placed in the centre, because an attack from there could not be repelled in time from the sides. And then there were the long-distance threats. He showed Bosch a computer simulation in which a supposed terrorist threw an object at the work from any point in the room. Van Hoore was young and loved simulations; he designed them himself. He had learned to programme them when he was coordinating security for exhibitions in the Middle East. Bosch thought Van Hoore would have liked to have been a film director: he moved the computer figures around as if they were actors, dressed them up and gave them human gestures. It was during the computer simulation that Bosch had got lost. He could not bear these silly cartoons.

'Perhaps it's because I'm tired,' he said as an excuse, drumming his fingers on the desk. 'But I do think you're making an interesting case, Alfred.' Van Hoore's freckled face flushed.

'I'm glad,' he said. 'My reasoning is very simple: if we let Visual Security take care of the guests nobody will try anything. Any supposed terrorist would get away from them as quickly as possible. We need some of our people to form another group, which I have called Secret Visual Security. They would not wear uniforms or credentials, and would send alarm signals to the SWAT teams…'

Jacob Wrestling with the Angel was the first original from the 'Rembrandt' collection to be presented to the public. This meant there could not be too much protection. Nobody had seen the work as yet, but it was known that the figures were Paula Kircher (Angel) and Johann van Allen (Jacob) and that it was based on the Rembrandt painting of the same name. The models would be wearing few clothes, and their billionaire bodies – personally signed by Van Tysch – would be dangerously exposed during the four-hour presentation to the press. The Foundation's Security and Conservation departments were desperately concerned.

'I wonder,' said Rita, 'why we can't change half of Visual Security into a SWAT team in a crisis.' Bosch was about to say something, but Van Hoore got in first.

'It's the same story as ever, Rita. Visual Security is not disguised and therefore forms part of the Foundation's official personnel. That in turn means it has to wear uniforms. But under the men's suits, specially designed by Nellie Siegel, there's scarcely enough room for a bullet-proof vest. And the women agents couldn't wear vests, or even electric stunners.'

'What the agents wear shouldn't affect their ability to protect the works,' Rita complained.

Bosch shut his eyes, wishing this also meant he would be unable to hear. The last thing he needed at this point was an argument between his assistants. His head was still throbbing.

The Foundadon is just as worried about appearance as security, Rita,' Van Hoore retorted. Unlike Bosch, he was quite happy to have an argument. 'There are no two ways about it. If there have to be ten people standing in a corner keeping an eye on everything, they ought to stand out. If possible, they should even all have the same colour hair. 'Symmetry, fiischus, symmetry,' he added, in a passable imitation of Stein's arrogant voice.

At that moment, Nikki came in. To Bosch, her arrival seemed like a breath of fresh air.

'Alfred, Rita: I think we'll have to call a halt to this interesting discussion for now. I need to talk to our search team.'

'As you wish,' Van Hoore said, disappointed. 'But we still need to talk about ID for the event.'

'Later, later,' said Bosch. 'I've got a lunch appointment with Benoit, but – listen everybody – before lunch I have a few minutes when ‘ have nothing scheduled. Amazing, isn't it? I'll talk to you then.' Rita and Alfred smiled as they stood up.

'Everything's under control, Lothar,' Rita said gently as she left. 'Don't worry.'

‘I’ll try to think positively,' Bosch replied, then suddenly realised this was the same reply he used to give to Hendrickje just to make her shut up.

When the door closed behind them, Bosch took his head in his hands and breathed out a great sigh. Sitting opposite him with the apex of the desk triangle pointing at her midriff, Nikki observed him calmly. That morning she was wearing a tight-fitting jacket and trousers, whose canary-yellow colour matched the lemon yellow of her hair. Her white earpiece sat on top like a diadem.

‘I could have got here earlier,' said Nikki, "but I had to repair the damage from spending all night in front of the computer screens with Chris and Anita. I didn't look much like a decent Foundation employee this morning.'

'I understand. Appearance is everything.' Bosch smiled in symmetry with Nikki's beaming smile. 'I hope it's good news you're bringing.'

She handed over several sheets of paper, explaining as she did so.

'Morphometric similarities, considerable experience with portraits, and in cerublastyne disguises. They have all taken part in transgender work with androgynous or either sex figures. And no one knows where any of them are: we haven't been able to contact them either through painters or previous owners.'

Bosch studied the sheets of paper spread out on the desk. 'There are about thirty of them here. Couldn't you reduce the field any further?'

Nikki shook her head.

'On Friday we started out with a list of more than four hundred thousand people, Lothar. By the end of the weekend we had cut it down to first of all five thousand, then two hundred and fifty… Anita jumped for joy when we managed to bring it down to forty-two. Early this morning we were able to sift out another fifteen. So this is the best we can do.' 'I'll tell you what we'll do now… what we'll do now…'

'What we'll do is take a couple of aspirins,' Nikki said with a smile. 'Yes, that's not a bad idea to start with.'

Lothar had to be careful. Nikki and her team were not part of the 'crisis cabinet' as the committee at Obberlund had been pompously baptised, and so were unaware of everything to do with the Artist and the destruction of the two paintings. All they knew was it was vital to find someone expert in the use of cerublastyne with particular morphometric facial characteristics. And yet it was absurd to keep them out of the investigation. Thea is not going to be able to follow up all the remaining twenty-seven leads on her own, thought Bosch.

'A person doesn't just disappear into thin air, not even a sexless ornament,' he said. 'I want you to leave no stone unturned: family, friends, their last owners…'

That's exactly what we have been doing, Lothar. No results.'

'If need be, call on Romberg's team. They have the operational capacity to move around.'

'We could look for them for a year and still come up with nothing,' Nikki replied. Bosch realised her tiredness was making her irritable. 'They may be dead, or be in hospital under another name. Or perhaps they've quit the profession: who knows? We can't search for them all on our own. Why don't we inform Interpol? The police have more resources.'

Because then Rip van Winkle would find out, thought Bosch. And, after Rip van Winkle, the Artist. Miss Wood and he had decided not to rely on Rip van Winkle unless it was absolutely necessary. They guessed that the person helping the Artist was part of the crisis cabinet and therefore that anything Rip van Winkle did would have no effect on the criminal. Lothar tried to think of a plausible excuse.

'The police won't search for anyone unless they receive a complaint, Nikki. And even if a family member of one of the canvases has reported their disappearance, the police work at their own pace. It's got to be us.'

Nikki looked at him sceptically. Bosch realised she was too clever not to see this as a sham, because Interpol would have done a belly dance if the Foundation had asked it to, complaint or no complaint.

'All right,' Nikki agreed after a pause. ‘I’ll use Romberg and his team. We'll divide the work.'

Thanks,' Bosch said sincerely. Nikki, you're much more intelligent than I gave you credit for, he thought admiringly. The intercom buzzed, and the switchboard voice came on.

'Mr Bosch: you have Mr Benoit on line three, but he says that I can reply if you're too busy. And on line two, your brother.'

Roland, thought Lothar. He could not stop himself glancing across at the photo of Danielle. The girl was smiling mischievously at him. Thank God, Roland at last. Tell Benoit… what is it he wants to ask me?'

Benoit wanted to confirm they were having lunch together in his office at midday. Bosch said yes, impatiently.

'Tell my brother not to hang up,' he said, turning to Nikki. 'Find out where they all are now. We won't cross anyone off the list until we're sure they're either dead, have been bought, or are up for auction.' 'OK, and don't forget the aspirins.' 'I couldn't forget them even if I wanted to. Thanks, Nikki.'

Bosch shut his eyes when Nikki smiled at him. He wanted to keep her smile as his last mental image of her before she left the room. Once he was on his own, he picked up one of the cordless phones and pushed line two. 'Roland?' 'Hello there, Lothar.'

Lothar pictured his brother speaking from his own office, beneath the ghastly hologram of a human throat he always had on the wall. Lothar still wondered what on earth had happened to the Bosch family. One of the great secrets of the universe would be solved when someone worked out why his father had been a lawyer for a tobacco firm, his mother a history teacher, he himself a policeman and then a security chief for a private art firm, and his brother an ear, nose and throat specialist. Without forgetting little Danielle, who wanted to be… or rather, who already was… 'Roland, I've been trying to get in touch with you for days…'

'I know, I know.' He could hear his brother's nervous laugh. 'I was at a congress in Sweden, and Hannah went to Paris. I suppose you were ringing about Nielle. You've heard, haven't you?… Well, we played a dirty trick on you, and we're both sorry about that. But you have to understand: Stein strictly forbade us to say anything to you. So to explain your niece's absence we made up the story about her becoming a boarder at school. Don't think you were the only one who was deceived though. I only found out about all this less than two months ago… It was Hannah's idea to introduce Nielle to Mr Stein. And Van Tysch took her on as a figure for an original straightaway! It's all happened in complete secrecy. They even told us that if Danielle hadn't been underage, we need never have known about it.' 'I understand, Roland. Don't worry.'

'My God, it's incredible. Well, you'll know that better than me. They have… what do they call it… they've primed her, they've shaved her eyebrows off… At first we weren't even allowed to see her… then they took us to the Old Atelier and we could watch her through a two-way mirror. She had labels round her neck, her hand and her feet. I thought… we thought she looked like a beautiful creature. I think we should be proud, Lothar. But do you know what she's most proud about? The fact that it's her uncle who is protecting her!'

Again his laughter at the far end of the line. Bosch closed his eyes and held the earpiece away from him. He felt a strong urge to break something. But he did not dare cut Roland off.

'Make sure you protect her properly, Uncle Lothar. She's a very valuable work. Can you imagine…? No, I don't think you could. Last week they told us what her starting price was. Do you know what I thought when I heard how much our daughter was worth? I thought: why on earth did I become a doctor and not a work of art as well?… We've been wasting our time Lothar, wasting our time. Can you believe it? She's only ten years old, but Nielle is going to make more money than you or I could dream of earning in our whole lives. I wonder what father would have made of all this. I think he would have understood. In the end, he always gave a lot of importance to the value of things, didn't he? What was it he used to say: "The best possible results from the means available…"' A pause. Bosch was staring at Danielle's portrait on his desk. 'Lothar?' his brother asked. ‘Yes, Roland.' 'Is anything the matter?'

Of course something's the matter, you idiot. The matter is that you've allowed your daughter to become a painting. The matter is that you've let her be part of this exhibition. The matter is I want to tear you to pieces.

'No, nothing in particular,' he replied. ‘I wanted to know how you were.'

'We're very nervous. What's happening with Nielle has got Hannah climbing the walls. And that's logical. It's not every day that your ten-year-old daughter becomes an immortal work of art. I've heard that at the end of next week Van Tysch is going to sign her with a tattoo on her thigh. Does that hurt?'

'No more than your tonsil operations’ Bosch joked half-heartedly. Then he plucked up the courage to say what he had to say. 'Roland, I was wondering…'

He could see her. He could see her lying back in the garden at Scheveningen, with the shadows from the leaves of an apple tree making a jigsaw pattern on her skin. He saw her stretched out in the sun, or talking to him while she scratched the sole of her foot. He could see her at Christmas, wearing a turtle-neck jersey with her golden curls cascading down her back, her mouth stained with cake. She was a little girl. A ten-year-old girl. But the problem wasn't the almost impossible idea that she should become a painting. It wasn't the dreadful fantasy of finding her naked and immobile in some collector or other's house. Any of this would have been depressing enough, but Lothar would never have protested: after all, he was not her father. The problem was the Artist.

Be careful. Don't let him suspect that Danielle might be in danger.

'Roland, I was wondering…' he tried to sound as casual as possible. 'This is between just you and me… But I was wondering whether it might not be better to show a copy rather than Nielle.' 'A copy?'

'Yes; let me explain. When a model is underage, the parents or legal guardians always have the last say…' 'We signed a contract, Lothar.'

'I know, but that doesn't matter. Let me finish. To all intents and purposes, Nielle will still be the original model of the work, but for a short period another girl will replace her. That's what we mean by a copy' 'Another girl?'

Expensive works always have substitutes, Roland. They don't even have to look the same: there are products to disguise them, you know. Nielle would still be the original, and when someone buys her we would make sure it was her who was on show in the buyer's house. But if we substitute her we can avoid her having to be in this exhibition. They are always very difficult. There'll be lots of visitors, and the hours are very tough…'

Lothar was amazed at himself, at his ability to be so revolt-ingly hypocritical. Above all, he was astonished to realise how little he was concerned about the girl who would stand in for Danielle. He himself recognised how desperate this plan was, but it was a choice between his niece and an unknown girl. People like Hendrickje would have opted for being sincere, and openly revealing what was going on, or accepting that Danielle would have to run the risks, but he was not as perfect as Hendrickje. He was vulgar. And vulgar people, as Bosch saw it, behaved in exactly this way: meanly, in a convoluted fashion. All his life he had preferred silence to words, and now was going to be no exception.

'You mean that as parents we have the authority to withdraw Danielle from the work and get them to use a substitute in her place?' Roland asked after a pause. 'That's right.' 'And why would we want to do that?' 'I've already explained. The exhibition will be tough for her.'

'But she's been preparing for it for three months, Lothar. She's been painted in secret at some farm or other south of Amsterdam, and I…'

‘I’m telling you from experience. This kind of exhibition is very hard…'

'Oh come on, Lothar.' His brother's voice had taken on a mocking tone. 'There's nothing bad about what Nielle is doing. If it appeases your Calvinist conscience, Nielle isn't even going to be on show naked. We don't yet know the title of the work or what the figure will be like, but in the contract we signed it stipulates quite clearly that she won't be naked in public. Of course, for all the sketches they made of her she was completely in the nude, but that was in the contract, too…'

'Listen, Roland.' Bosch was trying to stay cool. He was holding the phone in one hand, while he briskly rubbed his temple with the other. 'It's not a question of how Nielle will be on show or how prepared she is for it. It's simply that the exhibition will be very tough. If you agree, a substitute can take her place in the Tunnel. Showing a copy rather than the original is quite common in a lot of exhibitions…'

There was a silence. Bosch felt almost like praying. When Roland spoke again, his tone of voice had altered: it was more serious, harsher.

'I could never play a trick like that on Nielle, Lothar. She's very excited. I go hot and cold just thinking about her and the amazing opportunity she's got. Do you know what Stein told us? That he had never seen such a young and yet so professional canvas. That's what he called her: a canvas… And he also said that with time, our daughter might even become a new Annek Hollech!… Can you imagine our own Nielle being the Annek Hollech of the future? Just think of that!'

The outside world disappeared for Bosch. All that was left was this excited voice scratching at his eardrums.

'I have to admit it cost me a lot to imagine my daughter this way, but now I'm fully behind it, and Hannah agrees with me. We want Nielle to be on show and admired. I think that's the secret dream of all fathers. I can understand that the experience may be tough, but it can't be any worse than being in a film or play, can it? You'd be surprised how many children are famous works of art nowadays… Lothar?… are you still there?…' 'Yes,' said Bosch, 'I'm still here.' For the first time, Roland's voice sounded hesitant. 'Lothar, is there some problem you're not telling me about?'

Ten cuts, eight of them in crosses. The bones were splintered and the inner organs reduced to dust, to cigarette ash. How about that for a problem, Roland? How about me telling you the story of a madman called the Artist?

'No, Roland, there's no problem. I think the exhibition will be fine, and Danielle magnificent. Bye.'

After he hung up, he got to his feet and went over to the window. A golden sun hung heavily over the small buildings and the green space of Vondelpark. He recalled that a weather forecast had said there would be rain in the week of the opening. Perhaps God would bring down a flood on those damned curtains and 'Rembrandt' would be postponed.

But Bosch knew he would have no such luck: history showed that God protected the arts.

*

Benoit occasionally liked to give the impression he hid nothing from the works of art. In his velvety office on the seventh floor of the New Atelier there were eight of them, and two at least were sufficiently expensive for the Conservation director to show as often as he could that he treated them with more respect than human beings. This of course included holding conversations with his guests in front of them without getting them to put on ear protectors.

His office was tranquil and comfortable, cushioned in blue. The light sparkled intensely on the shoulders of the painting by Philip Brennan, who was only fourteen years old, and was situated behind Benoit. Bosch noticed him blink from time to time. Hanging from the ceiling in a glass cage with breathing holes was an authorised copy of Claustrophilia 17 by Buncher. Behind Bosch, an Ashtray by Jan Mann was bent over holding its ankles, with the tray on its rump. In the window, the splendid anatomy of a blonde Curtain by Schobber stood in a ballet pose awaiting the order to be drawn. The food was served by two utensils created by Lockhead: a boy and a girl who moved with gentle, perfumed, catlike gestures. The Table was by Patrice Flemard: a rectangular board perched on the back of a shaven figure painted manganese blue, which in turn was balanced on the back of another similar figure. They were tied to each other by their hands and ankles. The bottom one was a girl. Bosch suspected the top one might be as well, but it was impossible to tell for sure.

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 paused 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.

You and I don't know each other, but we have already formed an idea of one another. And you don't know yourself, but you've already formed an idea about yourself.' Clara nodded. Van Tysch went on.

'Nothing around us, nothing we know or do not know, is either completely known or unknown. It's so easy to invent extremes. It's the same with light. Did you know there's no such thing as total darkness, even for a blind person? Darkness is full of presences: shapes, smells, thoughts… And take a look at this summer evening light. Would you say it was pure? Take a good look. I'm not just talking about the shadows. Look between the cracks of the light. Can you see the tiny specks of darkness? Light is embroidered on a very dark canvas, but that's hard to see. We have to mature. As we do so, we come to understand that truth is an intermediate point. It's as if our eyes accustomed us to life. We understand that day and night, and life and death, too, perhaps, are merely different points in the play of light and shade. We discover that truth, the only truth worthy of the name, is shade.'

After a pause, as though he had been thinking about what he had just said, he repeated:

'The only truth is shade. That's why everything is so terrible. That's why life is so unbearable and terrible. That's why everything is so dreadful.'

Clara could not hear any emotion in his words. It was as if he were talking aloud as he worked. Van Tysch's mind was spinning in a void. 'Take off your robe.' 'Yes.' As she was doing so, he asked her: 'What did you feel when your father died?'

Clara was folding her robe over a tree branch. The air enfolded her naked, primed body like a caress of pure water. The question brought her to a halt. She looked at Van Tysch: 'What did I feel when my father died?' 'Yes. What did you feel?'

'Not a lot. I mean… I don't think I felt it as badly as my mother and brother. They knew him better, so it was worse for them.' 'Did you see him die?'

‘No. He died in hospital. He was at home when he had a crisis, a fit. He was taken to hospital, and I wasn't allowed to see him.'

Van Tysch went on staring at her. The sun had moved round and lit part of his face. 'Have you dreamed of him since?' 'Occasionally' 'What sort of dreams?'

‘I dream of… of his face. His face appears, he says strange things to me, then he disappears.'

A bird sang and then fell silent. Van Tysch screwed up his eyes to look at her.

'Walk over there,' he said. He pointed towards the shade under a fake tree.

The plastic grass bent docilely under her bare feet. Van Tysch raised his right arm. There is fine.'

She stopped. Van Tysch had put his glasses on again, and was coming over. He had not touched her: all he had done was to outline her with his curt orders, but already she felt changed, as if her body were different, better drawn than ever before. She was convinced her body would do whatever he asked of it without waiting for her brain to agree. And she was determined she would lay her mind at his feet as well. All of it. Completely. Whatever he said, whatever he wished. Without limit. 'What happened?' Van Tysch asked. 'When?' 'Just now.' 'Now?'

Tes, now. Tell me what you're thinking. Tell me exactly what you're thinking right now.'

She started to speak, almost without the words needing to pass through her brain.

'I am thinking that I've never felt this way with any painter before. That I have surrendered to you. That my body does what you tell it to almost before you even say it. And I'm thinking my mind has to surrender, too. That's what I was thinking when you asked me what had happened.'

When she finished it was as though a weight had been lifted. She thought about it. She found she had nothing more to confess. She remained silent like a soldier waiting for orders.

Van Tysch took off his glasses. He looked bored. He muttered a few words in Dutch, then took a handkerchief and a small bottle out of his pocket. Somewhere in the heavens a plane roared by. The sun was in its dying moments.

'Let's get rid of those features,' he said, wetting a corner of the handkerchief in the liquid and approaching her once more.

She did not move a muscle. Van Tysch's finger inside the handkerchief rubbed roughly at her face. As it came down towards her eyes, Clara forced herself to keep them open, because he had not told her she could close them. Distant images of Gerardo reached her like remote echoes. She had felt good when he painted her face, but now she was pleased Van Tysch was going to rub it all out. It had been yet another act of clumsiness by Gerardo, like a child scribbling in the corner of a canvas Rembrandt was considering using. She was amazed Van Tysch had not protested.

When he had finished, Van Tysch put his glasses back on. For a moment, she thought he was not satisfied. Then she saw him put away the bottle and the handkerchief.

'Why are you scared someone might break into your house at night?'

'I don't know. It's true, I've no idea. I don't think anything like that has ever happened to me.'

'I saw the night-time footage we took of you, and I was surprised at the terror on your face when my assistants came near the window. I thought we might be able to fix an expression like that. To paint it, I mean. And perhaps I will. But I'm after something better than that. ..'

Clara did not say a word. She just went on staring at him. Behind his head, the sky was going dark. 'What did you feel when your father died?'

‘I felt pretty bad. It was just before Christmas. I remember it was a very sad Christmas. Over the next year I gradually began to feel better.' 'Why did you blink?'

‘I don't know. Maybe it was your breath. When you speak, you breathe on my face. Do you want me to try not to blink?' 'What did you feel when your father died?' 'Very sad. I cried a lot.'

'Why do you get so excited if someone breaks into your house at night?'

'Because… excited? No, it doesn't excite me. It frightens me.' 'You're not being sincere.'

This took her by surprise. She responded with the first thing that came into her head. 'No. Yes.'

'Why are you not being sincere?' ‘I don't know. I'm frightened.' 'Of me?'

‘I don't know. Of me.' 'Are you excited now?' 'No. A little, perhaps.'

'Why do you always reply in two contradictory ways?' 'Because I want to be sincere. To say everything that occurs to me.'

Van Tysch seemed vaguely annoyed. He took some paper out of his jacket pocket, unfolded it and did something extraordinary. He flung it in her face.

It struck her and floated to the plastic ground. As it fell, Clara could see it was a crumpled catalogue of Girl in Front of a Looking Glass by Alex Bassan. The catalogue contained a close-up photo of her face.

‘I saw that photo when I was looking for a canvas for one of my "Rembrandts". I was immediately taken with the luminous quality of your gaze,' Van Tysch said. ‘I gave orders for you to be given a contract, I had you stretched and primed and paid a fortune for you to be brought from Madrid as artistic material. I thought that shining light would be ideal for my work, and that I could paint you a lot better than that fellow. So why can't I? I haven't found it in any of the footage we took of you in the farm. I thought it must be related to your nighttime fears, and ordered my assistants to make the leap into the void with you in the early hours of this morning. But I don't think it has anything to do with the tension of a moment, so I decided to come here personally. Just now when I was approaching you I thought I could catch a glimpse of it for a tenth of a second. I asked you what had happened. But I don't think that it has anything to do with you. I think it exists independently of you. It appears and disappears like some shy animal. Why? Why do your eyes suddenly light up like that?'

Before she could reply, Van Tysch started speaking in a very different voice. It was an icy whisper, a galvanic current.

'I've grown tired of asking you questions to make it appear and try to fix it in your gaze, all you do is give idiotic replies so I can't find what I want anywhere. You behave like a pretty little girl with an eye on her opportunity. A beautiful body asking to be painted. You think you're very beautiful and you want to be noticed. You want to be made into something wonderful. You think you're a professional canvas, but you've no idea what it means to be a canvas, and you'll die without ever finding out. The video tapes from the farm have shown me that as a canvas, you're absolutely mediocre. The only thing that interests me in you is what you have in your eyes. There are things within us that are greater than we are, but even so are still minute. For example, your father's tumour. Tiny things that are more important than our lives. Frightening things. They are what art is made from. Occasionally, they come out: that's what we call "purging" them. It's as though we were vomiting. To me, you are less than your vomit. It's your vomit I want. Do you know why?'

She said nothing. She was pleased somehow that she had no tears, because above all she wanted to cry.

Tell me. Do you know why I want it?' Van Tysch repeated the question in an offhand way. 'No,' she murmured.

'Because it's mine. It's inside you, but it's mine.' He jabbed at his chest with his forefinger. 'That glow that sometimes appears in your eyes belongs to me. I was the one who first saw it, and so it's mine.'

He stepped back, turned round, walked away a few paces. Clara could hear him fiddling with something. When he came back, she saw he was holding a pipe he had just filled. 'So here we'll stay, just the two of us, until I see it appear.'

He brought a match flame down over the pipe bowl. The darkness around them grew deeper and deeper. He tossed the match to the ground and put it out with his foot.

'One of the advantages of a non-flammable plastic wood,' he said.

It was this strange joke, precisely this wretched joke inserted into his frozen monologue, which seemed to her the worst insult of all. She had to use all her strength to avoid saying or doing anything, to keep looking at him evenly.

‘I’m going to chase that little shining animal in your eyes out of its hiding place,' said Van Tysch. 'And when I see it come out, I'll catch it. The rest is of no interest to me.' Then after another moment, he added: 'The rest is only you.'

Clara did not know how many hours she had been standing immobile on the plastic grass, with the night air on her smooth naked body. A cold north wind had sprung up. The sky was completely overcast. A slow, deep-rooted chill that seemed to come from within her body, was boring into her willpower like a drill. But she suspected that her suffering did not come from her physical discomfort but from him.

Van Tysch came and went. Occasionally he walked up to her and studied her face in the growing darkness. Then he would scowl and move away again. Once he left the wood altogether. He was away for some time, and when he came back he was carrying what looked like fruit. He leaned back against a plastic tree and began to eat, ignoring her completely. Standing there without moving, she saw him in the distance as a dark stain with long legs, a huge, skinny spider. Then she saw him lie down on the grass and fold his arms. It looked as if he were having a nap. Clara felt hungry, cold, and had a tremendous desire to relax her pose, but none of that mattered to her at that moment. She was trying above all to hold on to her willpower.

Then all of a sudden Van Tysch approached her again. He came stumbling towards her, snorting like a furious beast. Tell me,' he roared.

She did not understand. He gave a kind of furious groan. His voice broke in the middle of a word, like that of a veteran smoker.

Tell me something?

But she did not know what to say. She had been silent for hours, and found it hard to break free of her inertia. But she obeyed him. The words poured out as if it were just a question of opening her mouth.

'I feel bad. I want to do the best 1 can, but I feel bad because you look down on me. 1 think you're mad or a sad bastard, or perhaps both at the same time. I hate you, and I think that's what you wanted. I can't bear you looking down on me. Before you excited me. I swear, I got excited feeling I was in your hands. But not now. Now I couldn't give a shit about you. And here I am.'

When she finished, she realised Van Tysch had scarcely been listening to her. He was still staring at her eyes. 'What did you feel when your father died?' he asked.

'Relief,' Clara said straightaway. 'His illness was terrible. He lay on the sofa all the time and dribbled. He farted in front of me and grinned like an animal. One day he vomited in the dining room, then bent down and started searching for something in the vomit. He was ill, but I couldn't understand that. My father had always been such an open, cultured man. He loved classical painting. That thing was not my father. That was why I was relieved when he died. But now I know that…'

That's enough,' Van Tysch said without raising his voice. 'Why are you so frightened that someone might get into your room at night?'

'I'm frightened they might hurt me. I'm frightened someone might hurt me. I'm telling you all I know!'

The wind had risen. Her robe shifted on the branch of the nearby tree, then fell off. Clara was unaware of this.

'It's hard to be sincere, isn't it?' growled Van Tysch. 'We're always taught that it's the opposite of telling lies. But let me tell you something. For many people, sincerity is nothing more than the duty not to tell lies. So it's a pretence, too.' 'I'm trying to be sincere.' 'That's why you're failing.'

The wind whipped at the hem of Van Tysch's jacket. He turned up the lapels to protect his neck from the wind, and started rubbing his hands. All of a sudden he pointed at Clara's head with his forefinger.

'Something in there is moving, turning round, hiding. It wants to get out. Why are you so harsh with yourself? Why do you take all this as though it were a military exercise? Why don't you do something silly? Don't you need to empty your bladder?' 'No,' said Clara. ‘But try. Pee right here.' She tried. Not a drop. ‘I can't,' she said.

'You see? You said: "I can't". Everything with you is being able to do something or not. "I can do this, I can't do that"… Forget about yourself for a moment. What I want is for you to understand… No, not to understand… What I want is to tell you that you do not matter… But what's the point of talking if you don't believe me.' He paused, as if he were trying to think of a simpler way to put it. Then he went on, speaking slowly and emphasising his words with his hands. 'You are simply the carrier of something I need for my work. Look, I'm the one being sincere now, I know it's hard to do, but think of yourself as a nutshell; I want to crack you open, not because I hate you or look down on you. Not even because I think you're special, but because I am looking for what you have inside. I'll throw the rest away. Let me do it.' Clara said nothing.

'At least tell me you don't want me to do it,' Van Tysch said calmly, almost begging her. 'Fight me.'

‘I want to give you what you're asking for,' she stammered, ‘But I can't.'

There you go again: "I can't." I set you a trap. Of course you can't. But see how you're making an effort? You won't accept that you're simply a vehicle. It's as if the nutshell could split itself open, without any kind of pressure from outside.' He raised his hand and placed it gently on her naked shoulder. 'You're freezing. And look how you're trembling. See how right I am? Even now you're making an effort. Making an effort! I think the best thing is to leave it.'

He walked away again. When he came back he was carrying her robe. 'Get dressed.' 'No please.' 'Come on, get dressed.' 'Please no please.'

Clara was perfectly aware that Van Tysch was using a fairly crude painting technique: false compassion. But his brushstroke had been masterly. Something within her had given way. She felt it as she might have felt the approach of death. That almost unbearable idea – putting her robe back on and ending everything at a stroke – had shattered something very hard inside her. Her shoulders began to shake. She realised she was crying without tears. He studied her for a moment.

'That expression is good,' he said, 'quite good, but I still can't see anything special in your eyes. We'll have to try something else.'

He fell silent. Clara shut her eyes tight. Van Tysch was still studying her.

'It's incredible,' he muttered. 'You have enormous willpower, but you can't get rid of yourself. You're pulling at your face muscles, keeping the reins tight. Come on, come on… Do you want to be a great work? Is that why you agreed to be painted? Do you want to be a masterpiece?… How wrong can you be. Look… Even now while you're listening to me, you're getting tense… your will is whispering to you: "I have to resist!'"

He raised his hand and touched her breast. He did it without any emotion, as if he were touching a gadget to see how it worked. Clara moaned: her breasts were cold and sensitive.

'If I touch you, if I use you, you become a body again, do you see? Your expression changes, and I like the way your mouth falls open, but that's not what I'm after exactly… No, it's not what I'm after…' He took his hand away. 'A lot of painters have created works with you, and very beautiful they were too. You are very attractive. You've done art-shocks. You like challenges.

As an adolescent you were part of The Circle. You went off to Venice last year to be painted by Brentano. So much experience,' Van Tysch said ironically. 'You've become an icon of desire. You've been used to excite people's pockets. You were trying to be a work, and they've turned you into a body.' He pushed her hair out of her eyes. Clara could sense his pipe tobacco breath on her face. 'I've never liked a canvas that's been in the hands of lots of other painters. That way it gets to believe it is the painting. But a canvas never, ever is the painting: it is only the painting's support.'

‘I know perfectly well what I am!' Clara exploded. 'And now I know what you are, too!' 'Wrong. You don't know what you are.' 'Leave me in peace!' Van Tysch was still staring at her.

'That expression is better. Wounded pride. Self-pity. The way your lips tremble is interesting. If only your eyes would shine, it would be perfect!…'

There was a long pause. Then Van Tysch leaned over her and put his elbow on her left shoulder. His jacket brushed against her naked body, and the weight of his arm on her shoulder forced Clara to remain tense. She sensed he was looking at her simply as an interesting problem of painting, a drawing difficult to pull off which he still did not feel satisfied with. She looked away from his eyes. An eternity went by until she heard his voice again.

'What miserable wretches we human beings are. Whoever said we could perhaps be works of art? My "Rowers" have backache. My "Monsters" are cretinous criminals. And "Rembrandt" is like a joke version of real paintings by a real painter. I'll tell you a story. Hyperdramatic art was invented by Vasili Tanagorsky. One day he went to a gallery where they were holding the opening of a show of his. He got up on the platform and said: "1 am the painting." What a joke. But Max Kalima and I were very young in those days, and we took him seriously. We went to visit him. By then he had senile dementia and was in hospital. From his window you could see a beautiful English sunset. Tanagorsky was staring at it from his armchair. When he saw me, he waved towards the horizon and said: 'Bruno, what do you make of my last painting?' Kalima and I laughed, thinking this time it was a joke. But no, this was serious. Taken as a whole, nature is a much more admirable painting than man.'

As he talked, he drew his finger over Clara's features: her forehead, nose, cheeks. His elbow was still resting on her shoulder.

'What terror… what immense terror there will be the day a painter succeeds in making a true work of art of a human being. Do you know what I think that work will be like? Something the whole world will detest. My dream is one day to create a work for which I will be insulted, looked down on, cursed… that day for the first time in my life I will have created art.' He stood back and handed her the robe. 'I'm tired. I'll go on painting you tomorrow.'

He turned his back on her and walked off. Despite the almost total darkness he seemed to know exactly where he was heading. Hands in the pockets of her robe, Clara followed him. She stumbled along, teeth chattering with cold, her body cramped because of the length of time she had stood without moving. Gerardo and Uhl were waiting on the porch. The outdoor lights gave them a golden halo. It was as though nothing had happened: to Clara it seemed as if they were in exactly the same position as before. Gerardo stood with hands on hips. The silent shadow of Murnika de Verne, the Maestro's secretary, loomed in the darkness, in the Mercedes parked outside the house.

Suddenly, as if a thought had just struck him, Van Tysch halted and came back towards them. Clara came to a halt as well.

'Come closer to the car,' Van Tysch said. 'Not too close. Stop there.'

She walked over to the spot he was indicating. The top half of her body was reflected in the dark car door window. 'Look towards the car window.'

She did. All she could see was her own body wrapped in the robe, and her short red hair glowing dully in the darkness. All of a sudden, Van Tysch's wavering shadow appeared alongside her. His voice had an edge of despair to it.

'There! I've seen it again!… In the catalogue photo you are with a mirror. It's mirrors that do it! It's mirrors which produce that in your eyes! I've been a fool! A real fool!'

He grabbed Clara by the arm and dragged her towards the house. He shouted instructions to his assistants, who disappeared inside at full tilt. By the dme Van Tysch and Clara reached the living room, Gerardo and Uhl had placed one of the full-length mirrors in the centre of the room. The painter placed Clara in front of it.

'Was that it?… Was it something so simple I was looking for?. .. No, don't look at me! Look at yourself…' Clara stared at her own face in the glass.

'You look at yourself and you catch fire!’ Van Tysch exclaimed. 'You can't avoid it! You look at yourself and you… you become something else!… Why are you so fascinated by your own image?'

‘I don't know,' she said after a pause. 'Once when I was a child I went into the attic… There was a mirror in there, but I didn't know that… I saw it and got scared…' 'Move back.'

‘What?’

'Move back to the wall, then look at the mirror from there… That's right… perfect, when you look at yourself from a distance, your expression changes… It becomes more intense. When you came too close to the car, it disappeared… Why?… because you need to see yourself from a distance… your distant image… or perhaps it needs to be smaller?… But I also caught a glimpse of that expression when I came up to you in the Plastic Bosl But then there were no mirrors around…!' He stopped and raised his forefinger. ‘I was wearing glasses! Glasses!… What do they mean to you?'

Clara did not think she had jumped at the mention of this word, but Van Tysch had noticed it. He came up to her with his glasses on, took her face in his hands. When he spoke, his voice was almost gentle.

'Tell me, come on, tell me. We all have things inside us – tiny, fragile, domesticated things, like children. They are minute details, but they're more important than all the rest of our lives. I know you're struggling to remember something like that.'

A tiny Clara was staring back at Clara from the lenses of Van

Tysch's glasses. The words came obediently from her mouth, infinitely removed from her obliterated consciousness.

‘Yes, there is something,' she whispered. 'But I never gave it much importance.'

'That is exactly what makes it so important,' said Van Tysch. 'Tell me.'

'One night, my father came into my room… He was already ill by then…'

'Go on. But don't stop looking at yourself in my glasses while you're talking.'

'He woke me up. He woke me up and frightened me. But he was already ill…' 'Go on.' 'He brought his face right up to mine…' 'Did he put a light on?' 'A bedside lamp.' 'Go on. Then what did he do?'

'He brought his face next to mine,' Clara repeated. 'That was all he did. He was wearing glasses. His glasses were very large. Or so they always seemed to me. Very large.' 'And you saw yourself reflected in them.'

'Yes, I think so… Now I remember that… I could see my face in the lenses. For a moment I thought it was a painting: the glasses had a thick frame like a picture frame… and I was inside the glass…' 'Go on! What happened then?'

'My father said some things I didn't understand. "Is something wrong, daddy?" I asked him. But all he did was move his lips. All of a sudden, I don't know why, but I thought it wasn't my father but someone else who was with me. "Daddy, is that you?" I asked him, but he didn't reply. And that scared me even more. I asked again: "Daddy! Please, tell me it's you!" But he didn't respond. I started sobbing as he left the room, and…'

That's perfect,' said Van Tysch. 'You can stop now. That's perfect.' He signalled to Gerardo and Uhl to come over. 'Look at the expression on her face now… A mixture of terror and pity, love and dread. It's perfect. It's come to the surface. I've painted it. It's mine.'

He turned to them and began to give instructions in Dutch. Clara realised he must be talking about the painting. His attitude had completely changed. He was not angry or emotional any more. It was as though he were thinking aloud, absorbed in mere technical problems. Then he fell silent and looked back at Clara. Still fraught by her memories, she could only manage a weak smile.

‘I never thought that something that happened to me as a little girl could mark me especially… I… My father was very sick and. .. that was how he behaved. He didn't mean me any harm… In time I came to understand that…'

'I'm not concerned whether the experience marked you or not’ Van Tysch replied harshly. 'I'm a painter of people, not a psychoanalyst. Anyway, as I've already told you, you don't matter to me in the least, so spare me your crass observations. I've got what I was looking for. We'll put a mirror in front of you, one the public can't see but where you'll be reflected. And that will be it’

He said nothing more to Clara. He gave a few final instructions to Gerardo and Uhl, and left the house. The Mercedes started up. Then there was silence.

She returned from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, her hair blonde again, with no eyebrows, her skin primed. Gerardo was sitting on the floor of the living room, leaning against the wall. When he saw her come in, he got up and handed her a folded piece of paper. It was a colour photocopy of a classical painting.

‘I suppose there's no harm you knowing now. It's Susanna Surprised by the Elders. Rembrandt painted it in about 1647. Do you know the story? It's from the Bible…'

He told her it. Susanna was a virtuous young woman married to an equally virtuous young man. Two elderly judges spied on her when she was bathing in the garden of her house. She refused to submit to their demands, and they accused her of adultery. She was condemned to death until Daniel, the wise judge, saved her at the last moment by proving the accusation against her was false.

'In Rembrandt's painting, Susanna, with dark red hair, has just taken all her clothes off apart from a sheet… The two old men can be seen behind her… They are about to fling themselves on her… One of her feet is in the water, as if she had been pushed by one of the old men…'

That had been the idea behind all the sketches they had made of her, Gerardo explained: her mahogany hair, her nakedness, the spying on her at night, the way the two of them had preyed on her and insulted her. That was the basis of the hyperdramatism.

'The sketch is finished,' said Gerardo. 'Now we have to put the finishing touches to the painting. From now on we'll delineate your pose and the colour of your body, and fix your hyperdramatic expressions. The work will still be hard, I warn you, but the worst is over.' He sounded very relieved. 'Then we'll place lamps to illuminate you with light and shade, and put you in the spot the work has been allotted in the Tunnel.' He paused, then asked with a smile, 'How do you feel after the storm?' 'Fine,' she said. And burst into tears.

She felt a thin, strange wetness course down her cheeks. It was such a strange sensation that at first she did not realise what it was. As she moved into Gerardo's arms for protection, she discovered that, for the first time since she had been primed, she was crying real tears.