Art of Murder

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 fifteen 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 off 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.

Benoit stood for a long while in silence staring at the motionless bodies of the apprentice canvases posing on the grass in their jeans and blouses, folders and jerseys at their feet.

‘Do you think they really have caught him, Lothar?' he asked all of a sudden. This time it was a real question. 'No. I don't think so, Paul. But it's possible.'

'I don't believe it either,' said Benoit. 'Rip van Winkle has the same problem as Europe: disunited union. Do you know what our problem is as Europeans? We want to go on being ourselves while at the same time we're part of the whole. We're trying to globalise our individuality. But the world needs fewer and fewer individuals, fewer races, fewer nations, fewer languages. What the world needs is for us all to know English and, if possible, for us all to be a bit liberal. In Babel let everyone speak English and bring on the tower, says the world. That's what globalisation demands, and we Europeans aspire to that without giving up on our individuality. But what is an individual nowadays? What does it mean to be French, English or Italian? Take a look at us: you're Dutch with German ancestors, I'm French but I work in Holland, April is English, but she lived in Italy, Jacob is North American and lives in Europe. Before, our artistic traditions used to differentiate us, but now things have changed. A Dutchman can create a work of art with a Spaniard, a Romanian with a Peruvian, a Chinaman with a Belgian. Immigration has found an easy job market: it can become art. Nothing separates us from anyone else any more, Lothar. At home, I've got a cerublastyne portrait of myself by Avendano. It's exactly like me, as exact as a mirror image, but the model substituting the original this year is a Ugandan. He's in my office, where I see him every day. In him I can see my features, my body, my own appearance, and I think: My God, inside me there's a black man. I've never been racist, Lothar, I swear, but it seems to me unbelievable to look at myself and to know that underneath, under my skin, is hidden a black man, that if I scratch hard enough at one of my cheeks I'll see the Ugandan appear, immobile, that Ugandan I have inside me who I can't get rid of even if I wanted to… among other reasons, because the portrait is by Avendano and costs an arm and a leg.' 'I understand,' said Bosch.

‘I wonder what we would see appear under the skin of Europe if we scratched it, Lothar?' We'd have to scratch a lot, Paul.'

'Right. But there's one consoling thought. There's something that links me to the Ugandan, something I share with him which makes me think that deep down we're not that different after all.' After a pause, Benoit continued his walk. Then he said:*We both want money.'

At the end of the walk, mirrored by a pond and crouching on some rocks, was Het Meisje, the best-known work in Clingendael park, and perhaps in the entire city. Het Meisje, 'The Young Woman', was a delicate Rut Malondi piece. Some people called it the 'Little HD Mermaid' of The Hague. Her body was half-hidden by a loose-fitting shirt painted snow-white, which flapped in the breeze. Her face, perfectly detailed in cerublastyne, and the gentle hyperdramatism of her blue gaze filled the leisure hours of the passers-by. She was a permanent outdoor piece, but in the harsh Dutch winter the city council protected her under a thermostatically-controlled plastic dome. The canvas can not have been more than fourteen years old. She was the sixteenth substitute, and was painted to look exactly the same as the earlier ones. A whole regiment of tourists surrounded her, snapping away. It had become a tradition to offer her flowers or throw her scraps of paper with poems written on them. Benoit came to a halt opposite her, by the pool's edge.

'You must have heard that there'll soon be a change at the top,' he said. 'Van Tysch is going into a decline, Lothar. Or rather, he's completely wrecked. That's what happens when someone becomes immortal: they die. The only reason we don't see them rot is that it's hidden under layers of pure gold. The search for a replacement has already started. I was wondering who will take over.' 'Dave Rayback,' said Bosch without a moment's hesitation.

'No. It won't be him. He's an artistic genius – I've got several of his originals in Normandy, and I've paid a fortune to have them permanently on show there. They're so good I don't want them to leave even for a pee. As an artist, Rayback has more than enough qualities to take over. But his great defect is that he's too clever, don't you think? A genius should always be a bit of a dummy. People tend to look at geniuses and smile, thinking: Look at them, poor things, so busy creating their sacred works, but as lost as ever. That's the image of genius that people buy. So a genius who is intelligent as well makes people uncomfortable. It's as if we thought intelligence was only for mediocre people. Or as though being a genius was incompatible with wanting to amass a fortune, lead a country or command an army. We expect the leader of a government to be "intelligent". We might even say he has been a "good" president. But however good he may be at his job, he'll never be a "genius". Do you see the difference?'

'So if it's not Rayback,' said Bosch, 'who is it going to be? Stein?'

'Not likely. Stein is one of those people who need a boss to approve of their work. I can remember a phrase by Rayback that I liked a lot: "Stein is the best of all those who aren't artists." It's true. Forget about Stein. The only role he has in this is as a voter: he and others like him will choose the new genius. And I can assure you that the chosen one will be an unknown, one of the general run of the mill. The Foundation can not fail now. We've become a huge business, Lothar. The future stakes are enormous. Mummy and Daddy will give every child a beginner's guide to HD painting. We'll create part-time models that will cost the amateur painter a hundred euros. We'll get human artefacts and ornaments legalised, and when that happens we will place an eighteen-year-old Receptacle, Tray or Ashtray in your home for a thousand or two thousand euros. We can expand our cerublastyne portraits and our mass-production workshops. And once we can include violence in completely legal and cheap art-shocks, we'll have taken another step forward similar to legalising drugs. HD art is going to change the history of humanity, I promise you. We're becoming the most successful business in the world. Therefore we need someone pretty stupid to represent us. If we were represented by an intelligent person, we would fail. Good business needs a fool out front, and a lot of clever people behind him.'

All at once Bosch began to understand why Benoit wanted to talk to him. Sly old fox. When you're expecting a mutiny, you try to find people on your side, don't you? But then a second, more disturbing explanation flashed through his mind: what if Benoit was the person helping the Artist? Perhaps he wanted to finish off Van Tysch and speed up the transfer. While he was thinking this over, Bosch pushed the tip of his de back inside his jacket. Het Meisje's white shirt was fluttering in the breeze. A Japanese girl threw her a rose. Bosch looked more closely and saw it was plastic. It bounced off Het Meisje's bare knee and fell into the pond. Then Benoit said something unexpected.

'I'm really sorry about your niece, Lothar. And I understand you. It must be very worrying, especially with the way things are. I wanted you to know it was nothing to do with me. It was Stein who chose her as a model, and the Maestro agreed.' ‘I know.'

‘I called her first thing this morning to see how she was getting on. She's fine, but a bit nervous, because Van Tysch is going to sign her today. I have to tell you I phoned her because she's your niece, although you know it's against the rules to have any contact with the canvases before Van Tysch has signed them.' 'Thanks, Paul.'

Benoit went on talking quickly, as if he had not yet got to the point he was trying to make.

‘I’ll always be beside you, Lothar. I'm with you. And I'd like you to feel the same. I mean that whatever happens, whoever might come after Van Tysch, we will continue to support each other, won't we?'

A clump of pansies was growing near Benoit's feet. He bent down, picked one, and threw it into the air. But his aim was bad, and the pansy flew over Het Meisje's painted head. Benoit looked as crestfallen as a footballer who has missed a decisive penalty.

'I've got a copy of that wonder in Normandy,' he confessed to Bosch, pointing at Het Meisje. 'A cheap, tawdry copy of the kind they sell you in art shops with the words "Souvenir of The Hague" inscribed on its buttocks. The model is over twenty years old now, of course. But I still like it. I'm sorry, I've kept you a long dme. Did you have to go somewhere?' 'Unfortunately, yes. But I'll be there on time.'

'See you tomorrow, Lothar.' 'Yes, tomorrow at the opening.' 'I must say, I wish this was all over.' Bosch left him without replying.

On his way to Delft, he called Van Obber to say he would be late. The painter's hoarse voice came on the line. 'No problem,' he said. 'I've nowhere to go.' Bosch hung up and tried to have a nap. The meeting with Benoit flashed into his mind. It was obvious the Artist was still at large, and Benoit had realised it. Rip van Winkle was a way for Europe to make a good impression with a company that brought the biggest number of tourists to the Old World, but that was all. The Artist was still free. And he was ready.

He was just dozing off when the call came. It was Nikki.

'Lije suffered first-degree burns over half his body and was interned for life in a psychiatric clinic in northern France, Lothar – we've checked. Apparently, it happened during the December art-shocks, but Extreme covered it up to avoid upsetting the other artists and canvases.'

'How did it happen?'

'In one of the paintings they were using candles to spill different-coloured hot wax on to Lije's body. Someone was clumsy, there was a fire: Lije was tied up, and no one bothered to help him get out'

'My God,' muttered Bosch.

'That leaves Postumo Baldi. He's the only one without an alibi.'

'I'm just on my way to Delft to see Van Obber,' Bosch explained. 'I want you to get me all the information you can about Baldi: any tapes on him, the recordings and interviews Support made when he was Figure XIII. Send them to my home.'

'OK.'

As the car entered Delft, Bosch felt rather strange. What could Van Obber tell him? What did he want out of him? All at once he understood that he wanted Van Obber to paint him a face. Some features. Knowing Baldi might be the Artist was not, in theory, going to have any immediate consequences. The security measures for the exhibition were not going to be changed in any way. But perhaps Van Obber would be able to paint a picture of Baldi, which would help Bosch add some details to the misty, androgynous outline he had in his head.

In Delft, grey-bellied clouds were gathering on the far horizon. Bosch got out of the car in Markt square, next to the New Church, and told the driver to wait for him there. He wanted to walk. A moment later, and he found himself surrounded by pure beauty.

Delft. This was where the painter Vermeer, that expert in subtle detail, had been born. Those were different times though, thought Bosch, times when it was still possible to feel and think, times when beauty had still not been completely discovered. He reached Oude Delft with its ancient canal, and gazed at its tranquil waters, the mouth-wateringly green lime trees, and the indented skyline of roofs, all of it gleaming despite the sky's refusal to collaborate with the light, all of it shining and pure like the pottery Delft had made famous. Bosch felt moved. Once upon a time then, things had been clear. When had everything been overtaken by shade? When did Van Tysch come down from the skies, and dark shadows fill every corner? Of course, it wasn't Van Tysch's fault. Not even Rembrandt's. But seeing Delft like this was to understand that in the past, at least, there was a meaning to things, they were diaphanous, full of sweet details that artists liked to note and reproduce skilfully Bosch thought that in some way humanity had grown, too. There was no room any more for a naive humanity. Was that a good or bad thing? At school, one of his teachers used to say there was one good thing about hell: at least the condemned knew where they were. There could not be the slightest doubt about it. And now Bosch conceded he was right. The worst thing about hell was not the roasting heat, the eternity of torment, the fact of having lost God's love or of being tortured by devils.

The worst thing about hell is not knowing whether you are already in it or not.

Van Obber lived in a pretty brick house by the canal, topped off with white gables. It was plain that the roof was in need of repair, and that the window frames could do with a new coat of paint. The painter himself opened the door. He was a man with straw blond hair en brosse. He was agonisingly thin, with dark circles round his eyes and bruises everywhere. His face was beaded with sweat. Bosch knew he was no older than forty, but he looked at least fifty. Van Obber registered his surprise. His face contorted in a grimace that might have been his way of smiling. 'I'm in urgent need of repair,' he said.

He led Bosch to a creaking staircase. The upper floor was a single, large room that smelt of paint and solvents. Van Obber offered him an armchair, sat in another one, and began breathing heavily. For a while, that was all he did.

'I'm sorry for this sudden visit,' Bosch said. 'I didn't mean to put you out.'

'Don't worry' The painter wrinkled the dark lines round his eyes. 'My whole life is routine… I mean I always do the same… that makes things difficult, because things never stop changing… At least I don't really have too many money problems… forty per cent of my works are still alive… there's not many independent painters who could say as much… and I still get some rent from my paintings… I don't paint adolescents any more… you can't get the material, because it's expensive and soon gets frightened… I used to do everything before: even ornaments and pubermobilair, which are prohibited…'

‘I know,' Bosch said, interrupting the slow but inexorable flow of words. 'I think, in fact, that in one of your last works you used Postumo Baldi, didn't you? For the portrait you did for Jenny Thoureau in 2004.'

'Postumo Baldi…' Van Obber lowered his head and put his hands together as if he was praying. His red nose shone in the light from the window.

'Postumo is fresh clay,' he said. 'You touch him and stand him somewhere, and he adapts to it… You can poke or pull his flesh… do anything you want with him: animarts of a snake, dog or horse; a Catholic virgin; an executioner for stained art; bare carpets; transgender dancers… he's extraordinary material. To say he's "first class" comes nowhere near it…' 'When did you get to know him?'

'I didn't get to know him… I met him and used him… That was in the year 2000, in a gallery for stained art in Germany. I'm not going to tell you where it is, because I don't even know: guests are always taken to it blindfolded. The art-shock was an anonymous triptych called The Dance of Death. It was a good piece. The stained material was exceptional: a coachful of young students of both sexes. You know, the classic way of getting material for stained art: the coach falls into water in an accident, the bodies never reappear, it's a national tragedy and the students, who have been forced to leave the bus beforehand, are secretly taken to the painter's workshop. In those days, Baldi must have been fourteen, and he was painted as one of the figures of Death who had to sacrifice the stained material. When I saw him he was flaying two of the students, a boy and a girl, and painting skulls on their skinless flesh. Although they were in a very bad way, the students were still alive, but Baldi seemed so beautiful to me I wanted to contract him for my own paintings. He was very expensive, but I had the money. I told him: "I'm going to paint something out of this world with you"… All I used was a little cerublastyne… a very restricted palette: a few dull pinks and some watery blues. I added a jet-black hair implant down to his feet. I made the sex imprecise, which wasn't difficult. I demanded a lot of him, but Postumo was up to everything. I used him as a man and as a woman. I tortured him with my own hands. I treated him like an animal, like something I could use and then throw into the rubbish… I'm not saying that Postumo was good at everything. He was a human body, and had the limits of one. But there was something in him, something that was… his way of negating himself. That was how I painted my work Succubus. That was the first painting I did with him. Do you know what Postumo's next work was, Mr Bosch?… A Virgin Mary by Ferrucioli…'

Van Obber opened his mouth to laugh, and Bosch could see his stained teeth. 'People might ask: "How can the same canvas be painted as a Succubus by Van Obber and a Virgin by Ferrucioli?" The answer is a simple one: that's art, ladies and gentlemen. That is precisely what art is, ladies and gentlemen.' He fell silent, then after a while added:

'Postumo is not mad, but he's not sane either. He's neither evil nor good, man or woman. Do you want to know what Postumo is? He's whatever the painter paints on him. Postumo's eyes are emph’. I asked them for emotion, and they gave it me: anger, fear, rancour, jealousy

… but then, once work was over, their light went out, they emptied

… Postumo's eyes are as empty and colourless as mirrors… Empty, colourless, as beautiful as…'

His words broke off in dreadful sobbing. In the ensuing silence, several thunderclaps could be heard. It was starting to rain over Delft.

Bosch felt sorry for Van Obber and his shattered nerves. He supposed solitude and failure made for poor companions. '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.