The killer's art

2

Mattis Kalvalis was nervous and had to go out to have a smoke practically every ten minutes.

‘What if nobody comes?’ he kept saying in his strident Eastern European accent. His face was even paler than usual, and his lanky body was in constant motion among his paintings. Several times Egon Wallin had shown him the advertisement in the paper and patted him on the shoulder.

‘Everything will be just fine — trust me.’

Kalvalis’s manager, who had come with him from Lithuania, wasn’t much help. He mostly sat outside the gallery smoking and talking on his mobile phone, apparently not bothered by the icy wind.

It looked as though there was going to be a good turnout for the opening of the show. When Egon unlocked the door of the gallery, there was a long queue of people waiting outside, stamping their feet in the cold.

Many familiar faces smiled at him, their eyes bright with anticipation. He looked in vain for a certain person in the crowd now streaming into the gallery. There was still plenty of time. It was going to be hard to feign indifference.

He noted with satisfaction that the cultural reporter from the local radio station had just come in. After a while he caught sight of yet another journalist from one of the local papers, interviewing the artist. His PR campaign, with press releases and follow-up phone calls, had apparently worked.

A good-sized crowd soon filled the gallery. With its 3,000 square feet on two levels, the space was disproportionately large for Gotland. But the premises had been passed down through several generations, and Egon Wallin had tried to keep it in its original state as much as possible. He liked giving works of art plenty of space so as to make the best impression. And the gallery really did do these paintings justice — the rough walls presented an intense contrast to the brilliant colours and the expressive and ultramodern style. The gallery visitors strolled among the works, sipping sparkling wine. Music could be faintly heard between the rooms — the artist had insisted on the songs of a Lithuanian rock band that sounded like a mixture of Frank Zappa and the German synth band Kraftwerk.

Egon had at least persuaded him to turn down the volume.

Mattis was now looking much more relaxed. He walked through the crowd, talking loudly, laughing and gesticulating with his large hands, making the wine splash out of his glass. His movements were abrupt and uncontrolled, and every once in a while he would burst into hysterical laughter, almost doubling over.

For one terrible moment Egon suspected that the artist must be on drugs, but he quickly brushed that thought aside. It was probably just his way of releasing nervous tension.

‘Hell of an opening, Egon. Really well done,’ he heard someone say behind him.

He would recognize that hoarse, ingratiating voice from miles away.

He turned around and found himself face to face with Sixten Dahl, one of Stockholm’s most successful gallery owners. He was wearing a black leather coat with trousers and boots to match, tinted glasses with orange frames, and he was fashionably unshaven. He looked like a bad imitation of George Michael. Sixten Dahl owned a gorgeous gallery on the corner of Karlavagen and Sturegatan in Ostermalm, which was Stockholm’s most exclusive part of town.

‘You think so? How nice. And it’s great you could make it,’ Egon said with feigned enthusiasm.

More or less as a joke, he’d seen to it that his competitor in Stockholm had received an invitation. Dahl had tried to get his mitts on Mattis Kalvalis, but Egon had emerged from the battle victorious.

Both art dealers had been in Vilnius at a conference for gallery owners from the Baltic region. There the singular style of the young painter had caught their eye. During one of the dinners, Egon Wallin happened to be seated next to Mattis Kalvalis. They hit it off, and amazingly enough, Kalvalis had chosen the gallery on Gotland instead of Dahl’s gallery in the capital.

Many people in the art world were surprised. Even though Wallin had a respected reputation, it was considered extraordinary that the artist had chosen him. Dahl was equally well known, and Stockholm was a much bigger city.

The fact that Egon’s biggest competitor would turn up in Visby for the opening was in itself not so strange. Dahl was known for his persistence. Maybe he still believes that he can convince Kalvalis to change his mind, thought Egon. But he wasn’t going to have any luck. What Dahl didn’t know was that Kalvalis had already asked Egon to be his agent and represent him in all of Sweden.

The contract had been drawn up and was just waiting for a signature.

The opening was a success. The desire to buy a painting seemed to spread like an epidemic. Egon never ceased to be astounded by the herd mentality of people. If the right person paid the right price quickly enough, there would suddenly be many others who were willing to open their wallets. Sometimes it seemed as if luck was more important than quality when it came to evaluating art.

A Gotland collector had raved about the work and put a hold on three of the paintings almost at once. That was enough to inspire others, and there was even a bidding war for a couple of the pieces. The prices were jacked up considerably. Egon Wallin was practically rubbing his hands. Now the rest of Sweden would be sitting at the artist’s feet.

The only fly in the ointment was that the person he’d been expecting hadn’t yet turned up.