Art of Murder (49 page)

'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 adv
antages of a non-flammable plasti
c 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.

‘B
ut 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'r
e asking for,' she stammered, ‘B
ut 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 painti
ng. 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 interestin
g problem of painti
ng, 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 l
ike a joke version of real painti
ngs 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.