Art of Murder (59 page)

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 b
y Harder and the Tower; the ani
marts 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 questi
on is: do you accept the invitati
on, 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.

‘D
o 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’l
l 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?'