Art of Murder (60 page)

'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 reappea
r, 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
Succubu
s.
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 th
em 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 sti
ll working, or he had left the profession. But until now neither of them had even considered he might be wo
rking in a painti
ng
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.