Art of Murder (64 page)

Zericky was a tall, strong-looking man with blond hair going white. He looked like a well-intentioned man for whom things had not always gone as he had wished. Yet there was something about the way he screwed up his eyes when he talked that suggested there might be some hidden secret, some forbidden room, some distant family curse on him. His house was as cramped as it appeared from outside, and smelt of books and solitude. Half an hour earlier, when he returned after his long walk along the Geul with his dog and was showing Miss Wood in, he had confessed that his wife had left him because she could not bear either of these things. 'Neither books nor solitude,' he said with a laugh. But that did not mean he lived like a hermit, far from it: he went out a lot, was sociable, and had his friends. And he loved to discover nature on walks with his dog.

Miss Wood explained who she was, and gave a pardal account of why she was there. She said she wanted to know more about the man whose works she was protecting, which was reasonable, and Zericky nodded, seeming to accept the excuse. Miss Wood launched into an entertaining monologue about the 'tremendous difficulty in finding the real Van Tysch' in the numerous books written about him, which had made her determined to get to the bottom of the problem and interview his great childhood friend. 'Tell me everything you remember,' she asked him, 'even if you don't think it's important.'

Zericky narrowed his eyes. Perhaps he suspected a deeper reason behind Miss Wood's visit, but he did not seem to want to discover what that might be. In fact, he was flattered by her request. It was obvious he liked to talk, and he did not often have the opportunity. He spoke first about himself: he gave classes in a school in Maastricht, although the previous year he had asked for leave in order to catch up on all his unfinished projects. He had published several books on the history of south Limburg, and at present was gathering material for a definitive study on Edenburg. Then he began to tell her about Van Tysch. He had got up to fetch a grimy folder from his bookshelves. In it were a pile of photographs. He passed some of them to Miss Wood.

'At school he was incredible. Look.'

It was a typical school form photograph. The children's heads shone white and round like so many pinheads. Zericky leaned over Miss Wood's shoulder.

'That one's me. And this is Bruno. He was very beautiful. It took your breath away just to look at him, whether you were a boy or a girl. His eyes shone with an inexhaustible gleam. His jet-black hair, inherited from his Spanish mother, his plump lips and thick black eyebrows that looked as if they had been drawn on with ink, gave him the harmonious look of an ancient god
..
.
That's how I remember him. But it was more than just beauty
...
how can I explain it? .
..
He was like one of his paintings .
..
there was something that went beyond what you can see. There was nothing for it but to bow at his feet. And he loved that. He enjoyed directing us, giving us orders. He was born to create things with others.'

For a split second, Zericky's eyes opened wide, as though they were inviting Miss Wood inside to see all that they had seen.

'He invented a game, which he sometimes played with me in the woods. I stood stock still, and Bruno placed my arms, head, or feet in the position he wanted. He used to say I was his statue. The rules were that I couldn't move until he gave me permission, although I must say that he made up the rules as well. Does that mean Bruno could do whatever he liked? Yes and no. I think he was more of a victim.'

Zericky paused as he put the photo back in the folder.

'I've thought a lot about Bruno over the years. I've come to the conclusion that he never cared about anyone or anything, but not because he was really uninterested in them so much as in order to survive. He was used to suffering. I remember one of his typical gestures: when anything hurt him, he would look up to the skies as though imploring aid. I used to say it made him look like Jesus, and he liked the comparison. Bruno always saw himself as a new Redeemer.'

'A new Christ?' Miss Wood repeated.

'Yes. I think that's how he sees himself. A misunderstood god. A god made man whom all of us have tortured.'

19.30.

He was out there somewhere.

All of a sudden Bosch had been filled with that terrible conviction.

He was out there somewhere. The Artist. Waiting.

Hendrickje, who had put her superstitious faith in his old bloodhound's sense of smell, would have bet anything that he was right. 'If
that
is what you
feel,
Lothar, don't think twice about it: go with it.' He stood up so brusquely that Nikki turned towards him, intrigued.

'Is something wrong, Lothar?'

'No. I just feel like stretching my legs. I've been sitting down for hours. I might walk over to the other control post.'

In fact, one of his legs had gone numb. He tapped his shoe on the floor to help the blood flow.

'Take an umbrella: it's not raining hard, but you could get soaked,' said Nikki.

Bosch nodded, but left the Portakabin without taking an umbrella.

It was raining outside - not heavily, but with a steady persistence - although it was quite warm. Bosch blinked, and walked a few paces away from the Portakabin to savour the atmosphere.

The huge tent of the Tunnel was less than thirty metres from him. It shone like petrol in the rain, and looked like a mountain shrouded in mourning clothes. The vehicles parked round it left narrow corridors that were thronged with personnel: workmen, police, plainclothes agents, the sanitary team. The sight inspired confidence and security.

But there was something
more,
a thread he could perceive although it was almost invisible, a
background
colour, a deep note playing beneath the surface fanfare of noise.

'He's
here.'

Two of his men passed by him and said hello, without receiving any reply from Bosch apart from a brief nod. He swung his head from side to side, studying shapes and faces. He would not have been able to say how, but he was sure he was going to recognise Postumo Baldi when he saw him, whatever his disguise.
His eyes are mirrors.
But he could not rid himself of his sense of unease, even though he knew it was unlikely Baldi was there at that very moment.
His body is like fresh clay.
Maybe I'm just nervous because today is the opening, he told himself. That was easy to understand, and with the understanding came a sense of calm.

'Don't try to understand, Lothar. Listen to your spirit, not your mind,' was what Hendrickje used to tell him. But then, Hendrickje read her tarot cards like others read the morning papers, and saw her horoscope as set in stone just like events that had already taken place. Despite this, you didn't see that lorry waiting for you on your way back from Utrecht, did you Hendri? You didn't foresee the astrological confluence of your head and the back end of that trailer. All your intuition suddenly converted into
Stardust,
eh, Hendri?'

He walked over to the barriers. Why would he be here
today?
That's absurd. The only reason would be for him to explore the terrain. That's the way he operates. First he gets to know the surroundings, then he attacks. He's not going to try anything today.

He flashed his ID card and an agent let him through. He found himself caught up in the crowd coming out of the long night of the Tunnel - their eyes wide, fascination still shining in their faces, and swam against the current of this tide of humanity. Further on, beyond another row of barriers, was the central square from which all the paintings would be picked up. There were fewer people in there. Bosch could see the green and white uniforms of Van Hoore's team. They all seemed to be like him: nervous but at the same time calm. It was understandable. Never before had such astronomically valuable works of art been exhibited in a place like this. Outdoor pieces were much easier to guard; still simpler the ones in museums. 'Rembrandt' though was a huge challenge for the Foundation personnel.

He made for the Tunnel entrance. To his left, near the Rijksmuseum, was concentrated a small but vociferous group of BAH members waving banners in Dutch and English. The rain did not appear to dampen their enthusiasm. Bosch considered them for a moment. The main banner showed an eye-catching illustration (a blown-up photo) of a Stein original called
The Stepladder,
with the fourteen-year-old adolescent Janet Clergue. Her buttocks, breasts and genitals had been scribbled over and censored. Other placards displayed texts hastily written in capitals:

HYPERDRAMATIC
ART
EXHIBITS
NAKED
CHILDREN.
WANT
TO
BUY
A NUDE
EIGHT-YEAR-OLD
GIRL?
ASK
AT
THE
VAN
TYSCH
FOUNDATION.
VAN TYSCH'S
FLOWERS:
LEGALISED
PHYSICAL
AND
MENTAL
TORTURE.
PROSTITUTION
AND
SALE
OF
HUMAN
BEINGS
...
IS
THAT
ART?
VAN
TYSCH
DEGRADES
REMBRANDT
IN
HIS
NEW
COLLECTION.

Another long,

unfurled banner went into greater detail, in smaller lettering: 'How many models are there in the world
over
forty? How many grown men compared to young
girls?
How many HD works are
clothed
people in
normal
poses? How many are
naked
young women in
suggestive
poses?'

'What scum
’
one of the security guards at the entrance muttered to Bosch. 'They're the same sort who wanted to prohibit Michelangelo's nudes in the Sistine Chapel.'

Bosch agreed half-heartedly and walked on.

He is
here.

It was easier to get across the crowd of people at the entrance than at the exit, because they were slowed down by the three security filters at the mouth of the Tunnel. Bosch crossed through the queue. He was still intending to call on the other team in Portakabin A. But he came to a halt once more.

He's
here.

He looked at the street musicians, the vendors, the people handing out catalogues and flyers.
Somew
here.

Further on, near the Rijksmuseum gardens, a large group of young artists were taking advantage of the presence of so many people to show their works. Models with painted bodies posed naked in the rain. There were more than thirty of them. The prices were real bargains; you could snap up a painting for less than five hundred euros. Not that they were very good: they trembled, lost their balance, sneezed, could be seen to scratch their heads furtively. Bosch knew that many of them were relatives or friends of the painters rather than real professionals. Buying one of them was a real risk, because you never knew who you were inviting into your home. You could wake up one morning and find the painting gone, along with your credit cards.

The rain was like a cold sweat on Bosch's forehead. Why could he not rid himself of this oppressive sense of menace?

All at once he changed his mind, turned round, and headed for the Tunnel.

20.00.

The driver had reappeared at five minutes to eight, but Miss Wood told him to carry on waiting.

'It's true he suffered a lot, and he compensated with his excessive passion for art,' Zericky went on. 'First there was his father, who treated him badly. Then that pederast sorcerer, Richard Tysch, who he spent those summers with in California. They all wanted to have their way with him, but he ended up having his way with every one of them
...'

'Have you seen him again? Van Tysch, I mean.'

Zericky raised his eyebrows.

'Bruno? Never. He left me behind as well, along with all his other memories. I know we're neighbours now, but I've never felt like going to ask to borrow a cup of milk.' Miss Wood copied his weary smile. 'Some time ago I got a few phone calls from Jacob Stein. And also from that
...
that secretary of his, the odd one
...'