Art of Murder (71 page)

Stein agreed.

'Step by step, ever since 2004, in secret. When in 2001 he painted him in an unimportant painting,
Figure XIII,
he realised at once that Baldi would be the perfect material for his last great work. He used to call him his "paper". "I write and draw on Postumo, Jacob", he told me, "I make notes and develop my plan for my life's last work.'"

Stein glanced at Miss Wood through the blue-tinged darkness of the room. They were both enveloped in vapour, as though their spirits had decided to leave their bodies but not to stray too far.

'Fuschus,
there's no need to look like that. We couldn't tell you
anything,
could we? If you had known something, you would have collaborated with us of course. But then the work would have been
yours
to some extent as well. And you're not an artist, April. Not an artist, nor a canvas
’
he added. April Wood could detect the cruel way he insisted on these words. 'We had to do everything without involving you, because this was our work, not yours.'

‘I
understand,' she said.

'No one else knows about it: not Hoffmann or anyone else in the Foundation. I myself only learnt of it a few months ago. Bruno brought me here and explained it all. He showed me this room, and the shape the work would take when it was complete. This won't be the first time, he told me, that a work demands such a sacrifice from artists. Nor will it be the first time that a painter wants to destroy his best works before he dies. He had planned everything perfectly, down to the
Christ's
momentary distraction in the "Rembrandt" exhibition. He knew the police and his own security department would have taken a lot of precautions. But he had faith in Baldi: he'd trained him carefully to turn him into the perfect tool, into the paper on which he could draw his greatest work. I told him I agreed with him, but I was upset that
Deflow
ering
and
Monsters
had to be destroyed. "They're your best paintings, Bruno," I said, "the ones you love most, the ones that represent the most for you." "That's precisely why I'm doing it, Jacob," he replied. "They're my beloved creations. I'm doing this out of love." He asked me to help him with the final brushstrokes. Everything was meant to finish today, 15 July 2006, the four hundredth anniversary of Rembrandt's birth. As you know, artists like to close circles. Rembrandt was born on this day, Van Tysch died on this day. I told him yes, I would help him.
Fuschus,
of course I did
..
‘

All at once, to April Wood's utter amazement - she was expecting anything but that - Stein burst into tears. It was an unpleasant snivelling sound, as if he had caught a sudden cold.

‘I
said I would, and I would have said the same a thousand and one times over
...
a thousand and one times
...
"Here's your poor Jacob," I told him. "You can trust him, he's like your own reflection"
...
Today everything was to be finished. That's what he said "everything is to be finished"
...
I helped him paint his own body and
...
and all the rest. I won't deny it was the most difficult order to obey of all the ones I've received from him
...'

He dried tears April Wood could not see with the back of his hand. She thought that Stein might be telling the truth, but not the
whole
truth. There was a screenplay, and he was following it. Van Tysch was about to be substituted, and his desire to die with his last work suited you fine, Jacob. I bet you've already chosen the artist who will take his place
...
I wonder who the lucky person is
...

A small stand was placed on the floor next to the work of art. While Stein was still sobbing, April Wood went over to it. The card on it, illuminated by a small lamp, had one word on it in Dutch, English and French.

'Shade?
'

Stein nodded.

‘I
took the liberty of naming it.
..
Van Tysch did not want to give it a name, but untitled works do not pass into eternity
...
Do you know how it occurred to me? Van Tysch insisted there had to be only a little light. And his last words were: "Jacob, remember the light. The most important thing in this work is the shade." And he repeated it several times, each time more faintly: "the shade, the shade, the shade
..."
When he died, the word dissolved in his mouth. So I thought it would make a good title
...'

'What about her?' asked Miss Wood.

She pointed to Murnika de Verne's body. Van Tysch's secretary was lying in a distant, even darker corner of the room. Perhaps she had merely fainted, but Miss Wood surmised she would not be alive for much longer, because the thin black dress with slits up the sides could not protect her from the extreme temperature in this ghastly cold storage. Her legs were bent under her, her face entirely covered by a dishevelled mass of hair. She looked like a doll tossed away by a careless child.

That's where she'll stay,' said Stein. 'In fact, Murnika is part of the painting, too.
Shade
is a work bringing everything together, the greatest ever created, because Van Tysch wanted
us all
to be part of it. Not just Murnika, but you and I as well, Baldi and the destroyed canvases, their families, the police who are searching for Baldi, the meetings of Rip van Winkle, all the ornaments present at those meetings, the entire "Rembrandt" exhibition including the
Christ,
of course, as well as all the works in "Flowers" and "Monsters", and the other Van Tysch canvases which had to be withdrawn
...
and beyond those, the artists and models, all the art works in the world that considered themselves part of this, as well as any member of the public who had ever looked at a hyperdramatic painting. The whole of humanity. That was the reason for leaving a copy of the recordings beside the destroyed bodies: Van Tysch wanted us all to be involved as amazed, unwilling figures in the work.
Shade
is the only example of
stained art
that Van Tysch has produced, Miss Wood and
each of us
is its material. We'll have to keep it concealed for a while, of course, but the day will come when we make it known to the world
...
and then people will react
...
Just imagine the horrified or astonished faces, the surprised looks, the ears terrified by the voices of the paintings speaking from their corpses, the painter immortalised by his own death
...
This is the centre of the work, of course, but
every one of us
is part of it. Can't you see how the room is getting bigger? Can't you see how infinitely large it is becoming
...
?'

Then, following a short silence in which neither of them did anything other than stare into each other's eyes like two chess players, or a single person looking into a mirror, Stein went on:

'There may even be a book written about it. Then it would no longer be necessary actually to see the work to become part of it: all you would have to do is read it and react.'

Yes, react, thought April Wood, acknowledging that in this respect at least, Stein was right. She herself had already reacted. She stared at
Shade
knowing it to be Van Tysch's greatest work, perhaps the greatest, most sincere work of all time. Her artistic awareness told her so, her
passion
told her so. To give up on
Shade
signified not only giving up on art but on the obscure meaning of life as well. A part of April Wood's soul, an unexplored territory that had nothing to do with her coldly calculating brain,
understood
the Maestro's intentions, his way of 'crossing out' his 'beloved creations' in the same way his father crossed out his drawings, his way of cancelling the debt he owed to his past and seizing every last nuance of his own creative suffering
...
Shade
was a liberating work. Through it and his death Van Tysch was showing her how to break free of her bonds and escape all her memories.
All
her memories. I understand. I understand you, she wanted to say to the Maestro. I understand what you mean. Seen in this way, the destruction of
Deflowering, Monsters
and
Susanna
was not only comprehensible, but
necessary.
The world, as Stein suggested, might never understand it: but then the world never understands the miracle of a terrible genius.

For the first time in many years, April Wood felt happy. Her eyes shone, and her breathing, in the freezing atmosphere of the room, came ever more quickly.

She suddenly felt a vague sense of concern.

'Where is Baldi now?'

She looked down at her watch as Stein did the same.

'It's almost ten. If everything has gone according to plan, Baldi will be in the Old Atelier, carrying out his instructions. As you can imagine, he has to avoid falling into the hands of the police. No policeman could understand this. They're all paid employees, just as you are, but they are much less open than you are. They would start talking about crimes and guilty people, justice and prison, and all the art that a work like this encapsulates would mean nothing to them. They would be capable of
..
. they would be capable of ruining it. Of leaving it unfinished.'

Miss Wood felt increasingly concerned. Stein raised his eyebrows.

‘I
have to tell Bosch,' said Miss Wood.

'Bosch is no problem,' Stein replied. 'He has no idea where Baldi has taken the painting. At ten o'clock sharp
every
thing will he finished
...'

'I prefer to make sure.'

She opened her bag and took out her mobile. Her hands were like frozen claws.

It could not be. She had to stop it. This at least she had to put a stop to. It was his great work, the transforming work. And she wanted to protect his art because she worshipped it with the same terrible passion as the Maestro did. April Wood had not the slightest doubt about what she had to do.

At all costs, she had to prevent
Shade
from remaining unfinished.

21.58.

Lothar Bosch was observing Postumo Baldi through the two-way mirror in the rehearsal room. Dressed all in white, the figure hypnotised him. It was as if Baldi was a cartoon character, a computer game moving according to mysterious instructions.

Wuyters and he had just discovered Baldi at the far end of the corridor in the first basement. The room was soundproofed, and the glass allowed them both to study Baldi without him realising they were there. Just as Bosch had suspected from the outset in spite of the cerublastyne mask he recognised him immediately when he saw his eyes. They really are mirrors, he thought.

They came upon Baldi as he had finished placing the woman in position. The three naked canvases were properly labelled, and were lying on their backs on the floor. They did not appear to have suffered any damage. Baldi must have finished making the recordings and was about to cut them up. Bosch shuddered.

'Shall we go in now?' asked Wuyters, raising his weapon.

'Call the others first,' said Bosch.

They had placed themselves by the door, at the ready. They grasped their guns firmly in both hands. Wuyters switched on his headset and warned the other two. Bosch could see the young man was as nervous as he was, perhaps more so. When Wuyters finished speaking, he looked towards Bosch for further instructions. Bosch signalled to him to be ready to throw open the door to the room.

At that very moment, his mobile phone rang. Still keeping his eyes on Baldi, and despite being aware that he could not hear them, Bosch answered as quickly as he could. He was so pleased to hear April Wood's voice he answered at once in an anguished whisper, before she had the chance to speak.

'April! Thank God, we've got him! He was in the Old Atelier! He was in one of the rehearsal rooms, and he's about to
..
.'

That was when April Wood silenced him with her urgent appeal.

21.59.

It had all happened very quickly. First, the surprise shot. Rodino and Krupka were so defenceless they did not even have time to react. Matt shot Rodino first. He lifted a hand to his throat and opened his eyes wide. Neither Krupka nor Clara could see the dart stuck in his neck. Then, just as quickly, Matt cocked the gun, aimed at Krupka, and fired a second time. Then he turned towards her. Instinctively, Clara protected herself with her hands. 'Stay calm,' Matt told her.