Art of Murder (30 page)

'He calls us every day,' Hubertus said mockingly. 'He's still thinking of making a film about us, written by that American Nobel prize winner.'

'He's part of the new
intelligentsia,'
Arnoldus said.

'He looks after us.'

'He wants us.'

'He wants to
buy
us, Arno.'

That's what I said, Hubert. Could you spray some more solvent on my back, Franz? The paint is itching.'

'We only interest that old bastard because he wants to buy us.'

'Yes, but the Maestro wouldn't sell us to that assho
le.' 'Or may
be he would: who knows? He's made interesting offers, hasn't he, Karl?'
‘I
think so.'

'He "thinks" so. Did you hear that, Arno?
...
Karl "thinks" so.' 'Be careful with the top step from the podium
...'
'We know that, idiot. Are you new? Is this your first day in Conservation?
..
. We're not new to this, you idiot.' 'We're old. We're eternal.'

Jennifer Halley's dress has been taken off. She was wearing only a pair of white socks
with pompons (Steve, the achon
droplastic model, was being wheeled away on a trolley). Several technicians were rubbing Jennifer's shiny body with cottonwool dipped in solvent. As the Walden brothers passed by her,
Hubertus tried to bow his head, although all he succeeded in doing was to lower it into his triple chin.

'Bye, my virginal fairytale princess! May angels fill your dreams!'

The girl turned towards him and gave him the finger.

Hubertus carried on smiling, but as he lumbered like a listing boat towards the exit, he screwed up his eyes until they were two dark hyphens.

'How uncouth our little whore is. I've a mind to teach her some manners.'

'Ask Robertson to buy her and put her in your house. Then both of us can teach her a lesson.'

'Don't talk nonsense, Arno. Besides, you know I prefer a good male lobster to a female oyster. Do you mind getting out of the way, miss, we're trying to leave.'

The girl from Conservation leapt out of their path, smiling and saying she was sorry. She was looking after the mental retards. The Walden brothers swept onwards, followed by a group of assistants. Hubertus' robe was purple; Arnoldus' carrot-coloured with green flecks. They had velvet hoods, with cords long enough to go round seven ordinary men.

'Hubert.'

'What is it, Arno?'

'I have to something to confess.'

'...
?
'

'Yesterday I stole your Walkman. It's in my locker.' 'And I've got something to confess to you, Arno.' 'Tell me, Hubert'

'My Walkman is completely fucked.'

Laughing their high-pitched laughs, the enormous twins left the gallery by an emergency exit.

The Haus der Kunst in Munich is a dull white oblong screened by columns, built next to the English Garden. Its detractors call it the 'Weisswurst'. It was inaugurated seventy years earlier with a triumphal procession by none other than Adolf Hitler, who wanted to use it as a symbol of the purity of German art. In the procession were young girls dressed as nymphs, who all moved like dolls and blinked their eyes at the same time as though being switched on and off. The F
ü
hrer did not like that very much. Coinciding with this lavish opening, another small but no less important exhibition was taking place. This was of 'Degenerate Art', where works by painters banned by the Nazis, such as Paul Klee, were being shown. The Walden brothers knew the story, and they could not help wondering, as they plunged on majestically down the museum corridors towards the changing rooms, which of the two collections the great Nazi leader would have put them in. In the one symbolising the purity of the German race? Or with the 'Degenerate Art'?

Circles. Arno likes drawing circles. He draws himself as joined-up circles: at the top, his round head; then a big belly for body; and two legs sticking out of the sides.

'What's the matter with you, Hubert?'

'My skin is very sensitive since they changed the glue they put on, Arno. After the shower it stings.'

That's strange, the same happens to me.'

They were in the labelling room, fully dressed, combing their hair with a neat parting. The technicians had just fixed on their labels and served them an abundant seafood dinner, which they had attacked with gusto.

The Waldens were two symmetrical beings, one of nature's rare exact photocopies. As usual in these cases, they wore identical clothes ( made to measure by Italian tailors) and had identical haircuts. When one fell ill, the other did not take long to succumb as well. They had similar tastes, and were irritated by the same things. In childhood, they had been diagnosed with the same syndrome (obesity, sterility and antisocial behaviour), had gone to the same schools, performed the same jobs in the same firms, and been in the same prisons together, accused of the same offences. Their clinical and criminal records said the same: pederast, psychopath, and sadist. Van Tysch had called the two of them up one afternoon in the autumn of 2002, shortly after they had been declared innocent in the case of the dreadful murder of Helga Blanchard and her son. He had made them both works of art simultaneously.

Helga Blanchard was a German TV actress, a former lover of a Bayern Munich fullback. She had a boy of five from a previous marriage, and was fortunate to have won substantial maintenance from the divorce. Nobody really knows what took place, but early on the morning of 5 August, 2003, the outskirts of Hamburg were very misty. When the mist cleared, Helga and her son Oswald were found naked and nailed with tent pegs half an inch thick to the floorboards of their country cottage. One of the pegs joined the two corpses (her right hand and his left). They also shared the fact that their tongues had been cut out, they had been raped with a screwdriver, and their eyes had been gouged out, or almost: Helga's right eye had been left untouched so that she could get a good look at what was happening to her son. The crime caused such a scandal that the authorities were forced to make an immediate arrest, without any proof: so they took in a lesbian couple who were Helga's closest neighbours, and who around that time had been trying to get official permission to adopt a child. A mob of furious citizens tried to burn down their chalet. Twenty-four hours later they were released without charge. The younger of the two appeared on a TV programme, and the next day a lot of people were imitating the stabbing gesture she made with her forefingers when she insisted she had nothing to do with what had happened, and that neither of them had seen or heard anything. The arrests continued: first Helga's former husband (an impresario), then his current wife, after that her ex-husband's brother, and finally, the footballer. When the footballer was taken in, news of the case spread beyond Germany and was talked about throughout Europe.

Then a surprise witness came forward:
an
old-fashioned painter who still used canvas for his paintings, and had been working that day on a countryside scene he was thinking of calling
Trees and Mist.
He was a do
ctor by profession, and a family
man. That quiet holiday morning he had been working on his canvas when he saw two big circles rolling from tree to tree through wisps of mist; they did not seem to him to have a naturally healthy colour. He looked more closely, and could make out two naked, immensely fat men gliding through the woods very near Helga Blanchard's cottage. So fascinated was he by their anatomies that he abandoned all attempts to carry on with his painting, and instead started to draw them in his sketchbook.

The sketch was published as an exclusive in
Der Spiegel.
After that, it was easy: the Walden brothers lived in Hamburg and had lengthy criminal records. They were arrested and put on trial. The young lawyer nominated to defend them was brilliant. The first thing he did was to cleverly destroy the evidence put forward by the doctor-painter. The trap he set for the witness is still remembered: 'If your painting is entitled
Trees
and Mist,
and you, yourself, say you are inspired by the landscape around you, how could you be certain of seeing the defendants in a place filled with
trees
and
mist?'
Next he played on the jury's sentiments. 'Are they to be judged guilty simply because we don't like their appearance? Or because they have a criminal record? Are we to sacrifice them so our consciences can sleep soundly?' There was no way to prove that the Walden brothers had been at the scene of the crime, and the case quickly collapsed. As soon as they were released, the twins were visited by a very friendly dark-skinned, sharp-nosed man who reeked of money. When he pressed his fingers together, he showed elegantly manicured fingernails. He talked to the brothers about art, and the Bruno van Tysch Foundation. They were secretly primed and sent to Amsterdam and Edenburg. There, Van Tysch told them:
‘I
don't want you ever to tell anyone what you did, or what you think you did, not even yourselves. I don't want to paint with your guilt, but with the suspicion.' The work ended up being very simple. The Walden twins were posed standing face to face, dressed in grey prisoners' clothes and painted in diluted colours that emphasised the evil look on their faces. On their chests, like a row of medals, their criminal records were printed in small capitals. On their backs, a photo of Helga Blanchard hugging her son Oswald - standing out against a background of Venice, where they had had a holiday - with the obvious question:
Was it them?
Helga's family tried to stop Van Tysch using the image, but the matter was settled to the satisfaction of both parties thanks to a considerable sum of money. As far as hyperdramatic work went, there was no problem.

The Walden twins were born to be paintings. It was no accident that the only thing they had succeeded in doing in their lives was to stay still in a corner and allow humanity to heap abuse on them. They were two buddhas, two statues, two contented and unchanging beings. They were insured for an amount considerably greater than most of Van Gogh's creations. They had endured a lengthy calvary of being expelled from schools, sacked from jobs, of prison sentences and loneliness. The public, the same humanity as always, still looked on them scornfully, but the Waldens had finally understood that art can be born even from scorn.

There was still one question:
Was it them?
The killer of Helga Blanchard and her son had still not been found. Tell me, please:
Was it them?

'When the answer to that question is known, our price will go down,' one of the brothers told a well-known German art critic.

So their stupid red-faced grins stay in place, their cheeks are like round bruised apples of rouge, and their eyes gleam with the memories of past orgies.

By now they had finished getting dressed and groomed, and put themselves in the hands of a larger than normal security team.

'That's Art for you, Miss Schimmel. Art with a capital "A" I mean
...
The request doesn't come from me, it comes from Art, and that means you have to fulfil it.' Hubertus winked at his brother, but Arnoldus was listening to music on his Walkman and didn't notice. 'Yes, a platinum blond
...
I don't care if that's hard for you to arrange for tonight
...
we want a platinum blond, Miss Schimmel
...
don't argue, silly woman
...
bzzz
...
bzzz
...
I'm afraid I can't hear you, Miss Schimmel, there's a problem on the line, I'll have to hang up.' Hubertus' tongue flicked in and out of his tiny lips with reptilian grace and speed. 'Bzzz
...
bzzz
...
I can't hear a word, Miss Schimmel! I hope you can find a platinum blond. If you can't, you'll have to come up yourself
...
wear a mac, but nothing else underneath
...
Bzzzz
...
I have to hang up!
Auf Wiedersehenl'

*Who were you talking to?' asked Arnoldus, turning down his music.

'That stupid woman Schimmel. She's always causing problems.'

'We ought to complain to Mr Benoit. They should throw her out
’

'She should be begging on a street comer.' 'Or working as a whore.'

'Or they could chain her up, put a collar on her, give her an anti-rabies shot, and hand her over to us.'

'No, I don't like puppies. I don't like cleaning up dog poo. Tell me, Hubertus
..
‘