Art of Murder (43 page)

'You know one of the models intimately, Lothar.' She paused. Bosch stared at her dumbfounded. 'Your niece Danielle will be one of the paintings.'

8

The arms flinging themselves at her in the darkness reminded her of a drawing of night.

She screamed and tried to roll across the mattress, her brain dissolving in an ocean of terror. Something clamped her wrists, then a rough heavy weight fell across her stomach. She was flat on her back, struggling and screaming. A spider controlled by a higher intelligence felt for her lipless mouth, her mouth where the lips had been stamped, and flattened itself against her. It was a hand. She could not scream any more. Another hand was crushing her right wrist. She fought to get a mouthful of air. The gag left her nostrils free, but she needed to
swallow
oxygen. Her breasts were crushed against some material. Two tiny mirrors floated a few inches from her eyes: she could see them perfectly, even in the darkness, and thought she caught sight of her own gagged face in them.

'Be quiet
..
. stay still
..
. still
...'

Now at last she knew who it was (that voice, those arms, there could not be two people like that) and managed to
intuit
what was going on. But the earlier impact had been too fierce, and she was not prepared. She knew they wanted her
not to
be
prepared. Even so, she needed to be. If she was on the point of going beyond the final barrier, she needed to gather strength. She struggled again. A hand clasped her hair.

'I'm going to tell you
...
to tell you . . . what will happen
...
if you don't do as I wish
...
if you don't do as I wish
...'

Each phrase poured into her ear was accompanied by a violent
tug at her hair. Uhl made her see stars. But he had also made a mistake: he had allowed her to recuperate too much. Clara was mistress of her body and her emotions again. She was still very weak, but she could react. She slammed her feet on to the floor and flung her hips upwards in a move that took Uhl by surprise. She was expecting a more violent response, and it was not long in coming. He slapped her. Not very hard, but enough to stun her.

'Don't do that again
..
. what are you playing at, eh .
..
?'

She lay still, panting, trying to work out what to do next. She knew that if she gave in, it would all come to a stop. She was
completely sure of that.
But she did not want to. If she took the risk, if she faced up to whatever Uhl was doing, he would increase the darkness of his brushstroke. If she went on fighting him, the stretching would cross the barrier and there would be a 'leap into the void'. She had never experienced this 'leap into the void' with any painter, because it was too dangerous a technique. It could end up badly: she could be damaged, perhaps seriously. And the damage could prove irreparable. Even though she was not working in an art-shock, it was clear that the sketch was very strong
(the toughest, most risky).
She was very frightened: she did not want to suffer or die, but nor did she want to halt the process. She no longer had any doubt that they were painting her, and she did not want to get in their way. She wanted to surrender to them just as she had to Vicky, Brentano, Hobber, or Gumsich.

Still clasping her hair, Uhl stepped back as if he wanted to show her captured head to someone. The beam from a torch blinded her.

'Do as I wish, eh?
...
Are you going to be good? To give me what I want?
...'

She responded by kicking out with her knee at the shadows. This caused her aggressor to fling himself on her again with renewed fury. She struggled to resist. She was terrified, and
precisely because of that,
precisely because of that, she wanted to go on. She was trembling, panting, expecting something terrible to happen,
hoping
that something
terrible
would happen, hoping that the black hand of art would finally lead her to that sovereign darkness from which there was no return, no possibility of salvation. She wanted Uhl to paint her with more intense, darker shades: with Dutch colours. She fought like a wildcat, opened her mouth to bite him. She was expecting another slap, and prepared herself to receive it.

But instead, it all came to a halt. She heard shouts. Uhl let go of her. She found herself alone, face upwards on the mattress. She could hardly believe it. She re
cognised the youthful impetuous
ness of Gerardo's voice. The lights came on and made her blink.

In the kitchen, the silence was immense. Uhl had prepared coffee for Gerardo and Clara, and coffee substitute for himself. He explained in his rudimentary Spanish that he had high-blood pressure. Seeing what had happened in the bedroom half an hour earlier, this sounded like a joke, but none of them laughed.

'Sugar?' Uhl asked.

'No, thanks,' said Clara.

They were both still breathing heavily after their violent painting exercise. Clara had a few unimportant red marks that did not even hurt her. She had put her robe on. Uhl left the kitchen, and Clara and Gerardo sat in silence for a while, drinking their coffee. The morning was lightening outside the window. Against a background of distant traffic noise, the birds had begun their clear conversation. All at once, Gerardo looked directly at her. His eyes were red, as though he had been crying. His musketeer's chin and fine moustache looked less carefully groomed than usual, as if they were part of the general look of dismay on his face. But when a moment later he spoke, his tone was as bright and cheerful as ever.

'I've spoilt everything, sweetheart. But I swear to God I couldn't carry on. I simply couldn't. I couldn't care less if they throw me out. The Maestro might get rid of me, but it's all the same. I'm fed up with it.'

He looked at Clara and smiled. She remained cruelly silent.

'You were having a bad time, sweetheart. Very bad. Why didn't you yield? Didn't you know that the only way to lighten the tone was for you to give in? If you'd done that, we'd have stopped painting you
...'

There was a silence.

'Come on, let's go for a walk,' said Gerardo, standing up.

'No, I'm not going.' 'Come on, don't be
...'
'No.' 'Please.'

His tone of entreaty made her glance up.

'I've got something important to tell you,' he murmured.

It was early morning, and a cool northerly breeze rustled through the leaves, branches and the grass, raised clouds and dust, lifted the edges of clothing, the bottom of her robe, the fringe of her primed hair. The windmills were no more than ghostly shadows in the distance. Gerardo walked alongside her, hands in pockets. As they passed in front of hedges and houses, Clara wondered what other paintings were inside, and who was painting them. The small wood was off to her left. There was a scent of flowers and cut grass. The birds had started their special morning chorus.

'There are cameras
’
was the first thing Gerardo said. 'That's why I didn't want to talk indoors. Cameras hidden in the room corners. You won't spot them if you don't know where to look. They're recording everything, even at night. Afterwards the Maestro views the recordings and rejects poses, gestures, some of the techniques.' He pulled a face wryly. 'And now he may reject me, too.'

'The
...
Maestro?'

She did not want to ask the most important question of all, but her heart was in her mouth as she stared at Gerardo.

'Yes. What does it matter if I tell you
...
I guess you knew right from the start. It's the Maestro Bruno van Tysch, himself, who is going to paint you. He's the one who has contracted you. You are to be one of the "Rembrandt" collection. Congratulations. That was what you wanted most of all, wasn't it?'

She did not reply. Yes, it was what she wanted most of all. And there it was. She'd got it. Her goal, her main objective. And yet she was hearing the news like this, walking along in a bathrobe in the midst of this stupid rural landscape, from the lips of this inept cretin, this bumpkin she could not even bother to hate.

'I've never seen Van Tysch in person
’
she said, for the sake of saying something.

'You've been seeing him ever since you came to the house
’
Gerardo said with a smile. The man in the photo with his back to the camera is him. It was taken by a famous photographer, Sterling I think his name is
...'

Clara recalled the outline of the man facing away from the camera surrounded by darkness that had so impressed her since her arrival at the farm. That silent, tragic, black-haired figure
...
why hadn't she realised before now?

Van Tysch. The Maestro. The shadow.

The Maestro will be giving you the final touches, sweetheart
’
explained Gerardo. 'Doesn't that make you happy?' 'Yes
’
she replied.

The sun had come out. The first rays climbed like a golden glow behind Clara's back. The trees, the wooden fences, the lane and her own body were bathed in light and started to throw shadows. Gerardo was still walking along, hands in pockets, staring down at the ground. He began to talk again, as if speaking to himself.

'Justus and I have been making sketches for the Maestro and Stein for some time now. For the "Rembrandt" collection for example we've already painted two figures besides you. With some of them we've managed the leap into the void, but they all pull back in time. They always pull back. Uhl and I could have reached the
limit
with you, but we were expecting you to pull back the way you did yesterday afternoon
...
If you had yielded again last night, it would all have come to a halt! Why on earth didn't you yield?'

'Why didn't you go on to the limit?'

Clara asked the question without raising her voice. Gerardo looked at her, but did not reply.

All of a sudden, Clara felt she could not contain her anger. She released it in slow bursts, not taking her eyes off him.

'From the start, all you've done is to try to ruin everything for me. During the break yesterday you told me things you should never have said
...
You revealed part of the technique Uhl was using!...'

'I know! I was only trying to help. I was worried we might hurt you!'

'Why didn't you just paint me, like Uhl did?' 'Uhl has an advantage.'

Clara was sure that if he had thought twice about it, Gerardo would have bitten his tongue before he said anything like that. All at once, his face had turned puce. He looked away from her.

'I mean I'm not like Justus
...
you could never
...
well, it's not relevant.
..
what I'm trying to say is that with you he can pretend more easily, he can be cooler than I can. That's why he's taken the initiative right from the start.'

Clara stared at him in astonishment. It seemed incredible to her that Gerardo should refer to Uhl's tendencies like that just to excuse his own mistakes.

'We needed to create a climate of constant harassment around you
’
said Gerardo. 'A sexual threat, but also the feeling you were being watched. Ever since they contracted you in Madrid, Art have been trying to convey that sensation. Justus and I took turns going round outside the farm at night and looking in at your window. We even made a noise so you would wake up and see us. Conservation had instructions to give you another, more reassuring explanation. This was to give us the surprise factor for whenever we decided, like today, to paint you with a more violent brushstroke. Then in the mornings we pretended to be getting on badly so you would believe Justus was an unpleasant character who abused female canvases. In fact, Justus is a wonderful person
...
all this is closely related to the work we're painting with you. It's a Rembrandt, but I can't tell you which one. . .'

The instructions came directly from the Maestro, didn't they?' Clara would not take her yellow, primed brow and lashless eyes off Gerardo's face. 'And this morning's "leap into the void": Van Tysch was trying out an expression with me, wasn't he?' She was so desperately angry she almost choked. 'And you
messed up
the drawing. Completely. I was
nearly
drawn, nearly finished, and you .
..
! You got hold of me, you crumpled me up, you made me a paper ball and tossed me
in the shit.'