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 everything 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.
He came over and pushed her hands away from her neck as gently as a lover.
A glass bee stung her throat. Then the dimensions of the room began to fade.
The first thing she saw when she came round was Krupka. He was staring at her from the floor, a horrified expression on his face. She understood she must also be on the floor, like him and like Rodino, who was flat on his back breathing heavily.
Her head hurt. And either the floor was extremely cold, or she was completely naked. The hard layers of her skin told her she was still painted. But she could not recall what she was doing there, under this surgery lamp, laid out like a patient awaiting the knife. Krupka and Rodino were also naked.
A pair of white shoes moved around her head. The shoes came and went, as if they had no fixed destination. At times, she could see a shadow looming over her. Krupka was staring upwards, his eyes dilated with terror. Rodino was groaning. Clara also tried looking up towards the ceiling, but the fluorescent lights blinded her.
'What are you doing?' she heard Krupka say. Or perhaps he had said: 'How are you?' Krupka's English (especially in circumstances like these) was hard to grasp.
Footsteps again. Clara lifted her head and saw the man coming over wielding that strange instrument. He bent over her, and grabbed a handful of her painted hair to force her head down. It hurt as it jerked back. She wanted to raise her arms or move, but felt too weak and dizzy. All at once she remembered who this young man was, with his plastic face staring down at her as blank as a white wall. His name was Matt, and he had told them he was going to repair them according to Van Tysch's instructions.
Matt brought the instrument close to her eyes. What was it? It looked like something typical of a dentist or barber.
Matt's fingers came to within two centimetres of her face, and the instrument started up. Clara could not help shrinking back. It was a kind of spinning disc that made a deafening whine. It set her teeth on edge, as though someone were dragging a metal table across a tiled floor towards her head.
She was scared. She should not have been, because all this was art, but she was. She screamed.
22.00.
Bosch listened to April Wood as he watched Postumo Baldi bending over the girl, canvas cutter in hand.
'Shouldn't we go in?' Wuyters shouted desperately.
A sober traffic policeman, Bosch held up all movement with an imperious wave of the hand, while he listened intently through his earpiece.
He was listening to April Wood. To the woman he most loved and respected in all the world. When she paused, he managed to get out a faint plea. 'April, I don't understand…'
‘I didn't understand either,' said April Wood, 'but now I do. You ought to see it, Lothar. You ought to be here to see it… It's called Shade and it's… it's a very beautiful painting… Van Tysch's most beautiful and personal work… It's a biographical self-portrait. Even the crossings out his father made on his drawings are here… You ought to see it, Lothar… My God, but you should see this!'
April, you should see this, thought Bosch. My God, April, but you should see this!
Jan Wuyters' face, scarlet with rage, fear and sweat, loomed in front of him. 'Mr Bosch, he's cutting up the girl!… What should we do?'
The room was soundproofed. Even so, Bosch could have sworn that the girl's screams, as sharp as the finest needles, were piercing the walls like ghosts and lodging themselves in his hearing. Her silent protest deafened him far more than Wuyters' horrified shouts or April Wood's frenzied commands.
'You're not a policeman any more, Lothar!' she had said before she hung up. 'You work for Art and for the Maestro. Tell your men to protect Baldi when he's finished, and to bring him to Edenburg safe and sound!'
After that, Bosch's headpiece gave off only an intermittent buzz.
What's there in that room are not cursed works of art, they're human beings… and that guy is slaughtering them! He's cutting them to pieces like cattle in an abattoir!… They're not works of art, they're not works of art! They never were!…
That was what he wanted to tell her, but she had already rung off. April Wood's silence was terrible, cruel. But what did that matter now? His whole life had been a miserable failure. He felt sick, overcome with nausea. He had never had what it takes. As if that were not enough, it was Van Tysch who had given him the only really
