dissolved in the light streaming on to her walls. Everything around her was as it should be, but inside she still felt the swirling memory of her distant childhood, that 'scare over nothing' in the attic of their house in Alberca, a year before her father died.
The alarm clock had gone off: half past seven. She remembered her appointment in plaza Desiderio Gaos with the mysterious Mr Friedman and leapt out of bed.
Since becoming a professional work of art she had learnt to look on dreams as strange instructions sent by an anonymous artist inside us. She was puzzled as to why her unconscious had chosen to place this piece from her life long ago on to the board again.
Perhaps it meant that the door to the attic was open once more. And that someone was inviting her in to confront horror.
4
Paul Benoit's eyes were not violet, but the lights in the room almost made them look it. Lothar Bosch studied them, and not for the first time knew he had to tread carefully. Where Paul Benoit was concerned, it was always wise to be cautious.
'Do you know what the problem is, Lothar? The problem is that nowadays everything valuable is ephemeral. I mean that in days gone by solidity and the ability to last were what gave value: a sarcophagus, a statue, a temple or a canvas. But now everything of value is consumed, used up, disappears – whether you're talking about natural resources, drugs, protected species or art. We've left behind the era when scarce products were more valuable precisely because of their scarcity. That was logical. But what's the consequence of that? Today, for things to be more valuable, they have to be scarce. We've inverted cause and effect. We tell ourselves: Good things are rare. So let's make sure bad things are rare, and that will make them good.
He paused and stretched out his hand almost without looking. The Trolley was ready to hand him his porcelain cup, but his gesture took her by surprise. There was a fatal hesitation, and the head of Conservation's fingers knocked against the cup and spilled some of the contents on to the saucer. Quickly and efficiently, the Trolley substituted another saucer and wiped the cup with one of the paper napkins she was carrying on the lacquer table attached to her midriff. The white label hanging from her right wrist described her as Maggie. Bosch did not know Maggie, but of course there were many ornaments he had not come across. Although she was kneeling down, it was obvious Maggie was very tall, probably almost two metres. Perhaps that was the reason why she had not become a work of art, Bosch reflected.
'Nowadays there's no money in buying or selling a painting on canvas,' Benoit went on, 'precisely because they are not consumed quickly enough. Do you know what the key to the success of hyperdramatic art has been? Its short shelf life. We pay more, and more readily, for a work that lasts only as long as someone's youth than for a work that will carry on for a hundred or two hundred years. Why? For the same reason we spend more during the sales than we do on a normal shopping day. It's the 'Quick, it'll soon be over!' syndrome. That's why our adolescent works of art are so valuable.'
Perfect result the second time, thought Bosch: the Trolley was carefully following Benoit's movements, and he helped by carefully grasping the second cup she held out to him. 'Try some of this concoction, Lothar. It smells like tea, and tastes of tea, yet it isn't tea. The thing is, if it smells and tastes like tea, to me it is tea. But it doesn't make me nervous and it soothes my ulcer.'
Bosch caught hold of the delicate imitation porcelain cup the Trolley was offering him. He looked down at the liquid. It was hard to make out its real colour in the funereal violet light of the room. He decided it might be violet as well. He lifted it to his nose. It was true, it did smell like tea. He tried it. It tasted like nothing on earth. Like caramel liquidised with cough medicine. He stifled a grimace and was pleased to see Benoit had not noticed. Better that way. He pretended to drink some more.
The room they were in was part of the MuseumsQuartier. It was large and rectangular, soundproofed and dotted with violet-coloured lights: in the ceiling the lights were a soft purple, in the floor a cobalt-blue colour, while the square wall lights were a pale lavender, so that they all seemed to be floating in a violet fish tank. Except for the Trolley, there were no other ornaments. The far wall of the room was like a TV gallery. Ten closed-circuit monitors were grouped together; they were all switched off, and reflected crescent moons of violet light.
Sitting in front of them were Willy de Baas and two of his assistants. They were about to begin the psychological support session held every Saturday night. This came under the Conservation department, which Paul Benoit was directly responsible for. It was obvious De Baas felt nervous at having his boss breathing down his neck.
With an expression of pure pleasure, Benoit put the cup back on its saucer. He licked his lips and looked across at Bosch. The wall lights made his pupils look red; his bald patch glowed like a cardinal's cap, and his feet and the lower half of his trousers gave off violet gleams.
'All of which explains why what happened to Deflowering is so dangerous, Lothar. Adolescent works of art like that are extremely valuable. Fortunately, we have managed to keep the news quiet in Amsterdam. Only those at the highest levels know about it. Stein made no comment, and Hoffmann could scarcely believe it. And, of course, they haven't informed the Maestro. 'Rembrandt is due to open on 15 July, and some of the canvases are still being stretched or primed. So the Maestro is unreachable. But it's said heads will roll. Not yours or April's of course…'
'It was nobody's fault, Paul,' Bosch said. 'We were just caught out, that's all. Whether it was Oscar Diaz or not, it was a good plan, and they caught us out.'
'The thing is,' Benoit insisted, holding out his cup for the Trolley to refill it, 'that we have to make sure it's we who find him. We need to interrogate him ourselves – the police wouldn't know how to get all the information we need out of him. You understand, don't you?'
'I understand perfectly, and we're working on it. We've searched his apartment in New York and his hotel room here in Vienna, but we haven't found anything unusual. We know he's a keen photographer and likes the countryside. We're trying to find his sister and mother in Mexico, but I don't think they'll have much of interest to tell us.' 'Didn't I hear he had a girlfriend in New York…?'
'Yes, by the name of Briseida Canchares. She's Colombian, an art graduate. The police don't know about her: we preferred not to tell them, and to look for her ourselves. Briseida met Oscar in
Amsterdam a month ago. Several of Oscar's colleagues saw them together. She got a grant from Leiden University to study classical painters and lived there from the beginning of the year, but she's vanished too…'
'That's a remarkable coincidence.'
'Of course. Thea talked to her Leiden friends yesterday. Apparently, Briseida went off to Paris with another boyfriend. We've sent Thea there to see if it's true. We're expecting news from her at any moment.' Bosch wondered whether Benoit would be offended if he realised he was not going to drink any more of his horrible concoction. He carefully concealed the cup under his left hand.
'We have to find her and make her talk, Lothar. By whatever means necessary. You do realise the situation we're in, don't you?' 'Yes, I do Paul.'
'Deflowering was going to be sold at Sotheby's in the autumn. The sale would have made even the sports pages. Headlines like: Naked teenager sold at auction; The most valuable adolescent in history.. . well, the sort of nonsense you always find on the front pages… except, that in this case, the nonsense would have been accurate. Deflowering was the most valuable piece in the 'Flowers' exhibition, and we haven't found a replacement. The offers we were receiving were far higher than those we got in the past for Purple, Marigold or Tulip. In fact, the bidding had already started. You know how we like to play people off against each other.'
Bosch nodded as he pretended to take another sip of tea. All he did was wet his lips.
'You'd be astonished if you knew how much people were willing to pay for the monthly rental of that work,' Benoit went on. 'Besides, I knew how to put pressure on the most interested collectors. Deflowering had been very sad recently. Willy thought she might be entering a depression, but I had an idea of how we could use that to our advantage.' Benoit's eyes glinted triumphantly. 'We spread the news that the cost of psychotherapy would make the rental of the painting even more expensive. And then any buyer had to bear in mind that the work was only fourteen and so needed to go out, travel, have fun, buy herself lots of things… in short, that they would have to spend a
