fortune if they didn't want to pay three times more for a restoration. Stein told me it was a masterstroke.' He pursed his lips and rolled back his eyes in a typical gesture. Bosch knew he was listening to echoes of the praise he had received. He loves reminding himself of his triumphs, thought Bosch. 'In two years we would have recouped the cost of the work from the rental fees alone. Then we could have negotiated a replacement, if the Maestro had agreed to it. The original canvas wouldn't have been so young any more, so we'd have got rid of her. But there would have been another one. We'd have had to lower the rent a bit, of course, but we could have used the difficulty we found in substituting the original to cream off another substantial profit. Deflowering would have gone down in history as one of the most expensive works of art ever. But now…'
The TV monitors started to hum, and came alive. The support session was about to start. De Baas and his assistants were ready to hear complaints from works with problems. Benoit did not appear to notice: he was pursing his lips again, but this time his expression was far from triumphant. 'But now all that's down the drain…'
One of De Baas' assistants gestured towards the Trolley. It would have been no use trying to shout at her, because the Trolley was wearing ear protectors, as all ornaments did to prevent them hearing any private conversations. The Trolley got delicately to her feet, padded barefoot across the violet floor carrying the teapot and cups, and began to serve De Baas tea. Who could Maggie be, Bosch suddenly asked himself; from what remote part of the world could she have come, and with what remote hopes? What was she doing naked in a room like this, her head shaved, wearing ear protectors, her skin painted mauve with black flourishes, and a board strapped to her waist for a table? He would never get an answer, because ornaments did not speak to anyone, and no one ever asked them anything.
'What I'd like to know, Lothar,' Benoit suddenly said, 'is if all this might be some kind of… if there's any suggestion it might have been staged.' As he said this, he waved his right hand in the air. 'Do you follow me?' 'You mean that…?'
'I mean could it all be a… I shudder even to say it… a piece of theatre?' Theatre.' Bosch echoed him.
At that precise moment the face of Jacinto Moteado appeared on the TV monitors. This was the first work to have asked for support, and had obviously just had a shower and washed the paint off. The smooth skull and primed skin, devoid of eyebrows and lashes, stood out against a black background. The eyes were as expressionless as milky marbles. The label around the neck was just visible.
'Buona sera, Pietro,' De Baas said cheerfully, speaking into the microphone. 'How can we help you?'
'Hello, Mr De Baas.' The voice of the Italian work boomed out through the loudspeakers. 'The usual problem. The dioxacine brings me out in a rash. I don't know why Mr Hoffmann insists on using it for the indigo on my arms…'
Benoit only followed the conversation between De Baas and the canvas for a moment. Then he spoke to Bosch once more:
‘Yes, a piece of theatre. Let me explain. At first sight, Oscar Diaz is a psycho-whatever, isn't he? He's looked after the painting several times and while he was doing so, he was getting his kicks imagining how he was going to destroy it. He plans everything carefully, and decides to make his move on Wednesday night. He is the van driver, but instead of heading for the hotel, he goes to the woods. There, he's got everything prepared. He forces the work to read an absurd text and records her voice, then slices her up and performs his crazy rituals, whatever they might have been. That's the theory, isn't it?' 'More or less, yes.'
'Well now, just imagine it was all stage-managed. Imagine that Diaz is no crazier than you or I, and that the recordings and all the sadistic paraphernalia are a piece of theatre aimed at throwing us off the scent. To make us think it was the work of some serial killer when in reality it was our competitors who paid him to destroy the painting just before the auction.' He paused, raised an eyebrow. 'You used to be a policeman, Lothar. What do you make of the idea?'
Ridiculous, Bosch thought to himself. Fortunately for him, he did not have to conceal his thoughts as he had done the cup to prevent Benoit guessing what he was thinking. 'I find it hard to accept,' he said finally. 'Why?'
'Because I simply cannot believe someone was capable of doing that to a girl like Annek simply to spoil our multi-million dollar sale, Paul. You have more experience in that area, but… just think – if they wanted to destroy the canvas, there are a thousand quicker ways of doing it… and even if they wanted to imitate a sadistic act, as you say, there are other ways to go about it… she was a fourteen-year-old girl, godammit. They cut her up with… with a sort of electric saw… and she was still alive while they were doing it…'
'She was not a fourteen-year-old girl, Lothar,' Benoit corrected him. 'She was a painting valued at a starting price of fifty million dollars.' 'OK, but…'
'Either you see it that way, or you'll be on completely the wrong track.'
Bosch nodded. For a few moments all that could be heard was the dialogue between De Baas and Speckled Hyacinth. 'Dioxacine helps create a deeper violet-blue colour, Pietro.'
'You always say the same thing, Mr De Baas… but it's not your arms that itch the whole time.'
'Please, Pietro, don't get so upset. We're trying to help you. I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll talk to Mr Hoffmann. If he says the dioxacine is essential, we'll find some way to anaesthetise your arms
… just your arms – what do you think?… It could be done…' 'Fifty million dollars is a lot of money,' said Benoit.
At this, Bosch's semblance of calm evaporated. He stopped nodding and glared at Benoit.
'Yes, a lot. But just you point out to me the person capable of doing that to a fourteen-year-old girl in order to spoil our million-dollar auction. Point that person out to me and tell me: He's the one. And let me look him in the eye and see for myself there's nothing but money, works of art and auctions on his mind. Only then will I admit you're right'
A clink of china. One of De Baas' assistants was putting the empty cups back on the Trolley, who was waiting on her knees to receive them.
'Of course I'm not saying the person who destroyed the canvas was a Saint Francis of Assisi, if that's what you mean…'
'He was a sadistic bastard.' Bosch's cheeks flamed a colour that the lights in the room turned to a deep maroon. 'I can't wait to lay my hands on him.'
The two men fell silent. 'Getting mad with Benoit won't get you anywhere,' Bosch told himself. 'Calm down.' He glanced over at the screens. The canvas was busy agreeing with De Baas' advice. Bosch remembered that Speckled Hyacinth was displayed with the right calf lifted over the shoulder and the head resting on the sole of the foot. He could not imagine himself twisted into such a contortion for even a split second, but Hyacinth put up with it for six hours a day. Bosch realised Benoit was also looking at the screens.
'My God, what it takes to conserve these works. Sometimes I dream of destroying them, too.'
Hearing words like this from the Head of Conservation took Lothar Bosch aback. Benoit often spoke harshly when there were no canvases or luxury ornaments who could hear him, but he did not usually show any weakness. At least, not in public. He gave the false impression of being a gentle old age pensioner one could trust. His bald, round head looked like an anti-stress ball: you looked at it, and it seemed you could squeeze it to help you relax. In fact, it was he who squeezed yours without you being aware of it. Bosch knew that before joining the Foundation he had been a private clinical psychologist in an upper-class district of Paris, and that his previous profession was very useful to him in dealing with the canvases. A very special therapeutic coup had led the doctor to change jobs overnight. Valerie Roseau, a young French canvas Van Tysch had used to paint his early masterpiece The Pyramid, had one day refused to continue to be shown in the Stedelijk. This provoked a multi-million dollar crisis. Valerie had been in treatment for years for her neurosis. The specialists knew this was at the root of her refusal to be exhibited, and tried all they could to cure her. Benoit adopted a different strategy: instead of trying to cure Valerie's neurosis, he convinced her to carry on in the museum. Stein immediately offered him the post of Head of Conservation.
The canvases, especially the youngest ones, all loved talking to Benoit. They poured out their fears to this bald grandfather who spoke with a French accent, and invariably decided to struggle on. It was a wonderful act. In fact, Benoit was a dangerous individual: more dangerous, in his own way, than Miss Wood. Bosch thought he was the most dangerous of them all. Except, of course Stein and the Maestro.
They're young and rich,' Benoit said scornfully, staring at the monitors. 'What more do they want, Lothar? I can't understand them. They have clothes, jewellery, human ornaments and toys, cars, drugs, lovers… if they tell us of somewhere in the world where they'd like to live, we buy them a palace there. So what more do they want?' 'A different kind of life, perhaps. They're human, too.'
