labels tied round her neck, were reflected in Diaz's dark glasses. Oscar Diaz was the guard on duty with orders to accompany her back to the hotel. He always had a friendly smile and a polite word for her. That Wednesday, however, he was unusually laconic. Annek felt very relaxed after her talk with Sally and would have liked to start up a conversation, but remembered that works of art were not supposed to talk to their guards, so she decided to ignore his silence. She had other things on her mind.
She had been Deflowering – a Bruno van Tysch masterpiece -for two years now. She had no idea how much longer it would be before the painter decided to substitute her. A month? Four? Twelve? Twenty? It all depended on how quickly her body matured. At night, lying naked in the ample hotel beds she slept in, she would run her finger round the edge of the labels attached to her neck or wrist, or feel for the tattoo on her right ankle (an indigo BvT) and mouth a silent prayer to the distant God of Art for her body to stay calm, for it please not to start changing in secret, for her breasts not to grow, her legs not to rise like clay on a wheel, pray that her hands stroking her thighs would not have to travel a longer, more curvaceous route. She did not want to have to give up being Deflowering.
It had taken her six years to become a masterpiece. She owed everything to her mother, who had discovered her talents as an artwork and taken her to the Foundation when she was only eight years old. Her father would have forbidden it, of course, but as he no longer lived with them, he did not count. Her parents had split up when she was four years old, so Annek's memories of him were vague. What she did know was that he was a brutal, unstable alcoholic, an old-fashioned painter who still worked on canvas, insisted on making a living by painting, and refused to admit that non-human works of art had gone out of style. Ever since Annek's mother had gained custody of her, and especially since Annek had begun her studies in Amsterdam with a view to becoming a work of art, this irascible stranger had done nothing but pester them, except of course during the frequent periods he was in hospital or jail.
In 2001, when Annek was being shown as Intimacy at the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam – the first work that Van Tysch had painted using her – her father had suddenly burst into the room. Annek recognised the ghastly wild look and bulging red eyes staring at her from the other side of the security rope, and realised what was going to happen moments before it did. 'She's my daughter!' he shouted, beside himself. 'She is being shown naked in a museum, and she is only nine years old!' A whole team of security guards had to be summoned. The incident caused a scandal, then a brief trial, and her father was locked up again. Annek preferred not to recall that dreadful episode.
Apart from Intimacy, the Maestro had painted two more works using her: Confessions and Deflowering. The latter work was considered one of Bruno van Tysch's greatest creations; some of the specialist critics even went so far as to call it one of the most important paintings of all time. Annek had become part of art history overnight, and her mother was very proud of her. She kept telling her: 'This is nothing. You have your whole life before you, Annek.' But she loathed the idea of 'a whole life before her': she did not want to grow, she hated the idea of having to leave Deflowering, of being substituted by another adolescent.
Menstruation had burst upon her like a red stain on an empty canvas. It was a warning sign. 'Be careful, Annek, you're growing up, Annek, you'll soon be too old for the work', was the message it brought. She was so happy it had stopped, at least for a while! She prayed to the God of Art (she detested the God of Life) – but the God of Art was the Maestro, who would not lift a finger except to announce one day: 'For the work to last, we have to replace you.'
The car park was dark and haunted by the sound of engines. That evening a Turkish immigrant by the name of Ismail was on duty. He waved to Diaz. As he smiled, the tips of his black moustache lifted. Diaz waved in return and opened the back door of the SUV. Ismail could see Annek's body bend over to get in, and the ochre shadows of its interior gradually swallowing her up: first her shoulders, then the outline of her hips, her behind, her long legs, one felt slipper and then the other. The car door slammed, the vehicle moved off, swung towards the exit, then disappeared down the street. The Vienna Marriott was in the Ringstrasse, only a few blocks from the MuseumsQuartier complex, the city's cultural centre: it was a short, safe journey, there was no reason for Ismail to suspect that anything bad or even out of the ordinary might happen.
He could never have imagined that would be the last time he would see Annek Hollech alive.
First Step
White, red, blue, violet, flesh tint, green, yellow and black are the basic colours of the palette for painting human bodies.
How nice it would be if we could only get through into Looking Glass House.
Clara had been painted titanium white for more than two hours when a woman came down to see her. Gertrude was with her. Out of the corner of her eye Clara could see a pair of sunglasses, a small flowery hat, a pearl-grey suit. She looked like an important client. While she was assessing Clara, she went on talking to Gertrude.
'Did you know Roni and I bought a Bassan a couple of years ago?' She spoke with a strong Argentine accent. 'It was called Girl Holding up the Sun. Roni liked the way her shoulders and stomach shone. But I told him: 'Good heavens Roni, we have so many paintings, where are we going to put it?' And he said: 'We don't have that many. And besides, the house is full of your little knick-knacks, and I don't complain.' Laughter. 'Well, guess what we did with the painting in the end? We gave it to Anne.'
'Good idea.'
The woman took her glasses off and bent over Clara. 'Where's the signature?… Ah yes, on the thigh… it's beautiful… What was I saying?' That you gave the painting to Anne.'
'Oh, yes. They loved it – Anne and Louis, you've met them. Anne wanted to know if the rental was expensive. So I told her: 'Don't worry, we'll pay. It's a gift from us to you.' Then I asked the painting if she had any problem about going to Paris with my daughter. She said she didn't have.'
'A painting that's been bought should have no problem following the purchaser wherever it may be,' Gertrude asserted.
'But I like to show them I care… This is a wonderful painting, of course.' The 'w' boomed out like a distant foghorn. 'What did you say it was called?'
'Girl in Front of a Looking Glass'.
'Wonderful, wonderful… If you don't mind, Gertrude, I'll take a catalogue.' 'Take as many as you like.'
Clara was still immobile when they left. Wonderful, wonderful, but you won't buy me. That's obvious from a mile off. She knew it was not good to let her mind wander while she was in the trance-like state of quiescence, but could not help it. She was worried no one would buy her.
What was wrong with Girl in Front of a Looking Glass? The canvas was nothing extraordinary, but she had been bought as worse things. She was standing completely naked, her right hand covering her pubis and the left one out to the side, legs slightly apart, painted from head to toe in different shades of white. Her hair was a dense mass of deep whites, her body gleamed with brilliant glossy tones. In front of her stood a looking glass almost two metres tall, inserted directly into the floor without a frame. That was all. She cost two thousand five hundred euros, with a monthly rent of another three hundred euros – not exactly expensive even for a second-rate collector. Alex Bassan had assured her she would be sold at once, but she had been on show for almost a month now at Gertrude Stein's gallery in Madrid's Calle Velazquez, and as yet no one had made any firm offer. It was Wednesday 21 June,
