Thick gardening gloves smothered her face. Her jaw was held so firmly she could scarcely shout that yes she would answer, of course she'd answer all the questions they wanted to ask, please, please… She heard a click, a tiny buzzing sound, and once again could feel her eye was intact.
'No! There was no love! I don't know! I don't know if he loved me!… I just thought of him as a friend!…' The soles of her feet felt wet and sticky. She realised she had trodden in her own vomit, but what did that matter now she was in tears, and that woman (an unmoving bust on the screen, splintered by her tears) was watching her cry. 'Please, let me go!… I've told you all I know!…'
'Come on, admit it’ the woman said. 'There was an ulterior motive, wasn't there? Otherwise, what kind of attraction would you feel for a bald guy who had been forced to wear a toupee at work, and who talked to you about landscapes and Sappho of Lesbos? As far as I can see, you don't have problems with men: you only had to wiggle your ass a bit in Amsterdam for Roger Levin to notice and invite you to stay at his place. Isn't that right?'
It was a cruel way to describe what had happened. A week earlier, in Amsterdam, Briseida had gone to see the 'Pleasures' exhibition by Maurice Marchal. He was a painter who interested her because he collected fetishes and only painted men with erections. That afternoon, Roger Levin was also in the gallery by chance, as he explained to her later. He had gone to Amsterdam to try to interview the Foundation bosses to get information on the much- awaited launch of the 'Rembrandt' exhibition scheduled for 15 July. While he was there, he was thinking of buying a Marchal for a girlfriend of his. According to Roger, what first attracted him to Briseida was the dark mane of hair spreading across her pert buttocks. Briseida had bent down to get a closer look at one of the works, a muscular young man squatting with a perfectly vertical penis, painted Veronese green. Roger had made use of the symmetrical effect to come over and comment in English that her posture was exactly the same as the work of art. It was not a particularly smart comment, but it was a lot better than most of the chat-up lines she had heard. Levin had a pleasant, childish face and was wearing a suit with a waistcoat. His hair looked like a nursery of gelled snails. He was irresistible, even in the context they found themselves in, with more than a dozen painted, naked young men standing there with their penises in the air. But Roger's chief attraction was his father, whom he mentioned soon enough. Briseida knew that Gaston Levin was one of the most important dealers in France. With the same spontaneity that seemed to characterise everything he did, Roger suggested that Briseida might like to go back to Paris with him and stay for a few days at his chrome-plated home on the rive gauche. Why not? she thought. It was a unique opportunity for her to get a close look at a great family that dealt in works of art. Luckily, the Bad Cop had vanished again.
'Did you not see Diaz again after Amsterdam?' the man went on.
'No. The last time he called was a fortnight ago… on Sunday the eighteenth, I think…' 'Did he have any news?'
'He wanted to ask me how you obtained a residency permit for a country in the European Union. He knew I'd got one thanks to the grant from my university.'*Why was he interested in that?'
'He said he had recently met someone who had no papers, and he wanted to help them.'
Briseida sensed she had said something important to them. The tension of the man on the screen was well- nigh tangible. 'Did he say who this person was?' 'No. I think it was a woman, but I'm not sure.' 'Why do you think that?'
'That's the way Oscar is,' Briseida said with a smile. 'He loves helping ladies.' 'What were his exact words?'
'It's an immigrant, but they have no papers,' was what Oscar had said. 'Since you've been living in Europe for several months, I thought you might know how to get some kind of visa.' He hadn't wanted to give any further details, but Briseida was almost certain it was a woman he was talking about. And that had been all. 'Did you say you would call each other again?'
'He said he'd phone me, but didn't say when. When I left Amsterdam, I left Roger's number with my friends so that Oscar could find me, but he hasn't called yet.'
'Did you try to find out any of the information he was asking for?'
‘I asked at my embassy, but I didn't get very far with it… can I blow my nose, please?'
'That's all we're going to get from her. Tell Thea to make sure everything is cleaned up, the kiddies are given some sweets as reward, and then everyone gets out of there,' Miss Wood muttered, slamming her computer shut.
Giving the kiddies their sweets would not be that easy, as Bosch knew very well. Roger Levin was a cretin, but by now he must be incensed at having been hauled out of bed while he was busy enjoying his latest conquest, and had probably already called that wonderful father of his. It was true that while his son was playing chess in the basement of the Roquentin mansion (and was trying his hardest to take the white bishop, one Solange Tandrot, eighteen years old, a bony blonde with curls and an anorexia problem – unsuccessfully, as it turned out – and in the end having to console himself by taking Robert Leyoler, a sturdy nineteen-year-old pawn) Gaston had been told on the phone what was going to happen. Bosch had explained to him they were only interested in the Colombian girl, and that they were not going to touch his son (this was a lie, of course; they wanted to interrogate them separately). Levin Senior had given his consent, but even so they had to be very careful. Levin's influence was something to take into account. He was a second-grade dealer, but he was very astute, and lived in luxury in an Art-Deco building on the Quai Voltaire. It was said his wife hung her clothes on the outstretched arms of a Max Kalima original, Judith, which Annie Engels modelled next to the fireplace in the salon. But the Levin family was not to be taken lightly. Fortunately, Bosch knew his weak point. Levin was in love with some originals from the Maestro's early period. He claimed he wanted to acquire them at a special price so that he could sell them on in the United States. Negotiations with Stein had stalled: Levin knew that if he did not behave, Stein would block the sale. The Van Tysch Foundation was not to be taken lightly either.
'Who were they, Roger? They weren't the police, were they? Did you know them?'
Roger was staring in the mirror at a huge bruise on his shoulder blade, probably the female soldier's handiwork. It hurt, whoever had done it. He felt humiliated by what had happened, and his legs were still shaking, but he consoled himself with the thought that it had not been – as he had at first feared – a raid by real cops (he had a sealed room downstairs where he kept his collection of illegal ornaments, which even his father was unaware of) and that they had not ruined any of the beautiful paintings he kept upstairs.
'They were… they were people from my world,' he replied. His father had forbidden him to talk to the girl about the incident. 'From your world?'
'Yes, like the people you saw yesterday at the Roquentin mansion! Assholes who get paid to carry guns and guard paintings! Anyway, what does it matter who they were!'
'They were looking for a friend of mine who works in the Van Tysch Foundation… Why…?' 'How should I know!' 'We must go to the police.'
'No, better to let things lie,' said Roger. 'Business is business, you know…'
Briseida went on drying herself without another word. She had just taken a shower and been able to check that she was unharmed after the incredible painting session. Or torture session. She was thinking that as soon as she got dressed, she would pack her things and get out of Roger Levin's apartment. Accepting his invitation had been a mistake. She was almost sure the responsibility for what had gone on lay mostly with Roger and the gangsters surrounding him.
What about Oscar? She sincerely wished nothing had happened to him, but a sense of foreboding she could not shake off told her she would never see him again.
'I'm increasingly convinced Diaz had nothing to do with this,' said Miss Wood.
'So why has he disappeared?' Bosch asked. That's what I can't understand.'
Stubbed out in the ashtray, her ecological cigarette was a mass of green wrinkles.
7
'What's this?' asked Jorge. 'It's me,' Clara said.
He could not believe it. The creature staring at him out of all that yellowness was a being from another planet, a devil from a traveller's tale, a sulphurous spirit. It was Clara, but less than her. Clara the egg yolk. Or a
