thousand five hundred and thirty-two euros a month as a sold work. Weiss was pleased for her, but could not deny feeling a sharp stab of envy. His friend's face radiated with the happy glow of a bought canvas. But no one wanted to play with Do You Want to Play With Me? He was convinced Kate would not manage to sell him this time either. Was that Kate's fault or his?
He turned off the shower and looked down at his body, feeling its contours with his hands. He kept fit, of course. His muscles, faithful, well-trained dogs that they were, continued their endless task of construction. People like Kate Niemeyer would go on painting him (or at least, so he believed) for a few more years, but he knew that at forty-three he should be thinking of a different career. The market for human ornaments was growing irresistibly. Collectors privately amassed Chairs, Pedestals, Tables, Flower Vases and Carpets, and firms such as Suke, Ferrucioli Studio or the Van Tysch Foundation designed, sold and used flesh and blood ornaments every day. Sooner or later it was bound to become legal for these objects to be sold openly, because otherwise, where did old canvases and the young ones who did not make it as works of art have to go? Marcus suspected he would end up being sold as an ornament for some merry spinster's home. Why not take a souvenir from Germany with you, madam? Here's Marcus Weiss, with lovely nacreous buttocks, a fine Aryan object that would fit in nicely alongside your chimneypiece.
Weiss had only a few more opportunities left. Opportunities are points too, atoms, interconnecting lines, tiny, invisible dots, the remains of nothingness. How many had he missed? He had lost count. He had been a model from the age of seventeen. He had studied HD art in his home town of Berlin, and had worked for some of the best artists of his generation. Then suddenly it had all gone sour. He started turning down offers, partly because he want to live in peace. He liked being a painting, but not enough to sacrifice all his love life for it. He was well aware that masterpieces live alone, isolated, and don't get married or have children, don't even love or hate, don't enjoy life or suffer. True masterpieces like Gustavo Onfretti, Patricia Vasari or Kirsten Kirstenman could scarcely be called people: they had given everything – body, mind and spirit – to artistic creation. Marcus Weiss missed life too much, and perhaps that was the reason he had slowed down. And now it was too late to change things. The worst of it was that he was still on his own. So he was not a masterpiece, but he wasn't the human being he would have liked to have been either. He hadn't achieved one thing or the other.
He got nervous when he calculated that what Brenda was going to propose that evening might well be his last real opportunity.
As he was leaving, he found Sieglinde waiting for him at the changing-room exit. They often left together. They walked down the stairs with their rucksacks on their backs: he was carrying his Aztec headdress of artificial parrot feathers, she had the brambles. The labels on their wrists clinked as they descended the stairs. Sieglinde did the talking: Marcus gave only monosyllabic replies. He felt increasingly nervous. If Brenda had not kept her word, if she was not waiting for him outside as she had promised, he could say goodbye to that last big chance.
He decided he should say something, to avoid any indiscreet question from his friend.
'Guess what? This afternoon a nine- or ten-year-old girl stood looking at me for half an hour at least. I don't understand what's going on. The laws against child pornography get tougher and tougher, but there's no one to prevent any kid walking into an adult gallery.'
'You know we're considered as artistic heritage, Marcus. Kids can go and see Michelangelo's David, so why shouldn't they see Do You Want to Play With Me? as well? That would be discrimination.'
'I still think children are a special case’ Marcus insisted. I don't like them as viewers, but I like them even less as paintings. No painting less than thirteen years old should be allowed.' 'How old were you when you started?' 'OK, lets say under twelve then.' Sieglinde laughed, then went on:
'I think the question of underage works is difficult. If you ban them, you'd have to ban children appearing in films and plays as well. And what about adverts? I reckon it's much more indecent to use a child's body to sell toilet rolls than to paint it and pose it as a work of art. Hey! Are you listening?' Marcus did not reply. Brenda was there, standing between two columns.
She nodded at Marcus; he smiled back. His heart was pounding, as if instead of walking down the stairs he had run up them three at a time. 'Hello there,' Marcus said, going over.
The girl nodded again. This time she was not looking at Marcus, but at his colleague. Weiss found himself obliged to introduce them.
'This is Brenda. Brenda, this is Sieglinde Albrecht. Sieglinde can give you a lesson or two about how to be an outdoor seasonal work and get bought.'
'Are you a painting too?' Sieglinde asked with a broad smile, raising eyebrows that were no longer there, and openly examining Brenda from head to toe. 'No,' replied Brenda.
'Well, you should be. You'd be bought very quickly, whoever painted you.'
Marcus was delighted to detect a hint of jealousy in his companion's voice.
'Brenda, you'll have to forgive Sieglinde's twisted mind,' he said with a laugh.
'It was meant as a compliment, you idiot!' said Sieglinde, slapping his shoulder.
Brenda looked like a doll programmed only to nod and laugh at everything said to her. Weiss thought there was no need for her to speak: her extraordinary face said it all anyway.
'You may not believe it,' he explained, 'but Brenda isn't a painting… she's more like a… dealer.'
'Oh, so it's business, is it?' Sieglinde planted a kiss on Weiss' lips. Then she winked at Brenda with an eyelashless eye. 'In that case, I'll leave you two to it. I'll see you the day after tomorrow, Mr Weiss.' 'Absolutely, Miss Albrecht.'
Although the gallery was open the following day and Sieglinde had to go to work, Marcus always took Tuesday off. Sieglinde did not know the reason for such unusual behaviour in a work that had not yet been sold, but her sly attempts to find out had met with a wall of laconic replies, so she had not dared enquire any further. She was sure though that Marcus had another job in a much less public (and much more scandalous) venue than the Max Ernst gallery.
Sieglinde's hair became a golden dot quickly disappearing down Maximilianstrasse. Marcus gently put an arm on Brenda's shoulder and steered her in the opposite direction. It was the last Monday in June, and the streets were crowded. 'I thought you weren't going to come.' 'Why not?' Brenda asked. He shrugged.
'I don't know. I guess because everything happened so quickly yesterday. Look, you're not annoyed I told Sieglinde you were a dealer, are you? I had to tell her something. And besides, Sieglinde is not a nosey person.' 'That's OK. Where are we going?'
Marcus stopped and glanced at his watch. He spoke as if he were unsure of what to suggest, even though he had planned everything out the night before. 'How about having a drink and then going for dinner?'
He took her to a place called the Mini Bar. It was on a street corner near the gallery, but the paintings and sketches preferred to go to the bars on the avenue, so that with any luck the two of them could enjoy some privacy. The Mini Bar sold everything in small sizes: the drinks came in tiny bottles, just as in hotels. The ice cubes were as big as poker dice. It was self-service, and behind the bar (which reached up to the waist of an adult) could be seen an espresso coffee machine as big as a silver shoe box with three handles, shelves as narrow as skirting boards, notice boards advertising the dishes of the day in handwriting not for the short-sighted, and tiny lights hanging from the ceiling which after nightfall gave the bar the air of a puppet theatre. The background music was a tremulous violin solo. But apart from this, Gulliver suddenly found himself in the land of giants: the barmen were unusually tall, and the prices were much higher than average. Marcus knew the Mini Bar was way beyond his budget, but he did not want to skimp on entertaining Brenda: he wanted to impress her so that she would realise he was used to the best.
They found a quiet corner with a table and a couple of stools. Marcus had intended to start with a beer, but changed his mind and joined Brenda in a whisky. He ordered two delicious Glenfiddichs and two glasses full of ice so pure and clear it shone transparently. As he was returning to the table he had time to consider Brenda once more. He saw no reason to change the opinion he had formed the previous evening. She was quite slim, but undeniably attractive, and wore her wavy blonde hair in a ponytail gathered on her back like a bushy paint brush. She was wearing a short jacket and a dark-blue miniskirt (the previous day it had been a blouse and a pair of short blue jeans). Her clothing was creased and obviously not new, but this only attracted Marcus all the more. Her shoes had stiletto heels, a style he had never thought of as old-fashioned. He realised she did not have a handbag. Or stockings. He liked to imagine she was wearing nothing more than what he could see.
When he sat down again, he saw she was staring at him without smiling. Her blue eyes did not shine, but reminded him of something he could not quite place: they were penetrating, fixed points. Points like tiny black
