worn-out trainers. 'I saw several works by Van Tysch in the Stedelijk.'
She could feel the cold line of paint: the first of a new row under her navel. 'Do you like Van Tysch?' Gerardo asked.
He still had his finger on her stomach. Was that an ironic gleam in his dark eyes? she wondered. 'He fascinates me. I think he's a genius.'
'Stay still for a minute. That's it… all done. I'll leave you for a bit while these dry, OK?… It's a beautiful day outside. Do you know where we are? In one of the cottages the Foundation uses for working on canvases. It's south of Amsterdam near a town called Woerden, not far from Gouda. Yes that's right, Gouda. Mmm… the cheese. Do you know this area?' – Clara shook her head. 'Further to the south there are some really pretty lakes.' He stared out of the window, then said something that really surprised her. 'Down there among the trees there's a fantastic landscape. You'd look wonderful posed there, among the trees, painted in flesh and light-pink tones.' He pointed to a spot Clara could not see from her horizontal position. 'Are you going to paint me?'
She liked his broad smile when she said that. His mouth was perhaps a little too big, but his smile showed how pleased he was.
'No darling, I'm only an assistant, as my label says. Justus is an assistant as well, but a senior one. We're only in the background of the photo. And we don't even appear with the important people at press conferences…' 'Is Van Tysch going to paint me?'
Gerardo stripped off the gloves and threw them into a bag. Clara could not see his face as he replied. 'All in good time, darling. Patience is a virtue in works of art.'
At that moment, something happened. Uhl arrived and started shouting furiously at Gerardo. His annoyance was clear.
The younger man flushed and stepped back. Clara could see it was Uhl who was in charge, and that perhaps he had criticised his assistant for talking too much to her – she was only a canvas, after all. Then Uhl turned round and stared at Clara's body stretched out on the chest. Clara gazed back at him uneasily. She hated the way those distant eyes scrutinised her from the far end of the tunnel of his glasses. She watched as he raised a finger like a knife and brought it down over her stomach. She told herself she would not move an inch unless they told her to. She tensed her muscles and waited. What's he going to do now?
She could feel Uhl's rough finger as it brushed her primed skin. He was not wearing gloves, and was the first person to touch her with his bare hands. The finger drew a line down her stomach. Clara was unsure whether this had any real purpose or was simply a way of distracting himself while he thought. She felt the finger travelling round her sex and could not avoid flinching. The finger was drawing invisible lines. The sensation did not so much excite her as lay siege to her excitement. She held in her stomach muscles and stayed as rigid as possible. The finger moved up her body, and drew a horizontal eight – or the symbol of infinity – around her breasts. Then it carried on up to her neck, her chin. She could hardly breathe. It reached her mouth, separated her lips. Clara helped by opening her jaw. The intruder felt for her tongue. And then, as if it had discovered all it needed, it withdrew.
They left her on her own. She could hear them chatting unconcernedly out on the porch.
What did Uhl's exploration of her body mean? Was it a way of judging the texture of her skin? She did not think so. She had felt quite uncomfortable during his examination.
When the timer went off, Gerardo appeared in her line of vision once more. He was wearing a fresh pair of gloves, and picked up another tin of paint.
'Justus is the boss,' he whispered. 'He's a bit special, but you'll get used to him. Which one is it now? Oh yes, shade 36.'
At midday they called her to eat. A plastic tray like an airline one was on the kitchen table. On it was a chicken and salad sandwich, a yogurt, an Aroxen juice, and half a litre of mineral water. She ate alone – the other two had their meal out on the porch. She was barefoot and naked, with a palisade of twenty-five, flesh-coloured and numbered lines painted on her stomach. After a rapid visit to the bathroom, the afternoon went on with no breaks. They painted another forty lines, this time on her back. The calendar of a shipwrecked sailor. The last of them climbed the curve of her buttocks. They left, came back to study the effect, occasionally took photos. Clara tried to convince herself that all this was a preamble, that the following day things would be different. She could not allow herself to admit that her first day of work for the Foundation was disappointing.
At a certain point, it began to grow dark. She still hadn't seen the landscape around the house.
'Don't have a shower tonight or put anything on over the lines,' Gerardo warned her. 'Lie down on your back on the mattress with the timer beside you. It will go off every two hours. Each time it does, turn over, just like a Spanish omelette.'
'Aha, OK.' 'We'll be back early tomorrow morning.' 'Aha.'
Tour dinner is in the kitchen. And remember: when you hear the timer, over you go.' He gestured with his hands. 'Like an omelette.' 'That's right.'
Gerardo's eyes shone as he smiled at her. Uhl's voice called to him, and he hastily left the room.
It happened in the middle of the night, the second time the alarm went off.
Face down on the mattress, Clara woke from her light sleep. As she turned over, her eyes still unfocused, she realised the colour of the darkness was changing.
It was very rapid, no more than the blinking of an eye. She turned her head to look out of the bedroom window on her left. All she could see were shadows, the outlines of trees and branches, yet she was sure that an instant before those shadows had been different. She leaned up, pressing her elbows into the mattress. Held her breath. Listened intently. Was that footsteps she could hear, near the window? It was hard to know, because the wind was whipping the tree branches.
She searched the darkness with her gaze. She saw her naked legs, stretching out like two parallel lines. There were only three things in the bedroom: her, the timer, and the mattress. Behind her back, the timer was ticking off the seconds.
She stood up, and walked cautiously over to the window. It was completely dark outside. It's incredible how scary darkness like this can be in the middle of the countryside, she thought. Her skin wanted to pull on its body stocking of fear, but the primer made it impossible. The window was a world of black lines. She went up to it. For a fraction of a second, a monster with yellow features floated before her eyes – but she knew she was only seeing her own reflection, so was not startled.
There was nobody out there, or at least no one she could see. She listened. The wind rustled the branches.
She protected her body with her hands, and went back to the mattress. She lay down on her back. Her heart was pounding like a hammer in her ears.
She remembered the afternoon she had left her apartment to be primed. The feeling she had just had was like that earlier one, only much more intense.
She was sure someone had been looking in at her through the window just before the timer went off.
Someone who was outside the house, in the middle of the night, keeping watch on her.
3
The 'terrible' is in the circle.
Slowly, menacingly, the Monsters of the Haus der Kunst come back to life.
Tine girl floating in the glass swimming pool full of foul water is called Rita. She is the first to receive help, because she has to make a huge effort: spending six hours a day as organic waste with her hair caught up in plastic and excrement is no easy task. The work has been bought by a Swedish company, and the monthly rental has achieved the impossible: every day Rita dives into this amnion of shit and is happy to do so. In her time off she even manages to enjoy what might be called 'a social life' (although she complains that her hair smells). Now she is breathing deeply in the pool, waiting for the water level to go down. We cannot see her face, but we can see how her long legs wave in the water like pale white strands of seaweed.
And if she complains about her hair, she should spare a thought for Sylvie. Sylvie Gailor is Medusa, a painting valued at more than thirty million dollars, and with an astronomical monthly rent. This is because she has ten live snakes painted ultramarine-blue writhing around her head which have to be fed and replaced quite often. They are
