'In any case, I should tell you that all the Foundation's agents are properly identified with red badges in their lapels. If you see the man again and can make out his badge, there should be no problem. Now why don't you go back to bed and, if you like, leave a light on. That way, the agent will not have to approach your window to be sure everything is all right, and he won't frighten you.' 'Thanks a lot.'
'Don't mention it. And should you need anything else, don't hesitate to…'
Blah, blah. The usual polite phrases, but they had their effect. When she hung up, Clara felt much calmer. She drew the blinds of the three windows in the living room, the ones in the kitchen, and at the front of the house. She checked that the front and back door were secure. She only hesitated for a second before going into her bedroom. The window reflected the light from the empty room like a tank of black water. She went over to the window. Here, just a few moments ago, there was someone looking in.
It was someone from Security, she told herself. She could not remember having seen a red label on his lapel, but then of course she had not had much chance of seeing it. She closed the blind.
Despite what the man from Conservation had suggested, she did not want to leave any lights on. She went back to the front entrance and switched them all off. Then she walked back into the completely dark bedroom, lay on her back on the mattress, and stared up at the dense blackness of the ceiling. She did another breathing exercise and soon fell asleep. She did not dream of her father. She did not dream of the mysterious Uhl. She did not dream at all. Carried away by her exhaustion, she slipped pleasurably into unconsciousness.
The man hidden in the trees waited a while longer, and then crept towards the house once more. He was not wearing any badge.
5
Susan is a Lamp.
The square label on her left wrist says: Susan Cabot, aged nineteen, Johannesburg South Africa, straw blonde hair, blue eyes, white skin, unprimed. Susan has been lighting meetings as a Marooder Lamp only for the past six months. Before that she had been another three decorations for the Foundation. She alternates this work with that of mediocre portrait painters (the contract she has with the Foundation is not exclusive) because when it comes down to it, a portrait simply means they cover your body with silicone and then mould you in whatever form the client wants. There is not much hyperdramatic work to it. Susan does not particularly like Hyperdramatism – that is why she abandoned her early career as a canvas and decided to become a decoration. She is aware she will never be an immortal work of art like the 'Flowers', but that does not bother her too much. The 'Flowers' have to keep up much more difficult positions for days on end, they are always on drugs and have become real vegetables, roses, daffodils, irises, marigolds, tulips, perfumed and painted objects which no longer dream, enjoy themselves, or live. Being a Lamp on the other hand allows you to earn a bundle of money, retire young, and have kids. You don't end your days like one of those sterile canvases condemned by humanity to the hell of eternal beauty.
Early on the morning of 29 June 2006, Susan's bleeper went off unexpectedly on her bedside table, and woke her from a deep sleep. She dialled her code number on the hotel telephone, and was instructed to proceed immediately to the airport. She was sufficiently experienced to know this was no routine matter. For the past three weeks she had been in Hanover, for six hours a day – with intermediate breaks – lighting a small meeting room where debates about biology, painting, and the relation between art and genetics took place. Susan had not heard a word of them, because she had been wearing ear protectors the whole time. Sometimes she was also given a mask to put on, when she supposed that the guests were well-known faces who wanted to remain anonymous. As a Lamp, she was more than used to ignoring everything. But she had only rarely been called so urgently in the middle of the night, and hardly given time to get dressed, grab her bag with her equipment in it, and rush off to the airport. There a ticket was waiting for her on a flight that left for Munich half an hour later. In Munich she met up with other colleagues (she did not know them, but that was common among decorations). They were taken by private bus guarded by four security men to the Obberlund building, a squat steel and glass complex of offices and conference halls situated very close to the Haus der Kunst, next to the English Garden. During the journey she got a phone call from the decoration supervisor, a thoroughly unpleasant young woman by the name of Kelly, who explained briefly the position she was to occupy in the room she would be working in.
Once they had arrived at the Obberlund, she had only twenty minutes to get ready: she took all her clothes off, put on a porous swimsuit and a colour cap for her hair, and then waited for the paints to dry. After which she took off her suit and cap, checked her body painted a rosewood pink and her dark teak hair, took the lamp fittings out of her bag, clamped the base round her right ankle, and limped to the meeting room with cable in hand, trying hard not to stumble and fall. Her colleagues were also silently and efficiently occupying their positions. Susan lay on her back on the floor and took up her pose: hands on hips, backside in the air, the right leg lifted out straight and the left bent over her face. The lighting circle with four cold bulbs was attached to the ankle in the air. The cable was not wrapped round her leg, but curled off across to the plug. All Susan had to do was to stay still and let the lights shine. It was a difficult posture to maintain, but training and habit had turned her into a first-class object. Her operating time was four hours.
A short while later, someone – Kelly, in all likelihood – came and switched her on. The bulbs were lit, and Susan began to illuminate the room. Then a workman arrived to put on her ear protectors and the mask, then she was left in darkness and silence.
The meeting took place on the tenth floor.
The room the Obberlund managers had offered them was square, hermetic and soundproof. It had dark- tinted windows. There were only a few non-human pieces of furniture: metal and plastic chairs on a single leg were scattered around an enormous steel-grey-coloured carpet. All the other decorations were painted human bodies. There were Tables, Lamps, Ornaments by the window and, in the corners of the room, one stationary Trolley and eleven mobile Trolleys. Apart from the latter, which had to go from one side to another serving the guests and therefore had to see and hear clearly, the rest were wearing ear and eye protectors.
The working breakfast was served by the eleven Trolleys: freshly baked croissants, five kinds of bread, and three different butter substitutes, as well as coffee, coffee and tea substitutes -these last for Benoit, in particular, as he was very nervous. There was also a variety of fruit juices, pastas, cheese spreads and glasses of mineral water full of gleaming ice cubes. Finally, there was a selection of dried fruit in a bowl on one of the Tables (the guests had to go and get these, because the Table – a boy lying with his back on the ground, legs in the air, and a girl balancing on his feet, both of them painted a fuchsia colour – could not move) and a dish of multi-coloured sweets between the breasts of a red Marooder Trolley, its body arched backwards with hands and feet on the ground, shiny copper hair brushing the floor.
One of the guests was eating these sweets non-stop: he would lean over, grab a handful of them and stuff them one by one under his moustache, as though they were peanuts. He was a young man with black hair and a high forehead. His eyebrows were as bushy as his moustache. His maroon suit was impeccable, and beautifully cut, although not as expensive as Benoif s. He looked like a cheerful, friendly, talkative sort: in other words, someone of little importance. But Bosch instinctively realised that this individual, this anonymous-looking young man with a moustache who was devouring all the sweets, was the most important of all the important people in the room. He was the Head Honcho.
Bosch had been appointed moderator. When he felt he had allowed them enough time, and caught a nod of approval from Miss Wood, he cleared his throat and said: 'Shall we begin, ladies and gentlemen?'
The mobile Trolleys, who were not wearing ear protectors, immediately left the room. Unavoidably curious, the eyes of the guests followed the procession of tall, varnished, naked bodies out of the room. For a minute, no one spoke. Finally, it was Paul Benoit who seemed to awaken out of a dream and opened the discusssion.
'Please, Lothar, how did he get in? Just tell me that. How did he get in? I don't want to get nervous, Lothar. Just tell me… I want you and April to explain to me… to us, right now, how on earth that bastard got into the suite, Lothar. How did he get into a hermetically sealed suite crammed with alarms, with five security men permanently on guard in the lifts, stairs and doorways of the hotel… How do you explain it?'
'If you'll give me a chance, Paul, I will explain,' Bosch replied calmly. 'He didn't have to get in: he was already inside. The Wunderbar hotel has hyperdramatic decorations. There was one in the suite: an oil painting by Gianfranco Gigli…'
