red, as though he had been crying. His musketeer's chin and fine moustache looked less carefully groomed than usual, as if they were part of the general look of dismay on his face. But when a moment later he spoke, his tone was as bright and cheerful as ever.
'I've spoilt everything, sweetheart. But I swear to God I couldn't carry on. I simply couldn't. I couldn't care less if they throw me out. The Maestro might get rid of me, but it's all the same. I'm fed up with it.' He looked at Clara and smiled. She remained cruelly silent.
'You were having a bad time, sweetheart. Very bad. Why didn't you yield? Didn't you know that the only way to lighten the tone was for you to give in? If you'd done that, we'd have stopped painting you
…' There was a silence. 'Come on, let's go for a walk,' said Gerardo, standing up.
'No, I'm not going.' 'Come on, don't be…' 'No.' 'Please.' His tone of entreaty made her glance up. 'I've got something important to tell you,' he murmured.
It was early morning, and a cool northerly breeze rustled through the leaves, branches and the grass, raised clouds and dust, lifted the edges of clothing, the bottom of her robe, the fringe of her primed hair. The windmills were no more than ghostly shadows in the distance. Gerardo walked alongside her, hands in pockets. As they passed in front of hedges and houses, Clara wondered what other paintings were inside, and who was painting them. The small wood was off to her left. There was a scent of flowers and cut grass. The birds had started their special morning chorus.
'There are cameras’ was the first thing Gerardo said. 'That's why I didn't want to talk indoors. Cameras hidden in the room corners. You won't spot them if you don't know where to look. They're recording everything, even at night. Afterwards the Maestro views the recordings and rejects poses, gestures, some of the techniques.' He pulled a face wryly. 'And now he may reject me, too.'
'The… Maestro?'
She did not want to ask the most important question of all, but her heart was in her mouth as she stared at Gerardo.
'Yes. What does it matter if I tell you… I guess you knew right from the start. It's the Maestro Bruno van Tysch, himself, who is going to paint you. He's the one who has contracted you. You are to be one of the 'Rembrandt' collection. Congratulations. That was what you wanted most of all, wasn't it?'
She did not reply. Yes, it was what she wanted most of all. And there it was. She'd got it. Her goal, her main objective. And yet she was hearing the news like this, walking along in a bathrobe in the midst of this stupid rural landscape, from the lips of this inept cretin, this bumpkin she could not even bother to hate.
'I've never seen Van Tysch in person’ she said, for the sake of saying something.
'You've been seeing him ever since you came to the house’ Gerardo said with a smile. The man in the photo with his back to the camera is him. It was taken by a famous photographer, Sterling I think his name is…'
Clara recalled the outline of the man facing away from the camera surrounded by darkness that had so impressed her since her arrival at the farm. That silent, tragic, black-haired figure… why hadn't she realised before now? Van Tysch. The Maestro. The shadow.
The Maestro will be giving you the final touches, sweetheart’ explained Gerardo. 'Doesn't that make you happy?' 'Yes’ she replied.
The sun had come out. The first rays climbed like a golden glow behind Clara's back. The trees, the wooden fences, the lane and her own body were bathed in light and started to throw shadows. Gerardo was still walking along, hands in pockets, staring down at the ground. He began to talk again, as if speaking to himself.
'Justus and I have been making sketches for the Maestro and Stein for some time now. For the 'Rembrandt' collection for example we've already painted two figures besides you. With some of them we've managed the leap into the void, but they all pull back in time. They always pull back. Uhl and I could have reached the limit with you, but we were expecting you to pull back the way you did yesterday afternoon
… If you had yielded again last night, it would all have come to a halt! Why on earth didn't you yield?' 'Why didn't you go on to the limit?'
Clara asked the question without raising her voice. Gerardo looked at her, but did not reply.
All of a sudden, Clara felt she could not contain her anger. She released it in slow bursts, not taking her eyes off him.
'From the start, all you've done is to try to ruin everything for me. During the break yesterday you told me things you should never have said… You revealed part of the technique Uhl was using!…'
'I know! I was only trying to help. I was worried we might hurt you!'
'Why didn't you just paint me, like Uhl did?' 'Uhl has an advantage.'
Clara was sure that if he had thought twice about it, Gerardo would have bitten his tongue before he said anything like that. All at once, his face had turned puce. He looked away from her.
'I mean I'm not like Justus… you could never… well, it's not relevant… what I'm trying to say is that with you he can pretend more easily, he can be cooler than I can. That's why he's taken the initiative right from the start.'
Clara stared at him in astonishment. It seemed incredible to her that Gerardo should refer to Uhl's tendencies like that just to excuse his own mistakes.
'We needed to create a climate of constant harassment around you’ said Gerardo. 'A sexual threat, but also the feeling you were being watched. Ever since they contracted you in Madrid, Art have been trying to convey that sensation. Justus and I took turns going round outside the farm at night and looking in at your window. We even made a noise so you would wake up and see us. Conservation had instructions to give you another, more reassuring explanation. This was to give us the surprise factor for whenever we decided, like today, to paint you with a more violent brushstroke. Then in the mornings we pretended to be getting on badly so you would believe Justus was an unpleasant character who abused female canvases. In fact, Justus is a wonderful person… all this is closely related to the work we're painting with you. It's a Rembrandt, but I can't tell you which one…'
The instructions came directly from the Maestro, didn't they?' Clara would not take her yellow, primed brow and lashless eyes off Gerardo's face. 'And this morning's 'leap into the void': Van Tysch was trying out an expression with me, wasn't he?' She was so desperately angry she almost choked. 'And you messed up the drawing. Completely. I was nearly drawn, nearly finished, and you…! You got hold of me, you crumpled me up, you made me a paper ball and tossed me in the shit.'
She thought she was crying, but realised her eyes were still dry. Gerardo's face had become a pallid mask. Trembling with rage, Clara went on:
'Congratulations, sweetheart.'
She turned on her heel and walked off towards the house. Now the wind was blowing at her from the other side. She heard Gerardo's voice further and further off, increasingly shrill. 'Clara!… Clara, come back, please… Listen to me…!'
She speeded up without looking back, until finally she could no longer hear him. Polygonal clouds began to obscure the early sun. When she reached the house, Uhl was out on the porch. He waved to stop her, and asked where Gerardo was. 'He's coming,' she muttered.
It was then she noticed just how Uhl was looking at her. His tiny, dioptrical eyes were blinking in their glass prisons. Clara realised he was very nervous. The painter spoke in his hesitant Spanish.
'Van Tysch secretary call now… Van Tysch come here.'
She felt dreadfully cold. She rubbed her arms energetically, but the chill did not diminish. She knew it had nothing to do with the fact that all she was wearing was the short robe that barely covered her thighs: she had been primed with a protective layer of acrylic gesso and, like every other professional canvas, was accustomed to more extreme temperatures. This cold was inside her, and directly related to the news she had just heard.
Van Tysch. Coming there. His arrival expected at any moment.
A canvas' emotions faced with the presence of a great maestro are hard to explain. Clara tried to think of a comparison but could not: no actor would feel overwhelmed by the shadow of a great director; no student would get cold shakes like this in the presence of a professor they admired.
My God, she really was shaking. To prevent Uhl realising her teeth were chattering, she went inside the house and walked up and down the living room. Then she took off the robe and went into a simple sketch pose, almost reaching a state of quiescence.
Opposite her on the wall was the photo of the man with his back to the camera.
People only knew about Van Tysch's appearance from the changing images shown in magazines and reports.
