'What about 'Rembrandt'?' Miss Wood leaned forward in her seat. 'Do you know the description of the works in his new collection?' 'I've heard something about it, like all the critics.'
'I've brought you a catalogue with the most up-to-date information,' she said, pulling a black pamphlet out of her bag. She opened it out on the desk. 'There's a short descripdon of each work. There are thirteen of them. I need you to tell me which of them, in your opinion, could be specially related to Van Tysch's past like those other two.'
'April, it's impossible for me to tell that on the basis of a description in a catalogue…'
'Hirum: in London all the past week I've been sending this catalogue to the four corners of the earth. I've talked to dozens of art critics on all five continents, and I've drawn up a list. All of them told me exactly the same as you, and I've had to insist with all of them, although you're the only one to whom I've told the whole truth. They protested, but eventually all of them gave me their opinion. I need you to do the same.'
Oslo stared at her, feeling sorry for the desperate gleam in her eyes. He thought it over for a moment before replying.
'It's very hard to say whether there'll be any work like those two in 'Rembrandt'. I think it's a very different collection to 'Monsters', just as that was different to 'Rowers'. On one level, it's a homage to Rembrandt on the four hundredth anniversary of his birth. But we also have to remember that Rembrandt was Maurits' favourite painter, and perhaps for that very reason, because he was his father's favourite, the collection has some very odd things in it. In The Anatomy Lesson, for example, instead of a body there's a naked, smiling woman, and the students look as though they're just about to throw themselves on her. The Syndics shows Van Tysch's teachers and colleagues: Tanagorsky, Kalima and Buncher… The Jewish Bride could hide references to his father's collaboration during the war; it's even been said that he has disguised the female model as Anne Frank. .. the Christ on the Cross is a kind of self-portrait… Gustavo Onfretti, the model, is painted to look like Van Tysch and is hanging from a cross… in other words, in 'Rembrandt' nearly all the works are directly related to Van Tysch and his world, in one grotesque way or another…'
'But this guy is only going to destroy one of them,' Miss Wood snapped. 'And I need to know which one.' Oslo could not bear to meet her imploring eyes.
'And what will you do if I say a probability among the thirteen? You'll give that one more protection, won't you? What if
I'm wrong? Will that make me responsible for a death? Or more than one, perhaps?'
Toil won't be responsible for anything. I've already told you, I'm collecting the opinion of experts all round the world, and I'll choose the work that gets most votes.' 'Why not ask Van Tysch?'
'He didn't want to see me,' replied Wood. 'The Maestro is inaccessible. And besides, he hasn't even been told that Deflowering and Monsters have been destroyed. He is on top of his private summit, Hirum. I can't reach him.' ^What if the majority of experts are wrong?'
'Even if that's the case, nothing will happen. I'm not going to put the original work at risk.'
All of a sudden it was Hirum Oslo who felt nervous. As he stared at Miss Wood's face lit by the desk lamp, he realised what she was proposing. His whole body went tense.
'Hang on a minute. Now I understand. You're going to… you're going to put a copy as bait for this madman… A copy of the work that gets most votes…'
There was another pause. Oslo was convinced he had hit the nail on the head.
That's your idea, isn't it? And what will happen to the copy? You know very well we're talking about human beings…' 'Weil protect the copy,' she said. Oslo was quick to realise she was being insincere.
'No, you won't. It wouldn't be of any use to you if you protected it… you want to use it as bait. You want to set a trap. You're going to hand over one, or more, innocent people to this psychopath, in order to save the others!'
'A copy of a Van Tysch work is only worth fifteen thousand dollars on the market, Hirum.' Oslo could feel the old fury gripping him.
'But they are people, April! The copies are people, too, just like the original!' 'But they're not worth anything as art.' 'And art isn't worth anything compared to people, April!' i don't want an argument, Hirum.' 'All the art in the world, all the damned art in the world, from the Parthenon to the Mona Lisa, from the statue of David to Beethoven's symphonies, is rubbish compared to even the most insignificant of people! Can't you understand that?' 'I don't want an argument, Hirum.'
There she was, thought Oslo, there she was, unmoving, and the world would go on turning. We are defending the world's heritage, she always said, we are defending the great human creations, pyramids, sculptures, canvases, museums, all of them built on dead bodies, bones on bones. We are protecting the heritage of injustice. We buy slaves to haul blocks of granite. We buy slaves to paint their bodies. To make Ashtrays, Lamps, and Chairs. To disguise them as animals and men. To destroy them according to their price on the market. Welcome to the twenty-first century: life is disappearing, but art survives. Some consolation.
'I'm not going to have anything to do with an act of injustice,' said Oslo. Unexpectedly, Miss Wood smiled at him.
'Hirum: you've seen lots of works by Van Tysch in your life, and you know a copy can't compare, artistically, with an original by the Maestro, can it?' – Oslo agreed – 'You say that both of them are human beings, and I agree with you. It's precisely because the material is the same that the value is different. And when one has to make hard choices, one has to choose the more precious thing. I've already told you I don't want to argue, but I'll give you an example. Your house is on fire and you can only save one work of art. Would you save Bust by Van Tysch or a copy of Bust? In both cases we're talking about an eleven- or twelve-year-old girl. But which of the two would you save, Hirum? Which of the two?'
This time there was a long silence. Oslo wiped the sweat from his forehead. Miss Wood continued, with another smile: That's the kind of 'act of injustice' I'm asking you to commit.'
'You haven't changed,' Oslo replied. 'You haven't changed a bit, April. What is it you're really trying to prevent? The loss of a painting, or of confidence in yourself?' 'Hirum.' That electric whisper of hers. That frozen murmur which paralysed you the way the bifid taunt of a snake paralyses its tiny victim. Wood leaned over forwards as though her body had lost its centre of gravity. She spoke very slowly, in a tone that made Hirum squirm in his seat.
'Hirum, if you want to help me, tell me your damn opinion once and for all.'
Another pause and then, in the same tone of voice and with her blue quartz eyes fixed on him, she added:
'Forgive me for such a rapid visit, Hirum. In fact, you've helped me a lot already. You don't have to do any more.'
'No, wait, pass me the catalogue again. I'll study it and give you a call tomorrow. If I see one painting that looks more likely than the others, I'll tell you.'
He hesitated a moment before he went on, as if wondering whether it was worth obtaining any kind of promise from someone who looked at you the way she did, and who could talk in such a terrible whisper.
'Promise me you'll do all you can to make sure no one is injured, April.'
She agreed, and handed him the catalogue. Then she stood up, and Oslo walked back to the house with her. Night was falling on the world.
4
The landscape is one of hands opening in the darkness as though trying to catch something. They are hanging from streetlamps, are stuck on walls and the ironclad sides of trams, they flutter beneath the arches of the canal bridges. This is the image chosen to publicise 'Rembrandt': the hand of the Angel from Jacob Wrestling with the Angel, the work being shown to the press in the Old Atelier this very day, Thursday 13 July, the work which will fire the first salvo in the most amazing show of the decade.
Bosch shuddered to think that they could not have found a more appropriate symbol. He knew there was another hand stretched out in the darkness, trying to catch something. As the days went by, Miss Wood's fears seemed to him more and more reasonable. If before he had doubted that the Artist was going to attack
