there, with a spectacular announcement:
'Rip van Winkle has captured the Artist with a margin of error of less than 0.05 per cent. To be precise: 0.05.'
'Could you translate that for those of us who have studied humanities?' Gert Warfell asked.
Head Honcho launched into a complicated explanation. Fifteen suspects had been arrested, five of whom had passed to a higher level of suspicion. According to the information Rip van Winkle had, one of these was almost certainly the Artist. The other ten had been eliminated. Once they had determined which of the five was the one they were looking for, they would eliminate the others. The Artist would be interrogated thoroughly until they were certain he was not withholding anything at all. After that they would discover all the ramifications and eliminate them. Then they would eliminate the Artist. And finally, Rip van Winkle would eliminate itself.
'We will be the last to be eliminated. Let's be precise. We will eliminate ourselves, because once all this is over, the crisis cabinet will be disbanded, Rip van Winkle will go back to sleep, and we will never meet again. Besides, to all intents and purposes, we have never met,' he finished. And stuffed another handful of caramels into his mouth.
'That's good news,' said Miss Roman. Bosch could not tell whether she was talking about the elimination of the Artist or of Head Honcho. Miss Roman's Chair was masculine: the strong, tight dun-coloured buttocks bearing her weight were clearly visible from where Bosch was sitdng.
'Have any of them confessed?' Gert Warfell asked, leaning forward. He was constantly fidgeting, and Bosch could see his varnished seat tensing his muscles as Warfell shifted around. ‘I mean, any of the five suspects.'
'Three of them have said they were guilty. That doesn't mean anything of course, but it's more than we had a fortnight ago.'
That's amazing news,' Benoit said enthusiastically. 'Don't you think so, Lothar?'
'What information have the five suspects given?' Bosch asked, ignoring Benoit.
Head Honcho had stretched out his hand to take a glass of whisky. The Ornament paused for just the right length of time, then continued on its cautious, blind way. Light from the Lamps was reflected on its nacreous buttocks, making them look like some fabulous bird's eggs.
'For the moment that's confidential,' Head Honcho replied, it will be provided in subsequent reports, once we've assessed it.'
'Let me put it another way. Have any of the suspects said anything they could only know if they were the Artist?'
'Lothar is trying to say he doesn't trust Rip van Winkle,' observed Sorensen.
Bosch protested, but Head Honcho did not seem to attach any importance whatsoever to Sorensen's comment.
The interviews are taking place in various European cities, and I don't have all the information to hand. But we are not torturers, if that is what is being suggested: was ask questions before we shoot. No information has been obtained by force.'
Bosch was far from convinced that this assertion was true, but he preferred not to challenge it.
'So we can say the problem has been dealt with,' Warfell exclaimed. 'Only just in time,' said Sorensen. 'The opening is tomorrow.'
'Mr Stein will be very pleased, I'm sure,' Benoit said, eyes shining, as though congratulating the whole of humanity.
'I was hoping to sort this out as soon as possible, so I could go off on vacation,' Harlbrunner's booming voice roared. The Chair squashed beneath his tonnage was, as far as Bosch could tell, a girl.
The meeting was adjourned. As the crisis cabinet members used the hands of their Chairs to stand up, Benoit turned to Bosch and asked whether he would mind having a few words when they got outside. Bosch minded a lot, not only because of his appointment with Van Obber that afternoon, but because the last thing he needed at that moment was to talk to the Head of Conservation – but he knew that he could not refuse. Benoit suggested they talk in the Clingendael park. He said he really liked the Japanese garden there. They went in his car.
Neither of them spoke during the journey. An architectural kaleidoscope of The Hague flashed in through the tinted glass of the car windows. This was where Bosch had been born, although he had lived in Amsterdam from early childhood. He briefly wondered if anything of The Hague was still in him. He thought that perhaps there was something of The Hague everywhere in the modern world. Just as in M.C. Escher's etchings, his native city contained another one inside itself, which in turn contained another, and so on to infinity. The Madurodam was a scale model of Holland, 'the smallest biggest city in Europe', as his father used to say. The Mesdag Panorama showed a painting 120 metres in diameter, also to scale. In the Mauritshuis you could get a glimpse of the past thanks to the Holland the great masters had painted. And if it was HD art you were looking for, any collector would find ten official galleries, and four times as many private ones, as well as the Gemeentemuseum and the brand-new Kunstsaal. There were legal adolescent art galleries like Nabokovian or Puberkunst; the clandestine utensils in Menselijk; the public art-shocks offered by Harder and the Tower; the animarts in the Artzoo. And if you felt like taking photos, where better than in the garden of Het Meisje in Clingendael? Fake cities and real human beings disguised as works of art. If you spent a day in The Hague you could end up confusing appearance and reality. Maybe it was because he had been born there – thought Bosch – that his mind seemed always shrouded in mist, as if he could not distinguish any boundaries.
Clingendael park was full of tourists, even though the increasingly heavy clouds threatened an unpleasant surprise before the evening was out. Benoit and Bosch began to stroll down the avenues, hands behind their backs. A slightly chill breeze lifted the ends of their ties.
‘I read recently in Quietness,' Benoit said, 'that an exhibition of retired canvases is being organised in New York. There have already been several successful sales in the United States. It's Enterprises that is financing them, of course. And the writer said it was a stroke of genius, because what else could an old-age pensioner do but sit in some corner or other looking at people and having them look at him? Stein doesn't like the idea much though, because he's not really interested in old canvases, but I'm sure it will soon catch on in Europe. Just imagine all the old folk who can hardly live on their pensions all of a sudden finding they are multi-million dollar works of art. The world is spinning round, Lothar, and it's calling on us to spin with it. The question is: do you accept the invitation, or do you step off and watch it go by?'
This was not a real question, so Bosch gave no reply. When they came to a small clearing, they saw several girls rehearsing postures in front of Nonsense by Rut Malondi. Bosch guessed they must be students learning to be canvases. Of course, unlike the original, none of them was naked or painted: that would have been illegal. The law allowed the work of art to be exhibited with no clothes on in public places, but the students were only ordinary people, and were not allowed to do so. Bosch could see how they longed one day to leave being a person behind. He thought that perhaps Danielle felt the same.
Benoit stood for a long while in silence staring at the motionless bodies of the apprentice canvases posing on the grass in their jeans and blouses, folders and jerseys at their feet.
‘Do you think they really have caught him, Lothar?' he asked all of a sudden. This time it was a real question. 'No. I don't think so, Paul. But it's possible.'
'I don't believe it either,' said Benoit. 'Rip van Winkle has the same problem as Europe: disunited union. Do you know what our problem is as Europeans? We want to go on being ourselves while at the same time we're part of the whole. We're trying to globalise our individuality. But the world needs fewer and fewer individuals, fewer races, fewer nations, fewer languages. What the world needs is for us all to know English and, if possible, for us all to be a bit liberal. In Babel let everyone speak English and bring on the tower, says the world. That's what globalisation demands, and we Europeans aspire to that without giving up on our individuality. But what is an individual nowadays? What does it mean to be French, English or Italian? Take a look at us: you're Dutch with German ancestors, I'm French but I work in Holland, April is English, but she lived in Italy, Jacob is North American and lives in Europe. Before, our artistic traditions used to differentiate us, but now things have changed. A Dutchman can create a work of art with a Spaniard, a Romanian with a Peruvian, a Chinaman with a Belgian. Immigration has found an easy job market: it can become art. Nothing separates us from anyone else any more, Lothar. At home, I've got a cerublastyne portrait of myself by Avendano. It's exactly like me, as exact as a mirror image, but the model substituting the original this year is a Ugandan. He's in my office, where I see him every day. In him I can see my features, my body, my own appearance, and I think: My God, inside me there's a black man. I've never been racist, Lothar, I swear, but it seems to me unbelievable to look at myself and to know that
