underneath, under my skin, is hidden a black man, that if I scratch hard enough at one of my cheeks I'll see the Ugandan appear, immobile, that Ugandan I have inside me who I can't get rid of even if I wanted to… among other reasons, because the portrait is by Avendano and costs an arm and a leg.' 'I understand,' said Bosch.
‘I wonder what we would see appear under the skin of Europe if we scratched it, Lothar?' We'd have to scratch a lot, Paul.'
'Right. But there's one consoling thought. There's something that links me to the Ugandan, something I share with him which makes me think that deep down we're not that different after all.' After a pause, Benoit continued his walk. Then he said:*We both want money.'
At the end of the walk, mirrored by a pond and crouching on some rocks, was Het Meisje, the best-known work in Clingendael park, and perhaps in the entire city. Het Meisje, 'The Young Woman', was a delicate Rut Malondi piece. Some people called it the 'Little HD Mermaid' of The Hague. Her body was half-hidden by a loose- fitting shirt painted snow-white, which flapped in the breeze. Her face, perfectly detailed in cerublastyne, and the gentle hyperdramatism of her blue gaze filled the leisure hours of the passers-by. She was a permanent outdoor piece, but in the harsh Dutch winter the city council protected her under a thermostatically-controlled plastic dome. The canvas can not have been more than fourteen years old. She was the sixteenth substitute, and was painted to look exactly the same as the earlier ones. A whole regiment of tourists surrounded her, snapping away. It had become a tradition to offer her flowers or throw her scraps of paper with poems written on them. Benoit came to a halt opposite her, by the pool's edge.
'You must have heard that there'll soon be a change at the top,' he said. 'Van Tysch is going into a decline, Lothar. Or rather, he's completely wrecked. That's what happens when someone becomes immortal: they die. The only reason we don't see them rot is that it's hidden under layers of pure gold. The search for a replacement has already started. I was wondering who will take over.' 'Dave Rayback,' said Bosch without a moment's hesitation.
'No. It won't be him. He's an artistic genius – I've got several of his originals in Normandy, and I've paid a fortune to have them permanently on show there. They're so good I don't want them to leave even for a pee. As an artist, Rayback has more than enough qualities to take over. But his great defect is that he's too clever, don't you think? A genius should always be a bit of a dummy. People tend to look at geniuses and smile, thinking: Look at them, poor things, so busy creating their sacred works, but as lost as ever. That's the image of genius that people buy. So a genius who is intelligent as well makes people uncomfortable. It's as if we thought intelligence was only for mediocre people. Or as though being a genius was incompatible with wanting to amass a fortune, lead a country or command an army. We expect the leader of a government to be 'intelligent'. We might even say he has been a 'good' president. But however good he may be at his job, he'll never be a 'genius'. Do you see the difference?'
'So if it's not Rayback,' said Bosch, 'who is it going to be? Stein?'
'Not likely. Stein is one of those people who need a boss to approve of their work. I can remember a phrase by Rayback that I liked a lot: 'Stein is the best of all those who aren't artists.' It's true. Forget about Stein. The only role he has in this is as a voter: he and others like him will choose the new genius. And I can assure you that the chosen one will be an unknown, one of the general run of the mill. The Foundation can not fail now. We've become a huge business, Lothar. The future stakes are enormous. Mummy and Daddy will give every child a beginner's guide to HD painting. We'll create part-time models that will cost the amateur painter a hundred euros. We'll get human artefacts and ornaments legalised, and when that happens we will place an eighteen-year-old Receptacle, Tray or Ashtray in your home for a thousand or two thousand euros. We can expand our cerublastyne portraits and our mass-production workshops. And once we can include violence in completely legal and cheap art- shocks, we'll have taken another step forward similar to legalising drugs. HD art is going to change the history of humanity, I promise you. We're becoming the most successful business in the world. Therefore we need someone pretty stupid to represent us. If we were represented by an intelligent person, we would fail. Good business needs a fool out front, and a lot of clever people behind him.'
All at once Bosch began to understand why Benoit wanted to talk to him. Sly old fox. When you're expecting a mutiny, you try to find people on your side, don't you? But then a second, more disturbing explanation flashed through his mind: what if Benoit was the person helping the Artist? Perhaps he wanted to finish off Van Tysch and speed up the transfer. While he was thinking this over, Bosch pushed the tip of his de back inside his jacket. Het Meisje's white shirt was fluttering in the breeze. A Japanese girl threw her a rose. Bosch looked more closely and saw it was plastic. It bounced off Het Meisje's bare knee and fell into the pond. Then Benoit said something unexpected.
'I'm really sorry about your niece, Lothar. And I understand you. It must be very worrying, especially with the way things are. I wanted you to know it was nothing to do with me. It was Stein who chose her as a model, and the Maestro agreed.' ‘I know.'
‘I called her first thing this morning to see how she was getting on. She's fine, but a bit nervous, because Van Tysch is going to sign her today. I have to tell you I phoned her because she's your niece, although you know it's against the rules to have any contact with the canvases before Van Tysch has signed them.' 'Thanks, Paul.'
Benoit went on talking quickly, as if he had not yet got to the point he was trying to make.
‘I’ll always be beside you, Lothar. I'm with you. And I'd like you to feel the same. I mean that whatever happens, whoever might come after Van Tysch, we will continue to support each other, won't we?'
A clump of pansies was growing near Benoit's feet. He bent down, picked one, and threw it into the air. But his aim was bad, and the pansy flew over Het Meisje's painted head. Benoit looked as crestfallen as a footballer who has missed a decisive penalty.
'I've got a copy of that wonder in Normandy,' he confessed to Bosch, pointing at Het Meisje. 'A cheap, tawdry copy of the kind they sell you in art shops with the words 'Souvenir of The Hague' inscribed on its buttocks. The model is over twenty years old now, of course. But I still like it. I'm sorry, I've kept you a long dme. Did you have to go somewhere?' 'Unfortunately, yes. But I'll be there on time.'
'See you tomorrow, Lothar.' 'Yes, tomorrow at the opening.' 'I must say, I wish this was all over.' Bosch left him without replying.
On his way to Delft, he called Van Obber to say he would be late. The painter's hoarse voice came on the line. 'No problem,' he said. 'I've nowhere to go.' Bosch hung up and tried to have a nap. The meeting with Benoit flashed into his mind. It was obvious the Artist was still at large, and Benoit had realised it. Rip van Winkle was a way for Europe to make a good impression with a company that brought the biggest number of tourists to the Old World, but that was all. The Artist was still free. And he was ready.
He was just dozing off when the call came. It was Nikki.
'Lije suffered first-degree burns over half his body and was interned for life in a psychiatric clinic in northern France, Lothar – we've checked. Apparently, it happened during the December art-shocks, but Extreme covered it up to avoid upsetting the other artists and canvases.'
'How did it happen?'
'In one of the paintings they were using candles to spill different-coloured hot wax on to Lije's body. Someone was clumsy, there was a fire: Lije was tied up, and no one bothered to help him get out'
'My God,' muttered Bosch.
'That leaves Postumo Baldi. He's the only one without an alibi.'
'I'm just on my way to Delft to see Van Obber,' Bosch explained. 'I want you to get me all the information you can about Baldi: any tapes on him, the recordings and interviews Support made when he was Figure XIII. Send them to my home.'
'OK.'
As the car entered Delft, Bosch felt rather strange. What could Van Obber tell him? What did he want out of him? All at once he understood that he wanted Van Obber to paint him a face. Some features. Knowing Baldi might be the Artist was not, in theory, going to have any immediate consequences. The security measures for the exhibition were not going to be changed in any way. But perhaps Van Obber would be able to paint a picture of Baldi, which would help Bosch add some details to the misty, androgynous outline he had in his head.
In Delft, grey-bellied clouds were gathering on the far horizon. Bosch got out of the car in Markt square, next to the New Church, and told the driver to wait for him there. He wanted to walk. A moment later, and he found himself surrounded by pure beauty.
Delft. This was where the painter Vermeer, that expert in subtle detail, had been born. Those were different
