times though, thought Bosch, times when it was still possible to feel and think, times when beauty had still not been completely discovered. He reached Oude Delft with its ancient canal, and gazed at its tranquil waters, the mouth-wateringly green lime trees, and the indented skyline of roofs, all of it gleaming despite the sky's refusal to collaborate with the light, all of it shining and pure like the pottery Delft had made famous. Bosch felt moved. Once upon a time then, things had been clear. When had everything been overtaken by shade? When did Van Tysch come down from the skies, and dark shadows fill every corner? Of course, it wasn't Van Tysch's fault. Not even Rembrandt's. But seeing Delft like this was to understand that in the past, at least, there was a meaning to things, they were diaphanous, full of sweet details that artists liked to note and reproduce skilfully Bosch thought that in some way humanity had grown, too. There was no room any more for a naive humanity. Was that a good or bad thing? At school, one of his teachers used to say there was one good thing about hell: at least the condemned knew where they were. There could not be the slightest doubt about it. And now Bosch conceded he was right. The worst thing about hell was not the roasting heat, the eternity of torment, the fact of having lost God's love or of being tortured by devils.
The worst thing about hell is not knowing whether you are already in it or not.
Van Obber lived in a pretty brick house by the canal, topped off with white gables. It was plain that the roof was in need of repair, and that the window frames could do with a new coat of paint. The painter himself opened the door. He was a man with straw blond hair en brosse. He was agonisingly thin, with dark circles round his eyes and bruises everywhere. His face was beaded with sweat. Bosch knew he was no older than forty, but he looked at least fifty. Van Obber registered his surprise. His face contorted in a grimace that might have been his way of smiling. 'I'm in urgent need of repair,' he said.
He led Bosch to a creaking staircase. The upper floor was a single, large room that smelt of paint and solvents. Van Obber offered him an armchair, sat in another one, and began breathing heavily. For a while, that was all he did.
'I'm sorry for this sudden visit,' Bosch said. 'I didn't mean to put you out.'
'Don't worry' The painter wrinkled the dark lines round his eyes. 'My whole life is routine… I mean I always do the same… that makes things difficult, because things never stop changing… At least I don't really have too many money problems… forty per cent of my works are still alive… there's not many independent painters who could say as much… and I still get some rent from my paintings… I don't paint adolescents any more… you can't get the material, because it's expensive and soon gets frightened… I used to do everything before: even ornaments and pubermobilair, which are prohibited…'
‘I know,' Bosch said, interrupting the slow but inexorable flow of words. 'I think, in fact, that in one of your last works you used Postumo Baldi, didn't you? For the portrait you did for Jenny Thoureau in 2004.'
'Postumo Baldi…' Van Obber lowered his head and put his hands together as if he was praying. His red nose shone in the light from the window.
'Postumo is fresh clay,' he said. 'You touch him and stand him somewhere, and he adapts to it… You can poke or pull his flesh… do anything you want with him: animarts of a snake, dog or horse; a Catholic virgin; an executioner for stained art; bare carpets; transgender dancers… he's extraordinary material. To say he's 'first class' comes nowhere near it…' 'When did you get to know him?'
'I didn't get to know him… I met him and used him… That was in the year 2000, in a gallery for stained art in Germany. I'm not going to tell you where it is, because I don't even know: guests are always taken to it blindfolded. The art-shock was an anonymous triptych called The Dance of Death. It was a good piece. The stained material was exceptional: a coachful of young students of both sexes. You know, the classic way of getting material for stained art: the coach falls into water in an accident, the bodies never reappear, it's a national tragedy and the students, who have been forced to leave the bus beforehand, are secretly taken to the painter's workshop. In those days, Baldi must have been fourteen, and he was painted as one of the figures of Death who had to sacrifice the stained material. When I saw him he was flaying two of the students, a boy and a girl, and painting skulls on their skinless flesh. Although they were in a very bad way, the students were still alive, but Baldi seemed so beautiful to me I wanted to contract him for my own paintings. He was very expensive, but I had the money. I told him: 'I'm going to paint something out of this world with you'… All I used was a little cerublastyne… a very restricted palette: a few dull pinks and some watery blues. I added a jet-black hair implant down to his feet. I made the sex imprecise, which wasn't difficult. I demanded a lot of him, but Postumo was up to everything. I used him as a man and as a woman. I tortured him with my own hands. I treated him like an animal, like something I could use and then throw into the rubbish… I'm not saying that Postumo was good at everything. He was a human body, and had the limits of one. But there was something in him, something that was… his way of negating himself. That was how I painted my work Succubus. That was the first painting I did with him. Do you know what Postumo's next work was, Mr Bosch?… A Virgin Mary by Ferrucioli…'
Van Obber opened his mouth to laugh, and Bosch could see his stained teeth. 'People might ask: 'How can the same canvas be painted as a Succubus by Van Obber and a Virgin by Ferrucioli?' The answer is a simple one: that's art, ladies and gentlemen. That is precisely what art is, ladies and gentlemen.' He fell silent, then after a while added:
'Postumo is not mad, but he's not sane either. He's neither evil nor good, man or woman. Do you want to know what Postumo is? He's whatever the painter paints on him. Postumo's eyes are emph’. I asked them for emotion, and they gave it me: anger, fear, rancour, jealousy
… but then, once work was over, their light went out, they emptied
… Postumo's eyes are as empty and colourless as mirrors… Empty, colourless, as beautiful as…'
His words broke off in dreadful sobbing. In the ensuing silence, several thunderclaps could be heard. It was starting to rain over Delft.
Bosch felt sorry for Van Obber and his shattered nerves. He supposed solitude and failure made for poor companions. 'Where do you think Baldi might be now?' he asked gently. 'I don't know,' Van Obber shook his head. 'I don't know.'
'As far as I know, he abandoned a portrait you made of him for a French art dealer, Jenny Thoureau, in 2004. Was that typical of Baldi? To leave a work in the lurch before the date stipulated in the contract?' 'No. Baldi fulfilled all his contracts.' 'Why do you think it was different this time?'
Van Obber raised his head to look at him. His eyes were still glistening, but he had regained his calm.
'I'll tell you why,' he murmured. 'He got a more interesting offer. That's all there is to it.' 'Are you sure of that?'
'No. It's just a suspicion. I haven't seen him again, or heard any more about him. But I repeat – the only thing that interested Baldi was money. If he quit one work, it was because they offered him a better one. I'm sure of that.' 'An offer to be another painting?'
'Yes. That's why he left. Naturally, I wasn't surprised: I was a loser, and Baldi was too good for me. He was destined for something much better than to be a Van Obber painting.' Bosch thought this over for a minute.
'That happened two years ago,' he said eventually. 'If Baldi walked out to become another work, as you say, where is that painting now? Since the Jenny Thoureau portrait his name hasn't been seen anywhere…'
Van Obber said nothing. This time it did not seem his mind had strayed off into distant recesses: it was more as if he were considering what to say.
'He's not finished,' he said all of a sudden. 'What?' 'If he hasn't appeared, it's because he's not finished. It's logical.'
Bosch thought about what Van Obber had said. An unfinished painting. That was a possibility neither he nor Miss Wood had thought of. They were following two trails in their search for the Ardst: either he was still working, or he had left the profession. But until now neither of them had even considered he might be working in a painting that was not yet finished. That would explain Ms disappearance and his silence. A painter never shows his work until it is complete. But who could be devoting so much time to painting Baldi? And what kind of artwork were they trying to create?
As Bosch was leaving, he heard Van Obber's voice again from the armchair.
'Why do they want to find Postumo?' ‘I don't know,' Bosch lied. 'My job is just to find him.'
'Believe me, it's better for everyone that Postumo has got lost. Postumo is more than a simple work of art: he is art, Mr Bosch. Art. Pure and simple.'
He stared up at Bosch with his exorbitant, sick eyes and added:
'Which means that, if you find him, be careful. Art is more terrible than man.'
