When Bosch left Van Obber's house, a grey, ceaseless rain covered the city. Delft's beauty was melting in front of his eyes. He wished with all his heart that Rip van Winkle had really arrested the Artist, but he knew they had not. He was convinced that, whether or not it was Postumo, the criminal was still on the loose and was ready to spring into action during the exhibition.
8
The Artist went out into the street at night.
It was raining in Amsterdam, and the weather was on the cold side. Summer had been put into abeyance. All the better, he thought. Hands in pockets, he walked under the distant light from the streetlamps, letting the rain cover him with a fine spray like a flower. He crossed the Singelgracht bridge, where the lights were making garlands in the water and the drops of rain were tracing concentric circles, and walked on until he reached the Museumplein. He strolled past the area containing the silent Rembrandt Tunnel. The police guarding the entrance glanced at him without paying any particular attention. He looked like a perfectly ordinary individual, and that was how he acted. He could be a man or a woman. In Munich he had been Brenda and Weiss; in Vienna, Ludmila and Diaz. Only on the inside was he a single person. He reached the far end of the horseshoe and continued on his way. He reached Concertgebouw square, where the most important concert hall in Amsterdam stood. But now the music had finished, and everything lay silent. The Artist did not cross Van Baerlestraat. Instead, he turned right towards the Stedelijk, and began his return journey towards the Rijksmuseum. He wanted to explore and check everything. His progress was blocked by metal fences marking out an area reserved for van parking. He leaned on one of the fences and stared into the night.
A small 'Rembrandt' poster was tied to a lamppost a little further on. The Artist stared at it through the drizzle. The Angel's hand was opening in the darkness. He read the date on it: 15 July 2006. The next day. The fifteenth of July. Exactly. Tomorrow will be the day.
He moved away from the fence, turned down Van de Veldestraat and walked on. The rain eased off as he made his way back to the Singel.
Tomorrow, in the exhibition.
Everything around him was dark and unlovely. Only the Artist looked like pure beauty.
Fourth Step
I am not concerned about exhibition.
BRUNO VAN TYSCH Treatise on Hyperdramatic Art
'I should win easy', said the Lion.
The Eighth Square, at last!
LEWIS CARROLL Through the Looking Glass
09.25.
When Lothar Bosch awoke, Postumo Baldi was in his bedroom.
He was standing three metres from his bed, looking at him. The first thing Bosch thought was that he did not seem particularly dangerous. He's not dangerous, he told himself. The second thing he realised, with precise, terrible intuition, was that this was not a dream: he was wide awake, it was daytime, it was his house on Van Eeghenstraat, and Baldi was in his bedroom, naked, staring at him thoughtfully. His appearance was that of a skinny adolescent with protruding bones, but his gaze was full of beauty. Despite everything, Bosch was not afraid of him. I can overcome him, he thought.
At that point, Baldi began a graceful, silent dance, a whirlwind of light. His thin body danced all round the room, then returned to its initial position, and the world seemed to come to a halt with him. Then he started to move again. And stopped a second time. Fascinated, it took Bosch some time to realise what was going on: he had fallen asleep with the virtual reality visor on while watching the 3-D images the Foundation had taken of Baldi when he was fifteen years old.
Bosch swore, switched off the machine and took off the visor. The bedroom looked empty, but Baldi's iridescent after-image still floated in the air. The brightness outside the window was that of a rainy day: the day the 'Rembrandt' exhibition was to open.
The images had not helped Bosch clarify things a lot. Van Obber had not been exaggerating when he had said Postumo was 'fresh clay': a hairless, smooth creature, a beginning, a human point of departure, the start of all shapes.
Bosch got up, refreshed himself in the shower, and chose a sober dark suit from his wardrobe. At half-past ten he would have to be with the vehicles parked round the Tunnel to supervise the launch of the security operation. Now he was in front of his mirror struggling to fix his tie properly. He had got the silk folds wrong yet again. He could not remember having been as nervous as this since Hendrickje's death.
He's never attacked at an opening. You ought to calm down. Perhaps he isn't even in Amsterdam. Who says April Wood is right? Perhaps he's already handed himself over at some Munich police station or other. Or maybe… stupid knot… Maybe Rip van Winkle really have caught him
… Get a hold of yourself. Think positively. For once in your life, think positively.
All at once he heard the pitter-patter of rain. He went out onto the terrace: the Vermeer landscape had started to change into a Monet. The raindrops had begun to meld together greens, ochres, the reds and whites. OK, so the rain's here.
As he finished dressing, he allowed himself a last thought for Danielle. He did not want to pray, even though he knew that, contrary to what religion teaches, not only the Devil but God himself can create temptation. Nevertheless, he improvised a short prayer. He did not aim it at anyone in particular, beyond looking up at the lowering clouds. She's the only one who has nothing to do with any of this. Protect her. Please, protect her.
After that, he went downstairs. It was going to be an exhausting day, and he knew it.
He had at least succeeded in throttling himself properly. His tie was correctly knotted.
09.29.
Gerardo took a pinch of burnt yellow colour and brushed it onto Clara's cheek.
The Maestro is going to check all the paintings this afternoon before the opening.' ‘I thought he wasn't going to come again.'
'He always likes to have a last look before he leaves. Stay still now.'
He chose a very fine brush and painted her lips with a layer of weak vermilion. She saw him smiling only a few centimetres from her face. He looked like a miniaturist bending over a book of prints.
'Are you happy?' he asked her as he dipped his brush in the paint again. 'Yes.'
The assistant took off Clara's haircap, uncovering a shock of mahogany red curls. Gerardo dipped his brush again, and returned to her lips.
'I'd like to go on seeing you after all this is over. I mean, after you've been bought.' He paused, dipped a finger in some kind of solvent, and scraped at the corner of her mouth. 'Because you must know you've already been bought. You'll be sent to the home of some millionaire collector or other. But I'd like to go on seeing you. No, don't talk. You mustn't talk now.'
His words were as gentle as the brushstrokes he was using to outline her. She felt as though he were kissing her all over. *You know what they say. That there can't be any relationship between a painting and a painter, because hyperdramatism doesn't allow it. Well, that's the theory anyway.' He lifted off the brush, dipped it in the
