stupid detail that seized hold of Bosch's terrified brain. He thought he understood that she was holding a child by the hand, and was begging the monster to respect her, at least not to devour her tiny charge. Then Bosch saw her swept under (had she bent down? been swept away?) then reappear further on, waving a tremulous, wailing little creature above her head like a banner. Go on, go on, get him out of here, Bosch wanted to shout, get your child out of here. He was trying to help her when he was struck by another blow, and fell over the edge of the ramp.
He felt he has falling through space. The darkness outside the ramp was so intense his eyes could not calculate the distance separating him from harm. Even so, he managed to put his hands out and parry his fall. For a second or two he could not even work out what had happened, why he was in this strange position of floating along horizontally. Then he understood that all the chiaroscuro lighting must have gone off.
That must be it, because in the entire length of the Tunnel he could not see a single light, not even a speck. The paintings had been swallowed up in the shadows. And he was in the belly of the darkness.
He tried to get to his knees, but was knocked flat again. Something, or some mass of things, swept over him. Somebody had thought that beyond the ramp there might be another exit, and now everyone was running towards this remote possibility. Perhaps it was true that the emergency exits for the paintings could also be used by the public: even though they were further off, they were much easier to get to. The problem was finding them.
Bosch finally managed to stand up and check he had no broken bones. All around him, dumbfounded shadows heaved. He tried to guide them because he knew where the exits were. He started shouting at people who were like stampeding elephants in the black centre of a storm. 'The far end! The far end!'
But: the far end of what? They started running towards the lights. But the lights were getting closer, too. A magical brush painted a sudden majestic white stripe on the sweating, terrified face in front of Bosch. Then the darkness added black, and the face disappeared. Another brush sketched an outstretched hand, then a summery shirt, a fleeting silhouette. In the midst of the Guernica panic, Bosch waved his arms like a drowning man. 'Stay calm, stay calm,' he heard a voice say.
Just hearing words that made sense reassured him a lot. It was a shred of coherence that might lead to some communication. Then there were the lights, which must be torches. He ran towards them as though the darkness engulfing him were flames, and his body needed to douse itself in light. He struggled to push away another person desperate to reach the privilege of light. Darkness is cruel, he thought. Darkness is inhuman, he thought.
'It's Lothar Bosch here!' he shouted. He felt his jacket lapel, but his ID badge had been torn off. 'Calm, stay calm,' the voice offering the gift of light repeated.
A beam struck his face, blinding him. It did not matter: he preferred to be blinded rather than to be blind. He raised his hands, begging for light. 'Stay calm, nothing has happened,' the voice said in English. Bosch wanted to laugh. So nothing had happened?
It was then he realised that it was true that whatever had happened was over. He could no longer hear the sinister creaking of the Tunnel's metallic structure.
The torch painted another face: a woman from the crowd who was weeping as she tried to speak. Bosch contemplated this mask of tragedy as carefully as he had studied the paintings only a few minutes earlier.
He staggered out of the Tunnel inferno, guided by the rescuing torches, but feeling as lost as everyone else around him. Night had not yet fallen, and it had even stopped raining, but the dense ceiling of grey clouds made the sunset even more impressive. Under this colourless sky, the central square was a riot of colour. It was as if the Rijksmuseum had burst open and peopled the streets with Rembrandt's dreams.
The Table and Maid from The Feast of Belshazzar were being helped into their robes by people from Conservation. King Belshazzar, swathed in a heavy painted turban, was panting loudly. The soldiers from The Night Watch were still holding aloft their lances and muskets, and looked for all the world like an army of dead men, astonishment filling their bloody faces. The girl with the chicken at her waist, naked and gold-painted, was a flickering flame at the foot of the recovery vehicle. At the opposite end of the horseshoe, The Syndics were climbing into more vehicles, while the students from The Anatomy Lesson ran about in their white ruffs. Kirsten Kirstenman's pale blue body was being carried on a stretcher. The paintings were all jumbled up with ordinary people. Out in the open, Van Tysch's masterpieces looked like the final nightmare of a painter on the point of death. Where could Danielle be? Where exactly had Young Girl Leaning on a Windowsill been on display? Bosch could not remember. He was completely disorientated.
Suddenly he recalled that the painting had been on show beyond The Feast. He remembered he had decided not to spend much time on that one so he could get to her as soon as possible.
He saw a man from Conservation whom he recognised. He was nervously attaching a label round the neck of Paula Kircher, the Angel from Jacob Wrestling with the Angel. Paula was wearing a huge pair of wings in a gleaming pearl-grey colour, fixed on her back like a monstrous, useless parachute. Another assistant had run over to protect her priceless ochre nakedness in a robe, but it was impossible to put on without removing her wings, so Paula just wrapped herself in it like a towel. People milling round her knocked against her feathers with their heads or shoulders: a fireman tore one out with his helmet. It was Paula who replied to Bosch's desperate question: she seemed a good deal calmer than the man trying to put her labels on. 'She's with the Christ.'
She pointed towards a side exit. But there was no vehicle there. 'My God, where is she? Has she already been evacuated?' He ran wildly over to the exit. A female security agent from the inside team was consoling a woman who, probably, was a person rather than a painting. Bosch decided this because she was not painted. Next to him was a figure who was a painting: maroon clothing and a face like a cardinal by Velazquez: perhaps one of the characters from The Night Watch. Bosch interrupted the agent with his hasty question.
'I don't know, Mr Bosch. She might have been evacuated already, but I can't be sure. Why don't you call up control on your radio?' ‘I haven't got one.' 'Use mine.'
The girl unhooked the microphone and passed it to him. As he was putting the headpiece on, Bosch realised there was a piano tune coming from his chest. It was his mobile phone ringing in his inside pocket. Bosch had no idea when it had started. Then all at once it fell silent. He decided not to worry about the call for now. He would track it down later. Calm, stay calm. First things first.
The radio operator sounded in his ear with a marvellously clear voice. Like the voice of an angel in the midst of disaster, thought Bosch. He asked to speak to Nikki Hartel, in Portakabin A. The operator seemed more than happy to comply, but first she needed the code that Bosch himself, on Miss Wood's instructions, had insisted everyone must have in order to talk by phone or radio to the people in charge. Shit! He closed his eyes and concentrated, while the operator hung on. For security reasons he had not written it down anywhere: he had learnt it by heart, but that was in another century, in another era, in a time when the universe and its laws were different, before order was abolished by chaos and Rembrandt and his works had taken Amsterdam by storm. But he usually had a good memory. He remembered the code. The operator confirmed it. When he heard Nikki's voice, he almost felt like crying. Nikki sounded even worse.
'Where did you get to?' he heard her energetic, youthful voice in his earpiece. 'Everyone here was…'
'Listen, Nikki…' Bosch interrupted her. Then he paused for a second before going on. Above all, it's important to speak calmly.
‘I guess you've got a lot to tell me,' he said. 'But first of all, there's something I need to know… Where is Nielle? Where is my niece?'
Nikki's reply was immediate, as if she had been expecting his question right from the start. Yet again, Bosch was thankful for her immense efficiency.
'She's safe, in an evacuation vehicle. Don't worry. Everything's under control. The thing is, Young Girl Leaning on a Windoivsill is a painting with only one free-standing figure, like Titus and Bethsabe, and so Van Hoore's team evacuated her before the other more complicated works.'
Bosch understood her explanation perfectly, and for a second the relief he felt kept him from saying anything else. But then he realised something.
'But most of the works are still here. They're even getting out of the vans again. I don't understand.' 'The evacuation was suspended five minutes ago, Lothar.'
'What? That's absurd!… The earthquake could happen again at any moment… And perhaps the curtains wouldn't withstand…' Nikki butted in.
'It wasn't an earthquake. And it wasn't a fault in the Tunnel construction, as we thought at first. Hoffmann has just phoned. It was something Art dreamed up without telling any of us, not even Conservation or most of the people in Art either… something to do with the Christ painting, which apparently was an interactive performance
