It was a typical school form photograph. The children's heads shone white and round like so many pinheads. Zericky leaned over Miss Wood's shoulder.
'That one's me. And this is Bruno. He was very beautiful. It took your breath away just to look at him, whether you were a boy or a girl. His eyes shone with an inexhaustible gleam. His jet-black hair, inherited from his Spanish mother, his plump lips and thick black eyebrows that looked as if they had been drawn on with ink, gave him the harmonious look of an ancient god… That's how I remember him. But it was more than just beauty… how can I explain it?… He was like one of his paintings… there was something that went beyond what you can see. There was nothing for it but to bow at his feet. And he loved that. He enjoyed directing us, giving us orders. He was born to create things with others.'
For a split second, Zericky's eyes opened wide, as though they were inviting Miss Wood inside to see all that they had seen.
'He invented a game, which he sometimes played with me in the woods. I stood stock still, and Bruno placed my arms, head, or feet in the position he wanted. He used to say I was his statue. The rules were that I couldn't move until he gave me permission, although I must say that he made up the rules as well. Does that mean Bruno could do whatever he liked? Yes and no. I think he was more of a victim.' Zericky paused as he put the photo back in the folder.
'I've thought a lot about Bruno over the years. I've come to the conclusion that he never cared about anyone or anything, but not because he was really uninterested in them so much as in order to survive. He was used to suffering. I remember one of his typical gestures: when anything hurt him, he would look up to the skies as though imploring aid. I used to say it made him look like Jesus, and he liked the comparison. Bruno always saw himself as a new Redeemer.' 'A new Christ?' Miss Wood repeated.
'Yes. I think that's how he sees himself. A misunderstood god. A god made man whom all of us have tortured.'
19.30.
He was out there somewhere.
All of a sudden Bosch had been filled with that terrible conviction. He was out there somewhere. The Artist. Waiting.
Hendrickje, who had put her superstitious faith in his old bloodhound's sense of smell, would have bet anything that he was right. 'If that is what you feel, Lothar, don't think twice about it: go with it.' He stood up so brusquely that Nikki turned towards him, intrigued. 'Is something wrong, Lothar?'
'No. I just feel like stretching my legs. I've been sitting down for hours. I might walk over to the other control post.'
In fact, one of his legs had gone numb. He tapped his shoe on the floor to help the blood flow.
'Take an umbrella: it's not raining hard, but you could get soaked,' said Nikki.
Bosch nodded, but left the Portakabin without taking an umbrella.
It was raining outside – not heavily, but with a steady persistence – although it was quite warm. Bosch blinked, and walked a few paces away from the Portakabin to savour the atmosphere.
The huge tent of the Tunnel was less than thirty metres from him. It shone like petrol in the rain, and looked like a mountain shrouded in mourning clothes. The vehicles parked round it left narrow corridors that were thronged with personneclass="underline" workmen, police, plainclothes agents, the sanitary team. The sight inspired confidence and security.
But there was something more, a thread he could perceive although it was almost invisible, a background colour, a deep note playing beneath the surface fanfare of noise.
'He's here.'
Two of his men passed by him and said hello, without receiving any reply from Bosch apart from a brief nod. He swung his head from side to side, studying shapes and faces. He would not have been able to say how, but he was sure he was going to recognise Postumo Baldi when he saw him, whatever his disguise. His eyes are mirrors. But he could not rid himself of his sense of unease, even though he knew it was unlikely Baldi was there at that very moment. His body is like fresh clay. Maybe I'm just nervous because today is the opening, he told himself. That was easy to understand, and with the understanding came a sense of calm.
'Don't try to understand, Lothar. Listen to your spirit, not your mind,' was what Hendrickje used to tell him. But then, Hendrickje read her tarot cards like others read the morning papers, and saw her horoscope as set in stone just like events that had already taken place. Despite this, you didn't see that lorry waiting for you on your way back from Utrecht, did you Hendri? You didn't foresee the astrological confluence of your head and the back end of that trailer. All your intuition suddenly converted into Stardust, eh, Hendri?'
He walked over to the barriers. Why would he be here today? That's absurd. The only reason would be for him to explore the terrain. That's the way he operates. First he gets to know the surroundings, then he attacks. He's not going to try anything today.
He flashed his ID card and an agent let him through. He found himself caught up in the crowd coming out of the long night of the Tunnel – their eyes wide, fascination still shining in their faces, and swam against the current of this tide of humanity. Further on, beyond another row of barriers, was the central square from which all the paintings would be picked up. There were fewer people in there. Bosch could see the green and white uniforms of Van Hoore's team. They all seemed to be like him: nervous but at the same time calm. It was understandable. Never before had such astronomically valuable works of art been exhibited in a place like this. Outdoor pieces were much easier to guard; still simpler the ones in museums. 'Rembrandt' though was a huge challenge for the Foundation personnel.
He made for the Tunnel entrance. To his left, near the Rijksmuseum, was concentrated a small but vociferous group of BAH members waving banners in Dutch and English. The rain did not appear to dampen their enthusiasm. Bosch considered them for a moment. The main banner showed an eye-catching illustration (a blown-up photo) of a Stein original called The Stepladder, with the fourteen-year-old adolescent Janet Clergue. Her buttocks, breasts and genitals had been scribbled over and censored. Other placards displayed texts hastily written in capitals:
HYPERDRAMATIC ART EXHIBITS NAKED CHILDREN. WANT TO BUY A NUDE EIGHT-YEAR-OLD GIRL? ASK AT THE VAN TYSCH FOUNDATION. VAN TYSCH'S FLOWERS: LEGALISED PHYSICAL AND MENTAL TORTURE. PROSTITUTION AND SALE OF HUMAN BEINGS… IS THAT ART? VAN TYSCH DEGRADES REMBRANDT IN HIS NEW COLLECTION.
Another long, unfurled banner went into greater detail, in smaller lettering: 'How many models are there in the world over forty? How many grown men compared to young girls? How many HD works are clothed people in normal poses? How many are naked young women in suggestive poses?'
'What scum’ one of the security guards at the entrance muttered to Bosch. 'They're the same sort who wanted to prohibit Michelangelo's nudes in the Sistine Chapel.' Bosch agreed half-heartedly and walked on.
He is here.
It was easier to get across the crowd of people at the entrance than at the exit, because they were slowed down by the three security filters at the mouth of the Tunnel. Bosch crossed through the queue. He was still intending to call on the other team in Portakabin A. But he came to a halt once more.