The girl with red-painted hair squinted desperately as Postumo brought the blade up to her face. It was then he realised his mistake.
He had not chosen the right blade. He had decided to destroy the largest of the figures, the Second Elder, first of all, but then he had changed his mind and chosen to start with the female figure. But the canvas cutter he had was for the biggest body. If he cut the smaller one up with it, the face would be reduced to a mass of splinters. He did not want to crush it: he had been told the crosses had to stand out.
He let go of her hair, switched the blade off, and stood up. He went back to the table and chose the finest blade. He used different kinds, sometimes for each part of the body, depending on the bone structure. For the twins he had scarcely needed to change blades at all, but the young girl had been a nightmare, because she had such a tiny, almost ethereal, anatomy. He tried not to remember all the different changes of blade he had needed to cut up Deflowering, all the interruptions with the girl's body half destroyed, the blood gleaming as it spouted from a still-beating heart. His task might have been simpler if he had used several different canvas cutters, but he could not risk carrying so many objects on him. His work was meticulous; he was forced to go slowly.
He found the blade he needed. It was next to the digital video camera he had taken out of his oilskin bag to use to film the results of his work. Behind his back, the canvases seemed finally to have gone to sleep. That was no problem: they would wake up with the first cut.
He unscrewed the thick blade from the metal handle and threw it on the table. He snapped in the fine one. He switched the cutter on to test it.
Then he turned round and walked towards the girl once more.
22.02.
She was about to cross it. The looking glass. At last.
She had approached its smooth, chill surface and discovered this iceberg world fascinated her. She was frightened, of course, frightened to open the door into a closed room, to penetrate the darkness. The fear of a small girclass="underline" a feeling that was unpleasant but tempting, the sweet hidden in the witch's gingerbread house. Come and get it, Clara. And she would walk in and take the sweet, whatever happened. She would do anything to get the deserved, the terrible reward.
'Look at yourself in the mirror’ the painter ordered her. His eyes were colourless, the rest of him endless white. 'Look at yourself in the mirror’ he repeated.
A moment earlier, Matt had let her go, but now he grasped her hair again and brought that strange whirling, deafening object up close to her face.
She knew that the thing she was about to see, that she was on the verge of seeing, was the horrible. The finishing touch to her body in the art work that was her life. Let's do it, she told herself. Let's do it. Be brave. What else was real art, what else was a masterpiece, if not the profound result of passion and courage?
She took a deep breath and lifted her head, presenting it to the sacrifice as if she was running towards the outstretched arms of a loving father.
The horrible. At last.
At that moment there was a thunderous crash and everything was over for her.
22.05.
Bosch had fired straight through the mirror. A living cylinder thrashed around the floor of the room. The canvas cutter was still switched on, its blade furiously sawing the air.
Wuyters, who had obeyed his order and put away his gun, was staring at him dumbfounded. Bosch had not wanted to get him mixed up in what he had decided to do. He needed to be the only guilty one. An old policeman's scruples had led him to ensure that Wuyters did his duty right to the end.
Everything was over, but Bosch stood there motionless. He did not lower his gun even when they told him Baldi was dead. Nor when they assured him that the canvases were out of danger, and that Baldi had not succeeded in cutting the girl in his second attempt, when he changed blades after Wuyters and he had thought he had already started the destruction. The echo of the shot had already faded and the crash of the broken glass as well, but Bosch still held the gun in his outstretched arms.
It was strange – he thought – what had happened with Baldi. He had seen how the bullet had struck his head, and the blood spurting like paint, but he had not noticed any spattered organs, nothing really terrible: just a red stain spreading everywhere across the smooth white surface of his skull. Bosch remembered that once as a boy he had spilt an inkwell, which had produced the same effect on his drawing pad. He guessed it must be the cerublastyne that kept everything so neat and tidy looking. Then through the shattered mirror he saw one of his men strip off bits of the mask to reveal the destruction beneath. Baldi's face was gone. His brain was like chewed-up paper. I'm sorry, thought Bosch, staring at this unaesthetic mass, this scrawl of bones and white strands; I'm sorry. I've killed the canvas. He knew that Baldi was not the guilty one. Nor was Van Tysch: Van Tysch was merely a genius. He, Lothar Bosch, was the only guilty one. A vulgar little man.
He finally managed to lower his arms. He could see Wuyters next to him, still staring.
'Do you know what, Jan?' Bosch said, immensely weary, by way of explanation. 'The thing is, I've never liked modern art.'
22.19.
April Wood listened in silence. Then she hung up and spoke to Stein:
'My colleague Lothar Bosch has prevented Bruno van Tysch from completing his posthumous work. He takes full responsibility and will accept whatever consequences may arise from his actions. He also told me he has decided to resign.' She paused. ‘I beg you to add my resignation to Mr Bosch's, but also to put all the responsibility for this on to me. I did not succeed in informing Mr Bosch properly about what was happening, and therefore he acted on a misapprehension. I am the only one responsible for what happened. Thank you.'
Stein burst out laughing. It was a silent, disagreeable laugh. It was like a continuation of the sobs he had produced moments before. Then he stopped. His face betrayed a certain annoyance, as though he were ashamed of the way he had behaved.
Miss Wood did not wait for any further reply, but turned and walked down the tiled corridor.
The half moon shining in the night of Edenburg had risen in the sky.
Who if I cried would hear me from the hierarchies of angels?
RILKE
Epilogue
For a while there were sounds. Then silence reigned.
As he was folding his socks and putting them in his suitcase, Lothar Bosch thought that perhaps this was the only peace and happiness people like him could hope for in this world. Nothing better, he thought, than to smooth a pair of socks and carefully place them in a suitcase. He surveyed his half-completed packing, the case yawning open on the bed. The sun outside his bedroom window brought a cool, watery Holland to his nostrils. His bed, like a mysterious soft chessboard, was covered in pieces: columns of underwear, socks, books and shirts. Bosch had begun the ritual unwillingly, but by the end was thankful for it. It no longer seemed to him such a bad idea to spend the rest of the summer with Roland and his family in Scheveningen. In fact, he was beginning to look forward to it. He had no job, so it was time for him, as his brother said, 'to start to live the life of a pensioner'.
It would also give him the chance to see Danielle. He had bought something special for her in a shop on Rozengracht.