The presents for Hannah and Roland had been easy to choose. They were expensive, as befitted his position as a widower with no children and substantial savings: a diamond brooch from Coster's, and a new digital camera. But Nielle's present was more difficult. At first he had considered a Japanese computer program which had an almost human creature on it that had to be cared for, brought up, taken to school and protected from the dangers of adolescence until the moment she left home, something which almost never happened unless the program had errors or a virus. Then in a toy shop on Rokin he found something much better: a mechanical dalmatian that could move, bark and whine if left alone for too long. He was about to buy it when in the same shop he spotted an enormous felt dog. It was a majestic, soft animal, a Saint Bernard as big as a double pillow. The Saint Bernard did not do anything, it did not move, or bark, but Bosch thought it looked much more alive than the mechanical toy. He gave the necessary instructions for it to be sent to Roland's house in The Hague.
But then, on his way home from the toy shop, he passed by a shop in Rozengracht, and saw it.
He thought for a moment, and retraced his steps. He did not want to cancel his order for the Saint Bernard: he simply requested it be sent to his own house. He would decide later on what to do with that fluffy brown monster. Then he went back to Rozengracht and finally bought the perfect present for Danielle.
The gift would probably arrive before he did. It would bark and whine like a mechanical dalmatian, but it would also do poohs and pee on the carpet and scratch the wood on doors with its claws. It would not be as well behaved as a computer or as sweet as a fluffy Saint Bernard. And – as Bosch knew – when it broke down, nothing and nobody in the world would be able to repair it, and nothing and nobody in the world would be able to restore or substitute it. When that present broke down, it would be completely and forever, and the infinite loss would tear the heart out of more than one person.
From this point of view it was undoubtedly the worst possible gift he could give a ten-year-old girl. But perhaps Nielle would see its advantages. Bosch was hopeful she would.
As the plane began its descent, April Wood glanced at her watch, took a small looking glass from her bag, and studied her face. She found it acceptable. The traces of sadness had disappeared. If they had ever existed, she thought.
She had got the news the day before, just as she was preparing to move to London after having dismantled her office in Amsterdam. She recognised the doctor's voice across the kilometres that separated her from the private clinic. The voice assured her it had all been very rapid. Miss Wood could not agree to that. In fact, it had all been very, very slow. 'Your father had already lost consciousness,' the voice told her. That she could believe. Where was her father's consciousness? Where had it been all these years? Where had it been when she had known him? She had no idea.
She gave all the relevant instructions. Death does not end with death: it has to be concluded with economic and bureacratic instructions. Her father had always wanted to lie under the ruins of classical Rome. All his life he had felt more Roman than British. Exactly that: Roman, because he did not care for Italy and had not even bothered to learn to speak Italian properly. It was Rome that he cared for: the grandeur of having an empire beneath his feet. Now you'll have it above your feet. Enjoy it, Poppy, she had thought. Transferring his body was going to cost her almost as much as the transfer of her paintings.
Her father would travel in a box to Rome. The paintings from her Amsterdam office would travel in private flights to London. 'A good summing-up of my life,' she decided.
She put the looking glass back in her bag, closed it and put it down by her feet.
She had not yet decided what she would do when she got to London. She was thirty years old, and supposed she had about the same number of years of professional activity left. There would be no lack of opportunity, of course: she had already received several offers from art security firms who wanted to be able to count on her. But for the first time in her life she had decided to take a break. She was on her own, and had all the time in the world. Perhaps more than she imagined. Up in the empty sky above the London clouds, with her only family and her only job both dead and gone, April Wood thought that perhaps she had all eternity on front of her.
Holidays. She had not had a real holiday in a long time. Perhaps she would go to Devon. In summer, Devon was ideal. You could have quiet or things to do, as you chose. That was it then: she would go to Devon.
No sooner had she decided that than she remembered Hirum Oslo lived in Devon. She had not given him a thought until now. Of course, she did not rule out calling on him and asking him all the questions that remained unspoken (why he had paid a woman artist to make a portrait from a photo of her, for example). She was not thinking of going to see Hirum again though.
She did not see what going to Devon had to do with paying him a visit.
Nothing at all. Anyway, if she got bored, she could always consider it.
Money is art, thought Jacob Stein. This new phrase seemed a response to Van Tysch's famous dictum, but in fact it changed things completely. Yet the facts bore it out. In the past few days he had carried out several masterstrokes. He had held private meetings with Paul Benoit, Franz Hoffmann and Saskia Stoffels, and told them the whole truth. Together they had taken some quick decisions. Two days later, he informed the investors. To do so, he gathered their representatives on the Ionian island of Kefalonia, ten kilometres north of Agios Spyridion, and decorated the place with artefacts by Van der Graar, Safira and Mordaieff. He also acquired, especially for the occasion, five brand-new and well-trained adolescent Tongues by Mark Rodgers.
'We've not only controlled the situation, we've succeeded in profiting from it,' he told them. 'We've let it be known that Van Tysch committed suicide, which strictly speaking is true. We've said that what happened with the Christ was an accident that nobody is completely responsible for, although we have half-suggested that Van Tysch knew what was going to happen and had planned it. The public is quick to forgive madmen and the dead. And we've revealed part of what Postumo Baldi was up to. We've said he was crazy and was intending to destroy Susanna Surprised by the Elders. All this has caused a great commotion. It's too soon to speak of definitive figures, but since last week the "Rembrandt" works have increased spectacularly in value. In the case of the Christ for example, the price has gone sky high. The same with Susanna. That's why we've dismantled the "Rembrandt" collection and decided to send the original models home after removing their priming and rubbing out the signatures. We'll soon be able to use substitutes. Now the Maestro has disappeared and can no longer authorise any substitutes, it's vital to play down the importance of the originals, and use substitutes straightaway so that the collectors can get used to the idea. Otherwise we'll be running a risk that the paintings fall in price almost to the level of unofficial copies.'
With the Ionian sun tanning his face, Stein uncrossed his legs and moved his feet. The Tongue lying on the ground in front of him, completely naked and painted rose and white, blind and deaf due to the protectors it was wearing, groped forward with its straw-coloured head until it bumped into his other shoe, and went on licking.
'We've decided not to make public the destruction of the originals of Deflowering and Monsters,' he went on. 'All the interested parties will keep quiet about it, and we'll secretly substitute both works. As far as the transfer is concerned…'
Stein paused while he settled back in his chair. As he did so, he noticed that the back supporting his own yielded a little. This was not a design fault: it was simply making an adjustment to please him. He was slender enough for the two athletic bodies which made up this Mordaieff Armchair to be able to bear his weight easily. From time to time the slight tremors in the youthful backside where he was resting his own made him sway gently, but they were calculated, controlled and delicate movements. Mordaieff made excellent pieces of furniture. One could write with neat lettering sitting on these fleshy seats, or illustrate a book of miniatures without one's hand shaking. And best of alclass="underline" it was so pleasant to slide one's hand down and touch them while one was talking business. 'Fuschus, the transfer was quite simple, believe me’ he said.