It had not been so straightforward, in fact, but he was trying to convey the idea that money can resolve everything. This was false, but it could become true in the future on one condition: if there were more money.
It was a couple of years earlier that he had first seen a work by Vicky Lledo. It was Body Lines. It was on show in London as part of an exhibition by artists living in the city. He had not much liked the canvas, who was British and was called Shelley, but Stein knew how to recognise a good work of art painted on a mediocre canvas. Of course, he said nothing to anybody. A few months later, when the canvas was substituted, Stein parcelled Shelley up and took her to Amsterdam on the pretext of doing some tests on her, although he never spoke to her personally. Shelley enthusiastically answered all the questions. The list included some enquiries into the character and private life of Miss Lledo. Stein stored away the information for future use. The Foundation had to hand over power – the 'transfer' as the investors called it – because Van Tysch was in decline, and although Stein knew the Maestro had not said his last word, it was essential to be prepared. He spent months collecting information on unknown painters. Everyone was in a panic over the transfer. Stein was in a panic over everyone's panic. He set himself to teach them all that the miracle of creating a genius is much easier than the effort of keeping one alive.
By the start of 2006 he had already decided that the successor would be Vicky Lledo. That the balance of posterity should tilt towards Lledo had several advantages: she was a woman, which would be useful to counteract the macho idea certain sectors had of HD art; she was not Dutch, which helped show that the Van Tysch Foundation was happy to welcome any European artist; and lastly, choosing her would put a brake on the worrying rise to power of people like Rayback. The first step had been to give Vicky that small Max Kalima Foundation prize. ‘I can assure you that the Maestro has seen Lledo's work, and is fascinated by it', he told the investors. That was not true. The Maestro saw nothing beyond himself. Stein was sure he was not even aware of the existence of a young Spanish artist called Vicky Lledo. Van Tysch only cared about preparing his swan song, his farewell to the world, his last, most risky work. Stein had taken all the decisions. The end was near, and he had to invent a new beginning.
Shade would remain untouchable and unfinished in Edenburg. And so it would be until the world was ready to look on it, and its appearance would be profitable. The former might happen at any time, or perhaps had already happened (the world was almost always ready for anything). As for the latter, a committee of investors headed by himself and Paul Benoit would take care well in advance of all the steps necessary to reveal the work to the world. There would be talk of 'the Maestro's testament', of his 'swan song', of his 'terrible secret'. 'A miracle requires a revelation and a secret, Jacob,' Benoit had rightly concluded. 'We already have the revelation. What we need is a secret.'
'Let's allow the idea to mature,' Stein told the investors, pensively stroking the long thighs of his chair.
For a while there were sounds. Then silence reigned.
She had received an avalanche of phone calls: above all from Jorge, desperate at first but calmer when he could talk to her. When was she thinking of coming back? I don't know, Jorge, we'll see. I want to see you. Weil see. All of a sudden she realised she did not miss him. To her, Jorge was like the voice of the past: undeniable, but finished with. She also got calls from Yoli Ribo, Alexandra Jimenez, Adolfo Bermejo, Xavi Gonfrell and Ernesto Salvatierra. Calls from painters and canvases. One of the most affectionate was from Alex Bassan. They were all delighted she was fine and had been signed by Van Tysch. One night she heard her brother's voice. So even her brother was interested in the painting's welfare! Without completely abandoning his natural reserve of a lawyer outside court, Jose Manuel talked of their mother, of how much they missed her, of how she had told them nothing. 'We didn't know anything about all this,' he said. 'We only heard about it thanks to Jorge Atienza.' How was she? Fine. Would she be back soon? Yes. They wanted to see her. She wanted to see them, too. When it came down to it, it occurred to her, life and art are based on the same thing: going and seeing. And Vicky? Vicky did not call her.
She suspected she would have to be the one to take the first step, now that the painter had become so important.
Vicky was going to hold a retrospective for the Foundation: Stein had announced it at a press conference. Among the twelve works on show were two for which Clara had been the originaclass="underline" Instant and The Strawberry. Stein had also said that Vicky Lledo was one of the great exponents of orthodox modern hyper-dramatism, and that the Van Tysch Foundation, 'now that the Maestro was missing', would strongly support the work of this young artist.
The news had made a great impact on her, to the extent that for some time she did not know what to feel. Eventually she decided she was pleased for Vicky, but then concluded that she felt this way because she did not love her enough to feel sorry for her. 'Both of us immortal, as we wanted. Good.'
After the calls dried up, she switched off the television, too. The news was always the same, and she knew it by heart. Nor did she allow herself the consolation of the many jazz records that Conservation had given her to help pass the time. She felt fine as she was, submerged in her own silence. Or her own noise.
Because life had a noise of its own, she suddenly realised. She could feel life returning to her just as one hears a different wave travelling to shore. They had decided to remove her priming, rub out the signature, and send her home. They would let her rest for a while and then, if necessary, would call on her to show Susanna again. She would, of course, keep the money, that would not change. They stopped her F amp;W tablets, and soon afterwards she realised that a human being is something that wants things. Art stays still and content with itself, but life demands continuous satisfaction. After that they stripped off her priming. When she got back to her hospital bed and looked at herself in the mirror, there could be no doubt about it: she was Clara Reyes again. Her blonde hair, her skin with its open pores, old scars, the graphism of her life, her smells, the shapes from her past. She still had no body hair, of course, but this was an image she had come to accept. Her unprimed face recovered its old expressions, so different from the yellow monster that had so astonished Jorge. She was no longer painted, had no labels. It was not easy living without labels or paint, but she would have to get used to it.
And on the Friday afternoon, after having lunch and sleeping a lengthy siesta, she heard a gentle knocking at her door. Gerardo smiled as he came in.
'So this is what you look like without any paint on, sweetheart. The truth is I prefer you this way. The natural look, you might say'
She smiled back at him. She was sitting on her bed in pyjamas, her hair a mess, her eyes still full of sleep. She let herself be wrapped in Gerardo's arms, and discovered his presence made her very happy.
‘I heard you were getdng out today, and I wanted to come and see you,' Gerardo explained. 'Justus would have liked to come, too, but he suggested I come as an "advance party".' He laughed and his eyes shone, but he quickly became serious again. He had heard about the madman's attack and had been trying to see her ever since, even though he been told many times that she was fine. 'How are you really?' he asked. '1 don't know,' she replied frankly. ‘I suppose I'm fine.'