Now, at last, the horror was calling out to her. She might have shouted to her mother – she could hear her busy in the kitchen -or run down into the garden to seek her father's protection, or gone down still further to the garage to ask her brother for help. But her mind was made up.
Trembling as she had never trembled before, not even on the day of her first communion, she pushed open the ancient door, and immediately breathed in a swirl of bluish dust. She was forced to step back, coughing and spluttering, which rather took the edge off her adventure. There was so much dust and such a horrible smell, like things fermenting, that Clara feared she would not be able to stand it. And worse still she would get her best Sunday dress filthy.
But, what the heck, it takes a sacrifice to confront horror, she thought. Horror does not grow on trees, within easy reach. It's hard work finding it, as her father always said about money.
She took two or three deep breaths outside the room, then went in again. She took a few timid steps into the evil-smelling darkness, blinking to get used to the unknown. She stumbled over bodies tied up with string, and realised they were old coats. Piles of cardboard boxes. A buckled chess board. A doll with no clothes and empty eye sockets, propped on a shelf. Cobwebs and blue shadows. All of this took Clara by surprise, but did not frighten her. She had been expecting to find this kind of thing.
She was on the verge of feeling completely defrauded when all of a sudden she saw it. Horror.
It was to her left. A slight movement, a shadow lit by the brightness outside the room. She turned to face it, strangely calm. Her sense of terror had grown to such a pitch she felt about to scream. This must mean she had at last discovered true horror and was face to face with it.
It was a little girl. A girl who lived in the attic. She was wearing a navy-blue Lacoste dress, and had lank, neatly combed hair. Her skin shone like marble. She looked like a corpse, but she was moving. Her mouth opened and shut. She was blinking continuously. And she was staring at Clara.
Her flesh crawled with terror. Her heart pounded violently inside her chest until it was almost choking her. It was an eternal moment, and yet a fleeting but definitive fraction of a second, like the moment of death.
In some inexplicable but powerful way, she realised in that split second that the girl in the attic was the most dreadful sight she had ever seen, or would ever see. It was not only horrible, but unbearable.
And yet, at the same time her happiness knew no bounds. At last she was face to face with horror. And that horror was a girl her own age. They could be friends and play together.
It was then it dawned on her that the Lacoste dress was the one her mother had helped her into that Sunday, that the girl's haircut was just like hers, that her features were the exactly the same, that the mirror was huge, with a frame hidden by the darkness.
'You got scared over nothing,' her mother told her, running up when she heard her cry out, and folding her into her arms.
Dawn was painting the deep indigo of the roof a lighter blue. Clara blinked, and the images of her dream dissolved in the light streaming on to her walls. Everything around her was as it should be, but inside she still felt the swirling memory of her distant childhood, that 'scare over nothing' in the attic of their house in Alberca, a year before her father died.
The alarm clock had gone off: half past seven. She remembered her appointment in plaza Desiderio Gaos with the mysterious Mr Friedman and leapt out of bed.
Since becoming a professional work of art she had learnt to look on dreams as strange instructions sent by an anonymous artist inside us. She was puzzled as to why her unconscious had chosen to place this piece from her life long ago on to the board again.
Perhaps it meant that the door to the attic was open once more. And that someone was inviting her in to confront horror.
4
Paul Benoit's eyes were not violet, but the lights in the room almost made them look it. Lothar Bosch studied them, and not for the first time knew he had to tread carefully. Where Paul Benoit was concerned, it was always wise to be cautious.
'Do you know what the problem is, Lothar? The problem is that nowadays everything valuable is ephemeral. I mean that in days gone by solidity and the ability to last were what gave value: a sarcophagus, a statue, a temple or a canvas. But now everything of value is consumed, used up, disappears – whether you're talking about natural resources, drugs, protected species or art. We've left behind the era when scarce products were more valuable precisely because of their scarcity. That was logical. But what's the consequence of that? Today, for things to be more valuable, they have to be scarce. We've inverted cause and effect. We tell ourselves: Good things are rare. So let's make sure bad things are rare, and that will make them good.
He paused and stretched out his hand almost without looking. The Trolley was ready to hand him his porcelain cup, but his gesture took her by surprise. There was a fatal hesitation, and the head of Conservation's fingers knocked against the cup and spilled some of the contents on to the saucer. Quickly and efficiently, the Trolley substituted another saucer and wiped the cup with one of the paper napkins she was carrying on the lacquer table attached to her midriff. The white label hanging from her right wrist described her as Maggie. Bosch did not know Maggie, but of course there were many ornaments he had not come across. Although she was kneeling down, it was obvious Maggie was very tall, probably almost two metres. Perhaps that was the reason why she had not become a work of art, Bosch reflected.
'Nowadays there's no money in buying or selling a painting on canvas,' Benoit went on, 'precisely because they are not consumed quickly enough. Do you know what the key to the success of hyperdramatic art has been? Its short shelf life. We pay more, and more readily, for a work that lasts only as long as someone's youth than for a work that will carry on for a hundred or two hundred years. Why? For the same reason we spend more during the sales than we do on a normal shopping day. It's the "Quick, it'll soon be over!" syndrome. That's why our adolescent works of art are so valuable.'
Perfect result the second time, thought Bosch: the Trolley was carefully following Benoit's movements, and he helped by carefully grasping the second cup she held out to him. 'Try some of this concoction, Lothar. It smells like tea, and tastes of tea, yet it isn't tea. The thing is, if it smells and tastes like tea, to me it is tea. But it doesn't make me nervous and it soothes my ulcer.'
Bosch caught hold of the delicate imitation porcelain cup the Trolley was offering him. He looked down at the liquid. It was hard to make out its real colour in the funereal violet light of the room. He decided it might be violet as well. He lifted it to his nose. It was true, it did smell like tea. He tried it. It tasted like nothing on earth. Like caramel liquidised with cough medicine. He stifled a grimace and was pleased to see Benoit had not noticed. Better that way. He pretended to drink some more.
The room they were in was part of the MuseumsQuartier. It was large and rectangular, soundproofed and dotted with violet-coloured lights: in the ceiling the lights were a soft purple, in the floor a cobalt-blue colour, while the square wall lights were a pale lavender, so that they all seemed to be floating in a violet fish tank. Except for the Trolley, there were no other ornaments. The far wall of the room was like a TV gallery. Ten closed-circuit monitors were grouped together; they were all switched off, and reflected crescent moons of violet light.
Sitting in front of them were Willy de Baas and two of his assistants. They were about to begin the psychological support session held every Saturday night. This came under the Conservation department, which Paul Benoit was directly responsible for. It was obvious De Baas felt nervous at having his boss breathing down his neck.