Ridiculous, Bosch thought to himself. Fortunately for him, he did not have to conceal his thoughts as he had done the cup to prevent Benoit guessing what he was thinking. 'I find it hard to accept,' he said finally. 'Why?'
'Because I simply cannot believe someone was capable of doing that to a girl like Annek simply to spoil our multi-million dollar sale, Paul. You have more experience in that area, but… just think – if they wanted to destroy the canvas, there are a thousand quicker ways of doing it… and even if they wanted to imitate a sadistic act, as you say, there are other ways to go about it… she was a fourteen-year-old girl, godammit. They cut her up with… with a sort of electric saw… and she was still alive while they were doing it…'
'She was not a fourteen-year-old girl, Lothar,' Benoit corrected him. 'She was a painting valued at a starting price of fifty million dollars.' 'OK, but…'
'Either you see it that way, or you'll be on completely the wrong track.'
Bosch nodded. For a few moments all that could be heard was the dialogue between De Baas and Speckled Hyacinth. 'Dioxacine helps create a deeper violet-blue colour, Pietro.'
'You always say the same thing, Mr De Baas… but it's not your arms that itch the whole time.'
'Please, Pietro, don't get so upset. We're trying to help you. I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll talk to Mr Hoffmann. If he says the dioxacine is essential, we'll find some way to anaesthetise your arms
… just your arms – what do you think?… It could be done…' 'Fifty million dollars is a lot of money,' said Benoit.
At this, Bosch's semblance of calm evaporated. He stopped nodding and glared at Benoit.
'Yes, a lot. But just you point out to me the person capable of doing that to a fourteen-year-old girl in order to spoil our million-dollar auction. Point that person out to me and tell me: He's the one. And let me look him in the eye and see for myself there's nothing but money, works of art and auctions on his mind. Only then will I admit you're right'
A clink of china. One of De Baas' assistants was putting the empty cups back on the Trolley, who was waiting on her knees to receive them.
'Of course I'm not saying the person who destroyed the canvas was a Saint Francis of Assisi, if that's what you mean…'
'He was a sadistic bastard.' Bosch's cheeks flamed a colour that the lights in the room turned to a deep maroon. 'I can't wait to lay my hands on him.'
The two men fell silent. 'Getting mad with Benoit won't get you anywhere,' Bosch told himself. 'Calm down.' He glanced over at the screens. The canvas was busy agreeing with De Baas' advice. Bosch remembered that Speckled Hyacinth was displayed with the right calf lifted over the shoulder and the head resting on the sole of the foot. He could not imagine himself twisted into such a contortion for even a split second, but Hyacinth put up with it for six hours a day. Bosch realised Benoit was also looking at the screens.
'My God, what it takes to conserve these works. Sometimes I dream of destroying them, too.'
Hearing words like this from the Head of Conservation took Lothar Bosch aback. Benoit often spoke harshly when there were no canvases or luxury ornaments who could hear him, but he did not usually show any weakness. At least, not in public. He gave the false impression of being a gentle old age pensioner one could trust. His bald, round head looked like an anti-stress balclass="underline" you looked at it, and it seemed you could squeeze it to help you relax. In fact, it was he who squeezed yours without you being aware of it. Bosch knew that before joining the Foundation he had been a private clinical psychologist in an upper-class district of Paris, and that his previous profession was very useful to him in dealing with the canvases. A very special therapeutic coup had led the doctor to change jobs overnight. Valerie Roseau, a young French canvas Van Tysch had used to paint his early masterpiece The Pyramid, had one day refused to continue to be shown in the Stedelijk. This provoked a multi-million dollar crisis. Valerie had been in treatment for years for her neurosis. The specialists knew this was at the root of her refusal to be exhibited, and tried all they could to cure her. Benoit adopted a different strategy: instead of trying to cure Valerie's neurosis, he convinced her to carry on in the museum. Stein immediately offered him the post of Head of Conservation.
The canvases, especially the youngest ones, all loved talking to Benoit. They poured out their fears to this bald grandfather who spoke with a French accent, and invariably decided to struggle on. It was a wonderful act. In fact, Benoit was a dangerous individuaclass="underline" more dangerous, in his own way, than Miss Wood. Bosch thought he was the most dangerous of them all. Except, of course Stein and the Maestro.
They're young and rich,' Benoit said scornfully, staring at the monitors. 'What more do they want, Lothar? I can't understand them. They have clothes, jewellery, human ornaments and toys, cars, drugs, lovers… if they tell us of somewhere in the world where they'd like to live, we buy them a palace there. So what more do they want?' 'A different kind of life, perhaps. They're human, too.'
Benoit's forehead furrowed. The frown stayed for several moments while Bosch smiled wearily but stubbornly at him.
'Please Lothar, don't say such things while I'm drinking my tea substitute. My ulcer has been worse recently. What Van Tysch has offered them is something far greater than they themselves are, or their wretched lives. He's offered them eternity. Don't they realise it? They are incredibly beautiful works of art, the most beautiful a painter has ever created, but that's not enough for them: they complain of backaches, of itchy backsides or of depression. Please, Lothar, please…' 'All I meant was…'
'No, Lothar, don't give me that.' Benoit lifted his hand. It was as though he were waving away a plate of disgusting food. 'Beauty requires sacrifice. You've no idea what it costs us to keep these little flowers in good condition. So don't give me that. Let's drop it.'
He waved his cup angrily in the air. The Trolley rushed over, arching her back so that her stomach, with the tray attached, stuck out beneath it. She was almost bent over double backwards, because Benoit had barely raised his arm. Her depilated, mauve-coloured sex pointed straight at Bosch.
'Would you like some more, too, Lothar?' Benoit asked, signalling to the ornament to serve him another half cup.
'No thanks,' Bosch said, taking the opportunity to get rid of his still almost completely full cup on to the Trolley. 'Did you like it?' 'It was delicious.'
'It is, isn't it? I order it personally from a firm in Paris. They have substitutes for almost everything you could think of, even substitutes of substitutes.'
There was another silence. Purple Tulip appeared on the screens.
'Will you be staying long in Vienna, Paul?' Bosch asked eventually.
The question caught Benoit just as he was sipping his tea. He drank greedily as he shook his head.
'Only as long as is necessary. I want to be sure the information about the case is kept out of the news. That's proving quite difficult. For example, yesterday I had a telephone conversation with a bigwig in the Austrian Ministry of the Interior. Those people make your blood boil. He was trying to put pressure on me to make it public. My God, what's happening in this crazy country just because at the end of the last century a neo-Nazi party raised its head? They treat everything as if it were breakable, they use tweezers all the time… All they think of is covering their backs… He even had the nerve to accuse me of putting the population of Vienna in danger! I told him: "As far as I'm aware, the only things in danger at the moment are our works of art." The idiot! Well, 1 didn't say that to him, of course.'