'Thanks, Grandpa.'
As De Baas took up the conversation again, Benoit seemed to be removing a mask in the cold violet wall lights. He took a handkerchief out of his jacket and mopped his face, giving vent to his frustrations.
'Believe me, I'm so sick of those dumb paintings… shitty little girls and boys raised to the level of works of art…' his voice altered as he copied Sally's accent: "‘I feel so alone too"… she's been plucked out of a black ghetto, she earns more in a month than I earned in a year at her age, and still she moans on about how "alone" she is! How stupid can you get?'
A single mosquito whine of a laugh greeted this tirade – it was Miss Wood. No joke in any language ever made her even smile, but Bosch had often seen her laughing like this when someone was spilling their bile.
'You were great, boss,' an assistant said, giving Benoit the thumbs up.
'Thanks. And don't make any more excuses about flu, whatever you do. We need to be very careful with these canvases, and to keep them in good condition, we have to be subtle. They're all drugged, but they're still smart. If we substituted them earlier, we'd save a lot on conservation. Of course though, I prefer to keep on the "Monsters".' He paused, then puffed, 'This art business is getting crazier and crazier…'
'Thank Heavens we have "Grandpa Paul" to restore all the paintings,' said Miss Wood.
Benoit pretended not to hear. He walked towards the door, but stopped halfway.
‘I have to go. Believe it or not, this morning I have to go to a private concert in the Hofburg. A top-level meeting. Four Austrian politicians and me. An eighteen-year-old countertenor is going to sing Die Schone Mullerin. If I could get out of going, I'd be a happy man.' He wagged a finger in the air. 'Please, April, we need results.'
He continued wagging his finger after falling silent, then left the room.
Miss Wood's mobile phone began to ring. 'We've got the Colombian girl,' she said to Bosch after the call ended. They both hurried out of the violet room.
5
Flesh tints. She could see a flesh-coloured figure split into five by the mirrors as she did her exercises on the tatami. They were strange exercises, typical of a professional canvas: arching her back, rolling into a ball, standing immobile on tiptoe. Afterwards, she took a shower, ate a vegetarian breakfast, made up eyebrows, lashes and lips, then chose a cotton trouser suit with a zip and a large belt buckle, all in the same pink flesh colour. That and light beige went very well with her pale body and her blonde, almost platinum hair. She dialled Gertrude at the GS gallery and left a message on her answerphone. It was impossible for her, she said, to go to the gallery that day because she had an urgent appointment. She would call again. She knew the German woman would raise hell, but she couldn't care less. She picked up her bag and her car keys, and left her apartment.
Finding the place was easy. The plaza Desiderio Gaos was in Mar de Cristal. It was an empty oval surrounded by new, symmetrical buildings built of pink brick. The only building that had no number was an eight-storey-high office block. There were no nameplates at all on the shiny metal entrance doors. She pressed the button and received a low hum in reply. She pushed open one of the doors and found herself in a spacious, aseptic reception area that smelt of leather upholstery. Scattered here and there were low tables filled with catalogues and fleshy three-piece suites. The walls were as bare and smooth as she was under her clothes. The floor looked slippery. There was nobody to be seen. Or perhaps there was. In the centre of the hall was a tall reception desk, and in the centre of that was a head. Clara walked over towards it. It belonged to a young woman. Her hairstyle was striking, but even more eye-catching was the clasp holding it up: it was a small plastic hand, with the fingers spread like claws. The locks of hair flowed up and over the fingers. She was wearing heavy make-up, her eyes almost hidden in all the beige colouring. 'Good morning.'
'Good morning. I'm Clara Reyes. I have an appointment with Mr Friedman.' – ‘Yes.'
A waft of perfume enveloped the girl as she got up from behind the desk. She was wearing a crepe de Chine dress, platform shoes and a velvet choker. Clara wondered whether she was an ornament, but she could not see any labels on her wrists or ankles. 'This way.'
They went down a short corridor. The tasteful fitted carpet muffled their footsteps, so there was a sudden gap of silence as they walked along. Another door. A gentle tap. Opening. An office with walls the colour of a fresh-cheeked baby. Fresh orchids in one corner. Mr Friedman was standing in the middle of this tranquil world. There were two white chairs on either side of the desk, one of them with no back, but Friedman did not ask her to sit down. Nor did he greet her, smile, say or do anything. The silence was as cruel as that which greets bad news. When the receptionist left them, Clara and Friedman stared at each other.
He was a strange sight. He was wearing a well-cut worsted suit, a silk tie and Italian shirt, all of them a slightly darker version of Clara's suit. But his features looked odd: the two halves of his face did not match. It was as if God's hand had trembled when he was creating the shape. He was so still and silent that Clara even thought this must be a latex model of Friedman, and that the real person would appear at any moment through one of the doors. Just then, he moved. He turned on his heel, and with a swooping gesture picked up the paper and pen that had been hidden on the table by his body until now. He picked up the sheet of paper between two slender fingers and held it at shoulder height.
'Let's start with this. Read it carefully. There are six clauses for you. If you agree to them, sign it. If not, get out. If you have any doubts, ask. Understood?' 'Perfectly, thank you.'
There were about three metres between them, but Friedman made no attempt to come any closer. He was still standing next to his desk holding the piece of paper aloft. Clara thought of a dolphin trainer holding out a little fish for his pet to grasp. She sighed, walked over to Friedman, and took the contract. Then she stepped back again to read it.
It was a typical official contract. The letterhead was a design: a hand on a thigh, a foot on the hand, an elbow on the foot: together they formed a light-beige-coloured star. She recognised it at once. It was the logo of F amp;W, one of the best priming workshops in the world, along with Leonardo and Double I. She had not realised they had a branch in Spain, and to judge by how new the building was, perhaps they had just moved there.
She felt a surge of pure joy. She had never been primed by F amp;W before (nor by Leonardo, or Double I) because they were very expensive and most of the artists who had painted her could not afford the outlay. Chalboux and Brentano were different, but they had their own priming companies. Vicky had had her primed once for the White Queen performance by the Spanish company Crisalida. Gamaio had used Crisalida too. All the others had decided to paint her without primer, even though it was essential to produce a work of the highest quality. The fact that the artist who was contracting her had chosen F amp;W reinforced her conviction that it must be someone very important.
There were six clauses, all of them typical in a priming company contract. She, Clara Reyes Pijuan, was the canvas, with such and such number in the international classification of canvases. F amp;W was the priming company. It would not accept any responsibility for damage caused by the canvas' failure to follow procedures. The canvas was to submit to all the tests the company considered necessary. The canvas is duly warned that some of these might involve physical and/or psychological risks, or cause offence to her morals, customs or education. The priming company considers the canvas as 'artistic material' for all purposes, although the following will not be considered as part of the canvas – her clothes, home, family and friends. However, her body and everything in it is to be regarded as part of the canvas. The canvas is to be insured before any of the stages of priming are begun. Beneath this, room for two signatures. Friedman had signed on behalf of F amp;W. Clara picked up the pen, leaned on the desk and was just about to add her signature under 'the canvas'. But as she put pen to paper, Friedman surprisingly halted her.