Weiss had only a few more opportunities left. Opportunities are points too, atoms, interconnecting lines, tiny, invisible dots, the remains of nothingness. How many had he missed? He had lost count. He had been a model from the age of seventeen. He had studied HD art in his home town of Berlin, and had worked for some of the best artists of his generation. Then suddenly it had all gone sour. He started turning down offers, partly because he want to live in peace. He liked being a painting, but not enough to sacrifice all his love life for it. He was well aware that masterpieces live alone, isolated, and don't get married or have children, don't even love or hate, don't enjoy life or suffer. True masterpieces like Gustavo Onfretti, Patricia Vasari or Kirsten Kirstenman could scarcely be called people: they had given everything - body, mind and spirit - to artistic creation. Marcus Weiss missed life too much, and perhaps that was the reason he had slowed down. And now it was too late to change things. The worst of it was that he was still on his own. So he was not a masterpiece, but he wasn't the human being he would have liked to have been either. He hadn't achieved one thing or the other.
He got nervous when he calculated that what Brenda was going to propose that evening might well be his last real opportunity.
As he was leaving, he found Sieglinde waiting for him at the changing-room exit. They often left together. They walked down the stairs with their rucksacks on their backs: he was carrying his Aztec headdress of artificial parrot feathers, she had the brambles. The labels on their wrists clinked as they descended the stairs. Sieglinde did the talking: Marcus gave only monosyllabic replies. He felt increasingly nervous. If Brenda had not kept her word, if she was not waiting for him outside as she had promised, he could say goodbye to that last big chance.
He decided he should say something, to avoid any indiscreet question from his friend.
'Guess what? This afternoon a nine- or ten-year-old girl stood looking at me for half an hour at least. I don't understand what's going on. The laws against child pornography get tougher and tougher, but there's no one to prevent any kid walking into an adult gallery.'
'You know we're considered as artistic heritage, Marcus. Kids can go and see Michelangelo's David, so why shouldn't they see Do You Want to Play With Me? as well? That would be discrimination.'
'I still think children are a special case’ Marcus insisted. I don't like them as viewers, but I like them even less as paintings. No painting less than thirteen years old should be allowed.'
'How old were you when you started?'
'OK, lets say under twelve then.'
Sieglinde laughed, then went on:
'I think the question of underage works is difficult. If you ban them, you'd have to ban children appearing in films and plays as well. And what about adverts? I reckon it's much more indecent to use a child's body to sell toilet rolls than to paint it and pose it as a work of art. Hey! Are you listening?'
Marcus did not reply.
Brenda was there, standing between two columns.
She nodded at Marcus; he smiled back. His heart was pounding, as if instead of walking down the stairs he had run up them three at a time.
'Hello there,' Marcus said, going over.
The girl nodded again. This time she was not looking at Marcus, but at his colleague. Weiss found himself obliged to introduce them.
'This is Brenda. Brenda, this is Sieglinde Albrecht. Sieglinde can give you a lesson or two about how to be an outdoor seasonal work and get bought.'
'Are you a painting too?' Sieglinde asked with a broad smile, raising eyebrows that were no longer there, and openly examining Brenda from head to toe.
'No,' replied Brenda.
'Well, you should be. You'd be bought very quickly, whoever painted you.'
Marcus was delighted to detect a hint of jealousy in his companion's voice.
'Brenda, you'll have to forgive Sieglinde's twisted mind,' he said with a laugh.
'It was meant as a compliment, you idiot!' said Sieglinde, slapping his shoulder.
Brenda looked like a doll programmed only to nod and laugh at everything said to her. Weiss thought there was no need for her to speak: her extraordinary face said it all anyway.
'You may not believe it,' he explained, 'but Brenda isn't a painting . .. she's more like a ... dealer.'
'Oh, so it's business, is it?' Sieglinde planted a kiss on Weiss' lips. Then she winked at Brenda with an eyelashless eye. 'In that case, I'll leave you two to it. I'll see you the day after tomorrow, Mr Weiss.'
'Absolutely, Miss Albrecht.'
Although the gallery was open the following day and Sieglinde had to go to work, Marcus always took Tuesday off. Sieglinde did not know the reason for such unusual behaviour in a work that had not yet been sold, but her sly attempts to find out had met with a wall of laconic replies, so she had not dared enquire any further. She was sure though that Marcus had another job in a much less public (and much more scandalous) venue than the Max Ernst gallery.
Sieglinde's hair became a golden dot quickly disappearing down Maximilianstrasse. Marcus gently put an arm on Brenda's shoulder and steered her in the opposite direction. It was the last Monday in June, and the streets were crowded.
'I thought you weren't going to come.'
'Why not?' Brenda asked.
He shrugged.
'I don't know. I guess because everything happened so quickly yesterday. Look, you're not annoyed I told Sieglinde you were a dealer, are you? I had to tell her something. And besides, Sieglinde is not a nosey person.'
'That's OK. Where are we going?'
Marcus stopped and glanced at his watch. He spoke as if he were unsure of what to suggest, even though he had planned everything out the night before.
'How about having a drink and then going for dinner?'
He took her to a place called the Mini Bar. It was on a street corner near the gallery, but the paintings and sketches preferred to go to the bars on the avenue, so that with any luck the two of them could enjoy some privacy. The Mini Bar sold everything in small sizes: the drinks came in tiny bottles, just as in hotels. The ice cubes were as big as poker dice. It was self-service, and behind the bar (which reached up to the waist of an adult) could be seen an espresso coffee machine as big as a silver shoe box with three handles, shelves as narrow as skirting boards, notice boards advertising the dishes of the day in handwriting not for the short-sighted, and tiny lights hanging from the ceiling which after nightfall gave the bar the air of a puppet theatre. The background music was a tremulous violin solo. But apart from this, Gulliver suddenly found himself in the land of giants: the barmen were unusually tall, and the prices were much higher than average. Marcus knew the Mini Bar was way beyond his budget, but he did not want to skimp on entertaining Brenda: he wanted to impress her so that she would realise he was used to the best.
They found a quiet corner with a table and a couple of stools. Marcus had intended to start with a beer, but changed his mind and joined Brenda in a whisky. He ordered two delicious Glenfiddichs and two glasses full of ice so pure and clear it shone transparently. As he was returning to the table he had time to consider Brenda once more. He saw no reason to change the opinion he had formed the previous evening. She was quite slim, but undeniably attractive, and wore her wavy blonde hair in a ponytail gathered on her back like a bushy paint brush. She was wearing a short jacket and a dark-blue miniskirt (the previous day it had been a blouse and a pair of short blue jeans). Her clothing was creased and obviously not new, but this only attracted Marcus all the more. Her shoes had stiletto heels, a style he had never thought of as old-fashioned. He realised she did not have a handbag. Or stockings. He liked to imagine she was wearing nothing more than what he could see.
When he sat down again, he saw she was staring at him without smiling. Her blue eyes did not shine, but reminded him of something he could not quite place: they were penetrating, fixed points. Points like tiny black pools.
'And now,' he said, serving her the Glenfiddich, unable to
take his eyes off those two points, 'you're going to tell me the truth.'
'I always tell you the truth,' she replied.
That was the first time he was sure she was lying.
So the questions began. The customers in the Mini Bar came and went constantly without him noticing: he was concentrating on his interrogation. Marcus was an experienced painting, and nobody was going to pull the wool over his eyes, least of all using a doll like this girl. By the time he looked down at his glass, the Lilliputian ice cubes had watered down the taste of his whisky. She had not drunk much either: between answers she raised her glass to her lips, but did not seem to swallow. In fact, she did not seem to do anything. She just sat there crossing and uncrossing her pretty, bare legs and looking straight at Marcus as she replied to his questions.
'Why did your friends think of me for this job?'
'I've already told you that.' 'I want to hear it again.'
'They're looking for people. And as I told you, they sent me to Munich to see you.'
She spoke German perfectly, but Marcus could not place her accent.
'That doesn't answer my question.'
‘I don't know, I guess they liked you as a painting. You'd have to ask them. I'm just here to try to hook you.'
The girl seemed to be trying to be honest at least. Marcus took another sip of Glenfiddich. The Mini Bar violin began a tinny, musical-box waltz.
'Tell me more about the work.'
'It'll take a month to complete, but I can't tell you where. Then it will automatically be sold. In fact, it's a commission. You're not allowed to know who the buyer is either, but you'll be travelling south. To Italy, probably. It's an outdoor performance. It takes five hours a day, and will carry on until the autumn.'
'How many figures are there in it?'
'I don't know, it's a mural painting. I know there are adults and adolescents. I think it's a mythological subject.' 'Is there anything "dirty" about it?' 'No, it's entirely clean. Everyone is a volunteer' 'Kids?'
'No, only adolescents.' 'How old?'
'Fifteen and upwards.'
'Fine.' Marcus smiled and leaned closer to her. At times, the bar got so full it was difficult for him to speak softly sitting back. 'You've given me the excuse. Now tell me the truth.'
'What do you mean?'
'Adolescents and adults together in a mural performance that is sold even before it's painted ... and as if that weren't enough, a girl sent to "hook" me.' He tried to give a knowing smile. Listen, I've been in this business a long while. I've been painted by Buncher, Ferrucioli, Brentano and Warren. So I do have experience, you know.'
He did not take his eyes off her face even when he raised his drink vertically to drain his glass. An avalanche of ice buried his nose. Was he a bit tipsy? He didn't think so.
'Let me tell you something. Last summer I worked in a clandestine art-shock in Chiemsee. They painted us in a Berlin workshop, then bought us and put us on show three days a week for the whole summer in a private estate by the lakeside. There were four adolescents and three adults, me included.' Marcus glanced down at the label on his wrist. 'It was a ... how shall I put it? A terrifying experience. I mean, in the way art-shocks can be terrifying. But there was also a real risk. One of the figures was only thirteen ...'
'You want more money,' Brenda interrupted him.
‘I want more money and more information. Enough of all that mythology crap. From time immemorial, art's excuses have been mythology and religion. The art-shock I did in Chiemsee was meant to be religious .. .' he wanted to laugh, but when he saw the girl was not joining in, he restrained himself. 'But deep down, it's always been about showing nudes and violence, whether it was Michelangelo in the Sistine Chapel or Taylor Warren in his Liverpool cavern. That's always been the best, the most expensive art.' He lifted his forefinger to emphasise his words. 'Tell your friends I want precise information about what I will be required to do. And I also want a clause stipulating the limits beforehand, and another exonerating me from all responsibility. They're not much use when you're accused of molesting children, but they do mean if there are complaints, the artist has to take most of the blame. And I want proof that the painting will be clean and that there'll be no kids, volunteers or not. And I want twice the sum you mentioned yesterday: twenty-four thousand euros. All that's just a start - do I make myself clear?'
'Yes.'
They both fell silent. It suddenly occurred to Marcus he should not have told her about the art-shock in Chiemsee. She was going to think he was only contracted for marginal pieces, which in fact was partly true. At the peak of his career, Weiss had been sold in several great hyperdramatic originals. But nowadays almost all his earnings came from interactive performances and art-shocks.
Works such as Niemeyer's painting (or Gigli's, which he preferred not to bring up) were the exception. 'Shall we go?' he suggested.
When they left the cafe, almost all the shops still had lighted windows. The galleries along the Maximilianstrasse showed late-evening canvases grouped in paintings with two or three figures. Their outlines, clothes (or the lack of them) and their colours vied for the attention of an innumerable and very mixed public. There were paintings for almost every pocket, from the poor devils who were sketches by unknown artists at three or four thousand euros, to works by the great masters whose price was always agreed over dinner, and whose canvases were on show only for a few hours (and never in gallery windows) before they were accompanied back to their hotels or rented apartments by security guards. Girls on rollerblades were handing out catalogues from fringe galleries, or from portrait painters expert in the use of cerublastyne. Marcus collected whatever he was offered. As they reached the corner where the Nationaltheater was lit up for a first night, he turned to the girl and asked her:
'Well?'
'I'll convey your requests to my friends, and give you the reply soon.'
Marcus leaned down towards her ear to make sure she could hear him above the traffic. It was then he realised she had no smell. Or rather, she smelt like a point: lines of interconnecting smells (it is impossible to smell of nothing: there is always some scent, a faint trace of something). He was delighted at this new discovery. He couldn't bear the complicated olfactory filigree work some women presented him with.
'I wasn't asking you about the work, but about tonight,' he said with his best seductive smile. 'Where would you like to go now?'
'What about you?'
He knew of several things she might enjoy. Some of them, like the reunion in Haidhausen where everyone, model or not, got to be a work of art, were tempting. But his hand on the back of her jacket seemed to have a mind of its own.
'I'm staying at a motel in Schwabing. It's not a great place, but on the ground floor there's a wonderful vegetarian restaurant.' 'Fine,' said Brenda.
Marcus hailed a taxi, even though he usually took the metro in Odeonsplatz. The restaurant was small and packed at that time of night, but Rudolf, the owner and main chef, smiled when he saw Marcus and led them over to a quiet table. There would always be a table for Mr Weiss, and a bottle of wine of course - Marcus was delighted to be received so warmly in front of Brenda. He ordered vegetable strudels and some delicious seasonal asparagus. Throughout most of the meal he talked to her about his love of Zen, meditation and vegetarian food, and of how all this had helped him become a painting. He admitted his was a prêt-à-porter Buddhism, a tool, something to help him put up with life, but at the same time he doubted whether there was anyone in this twenty-first century who had more profound beliefs he had. He also told her stories about painters and models, which led to those mysterious, perfect lips of hers relaxing still further. But as the evening wore on, he found himself running out of things to say. This hardly ever happened to him. His friends thought of him as a good talker, and he had an excellent memory for his stories. Now I'll tell you about a girl called Brenda I met in Munich. If only Sieglinde could see me now... All at once he realised he was crazy with desire for Br
enda. This annoyed him, because he knew she had been sent to hook him, and here he was not only taking the bait but savouring it as he did so. And yet he had to admit that her friends, whoever they might be, had made a good choice: Brenda was the most tempting woman he had met in a long while. Her passivity, her way of staying mysterious while suggesting the door was half-open, only inflamed his passion still further. Listen, I'll tell you what she was like. He tried to conceal his feelings - he did not want her to know she had achieved her goal so quickly. But could she really not tell? Wasn't that a mocking gleam he could detect in the midnight blue points of her eyes?