Art of Murder

  Still clasping her hair, Uhl stepped back as if he wanted to show her captured head to someone. The beam from a torch blinded her.

  'Do as I wish, eh? ... Are you going to be good? To give me what I want? ...'

  She responded by kicking out with her knee at the shadows. This caused her aggressor to fling himself on her again with renewed fury. She struggled to resist. She was terrified, and precisely because of that, precisely because of that, she wanted to go on. She was trembling, panting, expecting something terrible to happen, hoping that something terrible would happen, hoping that the black hand of art would finally lead her to that sovereign darkness from which there was no return, no possibility of salvation. She wanted Uhl to paint her with more intense, darker shades: with Dutch colours. She fought like a wildcat, opened her mouth to bite him. She was expecting another slap, and prepared herself to receive it.

  But instead, it all came to a halt. She heard shouts. Uhl let go of her. She found herself alone, face upwards on the mattress. She could hardly believe it. She recognised the youthful impetuousness of Gerardo's voice. The lights came on and made her blink.

  In the kitchen, the silence was immense. Uhl had prepared coffee for Gerardo and Clara, and coffee substitute for himself. He explained in his rudimentary Spanish that he had high-blood pressure. Seeing what had happened in the bedroom half an hour earlier, this sounded like a joke, but none of them laughed.

  'Sugar?' Uhl asked.

  'No, thanks,' said Clara.

  They were both still breathing heavily after their violent painting exercise. Clara had a few unimportant red marks that did not even hurt her. She had put her robe on. Uhl left the kitchen, and Clara and Gerardo sat in silence for a while, drinking their coffee. The morning was lightening outside the window. Against a background of distant traffic noise, the birds had begun their clear conversation. All at once, Gerardo looked directly at her. His eyes were red, as though he had been crying. His musketeer's chin and fine moustache looked less carefully groomed than usual, as if they were part of the general look of dismay on his face. But when a moment later he spoke, his tone was as bright and cheerful as ever.

  'I've spoilt everything, sweetheart. But I swear to God I couldn't carry on. I simply couldn't. I couldn't care less if they throw me out. The Maestro might get rid of me, but it's all the same. I'm fed up with it.'

  He looked at Clara and smiled. She remained cruelly silent.

  'You were having a bad time, sweetheart. Very bad. Why didn't you yield? Didn't you know that the only way to lighten the tone was for you to give in? If you'd done that, we'd have stopped painting you ...'

  There was a silence.

  'Come on, let's go for a walk,' said Gerardo, standing up.

  'No, I'm not going.' 'Come on, don't be ...' 'No.' 'Please.'

  His tone of entreaty made her glance up.

  'I've got something important to tell you,' he murmured.

  It was early morning, and a cool northerly breeze rustled through the leaves, branches and the grass, raised clouds and dust, lifted the edges of clothing, the bottom of her robe, the fringe of her primed hair. The windmills were no more than ghostly shadows in the distance. Gerardo walked alongside her, hands in pockets. As they passed in front of hedges and houses, Clara wondered what other paintings were inside, and who was painting them. The small wood was off to her left. There was a scent of flowers and cut grass. The birds had started their special morning chorus.

  'There are cameras’ was the first thing Gerardo said. 'That's why I didn't want to talk indoors. Cameras hidden in the room corners. You won't spot them if you don't know where to look. They're recording everything, even at night. Afterwards the Maestro views the recordings and rejects poses, gestures, some of the techniques.' He pulled a face wryly. 'And now he may reject me, too.'

  'The ... Maestro?'

  She did not want to ask the most important question of all, but her heart was in her mouth as she stared at Gerardo.

  'Yes. What does it matter if I tell you ... I guess you knew right from the start. It's the Maestro Bruno van Tysch, himself, who is going to paint you. He's the one who has contracted you. You are to be one of the "Rembrandt" collection. Congratulations. That was what you wanted most of all, wasn't it?'

  She did not reply. Yes, it was what she wanted most of all. And there it was. She'd got it. Her goal, her main objective. And yet she was hearing the news like this, walking along in a bathrobe in the midst of this stupid rural landscape, from the lips of this inept cretin, this bumpkin she could not even bother to hate.

  'I've never seen Van Tysch in person’ she said, for the sake of saying something.

  'You've been seeing him ever since you came to the house’ Gerardo said with a smile. The man in the photo with his back to the camera is him. It was taken by a famous photographer, Sterling I think his name is ...'

  Clara recalled the outline of the man facing away from the camera surrounded by darkness that had so impressed her since her arrival at the farm. That silent, tragic, black-haired figure ... why hadn't she realised before now?

  Van Tysch. The Maestro. The shadow.

  The Maestro will be giving you the final touches, sweetheart’ explained Gerardo. 'Doesn't that make you happy?' 'Yes’ she replied.

  The sun had come out. The first rays climbed like a golden glow behind Clara's back. The trees, the wooden fences, the lane and her own body were bathed in light and started to throw shadows. Gerardo was still walking along, hands in pockets, staring down at the ground. He began to talk again, as if speaking to himself.

  'Justus and I have been making sketches for the Maestro and Stein for some time now. For the "Rembrandt" collection for example we've already painted two figures besides you. With some of them we've managed the leap into the void, but they all pull back in time. They always pull back. Uhl and I could have reached the limit with you, but we were expecting you to pull back the way you did yesterday afternoon ... If you had yielded again last night, it would all have come to a halt! Why on earth didn't you yield?'

  'Why didn't you go on to the limit?'

  Clara asked the question without raising her voice. Gerardo looked at her, but did not reply.

  All of a sudden, Clara felt she could not contain her anger. She released it in slow bursts, not taking her eyes off him.

  'From the start, all you've done is to try to ruin everything for me. During the break yesterday you told me things you should never have said ... You revealed part of the technique Uhl was using!...'

  'I know! I was only trying to help. I was worried we might hurt you!'

  'Why didn't you just paint me, like Uhl did?' 'Uhl has an advantage.'

  Clara was sure that if he had thought twice about it, Gerardo would have bitten his tongue before he said anything like that. All at once, his face had turned puce. He looked away from her.

  'I mean I'm not like Justus ... you could never ... well, it's not relevant. .. what I'm trying to say is that with you he can pretend more easily, he can be cooler than I can. That's why he's taken the initiative right from the start.'

  Clara stared at him in astonishment. It seemed incredible to her that Gerardo should refer to Uhl's tendencies like that just to excuse his own mistakes.

  'We needed to create a climate of constant harassment around you’ said Gerardo. 'A sexual threat, but also the feeling you were being watched. Ever since they contracted you in Madrid, Art have been trying to convey that sensation. Justus and I took turns going round outside the farm at night and looking in at your window. We even made a noise so you would wake up and see us. Conservation had instructions to give you another, more reassuring explanation. This was to give us the surprise factor for whenever we decided, like today, to paint you with a more violent brushstroke. Then in the mornings we pretended to be getting on badly so you would believe Justus was an unpleasant character who abused female canvases. In fact, Justus is a wonderful person ... all this is closely related to the work we're painting wi
th you. It's a Rembrandt, but I can't tell you which one. . .'

  The instructions came directly from the Maestro, didn't they?' Clara would not take her yellow, primed brow and lashless eyes off Gerardo's face. 'And this morning's "leap into the void": Van Tysch was trying out an expression with me, wasn't he?' She was so desperately angry she almost choked. 'And you messed up the drawing. Completely. I was nearly drawn, nearly finished, and you . .. ! You got hold of me, you crumpled me up, you made me a paper ball and tossed me in the shit.'

  She thought she was crying, but realised her eyes were still dry. Gerardo's face had become a pallid mask. Trembling with rage, Clara went on:

  'Congratulations, sweetheart.'

  She turned on her heel and walked off towards the house. Now the wind was blowing at her from the other side. She heard Gerardo's voice further and further off, increasingly shrill.

  'Clara! . .. Clara, come back, please . .. Listen to me ...!'

  She speeded up without looking back, until finally she could no longer hear him. Polygonal clouds began to obscure the early sun. When she reached the house, Uhl was out on the porch. He waved to stop her, and asked where Gerardo was.

  'He's coming,' she muttered.

  It was then she noticed just how Uhl was looking at her. His tiny, dioptrical eyes were blinking in their glass prisons. Clara realised he was very nervous. The painter spoke in his hesitant Spanish.

  'Van Tysch secretary call now .. . Van Tysch come here.'

  She felt dreadfully cold. She rubbed her arms energetically, but the chill did not diminish. She knew it had nothing to do with the fact that all she was wearing was the short robe that barely covered her thighs: she had been primed with a protective layer of acrylic gesso and, like every other professional canvas, was accustomed to more extreme temperatures. This cold was inside her, and directly related to the news she had just heard.

  Van Tysch. Coming there. His arrival expected at any moment.

  A canvas' emotions faced with the presence of a great maestro are hard to explain. Clara tried to think of a comparison but could not: no actor would feel overwhelmed by the shadow of a great director; no student would get cold shakes like this in the presence of a professor they admired.

  My God, she really was shaking. To prevent Uhl realising her teeth were chattering, she went inside the house and walked up and down the living room. Then she took off the robe and went into a simple sketch pose, almost reaching a state of quiescence.

  Opposite her on the wall was the photo of the man with his back to the camera.

  People only knew about Van Tysch's appearance from the changing images shown in magazines and reports. Nor did Clara know anything definite about his way of life. Painters and paintings talked about him a lot, but, in fact, their opinions had little basis in reality. Yet Clara could clearly recall the impressions of those who had seen him. Vicky for example, who had taken part in some master classes he had given, said she had felt as though she were in the presence of an automaton, a thing without life of its own, a Frankenstein's monster created by the monster itself. 'But its creator forgot to breathe life into him,' she added. Two years earlier in Bilbao, Clara had met Gustavo Onfretti, who was on show at the Basque Country Guggenheim as Ferrucioli's Saint Sebastian, and had been painted by Van Tysch as another saint: Saint Stephen. She had asked him about his experience with the great painter of Edenburg. The Argentine model had gazed at her darkly for a long while before saying only: 'Van Tysch is your shadow.'

  Van Tysch. The Maestro. The shadow. He was coming.

  She looked away from the photo and stared at the walls instead. She could see dull patches at the ceiling corners, and thought this must be where the cameras were hidden. She imagined Van Tysch studying his screen, pressing the keyboard, judging her expression and her worth as a canvas. She was annoyed with herself for not having thought of the possibility of hidden cameras before. A lot of painters used them: Brentano, Hobber, Ferrucioli ... if she had known, or suspected it, she would have made a greater effort. Not that this would have been much use after the mess Gerardo had made of everything. What if Van Tysch was corning to sack her? What if he said to her (that is, if he spoke to her and not to his lackeys, because after all she was simply the material): 'I'm sorry, I've been thinking about it, and you're not the right person for this painting'?

  'Calm down. Let it happen.'

  Gerardo and Uhl had come into the room. They were storing paint pots in bags. Clara came out of her sketch position and looked at them.

  'Are you leaving?' she asked in English. She did not much like the idea of having to face the Maestro on her own in the house.

  'No, no we can't, we have to wait for him,' said Uhl. 'We're cleaning up a bit to create a good impression,' he added - or at least that's what Clara thought he said, because Uhl's English was very rapid. 'We have to wait to see if he wants us to continue in the same line or not. Perhaps he wants to do the sketching himself. Or perhaps . ..' This was followed by a rapid burst of words that Clara did not catch. 'It could be anything. We have to be prepared. Sometimes ...' He raised his eyebrows, spread his hands and puffed, as if to demonstrate that Van Tysch was unpredictable and they could only expect the worst. She did not really understand what he was trying to say, and was too scared to ask him to explain. 'Understand?' ‘Yes,' she said, lying in English.

  Keep calm,' Uhl replied in Spanish. 'Everything's all right.' He's paying back my lie in Spanish, thought Clara. The shadow.

  Points, lines, polygons, bodies. And last of all, the shading that defines the outlines, adds volume to the definitive shape.

  When we are waiting for someone we do not know, we see them as a silhouette rising up in front of us. So we start drawing them, filling in the details, anticipating them. We are aware the whole time that we are making mistakes, that the real person will not be exactly the same as our outline, but we cannot get it out of our mind. Then it becomes a fetish, a simple representation of the object, a doll we can practise on. We place ourselves in front of it and weigh up our possible reactions. What should I say or do? Will he like me as I am? Should I smile and be friendly, or should I be cold towards him, keep my distance? Clara had already drawn her Van Tysch silhouette: she imagined him to be tall and thin, silent, with a piercing gaze. Without knowing why (perhaps because she remembered a couple of photos from magazines) she had added glasses, with broad lenses that would increase the size of his pupils. She had given him some defects as well, naturally, because she was terrified she might be disappointed. Van Tysch would be ugly. Van Tysch would be selfish. Van Tysch would be rude. Van Tysch would be brutal. Clara soon discovered she could easily forgive 'defects' such as these in a genius like him. She tried adding others that were less pardonable: a Van Tysch who was stupid, clumsy or vulgar. The last of these, a vulgar Van Tysch, was the worst thing she could think of.

  Even so, she tried to imagine it. A Van Tysch who talked and thought like Jorge (My God!), who would calm her down, and who she could surprise. A mature Van Tysch next to whom she, at twenty-four, could feel superior. Or a Van Tysch like Gerardo, wet behind the ears, unsophisticated. She chastised herself with all these Van Tysches, like wearing a hair shirt. She used them as a penitence for the pleasure that the real person was bound to bring her.

  She decided the morning would be one long vigil. She set up her headquarters in the kitchen: she could see the front of the house from its window. She preferred to devote her time to waiting rather than to pretend, as Gerardo and Uhl were (they were outside on the porch, chatting) that nothing was going on. At noon she took a vitamin Aroxen drink from the fridge, perforated the top with a straw, and began to sip it. The robe was still half-open over her crossed thighs. For some time she had been thinking about preparing herself in some form or other. Perhaps it would be better if she were completely naked? What if she painted some features on her face, or at least coloured her eyes in or outlined her lips in the shape of a smile? But wasn't she a blank sheet? Shouldn't she g
o on being one? She concluded it would be best for her to be as passive as possible.

  The sun began to cross the window, and brushed at her feet. As it climbed her shins, her primed skin sparkled. Occasionally she was startled by the noise of an engine or the fleeting passage of a vehicle on the lane outside. But calm soon returned.

  A short while later, the kitchen door opened and Gerardo came in. He had taken his jacket off, and his sleeveless T-shirt with the Foundation logo showed off his biceps. He was fiddling nervously with the turquoise-coloured label with his name and photo on it. He opened the fridge, appeared to think better of it, closed it without taking anything out, and sat down opposite her at the far end of the table. Poor thing, thought Clara from her personal nirvana, infinitely compassionate.