Bosch.
'Wh en am I going back to Mr P's house?'
Bosch recalled that Purple Tulip had been bought almost fifteen years earlier by someone called Perlman. He was one of the Foundation's most valued clients. Sally was the tenth substitute for the work. Both she and all her predecessors called him 'Mr P'. Lately, it seemed Mr P had taken a fancy to Sally, and was demanding that she remain with him after the end of the year. Since he paid an astronomical price for renting her, his wishes were commands. On top of that, Perlman had graciously allowed Tulip to be lent for this European tour, so he was owed this favour.
'The person who can tell you about that is Willy. I'll put him on. Take care!'
'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 Schön e Mü llerin. 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
'Wh en am I going back to Mr P's house?'
Bosch recalled that Purple Tulip had been bought almost fifteen years earlier by someone called Perlman. He was one of the Foundation's most valued clients. Sally was the tenth substitute for the work. Both she and all her predecessors called him 'Mr P'. Lately, it seemed Mr P had taken a fancy to Sally, and was demanding that she remain with him after the end of the year. Since he paid an astronomical price for renting her, his wishes were commands. On top of that, Perlman had graciously allowed Tulip to be lent for this European tour, so he was owed this favour.
'The person who can tell you about that is Willy. I'll put him on. Take care!'
'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 Schön e Mü llerin. 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
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