Free Art of Murder by José Carlos Somoza Page B

had to tread carefully. Where Paul Benoit was concerned, it was always wise to be cautious.
     
    'Do you know what the problem is, Lothar? The problem is that nowadays everything valuable is ephemeral. I mean that in days gone by solidity and the ability to last were what gave value: a sarcophagus, a statue, a temple or a canvas. But now everything of value is consumed, used up, disappears - whether you're talking about natural resources, drugs, protected species or art. We've left behind the era when scarce products were more valuable precisely because of their scarcity. That was logical. But what's the consequence of that? Today, for things to be more valuable, they have to be scarce. We've inverted cause and effect. We tell ourselves: Good things are rare. So let's make sure bad things are rare, and that will make them good.
    He paused and stretched out his hand almost without looking. The Trolley was ready to hand him his porcelain cup, but his gesture took her by surprise. There was a fatal hesitation, and the head of Conservation's fingers knocked against the cup and spilled some of the contents on to the saucer. Quickly and efficiently, the Trolley substituted another saucer and wiped the cup with one of the paper napkins she was carrying on the lacquer table attached to her midriff. The white label hanging from her right wrist described her as Maggie. Bosch did not know Maggie, but of course there were many ornaments he had not come across. Although she was kneeling down, it was obvious Maggie was very tall, probably almost two metres. Perhaps that was the reason why she had not become a work of art, Bosch reflected.
    'Nowadays there's no money in buying or selling a painting on canvas,' Benoit went on, 'precisely because they are not consumed quickly enough. Do you know what the key to the success of hyperdramatic art has been? Its short shelf life. We pay more, and more readily, for a work that lasts only as long as someone's youth than for a work that will carry on for a hundred or two hundred years. Why? For the same reason we spend more during the sales than we do on a normal shopping day. It's the "Quick, it'll soon be over!" syndrome. That's why our adolescent works of art are so valuable.'
    Perfect result the second time, thought Bosch: the Trolley was carefully following Benoit's movements, and he helped by carefully grasping the second cup she held out to him. 'Try some of this concoction, Lothar. It smells like tea, and tastes of tea, yet it isn't tea. The thing is, if it smells and tastes like tea, to me it is tea. But it doesn't make me nervous and it soothes my ulcer.'
    Bosch caught hold of the delicate imitation porcelain cup the Trolley was offering him. He looked down at the liquid. It was hard to make out its real colour in the funereal violet light of the room. He decided it might be violet as well. He lifted it to his nose. It was true, it did smell like tea. He tried it. It tasted like nothing on earth. Like caramel liquidised with cough medicine. He stifled a grimace and was pleased to see Benoit had not noticed. Better that way. He pretended to drink some more.
    The room they were in was part of the MuseumsQuartier. It was large and rectangular, soundproofed and dotted with violet-coloured lights: in the ceiling the lights were a soft purple, in the floor a cobalt-blue colour, while the square wall lights were a pale lavender, so that they all seemed to be floating in a violet fish tank. Except for the Trolley, there were no other ornaments. The far wall of the room was like a TV gallery. Ten closed-circuit monitors were grouped together; they were all switched off, and reflected crescent moons of violet light.
     
    Sitting in front of them were Willy de Baas and two of his assistants. They were about to begin the psychol o gical support session held every Saturday night. This came under the Conservation department, which Paul Benoit was directly responsible for. It was obvious De Baas felt