Jose Somoza - Art of Murder

'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 pret-a-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 Brenda. 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? 'You're not German, are you?' he asked over dessert. 'No.' 'North American?'

She shook her head. 'You don't have to tell me if you don't want to’ Marcus said. 'I won't then.' 'I couldn't give a damn where you're from.'

His lips were trembling. Hers looked as though they were carved in wood.

He settled the bill quickly, and they left. The punk on the desk at the motel seemed to have his key ready and waiting for him. His room was small and smelt of damp, but at that moment they could have been in the salons of the Residenz or a public lavatory for all he cared. He pushed Brenda into the darkness, then sought her mouth with his own. She wriggled out of his caresses, bent her knees and began to slide effortlessly down his body. Marcus groaned with pleasure when he realised what she intended to do.

It was not what he had been expecting. He had hoped to prolong things while she undressed, or while he undressed her, perhaps on the floor the way Kate Niemeyer liked it. The painter was one of his most stable recent relationships, and during her visits to Munich they had made love in his motel, her hotel or even occasionally in a museum, canvas and artist intertwined on the gallery floor. Brenda was in too much of a rush. Marcus was sure he would explode before he was even able to touch her.