Jose Somoza - Art of Murder

Immersed in the effort of contortion, her head on the floor next to her hands, staring at the wall with her legs stretched upwards and her buttocks on the chair, Clara felt as though she were a nutshell about to crack and give way to something else. She knew of nothing better than an uncomfortable position like this to force her out of her own humanity. Her mind was stripped of memories, fears, complicated thoughts, and concentrated entirely on the masonry of her muscles. It was wonderful to cease to be Clara and become an object with scarcely any sense of pain.

It was so slight that at first she hardly noticed it.

As he was changing the position of her legs in the air, Uhl stroked her buttocks unnecessarily. He did it gently, avoiding any brusque or obvious fondling. He simply slid his hand down her tensed left thigh and cupped her rounded gluteus muscles. But hardly had he squeezed them than he took his hand away. Another confused length of time later, and Clara felt rough fingers on her right thigh. She blinked, raised her head and saw Uhl's hand descending towards her groin. Uhl was not looking at her as he touched her. She did not move, and once again Uhl moved his hand away almost immediately.

The incursion was more obvious the third time, when, after moving both her legs to a different position, Uhl felt clumsily for her sex. Startled, Clara doubled up and curled into a ball. 'Pose,' Uhl ordered, in an annoyed tone of voice. Clara merely stared at him. 'Pose.'

From where she lay curled up, Uhl looked a threatening figure. But Clara was not really afraid. Something about the painter's attitude turned what had happened into something perfectly staged, gave it all the proper artistic touch. She decided to obey. Despite her protesting tendons (there is nothing harder than losing a difficult position and having to get back into it without any warming up), she got back on to the chair, lifted her legs in the air, and lay immobile with her head and arms on the floor. She thought Uhl was going to return to the attack, but all he did was stare at her for a while and then move away.

Clara knew that Uhl could be pretending to molest her for hyperdramatic reasons. The brushstrokes were so well done though, that despite all her experience as a canvas she found it impossible to tell where the real Uhl ended and the artist began. Besides, his pretence might equally well mean the molesting was real on the sidelines. Uhl could have received instructions from the main painter, but Clara had no idea how far he might be abusing his privileged situation. It was almost impossible to establish limits, because between a painter's gesture and a caress there are endless, unfathomable gradations.

The timer went off. The two assistants came back into the room and changed the sketch. They made her stand up, and took the leather chair away. Then they laid her out face down and tried different positions once more: head raised, right arm stretched out, left one pointing backwards, left leg in the air. The pose reminded her of someone swimming. They pulled on her extremities until her joints protested. It was obvious they wanted to sketch her stretched. A simple contraction was not enough: they wanted to emphasise the movements. When they were satisfied with the firm outline of her extended limbs, they set the timer again and left her on the floor.

It happened at some moment while she was in this new pose. She could hear his footsteps crossing the room and saw him kneeling beside her. Her position meant that her left breast and her sex were exposed: Uhl's hands took possession of both of them.

The gesture was so brutal Clara could not stop herself abandoning the pose and protecting her body. At that point something happened that took her breath away.

Uhl grasped her arms violently and spread them apart with unexpected, unnecessary force. She cried out in pain. It was the first time he had been violent towards her. In fact, it was the first time anyone had used violence against her since she had been primed. She was so surprised she could neither speak nor defend herself. The painter bent even closer, and buried his mouth in her neck, still pinioning her arms. She could feel his saliva, his tongue like a freshly caught octopus flung at her throat, his panting breath at her jugular. 'Are you crazy?' she groaned. 'Let go of me!'

Uhl did not seem to hear her. The frame of his glasses twisted under Clara's chin as his mouth slid down towards her breasts. She stopped struggling for a moment.

All at once, just as she had given up fighting him, Uhl came to a halt, sighed deeply, straightened up and released her wrists. He was breathing even more heavily than she was, and his face was all red. He pushed his glasses back on properly, and smoothed the hair at the nape of his neck. It was as if a sudden sense of shame had prevented him going any further. Clara was still on the floor, rubbing her wrists. For a few seconds they just looked at each other, getting their breath back. Then Uhl got up and left.

Clara thought she now had some idea what was going on: it had been her sudden passivity that had inhibited Uhl, as it had done on the previous occasions.

In itself, this did not change anything. It could have been a human rather than an artistic reaction: perhaps Uhl had not dared take things any further, or perhaps he was one of those men who only gets pleasure when they meet resistance. Yet Clara wanted to believe that the brushstroke meant he had to stop as soon as she no longer resisted. She filed the information away for use at a later date.

The new assault did not catch her unawares. They had sketched her as a table: face up, hands and feet on the floor, head thrown back and legs wide apart. At a certain moment, Uhl came towards her. She looked him in the eye and realised that it was all going to start again. This time she decided to resist. She abandoned her pose and stood up. 'Leave me alone, will you?'

Without warning, those long arms of his, as hairy as strands of hemp rope or brush bristles, grabbed her and forced her back towards the floor. Uhl's mouth opened and sought out hers. Disgusted, she turned her face aside and pushed against his chest with her elbows. Uhl resisted without much effort. Clara tried again, but met only a brick wall. It was true she had been weakened by all the exercises she had been put through, but still it was obvious that Uhl was amazingly strong. The painter clamped her cheeks in one of his hairy paws and forced her mouth towards his, then slid his tongue over her primed, lipless mouth. Clara gathered her strength and struck out with both knees. This time she was more successful: she pushed Uhl aside and rolled over to protect herself. 'Stay still,' she heard.

The painter threw himself at her again, but Clara easily avoided him and kicked out a second time. She did not want to hurt him, but she was keen to see what would happen if she did not yield. By now she knew – or suspected – that Uhl was using a very simple method to paint her: he added a further degree of violence if her response was violent, but became gentler if her behaviour was submissive. When she yielded, he took the brush away. Clara wanted to find out exactly where this journey to absolute darkness that the painter was apparently proposing would lead them.

All at once everything took on the uncontrollable rhythm of a desperate struggle. Uhl seized her by both arms, she kicked out, Uhl's glasses clattered to the floor with a strangely disagreeable sound. He raised his hand as if about to hit her. Then she was really afraid. He could damage me, she thought. It was not the possibility of being hit that frightened her. She had been struck by the public or other canvases in some art-shocks, but that had always been planned by the artist, and agreed with her beforehand. What frightened her was the lack of control. He's getting more and more nervous, he could really hurt me and ruin my priming.