Read Online Art of Murder by José Carlos Somoza - Free Book Online
Authors: José Carlos Somoza
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older than Clara and so often left her on her own, but she didn't mind: the mere fact of being able to leave her sad home in Madrid to spend a month in that tiny but immense space, painted bright blue by the sun, was wonderful enough.
Nevertheless, nothing would have happened but for the black kitten.
Or perhaps it would, but in a different way: Clara was a believer in the hand of fate. The kitten came over to her, and from being suspicious at first was soon converted into a gleaming velvet ball with deep blue reflections in its fur. This was in the glorious summer of 1996, with its smell of chlorine and sea breeze. But the kitten itself smelt of soap, and it was obvious it belonged to someone because it was too well groomed to have come directly from the wild.
'Hello, there,' Clara greeted it. 'Where's your master, little kitty?'
The animal meowed between her fingers, its mouth shaped like a tiny heart, or an almond split in two. She smiled at it, completely unafraid. In her house in the mountain village of Alberca, where her father had been born and where they spent every summer while he was alive, she had got used to all kinds of pet animals. She stroked the kitten as she might have stroked a lamp containing a genie who could grant all her wishes.
'Are you lost?' she asked.
'He's mine,' a voice replied.
That was when she first spied Talia's brown legs standing in front of her. When Clara looked up she could see her smiling against the sun, and knew at once that the two of them would become friends.
Talia was thirteen, with round saucer-like eyes and coffee-coloured skin. She smiled and spoke at the same time, and with the same sweetness, as if for her the two actions were identical - as if everything she had to say was happy, and all her smiles were words. Her mother was from Maracay in Venezuela; her father was Spanish. They had a house at the other end of the island, near Punta Galera. Talia was in the resort by chance, because her parents had come to visit some friends. So it was the black kitten that brought them together.
Talia's father had a lot of money - much more than Uncle Pablo, who was far from badly off. The house in Punta Galera was an enormous villa by the sea, with a walled-in garden full of trees and shade, flowerbeds and ponds. When Talia invited her there two days later, Clara was amazed to find that they had servants, not simply someone to do the washing and prepare the meals, but people in uniforms with glazed, expressionless faces. But the most incredible discovery was at the swimming pool. This was a huge blue rectangle of water. It seemed unbelievable that Talia's tiny dark body should have this immense sapphire-coloured space all to herself, those liquid tiles she could float across endlessly. Yet there was something else about it that first impressed Clara.
Talia shared the pool with another young girl. Could it be her sister? Or was it a friend?
But she was older than either of them. She was kneeling on all fours near the edge of the pool. All she was wearing was the tiniest of blue tangas. Her body glistened in a very odd way. She didn't change her position in the slightest as Clara and Talia drew closer.
'It's one of my father's works of art,' Talia explained. 'He paid a fortune for it.'
Clara bent down and peered at the unmoving face, the skin gleaming with primer and oils, the hair waving gently in the breeze.
1 don't believe it!' Talia crowed when she saw how surprised Clara was. 'Haven't you ever heard of HD art? Of course it's made of flesh and blood, just like you and I! It's a hyper . . . work.' Clara did not understand the other word. 'She's not in a trance or anything like that, she's simply posing. And the smell comes from the oil paint.'
Eliseo Sandoval. By the Pool. 1995. Oil and sun cream on an eighteen-year-old girl wearing a cotton tanga. Clara read the description on a small piece of card placed on the ground near the figure.
Like most people, Clara had heard of
Nevertheless, nothing would have happened but for the black kitten.
Or perhaps it would, but in a different way: Clara was a believer in the hand of fate. The kitten came over to her, and from being suspicious at first was soon converted into a gleaming velvet ball with deep blue reflections in its fur. This was in the glorious summer of 1996, with its smell of chlorine and sea breeze. But the kitten itself smelt of soap, and it was obvious it belonged to someone because it was too well groomed to have come directly from the wild.
'Hello, there,' Clara greeted it. 'Where's your master, little kitty?'
The animal meowed between her fingers, its mouth shaped like a tiny heart, or an almond split in two. She smiled at it, completely unafraid. In her house in the mountain village of Alberca, where her father had been born and where they spent every summer while he was alive, she had got used to all kinds of pet animals. She stroked the kitten as she might have stroked a lamp containing a genie who could grant all her wishes.
'Are you lost?' she asked.
'He's mine,' a voice replied.
That was when she first spied Talia's brown legs standing in front of her. When Clara looked up she could see her smiling against the sun, and knew at once that the two of them would become friends.
Talia was thirteen, with round saucer-like eyes and coffee-coloured skin. She smiled and spoke at the same time, and with the same sweetness, as if for her the two actions were identical - as if everything she had to say was happy, and all her smiles were words. Her mother was from Maracay in Venezuela; her father was Spanish. They had a house at the other end of the island, near Punta Galera. Talia was in the resort by chance, because her parents had come to visit some friends. So it was the black kitten that brought them together.
Talia's father had a lot of money - much more than Uncle Pablo, who was far from badly off. The house in Punta Galera was an enormous villa by the sea, with a walled-in garden full of trees and shade, flowerbeds and ponds. When Talia invited her there two days later, Clara was amazed to find that they had servants, not simply someone to do the washing and prepare the meals, but people in uniforms with glazed, expressionless faces. But the most incredible discovery was at the swimming pool. This was a huge blue rectangle of water. It seemed unbelievable that Talia's tiny dark body should have this immense sapphire-coloured space all to herself, those liquid tiles she could float across endlessly. Yet there was something else about it that first impressed Clara.
Talia shared the pool with another young girl. Could it be her sister? Or was it a friend?
But she was older than either of them. She was kneeling on all fours near the edge of the pool. All she was wearing was the tiniest of blue tangas. Her body glistened in a very odd way. She didn't change her position in the slightest as Clara and Talia drew closer.
'It's one of my father's works of art,' Talia explained. 'He paid a fortune for it.'
Clara bent down and peered at the unmoving face, the skin gleaming with primer and oils, the hair waving gently in the breeze.
1 don't believe it!' Talia crowed when she saw how surprised Clara was. 'Haven't you ever heard of HD art? Of course it's made of flesh and blood, just like you and I! It's a hyper . . . work.' Clara did not understand the other word. 'She's not in a trance or anything like that, she's simply posing. And the smell comes from the oil paint.'
Eliseo Sandoval. By the Pool. 1995. Oil and sun cream on an eighteen-year-old girl wearing a cotton tanga. Clara read the description on a small piece of card placed on the ground near the figure.
Like most people, Clara had heard of
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