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hyperdramatic art and had seen films and reports about it, but she had never actually seen one.
    It was like coming under a spell. She knelt down beside the work of art and completely forgot everything else. She examined it avidly, from fingertips to the painted hair; from the neck down to the curve of its buttocks. The two thongs of the tanga made a V shape just like the shape of one of the trees in the garden. She pored over every centimetre of immobile flesh as though it were a film she had been wanting to see all her life. She raised a trembling finger and stroked the thing's right thigh. It was like feeling the outline of a flower vase ... The thing did not even blink.
    'Don't do that,' Talia scolded her. 'You're not to touch the paintings. If my father saw you ... !'
    The day was one long torture. It was impossible for her to enjoy herself. It was not Talia's fault, of course; it was the fault of that cursed thing, that obscene, cursed thing which refused to move but simply stayed there in the sun, by the water, without ever sweating or complaining, lost in the contemplation of a small square of tiles. That paralysed, magical V-shaped tanga, lifeless but at the same time full of life. That was where the blame lay.
    At some point in the day, Clara felt ill. She started choking, felt she was drowning. She ran off and hid in the house. She found the kitten on the sofa in the luxurious living room, and curled up alongside it. Clara's cheeks were burning, and she found it hard to breathe. When Talia arrived at last, she looked up at her imploringly.
     
    'Does it never move?' she sobbed. 'Doesn't it eat or sleep?' 'Of course it does. It's only on show between eleven and seven.'
     
    At seven o'clock sharp one of the servants went out to tell the work the time. Clara, who had been anxiously watching the clock all afternoon, went up to the piece. She could see how it came to life, stretching each limb after a long pause and then, like a child being born, uncurled its body and raised its head, eyes still closed. She saw the oil paint flash on its chest when it drew a deep breath, watched as it stood up ever so slowly and before her eyes changed into a woman, a girl, into someone just like herself. On a blue background.
     
    That's what I want to be, Clara thought. Exactly that.
    Her teeth were chattering.
    A woman drew back the cobalt curtains, leaned out and began to water the blue flowers. Suddenly she looked up and took Clara by surprise. After staring at her for a moment, she nodded in acknowledgement. Then she stepped back in from her balcony, closed the window and shut the curtains. Her window panes reflected Clara's naked body framed in her own window: her smooth figure, face without eyebrows and depilated pubis, breasts like wavy lines, hair already dried by the night breeze, right hand still clutching the telephone, all plunged into the cobalt deep-sea blue of the window panes opposite.
     
    The receiver was still silent. But they had not hung up.
    Clara had been lost in her memories when the woman had appeared and brought her back to reality with a jolt. Ibiza, Talia and the unforgettable moment when she had discovered HD art dissolved into the darkest night. She could not tell how long she had been waiting in the exact same position. She thought it must be at least two hours. She could feel that the hand holding the receiver was much colder than the rest of her body, and the muscles of that arm had stiffened. She would have given anything to change position, and yet she continued to stand there motionless with the telephone to her ear; she even tried to breathe as little as possible, just as if she were being a work of art. She did not transfer her weight from one foot to another, but stood upright, her left hand on her hip and her knees pressed against the columns of the radiator under the window.
    She was tempted to hang up. It was possible that this absurd wait was all a mistake. Perhaps the idea that she should