strategy. She used the remote control to switch off the stereo, checked the time on the bookcase clock, and called again.
This time when the woman answered, Clara said nothing.
The silence at both ends of the telephone line grew, deepened and became ridiculous. There was no sound, not even of breathing, although it was obvious that this time they had not hung up. But they were not speaking either. How long will I have to wait for them to make up their minds? thought Clara.
All of a sudden she was disconnected. The clock showed it had taken a minute.
So the silence was the message. This time it had taken longer, which probably meant they did not want her to speak. But they had hung up anyway.
Angrily, she swept back the strands of wet blonde hair covering her eyes. It was clear she was facing some kind of stretching test.
All the great painters stretched their canvases before they began a work. This stretching was the doorway to the hyperdra matic world, a way of preparing the model for what was to come, of warning them that from this point on nothing of what was going to happen would follow a logical pattern or society's accepted norms. Clara was used to being stretched in many different ways. The method usually employed by the artists in The Circle and Gilberto Brentano was the full gamut of sadomasochistic techniques. Georges Chalboux, on the other hand, used more subtle means of stretching. He created emotional upheaval by bringing in specially trained people who pretended to love or hate the models used in his works; these people could by turns be threatening, elusive or affectionate, all of which created a great sense of anxiety. Exceptional painters such as Vicky Lledo used themselves to stretch their canvases. Vicky was particularly cruel, because she used genuine emotions - it was as if she could split her personality, as if there was a Vicky-human being and a Vicky-artist in one and the same person, working completely independently of each other.
In order to get through the stretching phase, the canvas had to be aware of two things: the only rule was that there were no rules, and the only possible reaction was to go on.
So it was no use Clara ringing up again and staying silent: she had to take the next step. But in which direction?
Alex Bassan's signature on her thigh was itching. She scratched herself, taking care not to use her nails, while she considered what to do.
She had an idea. It was absurd, which made her think it might be correct (that was nearly always how it was in the world of art). She left the receiver on the mat, stood up and went over to the window. Naked beneath the towel, her damp body did not feel cold or uncomfortable as she felt the cool rush of air.
The rain had washed the night clean. There was no smell of garbage, traffic, or excrement ... of the centre of Madrid; instead the smell of the sea in the city, the kind of evening breeze that occasionally makes Madrid seem like a seaside resort. Yet there was traffic. The cars went by sniffing each other's backsides and winking at one another with their big luminous eyes. She looked at the building opposite: three windows on the top floor were still lit, and in one of them, which had cobalt-blue curtains, there were some flowerpots. They looked as though they contained blue hyacinths. Clara leant over her balcony ledge and looked down at the street from the top of her four-storey block. The breeze ruffled her hair like a tired puppeteer.
There was no sign of anyone watching her. It was absurd to imagine anyone was spying on her.
Absurd, and therefore correct.
She picked up the cordless phone, again looked over at the clock, then walked back to the window and called the number on the card another time.
'Yes?' asked the woman's voice.
Clara waited in silence, as close as she could get to the window, without moving a muscle. The breeze rippled through the fringe of her blue towel. All of a sudden they hung up. She looked back at the
This time when the woman answered, Clara said nothing.
The silence at both ends of the telephone line grew, deepened and became ridiculous. There was no sound, not even of breathing, although it was obvious that this time they had not hung up. But they were not speaking either. How long will I have to wait for them to make up their minds? thought Clara.
All of a sudden she was disconnected. The clock showed it had taken a minute.
So the silence was the message. This time it had taken longer, which probably meant they did not want her to speak. But they had hung up anyway.
Angrily, she swept back the strands of wet blonde hair covering her eyes. It was clear she was facing some kind of stretching test.
All the great painters stretched their canvases before they began a work. This stretching was the doorway to the hyperdra matic world, a way of preparing the model for what was to come, of warning them that from this point on nothing of what was going to happen would follow a logical pattern or society's accepted norms. Clara was used to being stretched in many different ways. The method usually employed by the artists in The Circle and Gilberto Brentano was the full gamut of sadomasochistic techniques. Georges Chalboux, on the other hand, used more subtle means of stretching. He created emotional upheaval by bringing in specially trained people who pretended to love or hate the models used in his works; these people could by turns be threatening, elusive or affectionate, all of which created a great sense of anxiety. Exceptional painters such as Vicky Lledo used themselves to stretch their canvases. Vicky was particularly cruel, because she used genuine emotions - it was as if she could split her personality, as if there was a Vicky-human being and a Vicky-artist in one and the same person, working completely independently of each other.
In order to get through the stretching phase, the canvas had to be aware of two things: the only rule was that there were no rules, and the only possible reaction was to go on.
So it was no use Clara ringing up again and staying silent: she had to take the next step. But in which direction?
Alex Bassan's signature on her thigh was itching. She scratched herself, taking care not to use her nails, while she considered what to do.
She had an idea. It was absurd, which made her think it might be correct (that was nearly always how it was in the world of art). She left the receiver on the mat, stood up and went over to the window. Naked beneath the towel, her damp body did not feel cold or uncomfortable as she felt the cool rush of air.
The rain had washed the night clean. There was no smell of garbage, traffic, or excrement ... of the centre of Madrid; instead the smell of the sea in the city, the kind of evening breeze that occasionally makes Madrid seem like a seaside resort. Yet there was traffic. The cars went by sniffing each other's backsides and winking at one another with their big luminous eyes. She looked at the building opposite: three windows on the top floor were still lit, and in one of them, which had cobalt-blue curtains, there were some flowerpots. They looked as though they contained blue hyacinths. Clara leant over her balcony ledge and looked down at the street from the top of her four-storey block. The breeze ruffled her hair like a tired puppeteer.
There was no sign of anyone watching her. It was absurd to imagine anyone was spying on her.
Absurd, and therefore correct.
She picked up the cordless phone, again looked over at the clock, then walked back to the window and called the number on the card another time.
'Yes?' asked the woman's voice.
Clara waited in silence, as close as she could get to the window, without moving a muscle. The breeze rippled through the fringe of her blue towel. All of a sudden they hung up. She looked back at the
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