The Artist went out into the street at night.
It was raining in Amsterdam, and the weather was on the cold side. Summer had been put into abeyance. All the better, he thought. Hands in pockets, he walked under the distant light from the streetlamps, letting the rain cover him with a fine spray like a flower. He crossed the Singelgracht bridge, where the lights were making garlands in the water and the drops of rain were tracing concentric circles, and walked on until he reached the Museumplein. He strolled past the area containing the silent Rembrandt Tunnel. The police guarding the entrance glanced at him without paying any particular attention. He looked like a perfectly ordinary individual, and that was how he acted. He could be a man or a woman. In Munich he had been Brenda and Weiss; in Vienna, Ludmila and Diaz. Only on the inside was he a single person. He reached the far end of the horseshoe and continued on his way. He reached Concertgebouw square, where the most important concert hall in Amsterdam stood. But now the music had finished, and everything lay silent. The Artist did not cross Van Baerlestraat. Instead, he turned right towards the Stedelijk, and began his return journey towards the Rijksmuseum. He wanted to explore and check everything. His progress was blocked by metal fences marking out an area reserved for van parking. He leaned on one of the fences and stared into the night.
A small 'Rembrandt' poster was tied to a lamppost a little further on. The Artist stared at it through the drizzle. The Angel's hand was opening in the darkness. He read the date on it: 15 July 2006. The next day. The fifteenth of July. Exactly. Tomorrow will be the day.
He moved away from the fence, turned down Van de Veldestraat and walked on. The rain eased off as he made his way back to the Singel.
Tomorrow, in the exhibition.
Everything around him was dark and unlovely. Only the Artist looked like pure beauty.