5
Back in his hotel, Reg Griffin was having second thoughts. The outlines of a routine job of tediously recognisable proportions were taking shape. Not a word yet about Rome, and what could a job in a Roman museum have to do with the valuation of an art collection? Razzy’s ‘instincts’ were not infallible. Perhaps it was a hoax after all, if not Razzy’s, someone else’s — or a cock -up, two different operations with crossed lines. Perhaps he should get figures straight with the Tunku before the next move, possibly an advance. He could be landed with peanuts, with a hotel bill and the return fare to pay, not to mention with the mess of having signed a contract for a job in Italy he didn’t want.
But money was a bit difficult now, even if he could get the Tunku’s phone number. Incidentally, the whole bunch of them seemed to have a very ex-directory approach to life altogether. He had not even been given a visiting card.
A car was to be at the hotel at six a.m. Reg was glad it was Selim and the Mercedes. At least there could be conversation. He took the front seat again.
He was also glad of the air-conditioning. Going outside the hotel door was like stepping into an extra -hot sauna. He had calculated about a six hour journey. The place was on the Pacific coast, about three hundred miles from the capital. Selim said it would take nearer seven hours. He had forgotten a couple of mountain passes they had to negotiate. He got the feeling Selim had been briefed to keep his mouth shut. His attempt to get him talking about the Tunku met with giggles and a brush-off. All he got was confirmation that none of them liked ‘the latest’, chiefly because she wasn’t the discarded Princess Elena - who had apparently been much loved. Selim wanted to talk about American films.
They left Selangor State and sped through jungle relieved only occasionally by sparse villages of houses on stilts. They entered the state of Panjung. After an hour of travelling across a fertile plain forty miles wide, Selim remarked with a snigger that it all belonged to the Tunku.
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Reg presumed the Tunku lived in the Royal Palace of Panjung — perhaps a wing? — and, whatever banality was in store for him, he looked forward to seeing it. This Sultan had one of the few surviving wooden buildings, seventeenth century as he remembered. Unlike some of their colleagues, the Sultan’s predecessors had maintained cordial and placatory relations with the European interlopers — Portuguese, the Dutch and finally the British — and profited accordingly. He could imagine the spread of beautiful and priceless objects that awaited him. It would be a museum of Malaysian art as well as whatever else they had
stashed away over the centuries from , other parts of the Orient. Perhaps, even if the whole thing turned out to be a flop, there would be this footnotal compensation.
As they entered the park, his pulses began to beat a bit faster. Suddenly, through some trees he saw the palace. He recognised at once the tiered roof of copper and zinc shingles, the gilded spires, and the beautiful carved pillars on which the building stood. But at the last moment Selim took a road that peeled off from the main drive.
Selim saw his disappointment. ‘Tunku’s house shore -side,’ he said. ‘More big than palace. You see, more big, very more nice.’
Selim’s loyalty to his master’s taste was hardly compensation. The Tunku’s residence, which was some four miles from the Royal Palace, was a great deal larger. The palace was still not large by royal standards, and the fretsaw effect of its woodwork made it look smaller than it was. But this house was hideous — a curry of styles borrowed from Europe. The steep green gables curved upwards in oriental style, but the grilles on the windows were Spanish, each had a rounded canopy of striped orange like a Parisian restaurant, and the main structure was of a small, very dark brick reminiscent of Amsterdam.
In front of the pink glass porch another car was parked — the Jaguar that had met him at the airport. He had noted the registration number, an automatic reflex. Selim’s face fell.
‘Ah, Haji Kassim is come.’
‘The type who met me at the airport?’
Selim nodded. He seemed agitated. He parked and, leaving the engine running to keep the air-conditioning going, motioned to
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Reg to stay where he was. He got out, did not approach the front door, but disappeared round the side of the house.
He returned in five minutes. ‘We go to hotel,’ he said, briskly. ‘Return later.’
Reg could gain no further information, except that he was to stay at a luxury hotel right on the beach.
‘Very nice luncheon,’ Selim said as the place came into view. ‘If wanted, very pretty afternoon girls.’
Reg was beginning to form a high opinion of Selim’s sensitive nature.
He had expected Selim to pick him up at five. But when he went down to the lobby, it was Kassim who was talking in low tones to one of the managers at the desk. Reg had not really taken in Kassim’s face the other night. He realised how disagreeable it was, small eyes peering from between a protruding brow and unnaturally bulging cheeks. One cheek had two not quite parallel scars. The lack of symmetry — the other cheek was not adorned — suggested violence rather than ritual.
Seeing him approach in a mirror, but making no acknow-ledgement of it, Kassim turned towards the door and with an ugly jerk of his head indicated he was to be followed. Reaching the car, he opened the back door and, leaving it open, went round to the driving seat.
This was becoming absurd. Reg slammed the back door and sat in the front passenger seat. ‘You’re Haji Kassim?’
The head of jet black hair, neatly parted in the centre like a schoolboy spruced up for Sunday school, made no movement. ‘Tunku Raschid wishes you to do the inventory now,’ he said distastefully, in syllable -perfect, educated English. ‘He will come this evening.’
‘You mean he expects me to complete the entire thing tonight? It’s out of the question. If it’s any kind of a collection it’ll take me several days, and I’ll certainly need the books the Tunku said would be available.’
‘Those are the instructions.’
Further expostulation was justified. Reg kept it to himself.
The house had been shut up, it seemed, in anticipation of a prolonged absence. They entered by a side door that led into a
40
basement area where apparently the servants lived when the Tunku was in residence. At present Kassim and himself seemed to be the only people in the building. Kassim unlocked and locked doors as they went up to the ground floor. All the furniture in the hall and the front rooms was covered with white sheets. There was a dank, mildewy smell. Either there was no air-conditioning, or it was not turned on.
They entered the main salon. Kassim began rather aggressively to whip the sheets from the furniture as if he were undressing and about to rape the entire harem in a fit of sadistic rage. He left them where they fell on the rich Chinese carpet.
‘You will start in this room,’ he said finally. He produced a large pad and a biro from the drawer of an inlaid rosewood table and threw them on the polished surface. ‘List all the valuable objects, their date of origin, a brief description, and your valuation. When you have completed this room, ring that bell.’ He indicated a velvet tassel. He tried to put the lights on at the door, but nothing happened. He left the room, locking the door behind him.
A dense silence descended. The windows also, Reg noted, were all locked — not that they needed to be with the grilles behind them. God, the place was like a morgue, and how was he going to see in this gloom? It would be dark soon. Then, as if answering his question, the lights came on and a huge ceiling fan, like three large banana leaves, began to turn. He was grateful for the fan. The heat was suffocating.
He saw the room was stuffed with minor treasures. It was ridiculous working without reference books. He would have to make this plain again to the Tunku when he came. But there did not look to be anything of immense difficulty here. He would make a start, and work at his normal speed. There was not much else he could do.
He began on the contents of two glass cases, which looked to contain the most interesting items. One held a collection of Malay musical instruments. There was a selection of coconut drums of differing antiquity, a five -gong chanang, some spike fiddles and decorated Malay oboes. The other case was a mixture of weapons - kris, and a fine group of keramabit, tiger -claw daggers with
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magnificent ivory handles — and various objects of metal. There was a gold, jewelled tobacco box, a beautiful silver Malaccan pedestal tray with a lotus motif, silver bracelets, and a brass betel box, probably Thai.
He was so carried away with the task, it was some time before an essential fact occurred to him. This was all very well. There were interesting things here, and this was only the first room. But why call in an expert? The total value was perhaps ten grand sterling so far. That was not a vast sum for a man like Raschid. Why did he want a valuation anyway? He did not give the impression of being on the verge of bankruptcy. Insurance no doubt, but none the less...
Losing interest for a moment, his attention strayed to a door behind a drape he had not noticed before. Was there anything more valuable in the room beyond it? The door would be locked of course, but he tried it. To his surprise, it opened. He switched on the light.
Was he meant to be in here? The dust sheets were in position. It seemed to be Raschid’s study. Books bound in a uniform red leather lined one wall to the ceiling. He lifted the corner of the sheet covering the largest piece of furniture and revealed a huge mahogany desk with a circular -back chair drawn to it. A fine ornamental moon -kite hung on one wall, and in a corner, also with no dust sheet, as if on guard, stood a fully -armed warrior, probably medieval from the shape of the helmet.
Nothing so very marvellous in here either, he thought. Then he noticed that on two of the walls two sizeable objects must have hung, of the same dimensions, probably pictures from the rectangular shape. There were remnants of cobwebs where the top edges of the frames would have been. They appeared to have been removed recently. The salon did not otherwise suggest slovenly housekeeping.
Reg could not entirely explain to himself the next action he took. He kept a small extendable measure in his pocket, always useful in cataloguing. Standing on a chair, he took exact measurements to the millimetre of the unfaded patches and made a note of them.
At this moment, alarming in the silence, there was the sound of an approaching helicopter flying very low. There was a crescendo
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of din as it hovered over the house. He switched the lights off, reshut the door, and hurried back into the salon. Darkness had fallen now, but lights had been switched on in the garden. The helicopter was coming down on the lawn.
The blades slowed and stopped, the door opened and the Tunku appeared. Kassim was approaching from the house. The two of them came in together, making apparently for the same side door Kassim and he had used. There were footsteps in the hall, the key grated and Raschid appeared.
‘Hard at work?’ he said absently. He walked straight to the windows and began pulling down blinds and drawing the curtains. Kassim trotted in behind him and assisted.
‘I’ve made a start, yes, but I shall need the books I mentioned,’ Reg began.
The Tunku was not listening. The blind -pulling continued. The Tunku turned towards him. ‘You have begun your inventory, I see, Mr Griffin. May I glance at what you have done?’
He took the pad from Reg’s hands. Already reading, he sat on one of the sofas. He flicked a finger sideways in Kassim’s direction. ‘Drinks, Kassim,’ he commanded.
This time Raschid defied his religion with a whisky and soda. Reg asked for the same, taking some pleasure from the position to which Scarface had been demoted. While Raschid sipped and read, Kassim lurked unemployed by the sideboard. What was he, some kind of secretary? He was subservient enough to the Tunku, but several cuts above a domestic servant one would have thought. He certainly wasted no energy on being polite to visitors.
After some minutes, Raschid threw down the pad on the table.
‘That’ll be all, Kassim.’
Raschid waited until the door closed. ‘I see you do know what you’re talking about, without the aid of reference books,’ he began. ‘It also seems you’re thorough, and get on with whatever is in hand without asking irrelevant questions. I rather imagine, I don’t quite know why, that you don’t like small talk. Is this so?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘If you come to know me better you may come to the conclusion I share your view.’ He paused. ‘I think I may also hazard the guess that you realise certain objectives in life cannot always be reached entirely within the confines of scholarship and academic life...’
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Reg let his eyebrows make any necessary comment on this. A sort of Gaullist ‘je-vous-ai-entendu’ line was what he aimed for.
‘I did not of course invite you to Malaysia without making some enquiries.’ The Tunku looked aside rather distastefully. ‘Let me relate to you some of my findings. You recently took an apparent Faberge brooch to Dusseldorf for its owner, allegedly with a view to selling to a German industrialist. You had the brooch in the flat you rented. You claimed that while you were out on the town the flat was burgled and the brooch taken. The police interrogated you, didn’t they, for a considerable period? There were some difficult features to your story. But you kept
your nerve, and got away with it. The insurance was collected — a great deal more than the brooch was worth in view of the private doubt the owner had as to its authenticity — and you collected your share of it.’ The oriental mouth twitched. ‘I gather you very prudently invested your spoils in property... I don’t know quite why, Mr Griffin, but I’ve formed the distinct impression from all this that you have rather a single-minded attitude to money, unusual in an academic, and a most reprehensibly flexible attitude to legal procedures.’
Raschid looked at him. It seemed to indicate that some response was expected. Reg kept his face impassive, and crossed one leg over the other. ‘I’ve an idea I haven’t been summoned here to value your possessions?’ he said, by way of a preliminary.
‘On the contrary, even the small amount that you’ve done this evening is most informative. When I had your particulars described to me I saw at once how useful your subsidiary knowledge of our art would be. Not only did it give me a good reason to ask you to come here, your inventory tells me the first thing I need to know. You are not an academic amateur. One thing life has taught me is never to depend on other people’s estimates, even when the testimonial is from a revered authority. You are not an academic amateur, and you have a commercial
sense. That is a combination, as I say, rarely to be encountered.’
The Tunku rose and went to one of the windows. He opened the safety lock with a key concealed behind a shutter, then pushed up the lower pane. A welcome breeze entered. A pity Kassim had not thought of that, Reg thought. They could just hear the wash of the ocean on the beach about five hundred yards away. Nearer, a night creature bayed intermittently.
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The Tunku returned to his seat, crossed his arms on his chest, and regarded Reg flatly. ‘But yes, the instructions you received in London — which you carried out with dexterity and with such triumphant success — will be suggesting to you that matters beyond valuation of my collection are involved. I congratulate you, Griffin. I must confess to you I didn’t think you would manage what you have. Our adversary is, I gather, a man of careful habits, and I can only say the way you handled him was quite masterly.’
‘Adversary?’
‘You rightly pounce on the word. No, it isn’t really the right one to use, is it? Robert Caine should not be looked upon as an adversary. Certainly not from an operative point of view. Rather, he should be seen as our unconscious accomplice. I think this starts us off very much on the right track — assuming, of course that you are willing to undertake the further mission that lies ahead?’
‘I can hardly do that without knowing what it is, can I?’
‘Ah, but that, I am afraid, is what you will largely have to do. The job depends, you see, on a number of contingencies. Your first task you have magnificently achieved. But that is only a beginning. What I am saying to you, Mr Griffin, is that our association, certainly in the earlier stages, will have to have its basis in a mutual trust and regard rather than in specifics. You know, among many other things I admire about you English are your proverbs. You are such splendid retailers of morality. “One thing at a time.” “Patience is a virtue.” “Don’t run until you can walk.” There’s a choice for practically any situation, isn’t there? ‘I’ve now made up my mind about you. It’s a question at this moment of your own inclination. I have to warn you, there is risk, and danger — considerable danger, physical and otherwise.’
It was the crossroads again. Reg had no hesitation.
‘I’ll do it,’ he said.
‘Good. I rather fancied you would.’
The black gaze was lowered to the carpet.
‘Finally then, we have money to discuss. I thought, if you accept the mission, for your visit here, which is now terminated, a thousand pounds would be appropriate, plus expenses and the air
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fares of course. On your arrival in Rome, which I realise involves your turning down a fellowship, ten thousand would be available. Then at a rather later date, very naturally, we might be into a different scale of remuneration.’
The Tunku was looking bored again.
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Part Two
…………………………………………
48
6
The day after his return to Rome, Robert promised himself the luxury of a few hours writing up his paper on Etruscan dentistry. The finds at Spina and Caere had thrown up so much, including this fascinating new aspect of their genius that could prove to be a lot more than a footnote.
He imagined there would first be some work in the office. Gabbi would have dealt with everything with her usual efficiency and decisiveness, but his secretary, Franca, quite possibly would have kept some things back from her, out of spite more than necessity. Franca, devoted to him and the museum, was not attractive. Gabbi was.
Nonetheless, he thought a couple of hours should do it. Kate had departed for Viterbo at dawn in the Citroen. Duty done, he could wallow, perhaps for most of the day, inviolate in the silence of an empty flat.
Rising at eight he made himself breakfast and ate it on the terrace, while leafing through the notes he had made and beginning to think how he would shape the essay. Already the morning sun was warm.
Just before nine he saw Franca’s Cinquecento appear round the building below and disappear into the courtyard. Soon after, he went down to do his duty in the untidy high-ceilinged office on the second floor which always, even in summer, smelt faintly of damp plaster. Franca’s slight bespectacled figure was lying in wait for him. He knew at once from the determined look on her face that he had anticipated correctly.
He first gave her the present, a bottle of toilet water snatched at Heathrow at the last moment. She took the parcel wish her usual embarrassed sniff of pleasure, opened it, and thanked him. He knew she valued the gifts he always brought her when he had been away. He had heard that she boasted about them to the curators. But this was a mere stay to the avalanche. She held up the label to her short-sighted eyes, gave a quick smile, put the bottle in a drawer of her desk, and in a matter of seconds was in full spate.
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She recited first her version of Gabriella’s brush with Mortimer Ready, slanted strongly needless to say against Gabriella, and followed it with a list of other disasters. Latent as always was the implication that he should not have gone away. Franca’s tempestuous loyalty could certainly be tiresome.
Involuntarily, his whole morning was consumed in a frenzy of largely unsuccessful administration. The thunderstorm that had fused the lights and caused Gabbi to be rude to Mortimer had also discovered a hole in the roof, through which a storeroom had been flooded. Reputable builders proved overworked, or the Rome telephone system made sure others were unapproachable. Robert then spent twenty minutes in the telephonic labyrinths of the Ministero dei Beni Culturali trying to contact the official who had visited while he was away without appointment, and declared that several objects ‘of clear national importance’, and therefore within their authority, were displayed with ‘a prominence inconsistent with their cultural significance’. Franca scornfully quoted the words verbatim. And for half an hour one of the full time curators, Giuseppe Gasparotti, whom Franca had only just headed off from sending him a cable in London at museum expense, paced his room in a dapper blue suit and white shoes complaining of ‘the
plainly prejudiced attitude towards armour in this museum’, which allowed ‘such meagre resources as were available’ to be ‘lavished’ upon pictures (another slap at Gabriella) to the detriment of his own speciality. Gasparotti ‘could not think’ that this disparity was the result of ‘a prejudice based in any way upon seniority, or’ — he paused significantly — ‘still less upon personality,’ but at times it was difficult for him not to think so.
Giuseppe’s feathers were easy enough to smooth by dint of a little flattery and a very small concession to the armoury budget, but these Latin sideshows plundered one’s time and energy. At one o’clock Giuseppe was still there. As a Parthian shot before going off for her lunch, Franca triumphantly brought him a stack of letters to sign.
He reread and signed the letters, and went upstairs to the flat. As he threw a bag of instant gnocchi into a saucepan of boiling water, he heard the distant boom below, which denoted that Pietro had shut the front door for the afternoon
Suddenly there was peace, the peace he had anticipated and,
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surely, looked forward to? The roar of Rome was pleasantly removed, here in the centre of the Borghese, and he could feel the familiar, benevolent silence rising through the building. A warm breath of April breeze, faintly scented with pine resin, came through his open window and impishly winnowed some papers on the kitchen working top. As if a switch had been thrown, the cicadas started their siesta shift. Wasn’t this what he had waited for?
To his dismay, he found he did not feel elation, only the dull ache which, in this moment he had to recognise, had been with him since last night. It quickened now into something nearer desolation.
The reason? Was he really going to continue kidding himself? He had known throughout the morning what it was, hadn’t he?
All through Franca’s loyal strictures, Giuseppe’s posturing, he had been aware that, because she was off work today after her week -end duty, he would not see Gabbi until the following morning. Her vitality, her total integrity, her alternating moods of sweet gravity and delightful, explosive gaiety, her beauty and entirely feminine presence, which had come in recent months to be his daily solace, were being spent on that worthless, utopianist husband of hers, who couldn’t even get himself a job and lived off her labours.
A crazy idea surged up. Why didn’t he walk round to her flat on the other side of Termini? He could make the Mortimer situation the excuse. For a few reckless, frenzied moments he contemplated going. Giancarlo, by some luck, might not be there, and she would be alone and surprised, delighted, to see him. Hilariously, no doubt, despite his initial resolution to be otherwise, they would discuss Mortimer’s latest absurdity. In five minutes he would be restored to sanity.
But his romantic vision, even as it danced ahead of him like a happy, innocent child, was already underlain by the knowledge of its impossibility. How could he go to Gabbi’s flat and not be mis-understood? In a couple of minutes he could destroy everything they had together. It was spring madness.
He ate the food, went to his study, sat himself at the desk and with an effort began to work.
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The idea came to him untripped, when he was no longer thinking about Gabbi. The new showcase of course. It had arrived while he was in London. He seized the phone before he could think himself out of it. Gabbi’s vibrant, deep voice answered. Her ‘Pronto’, he thought, was dull, unexpectant. Was her day off so lacking in animation for her? He was encouraged.
‘Gabbi, it’s me.’
He thought she lit up. ‘Robert, how nice. You’re back safely. I did phone Franca this morning to make sure you were back and that I needn’t come in. A good trip?’
‘Fine.’
She paused. ‘We had some fireworks. You heard no doubt?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry. It was just that on Saturday...’
‘You don’t have to apologise. It’s not what I’m phoning about.’
‘No?’
He heard her relief, then sensed renewed anxiety in the quality of her silence that followed. If not Mortimer, what else? Was she wondering that? Could she have no inkling of his feeling, of what was driving him? He composed his voice to matter-of-factness and dropped his intonation an octave.
‘It’s just I’ve had a mad notion. I was going to work this afternoon. Real work, I mean. My new paper on dentistry. But the morning was the usual bedlam, and I find I can’t bring myself to it. It must be the relief of getting back here after London. I’m not feeling in the least studious.’
‘And?’
‘Well, you know the showcase arrived? I thought instead I’d start assembling the stuff, try to work out how we arrange it. I was just wondering if by any chance you felt like giving me a hand.’
‘You mean today?’
‘It’s unforgivable of me, I know, on your day off. I expect...’
‘I could a bit later. I’ve got my neighbours’ children with me for another hour or so. You know I run a creche here?’
He did know very well about the creche. Gabbi organised this relief whenever she could for the mothers in her block of flats. Joy overwhelmed him. Was it possible she was saying yes? in his euphoria, he almost spoilt it.
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‘Are you sure Giancarlo can spare you?’ he asked.
‘Giancarlo’s at a meeting,’ she said.
Her voice was dull again, and carried justifiable reprimand. They never discussed Giancarlo, but such was the intuition that operated between them, Robert was sure she knew his sentiments in that direction. She had spotted at once that his question was hypocritical.
Robert had held a long debate with himself about the new showcase in the Etruscan room. There was always jealousy if any department was allocated money. If it was his own, he could expect the resentment to be doubled.
It was hardly a princely sum, not much more than the cost of the case and the extra insurance, for the objects had been donated to the museum in gratitude for the advisory work he had done (much of it in his holiday time) on the two remarkable sites in the north. But that would not still the tongues if they were inclined to wag. More important, he had to decide if he was putting his own interest above that of the museum in another way. Could it be said that a whole case devoted to the artefacts of Etruscan medicine and dentistry — in a collection that sought as its macro -aim to give a balanced view of each phase of Italy’s history — was relevant?
He had persuaded himself that a major point was being stated. The contrast between the Babylonian achievement in the field and the advances the Etruscans had made, was surely a graphic and specific way of setting the Etruscans in history and thus of introducing the visitor to this section of the museum? And it would certainly be discourteous to the donors if the gift were not displayed.
Gabbi, who was excellent on design, had helped him with the blueprint of the (admittedly expensive) showcase. This involved photographs of the digging sites, which were to be a backcloth to the display, and the clever, curved shelving on four different levels which allowed the maximum number of objects to be displayed without crowding. He had done the smaller captions for each item from the inventory they had sent him, also the larger placards that gave the general information, and had had them printed before he
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went away. Everything was now ready. There was just the pleasant job of setting the objects in place.
As soon as he put the phone down to Gabbi he went to the main storeroom in a converted attic, where the two large packing cases containing the pieces had been locked. One at a time he took them down to the Etruscan Room on the ground floor, using one of the hand trolleys and the large service lift at the back of the building. Then, having returned to the flat to get pliers and a hammer, he started the work of unpacking. His idea was to have everything ready when Gabbi arrived.
He always loved being in the Etruscan room. As he stripped the showcase of the protective wooden frame in which it had been delivered, he felt around him the friendly company of half -sitting tomb figures, so strangely twisted at the waist and with their enigmatic, fawnish smiles, the casefuls of terracotta and greened bronze objects. He had his usual fantasy that when no one was about the brooding spirits came alive. The idea that ghosts appeared in certain defined areas was after all as old as mankind. Why should they not do so in the homely atmosphere of a museum devoted to their memory?
The case had been beautifully made in mahogany, in keeping with the other furniture of the room, and as far as he could see exactly to their specifications. The sliding glass doors opened smoothly, and had been fitted with the concealed, electronic locks they had ordered. Gabbi’s blown -up photographs had been tastefully cut and mounted on the vertical surfaces between the glass shelving.
Having manoeuvred the case to the position in which it was to stand, he began to take the pieces from one of the boxes and unwrap them from their straw. He had also brought down a dust sheet from the storeroom. Spreading this on the parquet floor he put the objects on it.
Absorbed, he forgot the time, and was alarmed to hear a car pulling up by the front entrance. He flew to the window. It was Gabbi. He sped to the small room under the staircase to disconnect the alarm system. By the time he regained the hall, she had let herself in. As always, his spirit stilled at just the sight of her. At work, Gabbi was always neat and professionally tidy. Her relaxed
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jeans and white sports shirt gave him almost a feeling of privilege, that he was being included in her private life.
‘Oh, you’ve begun,’ she said, going ahead of him into the room.
‘Just the unpacking.’
They stood together by the case.
‘They’ve done it well, haven’t they? Our blow-ups look tremendous.’ She turned to him radiantly. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘Your blow-ups.’
She laid her long hand on his upper arm. ‘Rubbish, Robert. It was your idea. All I did was choose which ones and cut them about.’
They turned to the unpacked exhibits. They were like children, he thought, kneeling together on the sheet and admiring the hoard. Yes, with the innocence and frankness of children. Wasn’t that just it? With Gabbi there were none of the irrelevant accumulations of normal adult relationships. In each other’s presence they were at once centred, immersed in, what was clear, immediate, and important to them.
Robert had already begun to sort the goodies into categories as he unpacked them. She saw at once what he was about.
‘You’ve almost made the main layout choices already, haven’t you?’ she said. ‘Dental -stroke -medical is one obvious distinction? Then it’s a question of either further functional subdivisions or simple chronological ones?’ She paused, continuing to read the augury spread before them. ‘But you’re leaning to the temporal divide, aren’t you?’ She was regarding four heaps of dental instruments some of which, though clearly having the same function, were differently shaped. ‘Your grand theme of the progress they made — on from the Babylonians? Is that what you’re thinking?’
Robert could have engulfed her in what would have been, in impulse only, a purely platonic embrace. He almost did until an instant later he realised how quickly this would have become, for his part, something quite other.
‘Top of the class,’ he said, aware this sounded trite. ‘I was beginning to think, yes, before you arrived, that though chronology can be dogged, in this case it’s justified. It is after all
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