He sank into his chair, beamed at the old lady. "Madam, I have this inner gut feeling. You’re going to be dee-light-ed, deedy deed!” Tears of ecstasy flowed down his cheeks.
“Thankings,” the crone fluted. "Everyone thankings.”
The signal for a dispersal. We all rose and slowly scattered. Meese was the oldest, by far, the dowager Russian lady excepted. The youngsters, all trendily shopsoiled, straggled out chatting noisily. I crossed to the crone.
"Ta, lady,” I told her. “Sorry that tart lost her rag. Only, your things here are really, er, nice and I was interested.”
This guff gave me the chance to peer behind her. A gallery ran round the higher library shelves, good quality Edwardian ironwork, with a scrolled staircase creating further shadows. I was still squinting when the lady piped a Russian reply. The interpreter came a little forward.
“Would you please come to tea tomorrow, Lovejoy? Four o’clock.”
“Eh? Well, I’m busy—”
“Thank you,” Lydia cut in firmly. “Lovejoy is pleased to accept.”
I was staring. The interpreter was beautiful, thirties, dressed in cardigan and somber tweed skirt, but with that lit-from-within luminosity some tempera paintings have. Her face held a hint of Slav, but the eyes were rounded and astonishingly blue.
“Yes?” the interpreter was asking, worried she’d missed some vital subjunctive.
“Oh, er, nowt, love. Four o’clock, then.”
Lydia was moving me bodily out of the room with those clever oh-so-accidental nudges women have off to perfection. Meese clapped me on the shoulder as we milled down the front steps.
“Lovejoy. You are salvation. You know it. I know it.” He waved an arm expansively. "Soon the world will know it.” He blew his nose, dabbed his moist eyes, replaced his hom-rims.
“Do you get the feeling,” I asked Lydia when our lamps were lit and the Ruby’s engine was tugging us laboriously out of the drive, “that we’re actually in some 1940s threepenny B film?” I’d never seen so much phony emotion since the Gunga Din/Lassie re-re-releases.
“Stop complaining, Lovejoy. These people are exceedingly creative.” She sat primly, so serious. (She’s only ever made two jokes that I know of. Tell you one if I get a minute.) “They are subject to artistic tensions. It behooves us to be understanding .. et cetera.
“What’s the old Russian lass in on it for?”
“It’s rude to ask that sort of question, Lovejoy, without invitation.”
So we shelved the problem and drove on. Events proved me right, in a wrong sort of way. I wish now I’d listened to me and nobody else, just for once.
M
USEUMS and galleries the world over have had their ups and downs. Except one. That one is the British Museum. It’s always definitely on the up. Famed in song and story, it stands there in its narrow London street, grand, quiet, and impregnable. It looks smug because it has never—repeat never ever—been effectively done over, burgled, or ripped off. It is unique. And impregnable.
Mind you, it always was queer. Its strangeness survives to this day. I mean, everybody knows how Sir Hans Sloane, posh doctor of Queen Anne’s London, left his antiques collections to the nation for £20,000 given to his heirs. When he popped off in 1753, God rest him, Parliament enacted a lottery to raise the gelt. All 80,000 objects the top doc had Hoovered up in his ninety-two years were crammed into a wilting dump called Montague House and, fanfare please, the institution opened to the world a couple of weeks into 1759. (They were fast movers in those days; we take two decades to open half a shed.) Massive libraries—Cotton, Harley—were added to Sloane’s stuff. And it grew and grew: George III chipped in his wonderful antiquarian collection, others did the same. Over
the years the paintings were hived off, then natural history, and ethnography ("wood-and-feathers” to antique dealers), and lately library. It’s the greatest refresher on earth. I defy anyone to go in tired, downhearted, bored, and not come out radiant. It’s an exaltation, a spiritual uplift. In short, it's paradise. It welcomes everyone and shows them wonderment. Free.
Lydia dropped me at the station, gave me the train ticket for London, some bad news, a warning, and a note.
“I have taken Mr. Meese’s check, Lovejoy. It must go toward your outstanding debts.”
“You’ve what? For God’s sake, debts are outstanding. It’s what debts do.”
“Also, Tinker informs me that four dealers lately have dealt with Mr. Shrouder. And here is a note concerning one such. Professor Desai. He is supervising an art activity today.” Frowning with concentration she gave me a photocopied page, a site inked in red. "This indicates Professor Desai's location. Making this photocopy from the commercial A To Z Geographia has not infringed the Copyright Act. .
I took my headache onto the train.
We formed a moody quartet at Tottenham Court Road tube station. Lorane walked her disdain on ahead while we three tried to keep up. Max the writer apologized for a hangover. Vance spoke, affably I think, in starts and grunts, only saying good morning or something. I had no real way of communicating and found myself talking back in the same like-wow stuff.
"Let’s move our arses, for Christ’s sake,” Lorane commanded. “Fortunes hang on this movie."
“Fortunes?” I asked, trying to be chatty. “How much does a, er, movie cost?”
"More than you’ve ever heard of. All that old lady’s wealth plus a bank or two.” And that was that. We made the British Museum main entrance in silence.
She shot us down the entrance hall, past a long thin bookshop, then into a wall door where a couple of blokes seemed to expectk us. Uniforms make me edgy. We don't get on. The last time I’d worn one people kept shooting at me. We were now two corridors
and three doors from the safety of the public galleries. Admin territory.
“Oliver Bracegirdle,” a cheerful man said, striding up and shaking our hands. "Security Officer Visitor Activity Liaison, SOVAL.” He laughed a regular laugh, ha, pause, ha, pause. He was tall and tweedy, brilliant teeth under a moustache, and looked very pentathlon-before-breakfast.
"Max, Vance,” Lorane introduced. “And Lovejoy.” She made me sound beneath contempt.
“Greetings.” Merrily he conducted us down drab corridors. “Photographs.”
Lorane flashed a plastic folder and Bracegirdle acknowledged her exemption with a ha, ha. “Registered!” he boomed. I realized he’d never yet spoken a word without a capital letter.
A fat bird photographed us conveyor-belt fashion and we filled in a form.
“Gracious! ” Bracegirdle exclaimed, reading over my shoulder. “What’s up?” I said, narked.
“Lovejoy Antiques, Inc, Bercolta, East Anglia.” He shook his head in admiration. "Proprietor?”
“He’s supposed to be an adviser.” Lorane withered me with a glance. "He came in a job lot.”
“Ah, telephone number . . . ?”
I reddened. "Er, well, the line’s down.”
Lorane snorted. Bracegirdle tutted sympathetically. “Just leave it blank, then. It’s unimportant.”
Miserably I stood to one side while Max and Vance were photographed. Lorane had as good as announced that I’d been cut off for nonpayment. And Lydia had nicked Meese’s check to waste on nonessentials. I was upset. I could do without Bracegirdle’s tact.
“Right!” The eager security man rubbed his hands. “Now. What’s the jolly old drill?”
“Lovejoy’s going to explore,” Lorane said, venom sweet. "While we look on admiringly, he’ll then tell us how to break in and rob your museum.”
“Splendid! Splendid!” Bracegirdle made his staccato hahas for a moment. Joke on the way. “Remember I’ve counted the Rosetta Stone! Ha . . . ha!”
Lorane’s flat tone mocked, “Where to, Lovejoy?" “Anywhere you like.” Antiques are antiques. Already the invisible radiation of the place had me walking on air. I only stayed on the floor for the sake of appearances. And they were making the bloody fi
lm, not me.
Lorane exploded. “You’ve been fucking paid, Lovejoy!” “Hey,” Vance said. “Save’n'rave, paisanos. Like-a ooze’n’- choose, compo?” Something like that. He made a slow flapping gesture.
“Vance the Prance, I agree.” Max pronounced the words ex cathedra, and that was it. With Lorane bound to disagree with whatever I suggested, I was outnumbered. Democracy had done it again. They stood aside for me to lead the way. I shrugged, not knowing what I was supposed to be doing.
“Fuss ain’t no wuss.” Vance sang the words.
“What did Horace say, Winnie?” Bracegirdle chortled. To my blank stare—maybe Vance was catching—he began explaining, “That was the catchphrase of an old radio ventriloquist.”
He walked with me. A bonny lass in the uniform of a security guard, her badge identifying her as Gabriella, trailed us, smiling pleasantly. I looked, but said nothing. Gabriella was the girl in Hereford magistrates court who had given me that tilted smile. Hell of a coincidence. I thought Lorane was unbending slightly as we started out into the lovely Greece and Rome galleries, until I heard a click from her shoulder bag and realized she was taping every cough and quip. Trust.
“I’ll perhaps begin by describing the layout, shall I?” Bracegirdle must have been a military man. He strode, easy and in command, uniformed attendants straightening as he hove into view. “The trouble we have with American visitors! Our ground floor’s theirfirst, you see? So—” he twinkled merriment—“if we all agree we’re on the ground floor! Now, think of a square building enclosing a rectangular quadrangle, and that’s the British Museum. The central quad’s now partly covered by Antonio Panizzi’s great
dome—the reading room. The rest is an exterior yard, of course, for services.” He paused, saw my uncertainty, smiled. “When you’re ready, Lovejoy.”
“Oh. Right.” I tried to look thoughtful while Lorane sneered. Naturally I felt a bit of a fool, promoted beyond my class, but strolled in the direction of maximum pull. It was difficult, what with wondrous antiquities all around bonging me almost insensible, but you have to start somewhere even with bliss. I soon forgot my companions and drifted on regardless.
The ground floor’s what used to be called antiques proper, artifacts from'1 the Old World as such, Rome, Greece, Egypt, Assyria, and the like. It’s spread now to include Western Asia, Islam, plus Southern Asia and areas that nowadays you aren’t supposed to call the Far East. The porcelain is magic, out of this world. As I went, I casually clocked the tall rectangular windows. Each had an expanding metal grid of the lift-gate kind, which is a pig to cut through without a ton of oxyacetylene. I smiled, remembering a time me and Eddie the Oil from Sunderland once tried to do a golf clubhouse near Blackpool for its display of ancient golfing silver cups, and . . . Bracegirdle’s steady eyes were in my way all of a sudden.
“All right, Lovejoy, old chap?”
“Er, yes, ta. All books down here, eh?”
“The British Library has rooms twenty-nine to thirty-three now. That’s the ground floor, right-hand side, from the front entrance. And the reading room, of course. Manuscripts, everything originals from the Lindisfarne Gospels to Shakespeare’s signature and the Codex Sinaiticus, in the Saloon.”
“Can anybody see them?” I already knew.
“Of course. Just walk through the King’s Library and you're there.” He was really proud. People milled about, families, crocodiles of school children, the lot. "The display cases are guarded of course. Plus inbuilt alarms. Maintenance of relative humidity’s vital, you see. Even for stamps—”
"Postage stamps?”
"Yes. George the Fifth was the world’s leading exponent of philately. Then the department of printed books has whole sections—maps, newspapers, music, official publications and philately—each with a separate library. Has to be, for efficiency. Ha . . ha! Can you imagine having to wade through sonatas and penny blacks to see Jane Austen’s handwriting? Ha . . . ha.”
You’ve got to hand it to the old BM. They’re pros. Whole sections were arranged as particular displays. The bronzes and terra-cottas from Rome and Hellenistic Greece, the development of writing, a temporary exhibition of coins and medals, the superb clocks in the subdued confinement of room forty-four, everything was a brilliant stage production unique to itself. Lovely, a delight.
Except for a custodian in uniform in every doorway and gallery. None was kipping. One or two were women. One or two walked to and fro. No information desk was vacant. All windows were gridded. Extra guards floated casually by the great Sutton Hoo treasure, looking our way as we ambled through. I smiled and said hello. They smiled and said hello. Well, hellos cost nowt.
But Lorane increasingly narked me. As we moved from the Chinese jade to the Ephesus gallery, from Roman glass to Nimrud ivories, she began making know-all remarks. “Lovejoy’ll know all about these,” and, "Tell us about this silverware, Lovejoy,” and "Lovejoy hasn’t said a word yet about these funny gold coins. Well, Lovejoy?” I don’t say a lot, best of times. When I’m being publicly ridiculed by neanderthals I’m just like Tom the cabin boy, saying nowt. Occasionally Bracegirdle tried to override her anger but even he gave up and merely ticked off the room numbers as we went along. We were given maps, explanatory booklets.
We must have walked through every public room three times before Lorane’s patience broke. Furious, she hauled me to a standstill facing her.
“All right, Lovejoy! What, if anything, do we get from your gormless meandering? We’ve wasted hours here while you’ve enjoyed yourself, grinning like an ape.”
"What’s there to say?” I was amazed. Visitors wandered by, looking at us with curiosity. We were by the steps leading down to the Chinese pottery from the map gallery.
“Perhaps we can use my office,” Bracegirdle said, less cheery now.
“No, Oliver! Let’s settle this here and now!” She was spitting with rage. Oliver, eh? So she knew him from yore. "I was against you being taken on from the very start! You’re dross, Lov’ejoy.” “Coming here wasn’t my idea, love,” I said, narked. I cast about for help but Max and Vance were missing.
“So you admit you’re useless! Right! Now we know exacdy where we stand, Lovejoy! I’ll tell Ray to strike you off.”
She marched away, heels stabbing the flooring. I ahemed apologetically. "Sorry, mate,” I told Bracegirdle. “You were great. It’s my best outing in years. I guess I’m not much of a communicator.”
“Never mind, Lovejoy.” He gave his giant grin. “It’s a pleasure to see somebody enjoy our exhibits so much.”
We began to stroll down the oriental collections, room thirty- four. “Hope it hasn't been a waste for you.”
“Certainly not, old chap. Security’s the game, what?” He sized me up. “Well? See any blind spots?”
“A little weak on Turkestan. And Maya, Inca antiques are so difficult to come by—”
“No. Security. Breaches in the defenses.”
That old thing. “Not really. You’ve got it all sewn up.”
He looked pleased. “Glad to have your views, Lovejoy, especially from one so experienced. Divvy chap, aren’t you? I can tell. It must be marvelous to have that facility.”
What? I came to. “Experienced?”
“With your record, I mean. Nothing wrong, old chap,” he added hastily. “Certainly no offense intended, or taken I hope. But having you give us the once-over’s like a jolly good security audit, what?”
I looked at him, possibly for the first time. This breezy bloke was no prat. “You dug out my record?"
“Apologies, Lovejoy. My job. Gabriella got a printout.” She was still trailing us, still smiling innocently. "But we’ll keep mum about it. Not cricket. Confidentiality’s the game, what?”
"Ta for that.” We went to the rear entrance, Islam and Japanese porcelain to the right, official publications and music libraries to the left. “If you see Max or Vance, tell them I’ve gone."
He pulled a tiny electronic thing from his po
cket and tapped it a couple of times. Gabriella, now by the entrance, came over immediately. “The two film gentlemen are waiting by the Great Russell Street entrance, major.” She carried a lookalike gadget. Major. I should have known.
“Thanks, Gabriella. Want to catch them up, Lovejoy?”
"No, thanks. I’ve a bloke to see near here. I’ll cut off.”
We made noises of pleasantry and farewell. I liked the look of Gabriella, and Major Bracegirdle wasn’t at all bad. I didn’t like their nasty little electricals, but they’d be no real problem. Anyway, burglars can’t be choosers.
The thing was, I now knew the world’s greatest and last impregnable museum was easy. I could go in and out like a fiddler’s elbow. Any time I wanted. Security or no security. I was enjoying this. Designer robbery, with the approval of almost everybody. Good idea for a film, or even a movie, no?
Oaf Desai. We call him Oaf because he’s bright but Lebanese and says “Oaf cowerss” even with denials. He teaches art, as if anybody could, which suggests maybe he’s not as bright as all that. I found him, as Lydia’s copyright map directed, in Bedford Square. There’s a shapely pavement at its southwest corner under the spreading giant London plane trees. I watched him for a while. He was making a wooden circular pit filled with heaps of slate. Actually, he stood idle while disheveled students plodded up a ramp discharging baskets of slate from a lorry, Chinese building another Yangtse dam. It palls.
"Wotcher, Oafie. Sculpture?”
"Oaf cowerss, Lovejoy.” He cut his smile and screeched abuse at a girl who’d cast her load too near the planking.
She burst into tears and ran behind the lorry to weep. Barmy, really, because the circle was a good twenty feet wide. An extra ton either end would have made no difference. I mean, a slate-filled pit is a slate-filled pit, but I knew better than say so. Artists and criticism don’t mix. The students trekked on, the lorryman shoveling slate into their baskets. He caught my eye. I knew what he was thinking.
The Very Last Gambado Page 6