Row upon row.
Zeppy, Marbles, Buffo. No sign of him.
The faces stare out at me—deathmasks hiding the darkness.
“May I help you?”
I stop, stock still. I cannot see the source of the voice.
“Hello?” It is all I can muster.
“I asked if I could help you?”
A figure steps from between the dusty shelves. Thin, clad in black, and almost seven feet tall. Even from a distance, he looms over me.
“I am the curator here. We are not currently open to the public.”
“I am not the, well, I am, but.”
He takes a long, loping step forward and is almost upon me.
“If I could ask you to leave, madam.”
On the eave of the leave, his breath wafts towards me. I take a step back and begin fishing in my bag. My hand closes around it. Tactile. Cool. My fist rattles past other items as I withdraw it. A tissue crescent falls to the floor.
“But I have this?”
I unfurl my fingers from around the object.
“Where did you get that?”
“It was amongst my grandfather’s things. He was quite famous, I think. After the war.”
I offer the object. The stick giant takes it reverently, holding it up between thumb and bony forefinger.
“Come!”
He strides off into the maze. I break into a jog to maintain proximity.
“Here!”
He stops in front of more packed shelves. I skid to a halt.
Gently the curator places the ceramic egg onto an empty throne. My grandfather’s clown face beams out at me.
Giotto 1933 – ?
I look. “But that cannot be right. My grandfather only started in 1946.”
Angular, he peered down at me.
“And this egg, along with Giotto’s identity, was stolen in 1945.”
Is this some kind of joke?