starving.
Then he thinks, our little frightened man. He has the keys to the museum. But tourists don't come any more. No coaches full of camera-toting holidaymakers. His bosses are in Geneva or Acapulco. Desperately hoping to get paid, though, our little bloke still trudges in each day, unlocks the museum, crouches in the dust guarding his country's ancient treasures.
He's never felt so alone, so desperate.
He ponders. Inside, there's a ton of artefacts. Educated strangers travel thousands of miles to visit his shabby museum. They take photos with their expensive cameras, admiring the old-fashioned things.
What do these visitors admire? Why, one item especially: some manky old terracotta thing. It's a head, its features long, the chin showing a tufted beard, braided hair and tight, squarish ears. It wears a terracotta necklace and seems to be looking askance.
Now, our little man squatting in the dusty doorway wouldn't give the thing the time of day. Also, aren't these old tribal statuettes ghostly?
Then up comes a bloke, perhaps the only visitor our doorman has seen since the troubles began. What ho, says the foreigner, can I see your museum? The little custodian's pleased. Maybe this stranger's arrival heralds a return to normality – wages, food, buses running again! Certainly, sir, in you go. Hoping for a tip, he eagerly shows the feller round. This conversation occurs:
Visitor: What a beautiful statuette!
Doorman: Foreigners admire it. It is old.
(Now, our little geezer thinks it's crud. But who is he to disagree?) Visitor (sighs): My father has always wanted one. Unfortunately he is ill.
Doorman: I wish him better, with God's help.
Visitor: If only I could show this to my sick father! I would pay x dollars / euros just to borrow it for a week.
A gremlin alights on the doorman's shoulder and whispers how wonderful it would be.
All that money! Who would know?
A week later, an unbelievably rare antique terracotta figure, such as this one from Nok in Nigeria, makes its appearance in London's showrooms and is sold for umpteen thousand. These figures, incidentally, look like nothing on earth. Mirthless, lips slightly agape, eyes triangular, necklaces of the same dulled earthenware. Yet one in pretty tatty condition will buy you a freehold townhouse.
This Quay Theatre piece was from Nok. I suppose I've made it sound really neff, but it's not. There's a plateau in Nigeria called Jos where these figures were made two thousand years ago. Collectors go mad for them, and pay fortunes. Why? Because they're the only real evidence that sophisticated sculptors were there that long ago.
Sombre, almost menacing, they're not the sort of art you'd want on your sideboard, but dealers will kill for them. African travellers bring them into London, Munich, Zurich. Our dealers say, 'Netting Hill for illicit tribals.' They're not wrong.
'Whose is this, love?' I managed to get out.
She was smiling. 'I haven't the faintest notion, Lovejoy. I know Dad used to have one, but his was even uglier.'
The brigadier? One swallow doesn't make a summer, yet if his syndicate could display a Nok head with such cavalier abandon, unguarded in a foyer, it was a message, and such a message. No wonder the Countess wanted to supplant them. It was a sign to the knowing – look, see what we can get hold of any day of the week.
'Coming,' I said. I wanted to stick with her now. Obediently we went to watch the most dreadful concert of all time.
When it started the awful music made me nod off. The audience thinned, I noticed, many choosing not to return after the tacky excitement of Sandy's arrival and my actors' phoney antiques thrills. The songs were dross.
My mind kept going over what the Countess said. I was to help her, instead of the syndicate. She'd control the import of antiques. It was all the same to me. One tyrant's very like another. The only difference was that I'd get passion as a bonus from the Countess, not Maud. Promises, promises.
Maud sat with me in our grand box, everything going her way.
Several times I caught her looking at me with a frankly misty gaze, edging towards passion. She held my hand, even brought my arm round her. We were safe from gossipy eyes. We had champagne, too. I didn't touch mine because it gives me belly-wark. I'm lucky to be too poor to buy it. To please Maud I pretended to sip.
The singers came and went, warbling, wavering, shrilly vibrato up and down scales nobody but a deranged composer could love. The audience slyly began to drift faster. It was pretty poor. The orchestra had been replaced by a dud pianist. While some old dear screeched out a Britten piece I found my mind trying to work out the cost. Why the heck pay good money – if there is such a thing – for this sham?
I'm not keen on gelt. No, honest. I really do believe we think too much about it. Once you've got enough for bread and cheese, money's not a lot of use unless you're up to something. Maud was on fire. Her eyes met mine, ablaze with fervour. Was I worth all that?
Worry must have shown in my face because she leaned close to whisper, 'Don't worry, Lovejoy. We were meant to be.'
Between songs, I could hear the faint babble of some gathering in the ante-room.
Possibly the orchestra and departing singers, leaving for their respective boozers. As the boring show ground on, though, the distant hubbub dwindled, until finally it too fell silent. The steam went out of our entertainers' performances. The audience drifted ever faster.
Sandy must have persuaded Brig's syndicate to stump up the money. It must have cost.
The great swan barge, the dancers, slaves and slavettes, torch bearers, the fireworks.
Not to mention the professional orchestra to start the proceedings. And decorations cost a pretty penny. I badly wanted to see Quaker. He'd tell me. If it was the brigadier's syndicate, the problem would be that much
