"Yeah, it does."
I jumped; I hadn't realized he'd been approaching. "A memento of home, this?"
He nodded. "I used to go there a lot. That side of the building, you go in there and you're surrounded by different gift shops. They even have a separate one for kids. All cuddly toys and coloring books, that kind of thing."
"Not that you would ever buy anything from there, of course."
"Of course. I'm far too mature for that. There are stairs leading up to the art galleries and museum itself from there. Mind, I usually go in from the other side of the building. You know how us types like to get in through the back door." He winked and disappeared into the kitchen again, throwing a few words at me about the kettle nearly being boiled.
"And what's so interesting about that side?" I shouted back, trying to smother a laugh.
"Big staircase," came the reply. "You get to jump up to the main floors of the building and enter the museum itself instead of fighting your way through the touristy basement first. Why?" He stuck his head round the doorway. "What did you think I meant? Are you sure I can't get you anything?"
"Quite sure. I'll just carry on eyeing up your home town. To think, you said you'd seen more culture in a yoghurt pot. You're not doing it any justice."
"Okay, so I was joking. I know. Me; I'm normally so bland and humorless."
"And what about this...what the shit; they've got a giraffe in the atrium?"
Abandoning his kitchen duties for the moment, James sidled over and leaned against the wall beside me. "Duh. Where else are they going to put it?" As if it was the most natural thing in the world to have a stuffed giraffe in the entryway to a museum.
"And a Spitfire? Suspended from the ceiling?"
"I'd like to have seen the giraffe in the Spitfire. Okay, you'd have to open up the cockpit and shove its legs in, but it'd be a sight to behold."
"Looks like it is already," I commented, straightening up and eyeing a couple of other photos.
"Hey, I never said Glaswegian culture had to make any sense."
"I'm just glad you don't run the place."
"I'd be fired within a month. I'd have the taxidermy penguins fly-ing the spitfire and put that marble bust of Queen Victoria somewhere highly inappropriate."
"Why am I not surprised you --- Holy shit, is that what I think it is?"
One photograph on James's wall took my breath away. A painting of the crucified Christ, viewed from above, his face obscured by the angle and by his hanging-head posture.
"A Dali? Yes. Yes, it is. Been kept there since the early fifties, I believe. It's stunning in the flesh. Well, on canvas, I guess you would say."
"Wow."
"Good God, Texas; I haven't heard you so awestruck since you shot your load down the back of my throat."
"I can't believe you're being so crude while I'm looking at that painting."
"Is it the fact it's Christ that makes you feel guilty, or the fact Dali painted it that makes you feel reverent?"
"I'm not sure. I'll need some time to decide. Reverent, though? Very grand word."
"It's how I felt whenever I went to look at it." James cocked his head and stared at the photo, almost in his own world. "It's in its own little chamber, very small, with only two little archways for access. I liked having the room to myself. I could sit on the little bench in front of the painting and stare at it for hours. You get very relaxed in there. It's a dark room --- probably something to do with protecting the integrity of the paint. Like another world..."
We fell silent for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only a few seconds. James staring at the painting, or rather, the photograph of the painting. Me staring at James.
He obviously felt attached to his hometown, the city of his birth.
There was a huge pull there for him, I could tell, so I wondered why he didn't go back. Not that I was trying to get rid of him and I'd hate to see him go. At least, right that very minute. We had unfinished business between us to see to first, but I couldn't help wondering why he resisted that pull if he felt so fondly of the place. I wouldn't have gone so far as to say he seemed homesick, but he missed the place. He definitely missed it.
"You're free to have a wander round the rest of the place if you want."
"Oh, I'm..." I couldn't work out how to finish the sentence. Not that nosy? Not that bothered? I didn't want to appear dismissive but there was something in the thought of raking through his personal effects unsupervised that would make me feel invasive, like I'd stepped over a line. And it wouldn't matter that he had invited me to do so.
He seemed incredibly trusting. Maybe I had an honest face.
Maybe he had a black belt in judo as well as a gold star in cocksucking, so if I turned out to be a psychotic burglar, he'd be confident of handling me.
"So what do you..." I began, my voice trailing off when I thought better of it and tried to distract myself by studying the rest of his photos.
"Yeah?" He appeared in the kitchen doorway again, this time clutching a steaming Homer Simpson mug in both hands. "God, I needed that. I'm a caffeine addict."
"Should drink coffee then, shouldn't you?"
"Strip away my last vestige of Britishness, why dontcha? Anyway, what were you saying? You were about to ask what I...?"
"Oh, nothing. Nothing." I waved a hand in the air and it froze there for a few seconds, emphasizing my discomfort. I shoved both hands in my jeans
