Little Hands Clapping by Dan Rhodes

only in person, but also on paper. In her application she said it would be her intention to ensure that the departure area of Bremen International Airport became known not just as a hub of transportation, but also as a hub of cultural activity, a pleasurable and enlightening experience rather than just a waiting room. Although she was by no means alone in this approach, something about her application sent it straight to the top of the pile. The recruitment panel looked at it, then at one another, and nodded. She was called in for an interview, and before she even opened her mouth she had secured the position.
    Two weeks later she started work, and by her first coffee break she had got to know her colleagues and organised her desk, and begun to implement her plan. A press release was sent out, announcing that an art gallery was to be established inside the departure area. Everybody who read it found themselves thinking, What a wonderful idea .
    She spent her days sending letters to various public galleries and private collectors with the intention of securing loans of paintings. Until these letters arrived none of the recipients had any idea that they would be interested in helping to consolidate the already healthy reputation of Bremen International Airport , or showing the world that Bremen is more than just the home of Beck’s beer and the birthplace of Hans-Joachim Kulenkampff , but something made them want to do their bit. Everybody who was able to responded with offers of loans, but even so they would only part with works that they wouldn’t miss. Across the land curators scratched their heads and said, Well, we do have that early Mühlberg in storage, the one he painted before he really found his feet , or, We could send her that Rohlfs – the one he disowned because he didn’t deem it up to scratch . In large private houses a typical conversation between husband and wife would find them agreeing that the faint sketches by Ernst Deger that had been hanging in their downstairs lavatory for some years had attracted very little comment from their guests, and that it would be nice to let other people enjoy them for a while.
    As each piece arrived Lotte would see only the good in it, and her face would be a picture of delight. And so it was that the Concourse Gallery of Bremen International Airport amassed a collection of pieces of quite stultifying mediocrity.
    At the press launch the critics found themselves smiling back at Lotte, and telling her how much they were enjoying the exhibition. In the moment this had not been a lie, but once they had returned to their apartments and switched on their computers they were unable to recall a single point of merit in anything they had seen, and they stared for hours at blank screens. They tried to write down their feelings, but every time they were about to begin, Lotte appeared in their minds’ eyes. Across the city, and farther afield, fingers froze on keyboards. They knew they couldn’t commend such an exhibition, that to do so would damage their reputations, possibly beyond repair, but at the same time even the hardest-nosed among them knew that they could never live with themselves knowing they had brought even a moment’s sadness to that smiling face.
    Planned double-page spreads were abandoned, and mentions of the exhibition were relegated to short entries on listings pages, saying things like, Bremen International Airport will be displaying various artworks inside its terminal building. Lotte overlooked the bland neutrality of these pieces, and was delighted with the coverage. Once the ribbon had been cut by the mayor, people with time to spare before boarding would see the sign, and go in, and wonder what it was in these pictures that they were supposed to be looking at. And while they were doing this they would be watched by a pair of eyes belonging to an old man, his face a deathly grey.
    The pieces, for all their absence of life, were old and unique, and some