Little Hands Clapping by Dan Rhodes Page A

were the work of artists whose more successful efforts had afforded them some standing; as a result the exhibition had to be insured for a significant sum. After many phone calls, it had become apparent to Lotte that in order to keep the premiums at an affordable level the exhibition would have to be overseen at all times. Even though the paintings were to be hung behind glass screens, the companies still insisted that a minimum of one human being (extant) would be required to be on hand whenever the exhibition was open to the public. The airport was as secure as any other (every morning on the way to her office the pins in Lotte’s leg set off the metal detector and she smilingly yielded to the formality of the frisking), but even so it was impossible to find a policy, which did not include such a stipulation.
    As the exhibition was being set up she had stood in the gallery as an insurance broker, immaculately suited and as tiny as a jockey, set about explaining the finer details of risk assessment. ‘There can be no underestimating the wiliness of the art thief,’ he had said, taking his silk handkerchief from his pocket and lightly dabbing his forehead. ‘They appear as if from nowhere, and then . . .’ The handkerchief disappeared. He opened his palms to show that he wasn’t concealing it there. Lotte was delighted. ‘And, Miss, as you know, this is an international airport, and at any moment there could be any number of Norwegians passing through, which puts under-guarded artworks at enormous risk of being whisked away in an audacious smash-and-grab raid.’ He pointed at his breast pocket and now the handkerchief was there, but the next moment it was gone again. Lotte laughed. ‘But the Norwegians are not the only ones we need to be wary of. Maniacs from anywhere – from as far afield as Angola, or Ireland, or from as close as this very city,’ he made a circular gesture, ‘could come here with Cuban heels and mischief in their minds.’ He walked to the far side of the room, and his affable manner was abruptly replaced by bug-eyes and bare teeth as he took off his shoe and with a blood-curdling howl ran forward and mimed a Cuban-heel attack on the glass that had been put in place to protect a painting of the staggeringly plain wife of a nineteenth-century textile merchant. His was a handmade Italian business shoe, and his demonstration was executed so faultlessly that at no point did it touch the glass, but he was so convincing that Lotte agreed with no further discussion that the insurance companies were right. Cameras would not be enough.
    She decided this would be preferable anyway, because with somebody on duty at all times people would be able to ask questions about the pieces and receive informed replies. An advertisement for the positions of Gallery Attendant and Chief Gallery Attendant was placed in an appropriate periodical, and a small number of applications was received.
    The first appointee, the Gallery Attendant, was a keen graduate of an arts administration course, who had been looking for a foothold in a competitive profession. The next, nominally the graduate’s superior, even though barring a very small amount of paperwork their day-to-day roles were identical, was a man who had come with several years of experience, having moved from a railway museum in Prüm. He was quite an old man, and his long, grey fingers hung like stalactites from the sleeves of his funereal jacket.
    There was nothing to do but stand still. Normally the role of Gallery Attendant, or indeed that of Chief Gallery Attendant, will include answering questions about the pieces from the visitors or, more usually, directing them to the toilets, but here it was different. This being an airport, toilets were abundant and clearly signposted, and the works themselves invited little explanation, even the short paragraphs on the mounted cards seeming excessive under the circumstances. The keen graduate, exhausted by the