The Bernini Bust Read Free

run in an almost medieval fashion by a man used to having his every whim treated like a heavenly command, life can become well nigh intolerable.
    Not that Thanet bore any resemblance to the archetypal laid-back Californian even on his days off. Instead of the tall, lean, suntanned, jogging type the outside world is convinced lives in the area, Thanet was short, overweight, much given to highly formal clothes and was restrained to the point of neurosis. He was not one to waste energy on tennis or surfing; such as he had was divided equally between worrying and an almost fanatical devotion to his museum.
    For which latter occupation he needed money, and for that he needed to be appallingly sycophantic to the museum’s patron and owner. There is nothing unusual about this; all museum directors have to be sycophantic to someone, be it patrons, donors or boards of governors. It’s part of the job; some might say the most important part. And everybody else in the museum has to be sycophantic to the director. By the time you make it to the top, you are well practised in the art.
    Even for the practised courtier, however, Arthur M. Moresby II was a bit of a handful. It wasn’t just a question of telling him how wonderful he was; he knew that already. It was a given, like the sun rising, or the income tax form arriving. Rather, Moresby had whims. For a start, he was a businessman, and liked reality to be presented in terms of development concepts and budgeting proposals. Next he liked those around him to be lean, mean and hungry. And however ambitious Thanet might be for his museum, he was far from lean, could occasionally be mean, but was utterly hopeless at appearing hungry. It made him nervous, and the prospect of an encounter with the great man turned him into a chronic insomniac for weeks ahead.
    “I’m afraid I’m having to deal with several crises simultaneously at the moment,” he said in reply to the question, sneezed loudly, and whipped out a handkerchief too late. He blew his nose and looked apologetic. Allergies, he said. Martyr to them.
    “Really? I haven’t noticed any crises. By the way, may I introduce Senor di Souza? He’s arrived with your new sculptures.”
    The comment, innocent enough, clearly added another crisis to Thanet’s mental checklist. His brow furrowed mightily and he eyed di Souza with considerable alarm.
    “What new sculptures?” he said.
    This was more than di Souza’s ego could bear. Being ostentatiously ignored was one thing; at least that indicated people knew you were around. But to have Thanet appear genuinely oblivious of his existence was too much. In a clipped and stern voice, marred only by his limited English vocabulary, he explained his presence.
    Thanet looked even more irritated, although it appeared to be the content of the message, not the style of its delivery, which alarmed him.
    “That infernal man Langton again. He really has no right to cut across established procedures like this,” he muttered.
    “You must have known I was coming…’ di Souza began, but Thanet cut him off.
    “What, exactly, have you brought with you?” he demanded.
    “Three cases of Roman sculpture, provided by myself, and one case brought for Mr. Langton.”
    “And what’s in that?”
    “I’ve no idea. Don’t you know?”
    “If I knew I wouldn’t ask, would I?”
    Di Souza looked perplexed. All he’d done was arrange shipment, he said. He assumed it was other bits of sculpture.
    “It’s like trying to run a madhouse,” Thanet confided to nobody in particular, shaking his head in disbelief.
    “Do you really give your agents free run to buy things? What about my Titian? Did Langton buy that on a whim as well?”
    Thanet shifted from foot to foot, then decided to unburden himself. “It’s Mr. Moresby, I’m afraid,” he said. “He often decides to buy things on his own account, and instructs people like Langton to go ahead. Then they turn up here.”
    What he meant, and