Little Hands Clapping Read Online Free Page B

not be long before it too was to join the pile of rejects. He made a mental note to order yet another batch.
    When the fresh cut-out was in place, the old man moved on to the other side of the room, where the theme lightened. First came Brigitte Bardot, then Gary Coleman, Owen Wilson, Elizabeth Taylor, Halle Berry, Sinéad O’Connor, Vanilla Ice, Tina Turner and Tuesday Weld. It was no accident that these were the last exhibits on the suggested route. They were all photographs taken after their failures, the subjects looking straight into the camera and smiling – smiles which, as Pavarotti’s wife had emphasised time and again, they would never have smiled had their plans not gone awry. She called them smiles of inspiration . To her the museum was a prevention initiative, a way of dissuading people whose thoughts might be heading in the wrong direction, of confronting them with the reality of taking such a step. These photographs, she frequently explained, were there to remind their visitors that there is always hope, that they must hold on through the bad times.
    The old man felt his usual small surge of distaste at the sight of these faces, then returned to his apartment in the eaves, where he sat at the kitchen table, took a single cracker from a tin and put it in his mouth. He chewed for a while, staring straight ahead as his thin, grey tongue darted around his mouth, picking pieces from the gaps between his teeth.
    ‘Another pleasant morning,’ said Hulda at precisely nine o’clock, ‘although this could change later on. Who would be a meteorologist? Certainly not me. And not you either. No, you have chosen instead to go into the world of museums, and what an interesting world it is too.’ The one-woman cacophony continued as she walked inside and went to her cupboard. By the time she emerged, he was halfway up the stairs. ‘Are you looking forward to your weekly meeting?’ she called. He didn’t respond. She smiled to herself. As always on these days she would spend her ninety minutes checking that the entrance shone brightly, inside and out. She wanted to make sure she wasn’t in a far-flung room when Pavarotti arrived. Something about him made her feel light-headed, and she couldn’t stop herself from wishing that theirs was not a professional relationship, and that she could ask him if he had a brother, a brother who was like him in every way but who might be unlucky in love and still searching for the right girl. A sturdy girl, perhaps, who has been through difficult times but emerged a stronger person, always eager to see the sunny side of any situation.
    She opened the front door, stepped outside and breathed a light mist on to the brass plate, which she rubbed with her cloth. When she stepped back to inspect her work, her smiling face was reflected in the metal. She looked at the blue sky. At times like this it almost seemed as if she wasn’t going to Hell. She knew she was though, and there was nothing she could do about it. In the meantime there was plenty to be getting on with, starting with mopping the tiles in the entrance hall.
    At nine thirty the old man walked down the stairs to see Hulda greeting Pavarotti and his wife as enthusiastically as propriety would allow. He extended his hand to meet theirs, his fingers cold and dry in their fleshy grips. Hulda watched them go up to their meeting.
    By the time they reached the old man’s kitchen, Pavarotti was out of breath. Sweat had dripped into his thick black beard, and he dabbed his face with a handkerchief, which changed in moments from sky blue to navy. He noticed the old man’s eyes upon him. ‘It has been something of a busy morning,’ he said in his defence. His voice was thin and high, and seemed not to belong to him; it was nothing like the dramatic rumble that might be expected from a man of his appearance.
    They sat around the table. ‘To business, gentlemen?’ said his wife. She was short, and shaped like Queen Victoria, her