Chapter 17
Martin Mini furrowed his brow as he crossed London's smallest police station. He was on his way to the National Gallery. He had no idea why the advertisement had placed the interview there. It was a simple piece in the Daily Telegraph, titled 'Chief Architect needed, contact Arnol Fini at the National Gallery'. As he rounded King George IV's equestrian statue, he came face to face with the discoloured dome of the 'national' gallery. He gave a sigh, reminiscing the old times when buildings used to be built for centuries, not decades like they were done these days. The National Gallery was already sinking into the ground, and the once proud balustrades were being taken over by nature. He stepped inside. The damp atmosphere had him wiping his brow. The ticket counter was hard to find, and the information counter even more so. An iron haired lady stood behind the counter, counting cents. He cleared his throat. She looked up at him irritably. He gave a hesitant smile, "Madam, where would I find Arnol Fini?" Her irritation increased, and she jingled some coins. Getting the hint, he brought out a gleaming silver coin from his wallet. She barked, "Second floor, Hall 28! Now go!"
Sliding the coin towards her, he wasted no time in hurrying towards Hall 28. It was a huge hall, with wide windows all around. Oily paintings bubbled out here and there from peeling wallpapers. Looking around, he spotted a uniformed gallery assistant lounging near the portrait of a bored old man (someone called 'Léal Souvenir'). He hurried towards him.
"Sir, I am looking for, uh, Arnol Fini. Can you tell me where I can find him?"
The assistant pointed a lazy finger towards a group of people gathered around a portrait. Martin checked back, then said, "Whom among them in Arnol?"
The assistant looked at him weirdly. "Whom, or which? Your grammar sure needs some attention, sir."
Martin gaped at him, "Which? Arnol Fini is a man!"
The assistant obliged, "Oh yeah, and a coppery bent man at that, but he's a portrait all the same."
Martin took a moment to process his thoughts. Arnol Fini was a portrait, not a man. His heart clenched in fury. He had been scammed. He had half a mind to go back to the information counter and strangle a certain cruel and misbegotten hound. He was sure she had posted the advertisement, hoping to lure desperate jobseekers. But he had no proof, he reminded himself, his eyes watering. She had arranged her plot masterfully.
He made his way despondently to the offending portrait, more to pass the time than to do anything else. It showed an Italian man arranging affairs with a plump lady. It was disgusting. The man had a crooked look to him. He wore the finest clothes, had the most beautiful chandeliers turned towards his face, yet he made the devil look like an angel. The portrait hung above a plaque reading, 'The Arnolfini Portrait, by Jan van Eyck'.
He shook his head, then proceeded towards a neighbouring portrait. 'The Nativity at Night', it read. Passing his eyes over the dark scene, he turned away. Another one read, 'The Magdalen Reading'. It was a bit more cheerful, what with the Lady's illuminated soul and her soft looks put in the foreground. He nodded his head appreciatively. Giving the other portraits in the hall cursory glances, he moved to the next hall. It held several rich treasures. He was just backing away from a Robert Campin when he noticed a familiar face turned towards him. The devil in the flesh! Arnol Fini was staring at him.
The same crooked jaw, the same bent mannerism, the same wizened girth. He gasped.
Arnol Fini smiled at him and said, "You're hired, Martin!"
Arnol Fini reversed his glamour as he entered a side alley with Martin Mini. His crooked jaw gave way to a defined cheek, and his sharp gray eyes turned a burning emerald. Martin Mini gasped. He gasped again when a flaming bird appeared.