Free Little Hands Clapping by Dan Rhodes Page A

the real Pavarotti’s CDs will soar.
    The skeleton expert was no different. On arriving at the museum and being introduced to its proprietor and her husband, he was struck by the resemblance, and from that moment he could think of him only as Pavarotti , and of his wife only as Pavarotti’s wife . Her name had been eclipsed, to the point of being all but erased, by the extraordinary appearance of her husband.
    On being shown the spot where the exhibit was to go, the skeleton expert began to assemble the curtain that the museum had provided. The rail, which stood on casters, was similar to the kind found on hospital wards, but the fabric was thick and, in keeping with the task, black. Pavarotti’s wife asked him the usual polite questions about his occupation – How does one become a skeleton expert ?and Is it not frightfully harrowing work? but soon she was stuck for things to say. After a long silence she asked, ‘And when will the . . .’ She searched for the right thing to say. ‘When will the unfortunate materials arrive?’
    The skeleton expert gestured towards a blue plastic crate by his feet.
    Pavarotti’s wife had envisaged the bones being brought separately, inside a large wooden box borne by several solemn-countenanced gentlemen. She had assumed that the crate, casually carried in by the skeleton expert, had contained tools, and she was shocked to think that somebody who until the age of twenty-nine had been a person could end up stacked inside a modestly sized plastic box with freight stickers on the side. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Of course.’
    She wanted to turn and go, to find somewhere she could be alone and quiet, where she could remember the skeleton in happier times. Even though she had never known him she could invent these memories, and they would be real enough to her. She knew, though, that she would have to wait before she did this, that first she must be welcoming to her guest. She offered him a tour of the museum so he could find out more about the bones’ final resting place. She took him along the suggested route, gravely pointing out certain exhibits along the way. He had no idea what to think or what to say as she sat him down in the Tell Tale Signs room and played the short film that informed him of behavioural patterns to look out for in his friends and family ( sighing, looking unhappy, talking in a quiet voice, listening over and over again to sad songs ), and showed him around Room Six, Statistics , where he looked in silence at the scale model of Golden Gate Bridge, complete with its frequently updated neon display showing how many people had ended their lives there.
    When they got to Room Nine, Cults and Pacts , the old man was standing sentry in the far corner, something he only ever bothered to do when he knew he was likely to be observed by his employer. Pavarotti’s wife was electrified by his professionalism, and swelled with admiration as she saw in him the same qualities that had made such an impression on her the first time they had met, in the corner of the Concourse Exhibition Unit of Bremen International Airport.

V

    Lotte Meier was well-known in her home town for her red hair, her blue eyes and the freckles on her face. But more than anything she was known for her cheerful disposition. Everybody who came into contact with her felt their spirits soar, and found themselves smiling with her. That girl is a ray of sunshine , they said to one another. She even smiled as she did her homework, as she tidied her room, and as she made her way around the lawn every morning before school, scooping up her three pet Papillon dogs’ latest tiny piles of mess. Whenever her hockey team lost a match she would smile her way back to the changing room, thinking how much fun it had been and hoping they would do a little better next time.
    What a shame that this won’t last, people would think, that her infectious joie de vivre will diminish as she reaches adolescence , but when her