The Night Curator – Part 2: Inventory

The inventory took three hours. She listed his errors from a folder she had assembled herself, in the dry formal language of a collections report, and each was delivered in the same unhurried voice. She made him stand, kneel, hold still, answer. She tapped her pen on the folder when he hesitated. She corrected his posture with a finger under his chin and his tone with a pause that stretched until he wanted to confess to anything.

None of it was cruel. All of it was exact, and absolute, and he felt himself loosening under it like an old knot. Every half hour: "Do you wish to continue, Mr Hale?" "Yes, Dr Voss." "Say it clearly." "I do. Thank you."

Late in the night she led him to the storeroom among the plaster emperors and had him kneel at her feet, silent, while she finished a coffee and a page of notes. The great pale faces looked down. The old building ticked and creaked.

At two, she closed the folder.

"Closing," said Beatrix.

It was her word, and she spoke it with a smile. The coat came off. She sat on a packing crate and pulled him against her shoulder, her chin resting on his head.

"How are you?"

"Catalogued," said Jonas, and laughed, and wiped his eyes. "Properly."

"Good. You were beautiful." She stroked his hair. "Would you like some tea? There is a flask in my bag."

"Please."

They sat in the storeroom with the plaster emperors, drinking tea from the flask lid, her feet in his lap.

"Next quarter?" said Jonas.

"The museum has a very strict collection policy," said Beatrix. "I shall be reviewing yours."

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