04/03/2005

There is another opening in the museum tonight. I didn’t know. I wasn’t invited. I found out because I saw some nicely dressed people walking out at five thirty and I remembered the small army of workmen sweeping the courtyard this morning. That only happens when something special is going on.

I get angry, walk to the museum (20 metres) to hit the director on the head but he is faster then me and bows down to kiss my hand and apologize. In these things I’m old-fashioned. If somebody kisses your hand you can’t hit him. He even hugs me, and hugs me again and again. He must feel really sorry. He pours me some homemade wine -in Holland people have allotment gardens (volkstuintjes), here people have vineyards- and shows me the exhibition in person. It appears to be valuable material, on loan from Budapest. I remember the policemen banging on my window some night last week because the alarm went of in the Museum and they didn’t know who to call. I took their photo, four smiling men in black uniforms waiting for a nervous museum director to bring the key. No burglar was found, everybody went home, I slept sound that night. Why worry when the policemen are your neighbours and the museum nextdoor has far more valuable objects to choose from than you have? Although I’m not sure a thief would prefer paintings of hairy hungarian pigs to my computer. They were nice by the way. The paintings, I mean. And the policemen too.

The director offers me another drink in his office and invites me for anything he can possibly think of. The next opening in the town galery next wednesday, his vineyard, his winecellar, the rehearsal that evening of the local theatre company. He plays the role of prince. He will be wearing a fine costume and sing a beautiful song. I suspect from the look in his eyes he prefers being a prince to being a museum director.
It is tempting to go and see the rehearsal but I have other things on my mind. It does explain the kiss on the hand though.