The door to the gallery opens abruptly. Two men come in and step determined towards me. Father and son, I thought. The older man is short and has a weasel look on his face. The younger man is tall and fat, with long hair and a double chin.
“Monuments?”, asks the older guy.
I look at him disoriented.
“Monuments? Small monuments?”, continues, looking around the gallery.
“What do you mean? What are you looking for?”
“Monuments. Small monuments!”
Clueless I look at the younger man hoping he’ll be able to give me a hand. He’s not. The only thing he does is to repeat after him:
He shoves his right hand in the pocket of his jeans and takes out his phone. Just then he seems to have remembered:
Everything makes sense now and I tell them we have no such things. We only do paintings. They turn around and go away with wide and resolute gestures leaving behind a whiff of vodka. Monument men these days are rather quaint.