Read Online They Do the Same Things Different There by Robert Shearman - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Shearman
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this, even this little slice of long past history, all would be swept away.
“It’s beautiful,” said Andy. “At painting, you’re. Well. Really good.” It sounded quite inadequate. And had Andy not known better, he’d have thought the demon in the picture rolled its eyes.
“I know,” said Miriam. But she wouldn’t look at him.
They didn’t know when the Curator came to visit. Only that another missive was sent one day, and it said that his inspection had been carried out, and that he was well pleased with his subjects.
They hoped that would be the end of it. It wasn’t.
The Curator’s final missive was simple, and straight to the point. He said that he thought the work of the gallery was important, but that the art on display wasn’t; there was only one significant year in world history, the year of his irrevocable triumph over creation—all the bits beforehand he now realized were just a dull protracted preamble before the main event.
He wanted to display 2038. And only 2038. 2038 was big enough, 2038 could fill the entire gallery on its own. All the other years could now be disposed of.
There were jobs going at the gallery, and everyone queued for them, man, woman, and child. And this time everyone was a winner, they
all
got jobs—really, there was so much work to do! The chatter and laughter of a billion souls in gainful employment filled the rooms, and it looked so strange to Andy and to Miriam, that at last the art they had preserved had an audience. They squeezed in—the gallery was packed to capacity—and yes, everyone would stare at the pictures on show, and perhaps in wonder, they’d never seen anything so splendid in all their lives—or maybe they had, maybe they’d lived the exact moments they were ogling, but if so they were long forgotten now, everything was forgotten. They’d stare at the pictures, every single one, and they’d allow a beat of appreciation, of awe—and then they’d tear them down from the walls.
And there were demons too, supervising the operation. So that’s what they looked like, and, do you know, they looked just like us! Except for the hair, of course, their long lustrous hair.
The people would rip down the years, and take them outside, and throw them on to the fire. They’d burn all they’d ever been, all they’d experienced. And over the cries of excitement of the mob, you’d have thought you could hear the years scream.
Once they’d destroyed all that had been on view in the public gallery, the people made their way down to the vaults. Miriam stood in her studio, guarding 1660 with a sharpened paintbrush. “You can’t have this one.” And a demon came forward from the crowd, just a little chap, really, and so unassuming, and he punched her once in the face, and her nose broke, and he punched her hard on the head, and she fell to the ground. She didn’t give them any trouble after that.
Andy found her there. She wasn’t unconscious as he first thought; she simply hadn’t found a reason to get up yet.
“This is all because of you,” she said. “You made me fall in love with you, and it drew attention. This is all because of us.”
And in spite of that, or because of it, he gave her a smile. And held out his hand for her. And she found her reason.
They went through the back corridors, past the hidden annexes and cubbyholes, all the way to his studio. 1574 was still draped over it higgledy-piggledy, January and December were trailing loose along the ground. Andy had never managed to learn even a fraction of the order Miriam had insisted upon, and for all that her life’s work was in ruins, she couldn’t help but tut. But seeing 1574 like that, less an old master, more a pet, it was suddenly homely and small, not a proper year, a year in progress—it was a hobby project that Andy liked to tinker on, it had none of the grandeur that the Curator was trying to stamp on and destroy. And for the first time, Miriam surprised herself, she
“It’s beautiful,” said Andy. “At painting, you’re. Well. Really good.” It sounded quite inadequate. And had Andy not known better, he’d have thought the demon in the picture rolled its eyes.
“I know,” said Miriam. But she wouldn’t look at him.
They didn’t know when the Curator came to visit. Only that another missive was sent one day, and it said that his inspection had been carried out, and that he was well pleased with his subjects.
They hoped that would be the end of it. It wasn’t.
The Curator’s final missive was simple, and straight to the point. He said that he thought the work of the gallery was important, but that the art on display wasn’t; there was only one significant year in world history, the year of his irrevocable triumph over creation—all the bits beforehand he now realized were just a dull protracted preamble before the main event.
He wanted to display 2038. And only 2038. 2038 was big enough, 2038 could fill the entire gallery on its own. All the other years could now be disposed of.
There were jobs going at the gallery, and everyone queued for them, man, woman, and child. And this time everyone was a winner, they
all
got jobs—really, there was so much work to do! The chatter and laughter of a billion souls in gainful employment filled the rooms, and it looked so strange to Andy and to Miriam, that at last the art they had preserved had an audience. They squeezed in—the gallery was packed to capacity—and yes, everyone would stare at the pictures on show, and perhaps in wonder, they’d never seen anything so splendid in all their lives—or maybe they had, maybe they’d lived the exact moments they were ogling, but if so they were long forgotten now, everything was forgotten. They’d stare at the pictures, every single one, and they’d allow a beat of appreciation, of awe—and then they’d tear them down from the walls.
And there were demons too, supervising the operation. So that’s what they looked like, and, do you know, they looked just like us! Except for the hair, of course, their long lustrous hair.
The people would rip down the years, and take them outside, and throw them on to the fire. They’d burn all they’d ever been, all they’d experienced. And over the cries of excitement of the mob, you’d have thought you could hear the years scream.
Once they’d destroyed all that had been on view in the public gallery, the people made their way down to the vaults. Miriam stood in her studio, guarding 1660 with a sharpened paintbrush. “You can’t have this one.” And a demon came forward from the crowd, just a little chap, really, and so unassuming, and he punched her once in the face, and her nose broke, and he punched her hard on the head, and she fell to the ground. She didn’t give them any trouble after that.
Andy found her there. She wasn’t unconscious as he first thought; she simply hadn’t found a reason to get up yet.
“This is all because of you,” she said. “You made me fall in love with you, and it drew attention. This is all because of us.”
And in spite of that, or because of it, he gave her a smile. And held out his hand for her. And she found her reason.
They went through the back corridors, past the hidden annexes and cubbyholes, all the way to his studio. 1574 was still draped over it higgledy-piggledy, January and December were trailing loose along the ground. Andy had never managed to learn even a fraction of the order Miriam had insisted upon, and for all that her life’s work was in ruins, she couldn’t help but tut. But seeing 1574 like that, less an old master, more a pet, it was suddenly homely and small, not a proper year, a year in progress—it was a hobby project that Andy liked to tinker on, it had none of the grandeur that the Curator was trying to stamp on and destroy. And for the first time, Miriam surprised herself, she
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