Читать книгу A Head in Cambodia - Nancy Tingley - Страница 18

9

The last few days before the opening of the porcelain exhibition, I scurried from one task to another. No need to ride my bike to get exercise. And no desire to ride my bike, as the fall rains had arrived with a vengeance. At least here in the gallery, installing the bowls, plates, and ewers, I was able to stand still for a few moments.

“Relax,” Rag, the head preparator, said.

“Can’t, not even at the best of times.” But I tried. I uncrossed my arms and allowed my hands to dangle, my fingers like drooping leaves rather than knotted rope. But I couldn’t stop my eyes from swiveling around the room, making sure all was okay.

I spotted some masking tape where wall met ceiling and grabbed a ladder.

“What are you doing?” Rag asked.

“Masking tape.”

“We’ll get that.”