I sought the phone number of the little gallery in the little town where Cousin Vera’s little creations could be had. I found no listing. My editor had long ago eliminated my off-the-beaten-path travelogues, but the gallery keeper didn’t know that. On a Friday I left the office after only a half day and drove north, hoping all the while that the gallery would be open.

I found it closed, permanently. A cold autumn rain began to fall as I stood on the sidewalk, peering into the showroom as though this would somehow alter its condition. Was I expecting the cold potted lamps to suddenly brighten, the showcases to fling back their dustcovers and once again be filled with Vera’s fetishes?

Like a petulant child I gripped the entrance handle and shook the door with violence enough to cause the little bell to rattle inside. Then I returned to my post on the sidewalk and tried to think of alternatives.

Had the day not been so gloomy I would likely never have noticed the light that went on in the second-storey window. But notice it I did, beaming like a small amber moon just above me. I took a few paces back and looked upward. The silhouette’s frame suggested that it was the gallery clerk. I waved and called “Hello!” and prattled something about being the newspaper writer.

The shape disappeared from the window. A few moments later it was standing in the little alley that divided the gallery from the organic bakery next door. My suspicion had been correct; it was the gallery owner. He was dressed in saggy pyjamas, a housecoat and tattered plaid slippers. The umbrella in his dirty fist was designed for a child.

“I wanted to ask you about Vera,” I told him after he showed no inclination toward speaking. “She’s my cousin, you know.”

He was unfazed. “The gallery is no more, I regret to say. I’ve nothing to sell you.”

I wiped the rain from my face and approached him. “Yes, I can see that. But I’m hoping you can call Vera’s representatives for me. It’s important.”

“No way to call them,” he said. He gave me a beckoning wave and started back down the alley from which he’d emerged. I followed him to a flimsy wooden door, which he pulled back. I squeezed into the tiny landing, holding my breath as the man latched the sad-looking door. “This way,” he said. I didn’t need to be told this, for the landing only had two exits: the alley door or the bowing stairs of wood so worn they were ice-slick. I climbed with care, for there was no handrail to aid me.