A small, thin, elderly figure in a shabby charcoal suit and black raincoat stood by the glass wall, stooped beneath a huge black golf umbrella. His bald gray head was encircled by a white fuzz that suggested his barber was either wildly imaginative or long past caring. But, when they got up to join him, Alex saw his black eyes were sharp and watchful. The man studied them impatiently.

“Herr Morgenstern?” Kingdom said, holding out her hand. “Evelyn Kingdom, president of the Fishing Club. We spoke on the phone.”

The birdlike little lawyer made a show of turning away, lifting his runny red nose, and staring haughtily at the sky, as if he hadn’t heard her.

“Really?” Kingdom muttered. She traced a finger delicately over one eyebrow as if a migraine was taking root there. “Okay: Schattentor.”

“The museum closes in twenty minutes.” The man spoke in a high, brittle bark. He produced a large fob watch on a tarnished chain and shook it under Kingdom’s chin. “You have no conception of the value of my time. Who are all these people?” He flourished a pale hand without looking at them.

“They’re with me. I’m the president.”

“You are a very rude young woman, is what you are. But I have no time for this. Come.”

“Would you mind if we borrowed your umbrella?” Alex’s grandfather said.

Morgenstern looked horrified. He stepped toward the old man and drew himself to his full height, his dribbling nose now level with Alex’s grandfather’s chest.

“If you have the impoliteness even to ask, I don’t see how I can refuse.”

“Thaaank you. We’ll take good care of it.” The old man rolled the umbrella up tightly, then proffered it to Metz. “Not as good as a proper walking stick. But close enough.” Metz took it and gave the air a small, testing swipe before leaning on it like a cane.

“Come!” Morgenstern led them inside and across the foyer, over a dimpled rubber floor the same vibrant green as the frame of the high, rippling window. Daylight poured in like liquid, the collision of light and color setting the air singing with emerald hints.

They went through large white exhibition spaces. People struck curious poses to consider sculptures from various angles. Voices murmured. Phones clicked. A small semicircle of kids around five years old sat beneath a large abstract canvas, busily drawing with felt-tip pens, copying bright splotches of color onto big sheets of paper. Alex watched them with a pang. It looked like fun.

Leaning on their sticks, Alex’s grandfather and Metz walked together like mismatched mirror images. Metz limped slightly but moved easily enough with the aid of the umbrella.

“You feeling better?” Alex asked.