Escape from Atalanta

'I'm off for my lunch, Alice.'

'Okay, Mr. Gormley.' My secretary simpered vacuously at my back from beneath her bottle-blonde ringlets as I opened the office door. I couldn't see her expression of course, but I knew it would be there just in case I did actually turn around to look. She wouldn't want me to know what she really thought of me … what I'm sure they all thought of me, if the truth be told. I was short, rather tubby, almost bald, dull and boring. My body'd never had an athletic thought in its entire forty-five years, though the squishy bit inside my skull could play a mean game of chess if it ever got the chance, which was rare. Very few of my banking acquaintances … not friends, you notice … could play the game. I had no friends. I wasn't even friends with my wife. She was another error I'd made in my much-regretted youth and the twenty-two years we'd been together had ceased being joy after just two weeks and had rapidly progressed from awkwardness through outright dislike to the present state of complete disinterest. She had her bridge evenings, her tea-parties, her girls' nights out. Oh, I'd often tried to interest her in Manet or Bosch; to get her jiggling to some of Rameau's wonderful music and had once managed to persuade her to accompany me to a performance of 'The Magic Flute'. She'd gone to sleep halfway through the first scene and promptly proceeded to ruin everyone's evening by snoring like a styful of pigs, until I was forced to remove her by popular vote of those around us.

I usually take lunch at the Italian 'ristorante' in the pretty little cobbled square just down the road. Georgio makes a mean fegato, which I knew was on today's menu, thus I was about to stroll blithely past the art gallery next door to the bank when I made one of those split-second 'let's do something different for a change' decisions and went in. Maybe it was the reproduction of Uccello's 'St George and the Dragon' in the window which drew me – I'd seen the original in the National a few years ago and it had fascinated me; I'd always viewed it somewhat differently from the 'official' legend though, and sympathised with the princess who seems merely to be out in the garden taking her oversized pet for walkies, when along comes this busy-body knight and sticks the poor beast with his pesky lance. I'll bet she was livid.

I was pleased that this particular gallery-director apparently had an 'I'm available when you want me' attitude and left me to wander about alone and unimpeded. The place was bigger than it looked from the outside, containing an eclectic mix of works including sculptures and ceramics which I have to admit don't really get my juices flowing.

I'd just spent half a minute frowning at a Jackson Pollock consisting mainly of coloured blobs, wondering what on earth qualified it as 'art', when I felt a sudden stinging pain in the right side of my neck. Purely on reflex I clapped my hand to the afflicted spot, feeling something small and pointy before it spanged away from beneath my fingers and I lost it. I had to assume it'd been some sort of insect, because when I examined the tips of my fingers I found I was bleeding – not copiously, but enough to try rubbing a bit of spit on the area.

'Pardon?'

'Um … nothing … I think something bit me.'

'Ah …' He went back to his journal with a slight smile on his lips and it wasn't until then that I realised I'd let out an involuntary 'Ouch!'

Shaking off my minor wound, I'd sauntered to the front of the gallery and was passing the same small alcove on the way back, when stap me if I didn't get stung again! This time it got me on the lobe of the left ear, but when I felt the area, whatever had hit me was still embedded in my flesh. It was tiny; just big enough for me to tweeze between my finger-tips and tug out. I hurried over to one of the spotlights, pushing my glasses up onto my forehead to examine my find more closely with my occasionally advantageous highly-myopic vision. I used a judicious fingernail to work the object free of the already-clotting blood, peering at it in growing astonishment … it was a minuscule arrow, no longer than a quarter of an inch.

'Um … excuse me .…'

'Can I help you?' He gazed up at me through his affected-looking pince-nez, the same faint smile on his urbane features.

'I was wondering … do you have a magnifying glass I could borrow?'

'You'll find quite a good one attached to the wall beneath the miniatures … over there?' He indicated an alcove I'd not yet visited, returning yet again to his work when I 'Ah'd', nodded and smiled back.

I had no trouble locating the paintings he'd referred to and indeed, there was a large, oblong magnifier nestling in a red-velvet padded, gothic-revival wooden box, attached to it by a flimsy metal chain dangling from the handle.

My mystery object sprang to life under the powerful glass, what had looked at first like an oddly-shaped splinter now revealed to be quite a magnificent piece of art in its own right. I was sure it was gold, the shaft no thicker than a hair, the long, elegant point and the nock all minutely engraved with what seemed to be interwoven vines. There were even some leaves, almost too small to make out but almost certainly those of a grape. The fletching was beautiful, quite breath-taking; I was reminded of decorated fans, because each of the six sides appeared to depict a different rural scene. I was holding my breath, afraid to exhale lest I blow the exquisite little treasure off my finger. Sense finally reasserted itself and I put down the magnifier to feel carefully in my pockets for a piece of paper, eventually locating the shopping list Muriel'd thrust into my chest on my way out this morning. I tipped my lilliputian marvel onto the paper and very carefully wrapped it up before storing it away in my inner breast-pocket.

And then I started to think. Presumably, the first thing that'd stung me had been the same sort of projectile … and it had come from the right-hand side, not the left … but they were so small! What on earth was going on? It didn't take the intelligence of an Einstein to figure out that a cautious examination of the alcove the arrows had presumably originated from might bear fruit and almost as soon as I entered it, the source of the arrows seemed obvious. The far wall was dominated by a triptych depicting Diana, accompanied by hunting-dogs, firing her bow at a herd of leaping gazelles. The label below read: 'Copy by Eric Mondez of "Diana the Huntress" by E. Albertazzi. The original is in Buenos Aires City Museum. $2,500.' There were no other arrow-oriented paintings in the nook, though I did closely examine a rather dark jungle scene showing pygmies pursuing a group of chimpanzees, but they appeared to be armed only with clubs. I squinted as well as I could at the arrow visible in the picture; it looked remarkably similar to the one now nestled in my pocket, but I couldn't be sure. I needed that magnifier!

A leisurely meander back to the miniatures drew no sign of alarm from the director as hidden again from his view, I used just a minimum of force to detach the magnifier from its chain. I gritted my teeth against betraying squeals of metallic protest, but the links gave way with a barely-audible snap. I dropped the magnifier into my side-pocket and slowly made my way back to Diana, where a detailed perusal left me in no doubt whatsoever that the arrow in the picture was pretty much identical with the one I'd tugged out of my ear.

Which of course was ridiculous … quite impossible. I still had the frown on my face as I twisted the broken link back onto the metal eyelet screwed into the base of the magnifying glass and replaced it in its cosy box. I admit to feeling just the slightest bit guilty at my wanton vandalism, but justified my actions on the basis that the gallery had after all just shot me twice.

My frown gave way to gob-smacked amazement when I returned to the alcove with Diana in it, to find the main figure had moved! No longer aiming her bow at the deer, she had half-turned, her hand now somewhat enlarged by perspective, indicating something beyond the front of the scene. I blinked, and in a flash, she'd shifted again! Now she was almost facing me, her hand upturned, the forefinger almost life-size as it pointed straight at me.

I don't know why I actually contemplated doing it, but perhaps it was the memory of my lonely visit to Italy, where I'd gazed up in awe at Michaelangelo's iconic image of the hand of God giving life to Adam. I looked into her eyes, smiling at me across the painted boundary; at her lips, parted as if yearning for the touch of mine. Slowly I watched my hand reach out, my forefinger outstretched, straining …

'Er … I wouldn't do that if I were you.' I swiveled in panic to find the gallery director standing behind me, appearing totally relaxed, his arms crossed and with that enigmatic smile still playing around his lips. 'I'm afraid that's not Diana. The title's wrong … it's actually Atalanta, so unless you happen to have three golden apples about your person …'

'Why …' I was stuttering horribly, though my heartbeat was already slowing down. '…Why would I need three golden apples?'

'She'd challenge you to a foot-race. If you won, she'd be yours, but if she won, she'd kill you … and she always wins unless you've got the apples to slow her down.'

'She's so beautiful …' I turned to gaze once more at her beckoning finger, her naked desire.

'You're not the first to think so, believe me. It's lucky I happened past or you'd have been her fourth or fifth victim.'

'So I've had a lucky escape then?'

'I'd say so, wouldn't you?'

I found myself nodding amid the beginnings of a rueful smile. 'Pity, in a way. I could do with a relief valve.'

He looked at me calculatingly. 'What are you … accountant? Bank manager?'

'Oh dear … got it in two. Is it that obvious?'

'Married? She doesn't appreciate you?'

'What are you? Some kind of magician?'

'I'm right though, aren't I?'

'Yup …  spot on.'

He regarded me thoughtfully for a few seconds, then reached out to place his arm consolingly around my shoulders. 'You know; I don't think Atalanta's quite your type …' I found myself walking with him, deeper into the gallery as his arm urged me gently along; '… I'm not sure if you noticed our Tahitian section; I think some of the ladies over here might be much more your style …'