A white horse that appeared to have wandered out of another century stood grazing in a patch of sparse yellow grass on the little square facing it. The gallery building was encased in grey marble and resembled a mausoleum. You might have expected to find a displaced head of state embalmed in the window, instead of carved lattice screens inlaid with mother-of-pearl. To reach the window you had to clamber over piles of sand and broken brick. Construction appeared to have tailed off rather than come to a satisfactory conclusion, as if the builders had just lost interest. Despite this they were trying to preserve some sense of exclusivity. Chains prevented undesirable cars from blocking the entrance and a bored guard in a fancy uniform looked the Thunderbird over and decided to give them the benefit of the doubt. Tucked into the narrow gap between the next building were more leftovers: iron rods, timbers, more sand, heaps of broken breeze blocks and tiles, along with the tail end of a motorcycle: a yellow Yamaha.
