To think that this place had once been one of the most sophisticated venues in town, she thought. It had been a place of joy and happiness. Her father used to bring her there as a child to meet the artists and discuss their paintings with them. He had not been an artist himself, but an amateur rather; a connoisseur. She had listened to their conversations about colours and forms and meanings, barely grasping what they talked of. She regretted now that she hadn’t paid more attention. Fifty years later, the centre had long fallen into ruin. One or two of the original walls remained with here and there fragments of murals as poignant memories of former glories. The destruction had begun during the war and subsequently continued through neglect: not just the venue had been lost but the artists too and her father with them. With what remained of her right hand she pushed the tiny lever of the steering mechanism of her wheelchair and trundled back the way she’d come, not wishing to see any more.