The Secret Songs of D.C. Silverenn

| 25

I always like looking at modern architecture. It's so effortlessly stylish, like the women that shop in Sephora and Nordstrom. That's what I expected when we pulled up to the Solar Lacquer Art Gallery, a bright building with angular sides and plenty of glass windows.

Instead, the museum looks like the remains of a giant, crumbling mansion, situated amidst shops in similar states of decay in downtown Cabbage Edge. The mid-morning sunlight does little to brighten the dull, off-white exterior.

"You'd think some of the artists might chip in and help restore this place," I mumble.

"They probably don't care," Emi says. She parks in one of the three empty parking spaces allotted to the museum along the two-lane road. "After all, I'm sure many of them have been dead for a long time."

"The building is rundown enough to bring back Picasso," I say. "He wouldn't want his prized handiwork to live in a dump."

"It isn't a dump. This place has historical intrigue. I was reading about it last night."

"Turn it into a tourist attraction then." I turn around, glancing at the vacant parking spots behind us. The place doesn't draw much attention.

"What else do you think an art museum is? Personally, I think it's a smart use of space."

Her car door opens, ending the conversation. I jog up several levels of cracking steps, passing by pillars that look like they'll crumble under the weight of a stone awning stretching overhead, to reach a rounded, wooden door. Emi locks the car, tucking her keys into the pockets on her linen, cornflower blue pants, and trails behind.

With every step, I'm grateful that I purchased a pair of sneakers, as well as the golden, houndstooth pants that match the laces. The clothes Emi and I are wearing were just too cute to pass up. Besides, we couldn't wear the same clothes every day. That'd be weird.

At the door, entry costs twenty-five dollars per person. It's a steep price, yet Silverenn's treasure is probably worth far more. Probably. Every so often, I must remind myself that it really will be worth it, that it's not some prank orchestrated by a mob boss.

After we pass through a metal detector and Emi shows that the only metal that set off the alarm was her keys and phone, we enter a large, circular foyer. Corinthian columns rise every few feet around the rooms circumference, connecting to the golden, arched ceiling. Two women sit at the information desk in the center, one on the phone, the other scrolling through her computer. A security guard stands at the opening of a hallway, and beyond, a tour guide discusses the significance of a sculpture composed of metal scraps.

Aside from the staff, few people seem to be visiting the museum. Behind us, a woman in a short, gray dress enters the museum, wearing a matching, gray blazer overtop. Her heels clack on the floor as she crosses the room to look at the architecture.

"What should we do first?" Emi whispers.

I shrug, then approach the front desk. "Hello, would an artwork called 'On Route to the Bay' be here?"

The woman looks up from her computer and smiles. "Hi, I'm actually new here so I'm not totally sure. Let me check for you. You said the name was..."

"On Route to the Bay," Emi repeats.

The woman's fingers reach and stretch for keys in rapid succession, then pause, scrolling through results. She frowns at the screen. "I'm sorry, but I'm not seeing anything with that title. Do you know what type of artwork it is, or what period it was created?"

"No."

"That's unfortunate. Aside from special art exhibitions, which arrive here every few months, all of the works are organized based on their type."