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came up well in print, and his cheeks still bulged with chipmunk amiability, but the good fairy of middling high office had scattered ashes at his temples and given him slightly more chins than were absolutely necessary. His heart remained where it had always been, though. Marginally to the left of centre, and closer to his stomach than his brain.
    â€˜This will mean some changes, of course,’ he said.
    I popped the tab off my can and waited for the bullet. Agnelli’s gaze loitered in midair, among the dust motes playing in the beams of sunlight, as though they might offer him the right form of words.
    â€˜Tell me, Murray,’ he said, at long last. ‘What are the Arts?’

This was very disheartening. Why go through the pretence of having me fail the job interview? I sucked on my can. Bitter, beer, but fortifying.
    Agnelli’s question, it turned out, was entirely rhetorical. He didn’t want my opinion. He wanted an audience. The axe was too brutal. There must needs first be a little armchair philosophising. A deep and meaningful on the complexities inherent in public intervention in the cultural sector.
    â€˜Let me bounce this off you,’ he said. A little bouncing before the big bounce. ‘The Arts are the measure of how far we have come and how far we have yet to go. A resource to be developed, an economic as well as a social asset. When I hear the word culture I think excellence and I think access…’
    I wasn’t sure where this was going, but at least he wasn’t reaching for his revolver. ‘Not bad,’ I shrugged. ‘Bit vague.’
    â€˜Then you’d better sharpen it up for me,’ he said.
    â€˜You want me at Arts?’ I must have sounded a little incredulous.
    â€˜If you don’t mind.’ Ange had a way of making you feel like it was your decision, even if he was making it. ‘For the time being. Until things settle down.’
    â€˜And then?’
    â€˜And then we’ll see.’ No doubt we would. If, he was making it clear, I didn’t botch it.
    So, here I was, my fortunes again leg-roped to Angelo Agnelli. Less than a minute before, I’d been merely apprehensive about my future. Now I had real cause for concern. ‘I’ll line up a departmental briefing, then,’ I said, by way of acceptance.
    â€˜Fine.’ Ange tossed his can at the waste basket, scored. ‘You know Lloyd Eastlake?’
    I shook my head. ‘Should I?’
    â€˜He chairs the Cultural Affairs Policy Committee.’ In theory, policy committees shaped the party platform and guarded it from the expediency of ministers. In practice, they were ineffectual talking-shops and magnets for inconsequential schemers. That did not mean, however, that due lip-service did not need to be paid. ‘Bit of a mover, from all reports,’ Agnelli said. ‘Well connected in the unions. Not factionally aligned. Seen quite a few arts ministers come and go.’ That wouldn’t have been hard. The arts ministry changed hands more frequently than a concert pianist with the crabs.
    â€˜There’s some sort of art gallery thing he’s invited me to this evening. The Centre for Modern Art.’ The policy committee chairman wasn’t wasting any time cosying up to the new minister. ‘Reckons it could be a good opportunity to start developing links with the cultural community.’
    â€˜Could be,’ I agreed tentatively. No skin off my nose what Agnelli did with his Friday nights.
    â€˜I told him I couldn’t make it, got a family function it’s more than my life’s worth to miss.’ In other words, he planned to spend the evening on the phone, doing his factional arithmetic, figuring out where his esteem in the eyes of the Premier had turned to water. ‘I told him you’d represent me. Standard booze and schmooze, you know the drill. He’ll pick you up in front of the National Gallery at