By midmorning the marble hall smelled faintly of polish and of the tiny cloth the attendant uses on brass. A tray of round glasses had appeared beside the ticket desk, each pair sized for a face that never blinks.
We asked at the kiosk on the steps. "I came for postcards," said a woman with a folded map, "and stayed because the general on the left was squinting at his own plaque. Once the lenses sat, he nodded as if the letters had finally introduced themselves."
A note on the rope, written in the keeper's neat hand, asked visitors to wait while each statue finished the caption. The guestbook already holds remarks such as "the lady in the cloak said good afternoon with her chin" and "please tell the horse it spelled its name correctly."
The next day the same tour returned, quieter this time, and several people nodded first. The statues, according to the keeper, nodded back a fraction sooner, as if practice had made them sociable.