Z snorted and headed towards the nearest painting, out of which, contemptuously protruding his lower lip, some arrogant Spanish nobleman was looking at them. However, as soon as Z approached him, the respected seignior threw his arrogance far away and began to act.

Apparently, they fed that seignior rather poorly as, having come to life, he began to work out his daily bread so zealously that he almost fell out of the frame. Waving a pack of underwear, he leaned forward to meet the customer, risking losing his balance at any moment.

“Underpants!” he cried out in heart-rending voice, his dark Spanish eyes blazing with gloomy, mad fire. “Uno pair — uno credito!”

“Are they, at least, men’s?” Z was interested.

“Men’s?” The Spaniard stared at Z in woeful disbelief. “No, senor, a thousand times no! Why men’s! These are divine underpants! Apollo himself would hang himself from envy looking at such underpants! Ah, senor, what am I saying! These are not underpants at all. This is a pure work of art, like everything here in the museum.”

Out of habit, he puffed out his lower lip for a moment, but at once caught himself and stretched his mouth into a wide, rubbery smile.

“Underpants! Senor knows not what he is saying. These are not underpants! This is the armor of the modern male. This, if you will, is a scabbard for his natural weapon. A faithful squire. Sancho Panza. And only for uno credito. Dos creditos for three pairs. It is nothing for such underpants! You just put them on and you forget about them forever. Then, they do everything themselves. Never get dirty, never crease — they just exude the aroma of roses, provide round-the-clock hygiene of your intimate places and vigilantly monitor your health, instantly informing you about any problems at the earliest stage of their manifestation.”

“Really?” Z asked, highly impressed.

“The gospel truth, my precious senor. In addition, each pair has a lifetime warranty. This material does not stretch and is not torn. These underpants will serve you forever.”

“Just think of it!” Z was surprised. “Its very convenient. Just recently I had a funny case with …”

And Z, not paying attention to the apparent impatience of the Spaniard, minutely immersed him into the details of a sad incident he had recently got into.

“It’s monstrous,” the seignior readily agreed, desperately struggling to fight a yawn. “Had you used my product this would never happen.”

“Do you guarantee it?” Z asked, staring at the Spaniard searchingly.

“Senor!” the latter cried out indignantly.

“Fine,” Z decided. “I will take two pairs. Where can I …”

He did not finish, as the seigneur all of a sudden showered him with a loathing glance and froze in a picturesque pose, his proud chin raised towards the ceiling. Fairly surprised, Z tried to rouse him: he called him, was waving hands in front of his nose and even, to the great displeasure of the keepers, was tapping with his finger on the glass covering the canvas, but all was in vain. The seigneur was immovable. He was no longer talking or shaking the underpants — he only drilled Z with a fiery, hateful gaze. Eventually, Z shrugged and, frustrated, backed away from the canvas. At his third step, the seigneur came to life once more and, snatching up his goods, rushed to the frame. “Underpants!” he cried out in heart-rending voice, his dark Spanish eyes blazing with a gloomy, mad fire. “Uno pair — uno credito!”

The same happened with all the paintings in the museum. You could admire them from afar as much as you wanted, but once you approached them, the image would immediately come to life, and return to the original only at the end of the two-minute period set for the commercial and negotiations.

The statues, placed in the center of the halls, were a bit less intrusive, silently and patiently demonstrating their goods. The men were mostly dealing socks and underpants and were dressed accordingly. Women demonstrated swimwear and underwear. Kids irrespective of their age paraded in diapers.

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