Angelo consulted his notes. ‘Continuity for sustainability, I liked. And the legend bit, definitely something there. But this is a good-news speech, sir. Good news always takes at least seventy per cent fewer words to deliver than bad. I’ll get going on something straight away.’
The president stood with his back to the room, looking beyond the balcony to the Piazza Rosa. ‘Angelo. Something’s troubling me. I’m relatively new to this game and I understand that Feraguzzi has been running the economy well for a long time, against considerable difficulties, many of which were not of his own making. And I understand, too, that in comparison to our neighbouring countries we have probably fared better than most. But I’m wondering, Angelo, if it all stacks up.’
‘Stacks up how, sir?’ Angelo came to stand by Sergio and joined him in his appraisal of the view below, understanding that the trickier conversations were always much easier to broach without eye contact.
‘The numbers. Do they add up? If we’re not importing anything, and we’re going to sell everything we’ve got, and all we’ve got now is tea, what are our people actually going to live on?’
Angelo rifled through his mental store of justifications and rationale, supplied with such ease by their American consultant. ‘I suppose, Sergio, it comes down to ambition and desire, whether those things exceed or fall short of our needs and expectations.’
Sergio wanted answers not conjecture: ‘Our needs? But we’ve never needed anything. We’ve always had enough.’
‘Enough?’ probed Angelo.
‘Yes – enough food, enough tea, enough of everything. We’ve always been able to satisfy our needs without help from anyone.’
Angelo thought about this and tried to remember the consultant’s arguments, which had seemed so compelling, so urgent, at the time. ‘It’s not very fashionable, I mean on a global level, to simply sustain yourself. It seems that by trading and entering into import and export contracts with our neighbours our world standing might improve.’
‘But do we need our world standing to improve? Our neighbours don’t think ill of us – they don’t think of us at all. And that’s always been fine, hasn’t it? Being ignored by the rest of the world has actually served us quite satisfactorily. And, anyway, why do we need more? Whom do we offend if we’re satisfied with enough?’
‘I don’t know the answer to that, Sergio. I think we feel a duty to our people to aim higher, to be more ambitious for them.’
Sergio hesitated. Then: ‘I’ve always been interested in the notion of trade, of commerce, Angelo. It seems that the obsession the world has is whether we can ever have enough money to spend. And if we haven’t, how to get our hands on more. But it’s surely no coincidence that the English verb “to spend” can only be applied to the using up of two resources. Money and time. And we can choose how to spend both of these, can’t we? My concern, if I’m honest, is that we could find ourselves in pursuit of money to spend while finding that time is diminishing at an equal rate. We’ll all be working so hard that we won’t any longer have time to do anything else. We’ll have spent it all on the acquisition of money. And as we know that money can buy you pretty much anything but time, is that what we want for our nation?’
Sergio thought quietly for a moment, the puzzle clear in his eyes. ‘And I’m still left wondering, Angelo, what we’re going to live on, if all we’re growing is tea and we sell that to another country. What will we eat?’
Angelo paused. He had a fairly good idea, as he was no different from many of the people who lived in the valley. He had a mother and a brother under his one roof and a table to fill each evening and morning. But supposition in this scenario was not remotely appropriate. ‘I’ll make some enquiries, sir.’
Sergio nodded, giving the outward appearance of a man who had been appeased.
CHAPTER 8
In Which a Protestation Is Made
Sergio was in his private chambers, writing quietly while the rest of Parliament Hall slumped in May’s debilitating afternoon sun. With the hours of siesta well under way, all was quiet both inside and out and, apart from the rattles, creaks and groans provided by the state apartment, Sergio was able to enjoy something very close to silence. His breathing had begun to steady and he was forcing his mind to concentrate on the speech he was preparing for his State of the Nation address.
This speech, as Angelo had indicated, should have been easy. He had good news to deliver, the country had met the challenge made to it by the American consultant and, though he knew that many of the men, particularly those of the land, had always doubted the outcome, he felt that on the whole he had taken them with him, that this had been a cohesive effort of which the whole country could feel proud.
But concentrating on writing a positive speech was hard when your subconscious mind was gripped by grim dread. Whichever technique he employed, nothing could shake the feeling that he was teetering on the brink of unmitigated disaster. There was something amiss in the angle at which his minister of finance sat now at assembly meetings. The silence had continued too long after siesta when it should have been broken by children’s laughter or the impromptu playing of music in the Piazza Rosa. Even the weather conspired to unsettle him. Vicious electrical storms and relentless rain showers were followed by the hottest, angriest sun that melted the mettle of everyone in the country. It was shining once again, and its long rays were making inroads into his chambers, picking out the faults and highlighting the dust at play in the air and the loose threads that threatened to unravel the carpet.
Sergio’s large, mahogany desk reflected his mood. Sometimes it glowed, proud of the part it played in the presidency, and at others it was a tired piece of timber wearing the many scratches and scuffs that Sergio’s own face bore as thanks for the responsibility he carried.
Now, his pen lid replaced with a deafening click, Sergio’s head sank into his hands as the dark knot took hold deep in his belly. He could actually visualize it when he closed his eyes: something black and tumorous, always on the move. Growing and spreading to tighten its grasp on the arteries and veins that fought valiantly against its slippery, superior force. He sighed deeply, knowing that the words would never flow when he was fighting this kernel of anxiety, and rose to retrace the most worn path in the carpet to his favoured position at the window. Today he was looking for something definitive out there, a positive sign that hinted at even the tiniest glimmer of hope.
Instead, he had to blink a couple of times to try to banish the image below him. When the mirage persisted, he rubbed his eyes and even backed away from the window, then approached it again in the hope that what was, surely, a sunspot caused by the extremes of light and dark would have vanished. When it stubbornly remained beneath him, he edged shakily to the curtain to peer out at the apparition more closely.
Beneath him, not twenty feet from the Parliament Hall railings, and in full sight of the entire Piazza Rosa, should any of its sleepy occupants choose to glance out, stood a protester: a sole man clasping a placard in both hands. He wore charcoal grey flannel trousers with the white shirt and black tie of the educated. And while his sleeves were rolled up and his tie loosened to combat the heat of the early-afternoon sun, he had an air of respectability. Something about the tilt of his head, his proud stature, the shine of his shoes suggested a man of quality.
Sergio, palms sweating, his breath caught tightly in his throat, leaned forward as far as he dared to read the words on the placard.
‘Negotii indigeo. Quaeso.’ The use of Latin confirmed Sergio’s immediate assumption. The language of education amplified by the manners of a gentleman. Perhaps this was worse than any of the nightmares he had hitherto imagined, one in which the civilized should revolt. He could understand the country’s few peasants and layabouts taking issue with recent policy, but should the educated decide to rise up, then the nation’s stability was over and it would be his fault. During his jurisdiction, chaos would reign. While acting as caretaker he would be responsible for
the country’s first ever conflict and it would be this for which history would remember him.
Sergio checked his watch. It would be a while before the city awoke, which was a good thing, but the timing was poor in that most of his ministers, including Angelo, would have wandered home for a bite to eat and a sleep. There was absolutely nobody around that he could call upon. So, wiping his sweating palms on his dressing-gown and licking his dry lips, he braced himself for confrontation, something he feared more – if possible – than the humiliation that the alternative offered.
He slid the windows open and moved quietly onto the balcony. Obscuring himself in part behind one of the columns he signalled to the protester with as loud a hiss as he dared. The young man continued to look straight ahead, placard held aloft for the world to read and laugh at. Sergio stood out a little from the shadows and hissed again. This time the noise registered and the protester cocked his head, squinting towards the balcony. On a third signal he took the bait properly, moving one or two tentative steps forward to ensure that the shadowy man on the balcony was actually addressing him.
‘Come, come closer – quickly, quickly!’ Sergio beckoned with one hand while using the other to ensure that his dressing-gown stayed firmly closed.
The protester looked left and right to ensure that the soporific palace guards weren’t going to stir themselves into action and came as far as he could, still holding the placard while straining to look up through the railings to the balcony above him.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ hissed Sergio from the shadows.
‘I’m making a peaceful protest.’ The agitator stood firm, still sure of his actions.
‘Against what are you protesting?’ said Sergio, still in stage whisper.
‘Against the governm—’ At that moment the young man recognized the robed man on the balcony above him. ‘Against you. Sir.’
‘Well, that’s no way to go about it. Make an appointment to see somebody. What about Signor Lubicic? Have you spoken to him about it?’
‘Of course not,’ the protester shouted. Sergio silenced him with a finger to his mouth. The young man dropped his voice once more. ‘Of course not,’ he repeated, in a hoarse whisper. ‘Signor Lubicic is a government official. I am just a student.’
‘Just a student? Just a student? Do you know how privileged you are to receive an education, provided by your government? What about the minister for education? Have you spoken to Professore Scota? He deals with all matters pertaining to education, satisfactory or otherwise. Make an appointment to see him if you’re not satisfied with just being a student!’
‘That is not an option that is open to me,’ the student protester retorted. ‘You don’t just make appointments to speak to government officials. That’s why I’m protesting.’
‘Well,’ said Sergio, sternly, ‘quite frankly, I’d rather you didn’t.’
The student protester became a little more agitated. ‘But I want my voice to be heard. I have serious issues to raise and I need an audience – an audience equipped to listen and take action.’
‘Well, speak now. You have an audience. I am your president and, as such, I am equipped both to listen and to take action. Get on with it – there’s no time like the present. Speak to me now.’ With this, Sergio thumped his hand on the balcony balustrade allowing his dressing-gown to fall open. He clasped it to him, now furious at the protester and his own less than professional attire.
‘Well, sir, with all due respect, the points I have to make are worthy of a more formal recourse. Apart from anything else, I’m not sure I can keep this whisper up for very much longer.’
With a stamp of his foot, Sergio whispered, ‘Oh, very well,’ and disappeared back inside, sliding the doors behind him.
Below, in the square, the minutes ticked slowly by and the student was unsure whether to flee before imminent arrest and possible detention, or to wait obediently and possibly indefinitely. But soon the president reappeared at a small door almost immediately below the balcony. He opened it just a few inches and beckoned the student to join him.
‘How do I get through the railings?’ asked the student.
‘Through the gate,’ came the exasperated reply.
‘The palace guards are at the gate. Will they let me in?’
‘Not that gate.’ Sergio was enraged at the suggestion that this wanton dissenter might drag his protest any more publicly through Piazza Rosa. ‘Through this gate – my gate.’ He pointed to a small gate that broke the otherwise continuous fence line. With nothing but the smallest catch to differentiate it, it was no wonder that the student had missed it on his first cursory inspection.
The young man laid his placard at his feet.
‘Don’t leave that there. Anyone could see it. Bring it with you.’
The student picked it up and tucked it under one arm. He tiptoed through the gate, closing it quietly behind him, and up the path to join the president, who was now wearing a casual pair of trousers and a shirt, his braces hanging down in loops at either side.
In silence, the two men traipsed upstairs, the president leading, too hot and bothered to consider any potential security threat, the student following, with the barest trace of a smile, born of his own audacity in taking on the government and finding himself in this most unlikely of pairings.
They entered Sergio’s private chambers where the president ushered his visitor to one of the lion’s-claw-footed chairs in front of the desk. The young man lowered himself, politely tweaking his trousers at the knees, a habit he had adopted to avoid creasing while at his studies.
‘Name?’ said Sergio, wresting authority out of the so-far-unsatisfactory exchange. He pulled a clean notepad towards him and dipped his pen into the ink with a flourish.
‘Woolf.’
‘Son of Renzo Woolf?’
‘Nephew.’
‘Hmm. Yes, yes, I think I know those Woolfs. Occupation? Yes, yes, of course. Student.’ Sergio pushed the notepad away from him and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head slowly as though addressing a small child. ‘And, young Mr Woolf, do you not think that before your rebellious and potentially inciteful protest, you might have found another less confrontational means to express your dissatisfaction with me?’
Sergio felt in control again. Perhaps he might not be the most skilled negotiator when dealing with dissidents but this was a Woolf and Woolfs he could deal with. He raised his eyes to meet the pale green pair gazing fearlessly back at him.
‘I wrote to you first.’
Sergio shrugged to indicate that he had never received any correspondence. ‘Perhaps it got lost in the post,’ he countered.
‘No. I delivered it myself. I handed it to the palace guards. And before writing to you I wrote to the ministers for employment and education. And before writing to them I wrote to the head of the university, and before writing to him I requested a meeting with my tutor, who felt he was not in a position to take up my cause. When all my letters went unanswered, I chose to demonstrate my disquiet with a peaceful protest.’
‘And to whom, exactly, have you spoken about your so-called peaceful protest? Am I dealing with a lone Woolf, or are there more protesters out there, waiting to attack the very fabric with which this society is woven?’
‘Well, actually, I have spoken to nobody. It was – it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. It wasn’t really until this afternoon that I decided to protest.’
Sergio leaned further forward, looking deeply into Woolf’s eyes. ‘And you’re quite sure of this? There’s no underground movement that I should know about, spreading malaise and unease among my people?’
Woolf shook his head.
‘No secret late-night meetings, fuelled by unlicensed drink and Western song lyrics?’
‘No, sir, none that I know of.’ Still, Woolf continued to meet Sergio’s gaze.
‘And your dissatisfaction, Woolf, is with what exactly?’ Once again, Sergio dipped his pen, ready to take notes.
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‘It’s quite simple. As my placard says, I need a job. I’m looking for employment, sir.’
Sergio was partly disgusted, partly relieved. ‘But you’re a student! Surely you’ll follow the course of all students and when you’ve finished your education you’ll use the skills you have gained to find an appropriate position in the employment market.’
‘But, sir,’ Woolf cried, ‘I’m thirty-two years old! I’ve been in full-time education since I was five! That’s twenty-seven years! And for most of those years I’ve been continually promised an appropriate position once I’ve completed my studies.’
Genuinely baffled, Sergio probed deeper: ‘But until you’ve graduated, you’re still officially a student and therefore not available for employment.’
‘Exactly,’ said Woolf, in frustration. ‘But when will that be? I’ve a master’s. I’ve a PhD. I can speak Italian, French, English, Latin and Russian fluently. I’m ready to take a step into adult life but I have absolutely no prospects whatsoever. When I think I’m ready to graduate, I’m press-ganged into yet another few years of full-time education. When is it going to end?’
Sergio let out a low chuckle with what he hoped was a combination of contempt and ridicule. ‘Well, really, as president you’d think I’d have heard it all. But of all the ungrateful whining adolescents I’ve ever heard … Do you know what a privilege it is to be so educated? There are people around the world for whom access to even the most basic levels of literacy and numeracy would be considered a luxury yet you have the nerve to sit here and blame me for giving you too much free education? You should be grateful that your tutors consider you worthy of such great investment.’
Sergio scribbled wildly on his notepad while he contemplated his next move. Woolf was unable to decipher the notes upside-down, and when Sergio got a sense that he was trying to read them, he put a protective arm between them and his onlooker. Finally he stopped writing and carefully turned over the paper, away from prying eyes.
The Museum of Things Left Behind Page 6
