Gabboni, so keen to protect that most coveted of positions, ensured that he did every aspect of his job with absolute diligence. And so, on the rare occasions when a visitor chose to stop at that crease of a country, he would draw himself up to his full five foot seven inches and guarantee that the visitor, American or otherwise, was treated with the unabridged Vallerosan welcome. Having allowed his visitor to alight, he would walk purposefully towards them to greet them. First he would place a friendly hand on each shoulder, and then, staring into the eyes of the often startled traveller, he would pronounce, syllable by syllable (always respectful of most foreigners’ lack of learning), ‘Your weary feet can find comfort here, your wandering soul can find answers, your heavy heart can find solace and your parched mouth can be quenched.’ Then, before the visitor had had time to recover, he would draw them firmly to his chest, laying his head briefly on their right shoulder. With a slap on the back, they would be ushered into the waiting room to meet him in his official capacity as junior minister in charge of Customs and Immigration. While the visitor would reorient himself in the small, tidy waiting room, wondering if, perhaps, he had been mistaken for somebody else, Gabboni’s head and shoulders would reappear alarmingly through the hitherto unnoticed hatch in the wall.
This very special morning, which had begun more than an hour before with the unruly clanging of the church bells, it had been decreed that Gabboni’s special welcome alone was not enough for the expected VIP.
There had been much debate, both in Il Gallo Giallo, and in Parliament itself, as to who, or what, would be most appropriate to form a welcoming party. At the peak of the debate, it had been suggested that Sergio himself might be there to greet the visitor but Angelo had spelled out the danger of allowing the visitor to think that too much significance had been attached to the occasion. In the end, it was felt by all that Sergio must retain a healthy detachment and act with the standoffish dignity of a leader who was accustomed to (perhaps even bored by) state visits. Eventually, through a rigorous process of elimination, three ministers had been duly elected to form the welcoming party.
Settimio Mosconi, the minister for tourism, was an obvious choice, and with the addition of the ministers for recreation and leisure, it was felt that just the right level of gravitas without obsequiousness had been attained.
It was agreed by all that Vinsent Gabboni had excelled himself. The station gleamed, while the scents of geranium and rose made all three ministers proud to be Vallerosan. Mosconi’s shoulders heaved and he was seen brushing the back of his hand across each eye, but whether this was because the moment was charged with emotion or because the air carried a little dust that dry morning was open to speculation. Gabboni had unrolled the red linoleum, reserved for just this type of occasion but which had only been called upon once before. On that occasion, Sergio had left the country for a week’s visit to his neighbouring countries but returned just two days later, apparently because his work had been accomplished with unrivalled efficiency; those closer to him wondered if he had been homesick.
With a full ten minutes to go before the scheduled arrival of the train, the three men took their place. Initially they ordered themselves tourism, recreation, leisure, but the gradually descending height differential added a comic dimension that was neither dignified nor intended and they quickly regrouped with tourism, the tallest, flanked on either side by recreation and leisure. On this solemn occasion, Gabboni had been relegated to the ticket office but he was proud and excited to be included and had, without either the knowledge or permission of Mosconi, agreed to head afterwards for Il Toro Rosso where he would hand an exclusive scoop to Edo Cannoni, a post-graduate English student who aspired to run the country’s only independent newspaper, the Vallerosan Reporter. As this newspaper was still an idle dream, young Edo was resigned – apparently indefinitely – to running the student newspaper and it would be to the thundering photocopying machine in the basement of the university that he would turn once his copy was filed.
The sound of the diesel engine cut through the clear morning air and could be heard for some minutes before it eventually slowed to a screeching halt at the small station. A few moments later, two heads poked out of the driver’s cabin door, which swung back fully on itself. A smallish sports bag, with a tennis racquet strapped to its spine, was thrown to the platform. This was soon followed by the unceremonious dumping of a large rucksack, which hit the ground heavily, raising a cloud of dust. Moments later, two tired visitors stepped down from the train and looked, first, at the line-up of smartly saluting men to their right, then to their left, where the end of the platform and the tracks curving into the distance offered no alternative exit route. The middle-aged man stepped forward, casually slinging his jacket over one shoulder and picking up the sports bag in his other hand.
The three ministers held their breath. There was, they admitted to themselves later, a degree of disappointment that this man, clearly a man in charge, had not thought to dress in official uniform and hadn’t even deigned to sport a necktie. But, of course, they quickly rationalized, for security reasons it must be safer to travel incognito and, with no security men to accompany him, this precaution was probably very wise.
They shared, too, their simultaneous reaction to the second visitor, previously partly shielded by the man. Lagging behind, having taken a few seconds to heave her heavy rucksack to her back, she hurried forward to catch up with her travelling companion, falling into step silently beside him. The three ministers, in unison, dropped their saluting hands to their sides and stared, unprofessionally, unabashed and unashamed, at the tallest and most beautiful woman they had ever set eyes on. Not even the sum of their combined dreams had yielded anything quite as mouth-wateringly, tear-jerkingly heavenly as the vision that now walked towards them. Perhaps the equestrian habits of their forebears were behind their unanimous thoughts as they sized up (with the open admiration of stockmen at market with a full purse to spend) her powerful legs, her wide but graceful shoulders, her magnificent neck and incredibly strong, shiny white teeth. The sun had not yet risen and still her pale hair glowed in a luminescent halo, as if illuminated from within. The few short seconds, as she strolled towards them, spiralled recklessly into cinematic-quality slow-motion as each man harboured unsolicited images, set to the music of harpsichords and tumultuous cymbals, of tumbling naked limbs, of the strong hindquarters of Arabian stud horses, of Amazonian hunters, of peach-skinned necks, of open mouths revealing rows and rows of pearlescent teeth, of whips and jodhpurs and the palest, smoothest, roundest buttocks.
The tall blonde woman approached the welcoming party, first with a little trepidation and then with confidence, as she realized that these three uniformed gentlemen, each resplendent with shiny ribbons and glinting medals, were there to meet her and her fellow traveller. She towered over the man beside her as her generous mouth spread into a wide smile and she stepped forward, her right hand held out. The male visitor shuffled forward, hand extended, with a puzzled smile. The two weary travellers were greeted with a moment’s confusion followed by three stiff salutes.
Mosconi was the first to gain control of his senses. He wrestled the sports bag from the gentleman, falling smartly into step beside him and only dropping back when it was apparent that they could not both fit through the turnstile at once. In an embarrassing moment of previously undefined protocol, the tall blonde woman was left alone behind the men. With her sunglasses now pushing her silky hair off her face, she waited to have her paperwork examined.
Gabboni’s moment had arrived, but the agreed-upon procedure had disintegrated. On receipt of the required documents, he looked for leadership from Mosconi, who met his eye with a stern shake of the head. He grasped both lots of paperwork tightly to his chest, bowed low and returned it to the owners. With a small scuffle, the dignitaries and visitors shuffled themselves into order, passing through the turnstile one by one and stepping out to meet the rising sun.
The blonde had been deligh
ted by the sweet-smelling station, enthralled by the formal greeting and enchanted by the warmth of Gabboni’s cursory ticket inspection. But nothing had prepared her for the view that met her as she passed through the ticket office to the station forecourt. The sun was poking its head above the far valley wall, and its gentle light was starting to penetrate the vast crevasse below. The landscape of Vallerosa was unique, for virtually its entire landmass was dominated by the steep walls that rose dramatically from either side of the powerful river Florin. The country tilted, too, from north to south, which lent drama to the water, which tumbled and frothed as it made its way through the mountainous region. The only land that could properly be considered horizontal was the plain at the top of the valley, on which the passengers now stood. For as far as the eye could see, the land there was host to hundreds of hectares of tea plantations. To anyone visiting Vallerosa for the first time, this view was quite literally breathtaking. The elaborately whorled tea plants at the top of the valley, resembling acres and acres of tightly quilted velvet, gave way to the city, which clung precariously to the valley walls. Houses, built from a uniform red rock, seemed hewn from the cliffs. And now, as the sun began to play on the rapids below, the river Florin began to reveal its many hues.
‘Oh, my gosh!’ the tall blonde squealed, clapping her hands together in delight. ‘It’s absolutely gorgeous. I had no idea!’ Despite her height, she skipped daintily forward, breathing deeply, then turned to face the ministers. ‘It’s really, really lovely! I can’t believe I’m here at last!’ She gambolled forward and ran her hands across the closest of the tea plants. The densely packed leaves gave under her touch and bounced back into place obediently as she marvelled at the plantation. A goat lifted its narrow head from beneath the leaves and stared unblinkingly at her. It bleated half-heartedly and disappeared again. Around the animal, the shrubs panned out, filling every spare inch between the station and the start of the city. The combination of dark, glossy leaf and the red town below stirred something in the visitor and she stared, open-mouthed, into the distance. Remembering herself at last, she returned to her small audience.
‘Oh, you must think I’m completely barking. I’m so sorry. Is there a taxi available? I’m staying in the main town at the …’ She pulled a piece of paper from the net pocket of her rucksack and, fearing mispronunciation, pointed out the name of the hostel with a manicured fingernail.
Meanwhile, the gentleman visitor pulled his jacket a little closer around himself, and raised an enquiring eyebrow at the three ministers. They snapped to attention. Mosconi clapped his hands loudly, summoning from the side of the station a small pony trap, driven by Gabboni’s flat-capped, toothless father. The three ministers huddled together for a moment and, though briefly thrown by the arrival of not one but two guests, quickly surmised that the tall woman must be the personal assistant of the British VIP. As such they were both ushered into the pony trap, to the tired acceptance of the man and the utter delight of the woman.
The dusty road quickly gave way to a narrow, cobbled drive, and before long the conveyance was slaloming its way through the red town, underneath lines of washing and pots of tumbling geraniums. The blonde clutched the side with one hand while snapping away at every opportunity with her digital camera, her pure joy apparent at every moment. Her gentleman companion allowed his eyes to rest for much of the bumpy journey.
The newly arrived visitor, Lizzie Holmesworth, passed a handful of vehicles on her ride down the hill, but on the whole the cars were up on blocks, parked at an unfeasibly steep angle or, on one occasion, being used by a family of hens that had made a rusting old Trabant their home. As the angle of incline sharpened, and the twists and turns came more frequently, Lizzie realized how perfectly suitable the nimble pony and the small trap were for a precipitous commute.
Meanwhile, the three ministers were cycling frantically downhill, in a perilous head-first descent reserved only for the most urgent trips. In this way, albeit breathless and sweaty, they arrived in plenty of time to form part of the formal welcoming committee that stood in readiness in the Piazza Rosa.
By the time the pony trap arrived, a dozen officials were there to greet the visitors while a small crowd of Vallerosans had gathered, cups of tea in hand, to watch their arrival. A large area in front of the Parliament Hall had been elaborately cordoned off, and Commandant Alixandria Heliopolis Visparelli himself now patrolled the boundary, checking the crowd for possible subversives and scanning the rooftops for would-be assassins.
Finally the pony trap clip-clopped across the piazza and came to a lurching halt.
Rolando Posti stepped forward to greet the occupants and, not trusting himself entirely with his memorized speech (even though he had practised it hundreds of times in the last few weeks), glanced down at his typed notes.
‘Honoured guest. Guests. It is my humble privilege to welcome you. You both. To our homeland. Vallerosa is a small but proud nation, and while you are here, we open our hearts and our hearths to you. To you both. Please.’
He stepped back, calling them forward to be greeted personally by each of the assembled ministers. The gathered spectators, banned from being close enough to hear the dialogue, were nevertheless pleased with the show so far, threw their caps into the air and whistled appreciatively. As the two visitors stepped out onto their second stretch of red linoleum, a sharp cry of ‘Paul!’ was heard clearly above the rest of the adulation. Visparelli swung around, instinctively putting a steady hand to his gun, but it was quickly apparent that there was no threat. Instead, the American consultant, Chuck Whylie, awakened by the church bells’ early call that morning, had decided to join the crowd to witness the event. To his obvious joy, he had recognized one of the visitors.
‘Paul!’ he called again. He ducked deftly under the twisted rope and shouted a string of enthusiastic greetings as he made his approach. ‘Paul Fields, you made it!’ As the two men met, they joined in a complex dance that involved some feigned right hooks and dives and a series of backslaps and high fives. ‘Well, well, well, well, well! Look at you! I wasn’t actually expecting you for another week or two. You should have emailed, I’d have met you at the station myself!’
Visparelli remained alert, his hand hovering a couple of centimetres from the handle of his weapon. His whole frame was poised in case this unscheduled salutation should turn nasty. Likewise, the assembled Vallerosan dignitaries stood back a little, out of natural deference to the American, but unsure whether to continue with their much rehearsed official duties. The overriding sense of pride in finishing the job satisfactorily jostled with the growing sense that they were possibly the fools in some ghastly misunderstanding. How on earth did their American consultant know their British VIP? Were the Americans and British really such close allies that they were all in cahoots? Were the Vallerosans, perhaps, the victims of something altogether more sinister, a conspiracy of sorts?
Similar thoughts were running through Sergio’s mind. He had adopted his favourite position just behind the curtains in his private chambers and had been able to watch, undetected, as his trusted ministers had arrived, abandoning their bicycles just out of sight in the small alleyway that ran up the side of Parliament Hall. Then, as the sun rose, he had enjoyed watching the gathering of a substantial crowd. At this he had allowed his confidence to build a little: the number of spectators boded well for the evening’s party. Finally Sergio had witnessed the arrival of the pony trap, conveying to his door not one but two visitors.
He had been confused by the addition of the towering woman and then by the arrival of Chuck Whylie, who had seemed to hijack the official proceedings. Now Angelo joined him at the window and, voices lowered even though there was no danger of being overheard, they speculated as the pantomime unfolded beneath them.
‘What do you think of the American? I mean, off the record,’ Angelo began, seizing a rare moment to chat openly, as friends.
‘Off the record? He has skills we don’t have. He has knowledg
e we cannot possibly accumulate. And, as I have always said, we can’t ignore that. To stay looking inwards would be a mistake for us. We have to take the country forwards a little, and to do that we have to have the advice of somebody like the American, Whylie. He has a global vision, he’s an American, he sees the whole world as his private backyard and we have to be able to turn that to our advantage. If we can play a little in his backyard, without compromising our integrity, then I think we’re OK. I know he’s arrogant, but he’s incredibly well connected – look at him now! Is there anyone he doesn’t know?’
They watched the earnest conversation between the Briton and the American, and as the two men, in their almost identical smart-casual uniforms, edged themselves away from the ceremony and took up their conversation in a head-to-head huddle, the blonde threw her head back in laughter, much to the obvious surprise and pleasure of the six small men who crowded around her.
As the act unfolded, realization dawned on Sergio and his adviser.
‘Angelo, Angelo, Angelo,’ Sergio begged. ‘Please tell me she is our VIP’s secretary. She is, isn’t she? In a minute, Chuck will notice that he’s holding up our ceremony and the duke will do what he’s supposed to. Yes or no, Angelo?’
Angelo looked out from the opposite curtain, rubbing a hand over a worried face. The ministers were falling back into their intended positions, allowing the blonde to walk slowly down the aisle, greeting each with a generous handshake and a few well-considered niceties intended to placate, flatter and cajole each man.
‘I don’t know, Serge. She looks … I don’t know how to describe it. Royal?’
The Museum of Things Left Behind Page 8
