The Museum of Things Left Behind

by Seni Glaister

  ‘You’re not wrong, Angelo. She’s done this before. He,’ with a cursory nod in the direction of the racqueted man, ‘is a red herring. She’s our VIP.’

  Sergio and Angelo looked at their watches and calculated that they had just a few minutes’ grace before the royal visitor joined them.

  ‘I don’t understand how we could have made a mistake. A duke is always a man, I tell you. There is absolutely no room for a misunderstanding. I have promised my country a visit from the Duke of Edinburgh and what do I have instead? I have a woman! A woman! What will the country think of this – of me? I will be a laughing stock!’ Sergio paced up and down, getting redder and redder in the face. ‘Our people will think this is an insult, sending a woman in place of a man. They’ve put up with a lot recently and they’re not going to like this one little bit.’

  Sergio moved to his desk and fell back into his chair, his arms dangling loosely beside him in utter despair. ‘You know, Angelo, I’ve felt for a while now that I’m losing control. I see no tangible signs of it but, from the periphery of my vision, I can tell that, little by little, the things I have within my power are becoming more precarious. When my father died there was so much I wanted to address, so much I wanted to correct. We talked about it, didn’t we? Redressing the balance, restoring a little more consensus to our people, governing with a lighter touch? But perhaps my father was right. He might have been firm, but it was his firm hand that kept the lid on this country.’

  He continued, his voice rising, ‘I’ve made a lot of promises, Angelo, and I mean to keep them, but there’s unease in the air. I can smell it. I can see it in the eyes of the men out there. I wake up in the middle of the night sweating, fearing. Fearing what? I have nightmares of revolution, of men throwing petrol bombs through my window. When I wake in the morning I don’t feel rested at all.’ He rubbed his eyes, allowing a fresh wave of melancholy to wash over him.

  Angelo squeezed his arm for attention. ‘Look, Sergio, look out there. There must be a couple of thousand men and it’s not even seven in the morning. They didn’t have to come out, did they? The official reception isn’t until this afternoon. They’re here to support you, and to show off their country to a visitor. Look, they’re smiling, laughing even. They’re not looking like a revolutionary crowd to me.’

  Sergio got up and crept to his eyrie at the window. He peered from around the curtain, a handful of the starched material clutched tightly in his fist. ‘They might well be laughing now, but they’re watching and waiting for me to deliver. And now I can’t even deliver them a duke!’

  The backslapping continued and Chuck, as he jostled and punched, was quick to notice his friend’s tennis racquet. He made a backhand motion and, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, imitated the hollow clunk of ball meeting strings. ‘Good job! You remembered.’ He lowered his voice a notch, to hint at discretion, but not enough to obscure his words completely. ‘The courts here are decidedly third rate, I’ve seen better surfaces in Iowa but, I tell you, a game of tennis with an ally is just what my mental-health practitioner ordered! I was on my way to pick up a prescription for one dose of intellectual stimulation and a large serving of competent physical adversary!’

  While they’d bantered, Remi the postman had, with the countenance of a man who should not be stopped, manoeuvred himself into as close a position as possible. Now he leaned over the rope barrier and craned his neck, scrutinizing the mannerisms of the newly arrived dignitary and trying to reconcile the visitor’s somewhat ungainly gestures with that beautifully looped handwriting that he alone had been privileged to examine. As he observed them thoroughly, the two men laughed, and while the subtlety of the language might have been lost on Remi he was immediately suspicious – if not absolutely certain – that his country might just have been slandered among the raillery.

  The blonde woman, meanwhile, had decided to take her own needs in hand, and stepped forward. ‘I wonder if you can possibly help. I’m expected – I have a letter here that details my arrangements … Would you mind?’

  Several pairs of hands reached out to grab the letter and a little tussle took place as the ministers fought to interpret her needs. But it was very soon apparent, even from those just leaning between the shoulders of other men, that the woman was holding a sheet of official government paper in her hand, bearing the proud crest of Vallerosa, and that the accommodation to which she referred was, indeed, the Parliament Hall.

  The ministers grasped suddenly that the blonde vision was their VIP! Abandoning the man to their American consultant, they fell back into line, then ushered the woman down the reception line and under the crossed swords of the attendant Parliament Hall guards, who had been standing alert, awaiting this moment, since the pony trap had arrived.

  As the woman passed down the line, salutes were abandoned, one by one, in favour of the firm handshakes suggested by the guest. Some lingered for a fraction of a second longer than the job properly deserved, and to onlookers, it might have been unclear as to who was welcoming whom. But the blonde took it all in her sizeable stride and made each minister feel as though he were tall enough to meet her oceanic blue eyes.

  The crowd almost groaned in their disappointment as she was ushered through the doors into Parliament Hall, knowing they weren’t going to get another glimpse of this remarkable woman for several hours. Some turned homewards, with chores to attend to and angry wives to fear, while many more headed for the bars to begin their day as they meant to continue, with beer, singing and a string of increasingly lewd jokes. But to a man, behind the macho jostle there was quiet anticipation. Something good had happened that morning in Vallerosa and, like a ray of sunshine on the greyest February day, a load had been lifted from their hearts.

  CHAPTER 11

  In Which Plan B Might Work

  Upstairs Angelo consulted the official programme for the day and insisted that the schedule should be adhered to as far as possible. Celebrations had been planned and if those celebrations were to involve a VIP of the female variety, instead of the promised duke, then so be it. Celebrations would continue. In the meantime, a private audience between Sergio and the visitor had been scheduled. Sergio was simply not comfortable in the presence of a lone woman, so Angelo, at the urgent bidding of his president, had agreed to stay in the room but to hover in the background. ‘I’ll be there if you need me, but I’ll disappear if you don’t. Trust me, you’ll be absolutely fine.’

  Less than half an hour later, the washed and brushed blonde was ushered into the study. Sergio rose grandly from his chair, walked around to the front of his desk and clasped her hand in both of his. Angelo rose just a few inches from his chair in the corner, out of respectful convention, but sat down quickly again to indicate that he formed no part of this conversation.

  ‘Welcome to Vallerosa. I trust your journey was not too tiring. Here.’ The president gestured to a pair of chairs in front of the desk.

  The woman sat down, smiling still. Her knees neatly together, she tucked her feet to one side and beneath her. ‘Oh, it was fine. Better than I expected – I love train journeys, really I do. So much more interesting than flying. You really get the feeling that you’re travelling and leaving everything you know behind you. Sometimes I wonder if, when you fly, your body actually realizes it’s left home behind. It can be so disorienting. Oh, I’m sorry, I’m gabbling again, aren’t I?’

  Sergio smiled graciously, nodding to indicate that he shared her misgivings about flight as a transport option. ‘No, not at all, please continue.’

  ‘Oh, I’m finished. I just wonder sometimes if the ease with which we all jump on and off aeroplanes makes us a little glib about travel.’

  ‘Certainly that is a possibility.’ Sergio’s mind was suddenly clouded with images of people jumping from the sky, and he wondered whether he might be safer with a subject he knew more about. ‘And what do you make of our country so far?’

  ‘Well, I can’t describe how excited I am.’ Sh
e put a large, pale hand to her chest. ‘It’s too beautiful for words. I mean, I’d looked at it on the internet, but I didn’t get any idea of how dramatic the landscape is – I mean, it’s so deep, and so red, and so grand!’

  Sergio straightened his back a little. Grand, yes, grand was good. ‘And what, if I may ask, are you hoping to achieve here in an official capacity? I recall from your initial letter that you will be staying for a month.’

  ‘Yes – I mean, that’s my plan at the moment. In an official capacity? Well, I would like to demonstrate that I have integrated fully into a culture that is unlike my own.’ Here she began to tick off her wish list on her fingers. ‘I would like to make a real difference to the lives of the people here – maybe, I don’t know, work in an orphanage or with the needy? And I’d like to learn to live more independently. I also want to go home ready to face the next challenge.’

  Sergio nodded sagely. ‘An ambitious programme. And, I take it, much of this must be recorded for the press?’

  The British visitor nodded, but a little less surely. ‘Well, I’ll certainly be hosting a blog, maybe writing a few articles, and taking plenty of pictures,’ she said, waving the ever-present digital camera in front of her. ‘It would be nice to think I’ll get a little coverage when I get back. I don’t know, though – I hadn’t really thought about it.’

  ‘And there are obviously issues of protocol to be discussed. Security, for instance, a single woman travelling alone in a foreign country. I’m not sure that is advisable?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure I’ll be quite safe here. The people seem incredibly friendly and there are so many police and military men around … I’m quite sure I shall feel secure. Anyway, I’m used to travelling on my own. Daddy says I’m as strong as an ox!’

  ‘Nevertheless a single woman is vulnerable and I note that your arrival has already attracted much attention. Some of it might not be strictly – how shall I say? – honourable in intent. They’re hot-blooded men, the Vallerosans. I shall assign you twenty-four-hour security cover. I think that would be safest. I’m surprised, quite frankly, that your own country felt it would be wise to send you without the company of a man.’

  ‘Oh, don’t get me started! Us Holmesworths are tough, you know. And we’re quite used to looking after ourselves, thank you very much.’ She giggled and in that moment her protestations counted for nothing and she looked both vulnerable and quite extraordinarily precious as she toyed with the strap of her camera.

  Sergio worked hard to remain professional, while his instinct was to cradle her head in his lap and stroke her hair. ‘As for the other protocol, it’s best to get that sorted, for our own purposes, you understand. What title do you like to go by?’

  ‘Miss is fine. I’ve toyed with the idea of being a Ms but Daddy always says it’s reserved for lesbians and spinsters. I know, I know, he’s absolutely rooted in the dark ages, but whenever I try to use it I see him standing in front of me, shaking his head in disappointment. But you don’t need to call me by any title. Elizabeth is my name but Lizzie is fine. And you are?’

  ‘Officially, I am President Sergio Scorpioni, Protector, Guardian and Elected Dictator of Vallerosa, her land, her boundaries and her people. But I am very happy for you to call me Mr President.’

  Lizzie looked momentarily baffled, but a lifetime of good manners and the very best girls-only education that money could buy meant that decorum won. Bafflement was replaced seamlessly with polite enquiry that in turn became instinctively apologetic.

  ‘Gosh, Mr President. You’re the President of Vallerosa? I had no idea! I’m – I’m – Well, yes, of course you are. The palace, the guard of honour. Oh, golly, I think there’s been some mistake. Am I in trouble?’

  ‘Trouble? Heavens, no, you are here as our most honoured and welcome guest. When I received your letter, asking that you may be granted a permit to visit our country, I was extremely gratified and felt privileged to be able to open our humble doors to you. Our hearts and our hearths, as the old saying goes. I suspect what you refer to is the somewhat misleading communication, from which we might have deduced that we were to expect a visitor of the opposing gender. Well, I must say we were all a little taken aback, but trouble? No. You have caused not the slightest ripple of trouble, just – if I am being absolutely candid – your arrival might have been marred by the tiniest tinge of disappointment, but I expect we must all learn to overcome that. Expectation is a dangerous bedfellow.’

  Sergio leaned forward and lowered his voice, glad to have an opportunity to contribute to this cultural ambassador’s understanding of his country’s customs. ‘Remember, we are not quite as liberated as some of the other Western European countries and women here rarely achieve positions of power. Well, seldom.’ Here he craned his neck to address his adviser, behind him. ‘Angelo, remind me, when did a woman last achieve a position of power?’ Angelo held up both hands, indicating an empty vessel. ‘You see? As I thought. Never. But that is here, and you are from there, and if you are keen to make a study of the difference in our cultures then that is just one very interesting observation that you might like to undertake. After all, who better to examine the role that womankind has to play, or not, in our country than a woman?’ Sergio smiled benevolently, and was only able through the exertion of the utmost willpower to stop himself pinching her rosy cheek between his thumb and index finger.

  He exhaled slowly and steadied himself, reminding himself that, more than ever before, he must appear presidential.

  ‘But, Miss Lizzie, I am an open-minded gentleman and am happy to entertain the so-called equalities to which you aspire, but while you are in my country, I must ask that you observe some of our conventions. We are a small country and have remained an independent nation throughout thousands of years of history while others have fallen prey to empire, to colonialism, and as victims of devastating warfare. Boundaries have blurred, cities have been retitled, passed from one owner to the next as chattels. Flags have been lowered one day and raised the next day bearing another insignia altogether. But we are still here, standing tall and proud. And you might well wonder how we have escaped the ravages of war over the millennia. How have we managed to attain this unparalleled autarchy? Clear communication with our people by the dissemination of information through the proper channels. We aim not to oppress but to suggest. And one of the means we use, to indicate a hierarchy that can be both understood and respected, is clear delineation between different strata of our society. I can well understand that you may have chosen, through some sort of quasi-socialist pretension, to abandon your soubriquet, but while you are our guest, there is no place for such false modesty. I would like, while you are here, to refer to you always by your full title. What is the feminine version of “duke”? “Duchess”? Yes, of course, you are indeed the Duchess of Edinburgh and my English is simply not good enough to have correctly identified the subtle difference when you wrote.’ Here he clasped both her hands in his. ‘While you are here, we must present you to the government and to our people correctly. These things are very, very important to us.’

  Lizzie gasped a little. ‘Oh, I say, you don’t think … Well, I’m not exactly … I have a horrible feeling that you might have … Oh, golly!’ Wresting her hands free, she finally found the words to ask, ‘Mr President, who exactly were you expecting?’

  Sergio shook his head in slight irritation and spoke a little more slowly, for fear she was struggling to interpret his accent. ‘As your letter clearly stated, I am expecting you. A visit beginning today, the fifth of June, from the Duke of Edinburgh. Or Duchess of Edinburgh. I forget exactly the words you used …’

  His voice trailed off just as understanding struck Lizzie. A red blotchy mess spread from her upper chest to her throat and settled on her neck. Two symmetrical circles of pink coloured her cheekbones as the enormity of her fraudulence became clear.

  ‘Oh, I am most terribly sorry but I think you must have made the most awful mistake. I’m here to undertake an e
xercise for the Duke of Edinburgh Gold Award. It’s a programme in England that aims to further our citizenship, to allow us to cross that difficult bridge between adolescence and adulthood. What I’m actually trying to achieve is, um, a certificate.’

  Sergio, unable to comprehend this explanation, awaited a fuller one.

  ‘I’m not the Duke of Edinburgh! Well, of course I’m not the Duke of Edinburgh! I’m travelling – I’m taking a year out! Oh, Lordy, I’m a student!’

  Sergio slumped again and, as if through a process of osmosis, the colour drained from his face as it rose in Lizzie’s. His mouth fell slackly open, and somewhere in the deepest recess of his inner ear, the humming began.

  He had managed to convince himself, as the conversation unfolded, that he could make this work, that a royal woman would be better than no royal at all. For a brief moment, his imagination had taken him one step forwards: perhaps he could use this as a platform from which to launch a radical new political agenda. Women might use this visit as a signal to take a more active role in the community. As Miss Lizzie had been talking, he had begun to see a huge political coup attached to the stunt. There was a grand gesture to be made for the President of Vallerosa to be seen in public actively accepting and promoting this woman’s power. Sovereign or otherwise, she was still a woman of great importance and, by endorsing her position, he could demonstrate to his populace another, altogether more private, side of himself. But no sooner had this absolute jewel of a plan begun to harden in his mind, than it was all slipping through his fingers again, nothing more than coal dust. First a duke, then a duchess, now nothing. A student? He had plenty of students – he had a country full of students. He had more students than he knew what to do with.

  Angelo, sensing the looming crisis, leaped up and came between them, leaning heavily on the desk. The president was pale and visibly panting – possibly on the verge of hyperventilation. Miss Lizzie, meanwhile, looked close to tears and – as both men knew all too well – tears must be avoided at all costs. ‘Sergio,’ he whispered, ‘may I?’ He bowed and excused himself to Miss Lizzie and propelled Sergio through a door behind them. It led to Sergio’s private bathroom and, once inside, Angelo locked the door and ran both bath taps at full force to drown any possible leakage of conversation.