Lizzie rose, with renewed energy, to explore the piazza before the evening’s ceremonies. After washing the grime of her train journey from her face and checking her mobile phone to see if it had picked up any signal, she left her bedroom, retraced her steps through the building and found herself on the cobbles of Piazza Rosa.
She decided to acclimatize by surveying the town as best she could. She had shaken off the offer of a guide, preferring instead to walk alone and ponder upon this morning’s almost farcical outcome. Her rational self wanted to condemn the intended impersonation – after all, it went against the good manners that she had been reared to uphold – but her egotistical self rather liked the pretence. For the moment this personality won, convincing the other, better-behaved, Lizzie that sometimes one had to follow one’s heart. Also, there seemed a real need on the part of the president, and who was she to turn down orders from such a high-ranking official?
Lizzie walked slowly around the edge of the Piazza Rosa, using the arched walkway for shade and glancing in through the many beaded curtains to take in the full array of wares on offer in the shops. She stopped in front of a shaded window, whose fading signage seemed to indicate a charcuterie, ignored the flies batting around the entrance, and pushed her way into the dim but pleasantly cool interior. Having barely eaten since a sandwich on the station of some small Italian province last night, she had suddenly felt quite weak and wondered whether a little ham or other local morsel might be available for a late lunch. As her eyes became accustomed to the dark room she found herself meeting the glare of a row of pig’s heads, lined up on top of a long marble slab. Each offered an identical pair of pink waxy ears, a bristly forehead and a glistening nose for her inspection. Their glassy eyes stared accusingly at her, as if she had stepped in to deal one more humiliating blow to their already much diminished anatomies. Not daring to glance below to the chilled cabinets for fear of what genocide she might find there, and glad not to have come across a human hand with responsibility for such slaughter, she retreated, her need for food curiously revoked.
Shuddering, Lizzie continued her journey. She passed several more shops, most of which seemed only to service the most domestic of requirements. Just last year she had been touring Venice with her parents and in that city’s great square, which, admittedly, had made much less impact on her than the Piazza Rosa, she had been able to find only goods specifically made for the tourist. Here, there was no such tat, no small ceramic reproductions of the Piazza Rosa, no lenticular renditions of Parliament Hall, gaudy religious icons or beer glasses emblazoned with Vallerosa’s name. Instead, as she passed from shop to shop, she found many opportunities to purchase cooking implements and clothes pegs, unfeasibly large bags of grain, endless buckets and coils of rope in varying dimensions.
Sauntering along, with a pleasant afternoon to while away before the evening’s celebrations began, she hesitated outside the empty façade of what appeared to have been a flower shop. Even with its shades half pulled down and mail gathering dust on the door mat, she was immediately transported to her mother’s favourite florist in Fulham, where she could quite easily spend thirty pounds on cut flowers on a Saturday morning. In a laughable moment of self-projection, she saw herself serving customers here, in Vallerosa, with precious bunches of long-stemmed roses and bright arrangements of dahlias and gypsophila. With her hair tied back in a high ponytail she would smile and greet every customer by name, content to bring colour and scent into the homes of her many new friends. She walked on, laughing, dismissing the idea as nonsense, before her father’s image had had a chance to creep in and scold her lack of ambition with a steely glare from beneath lowered eyebrows.
Eventually, she found herself heading for the welcome sight of a bar. Many of the tables were occupied and she was aware that her slow approach had attracted the attention of most of those sitting there. It was only as she got closer that she realized there were two bars on offer: the second group of tables around the corner belonged to a separate establishment. Now she hesitated, confronted with a dilemma. She could take a seat at the first table available in what appeared to be the more crowded bar, where the tables were shaded and she would have to sit shoulder to shoulder with some rather intimidating police and military men, or she could continue to the adjacent place, sit at one of the more spacious tables and bask in the afternoon sunshine. Therein lay the dilemma. If it were simply up to her, the second, sunnier, bar would be the obvious choice. However, she hesitated because she might cause offence by walking past the first to favour the second.
Knowing that in faltering she would make even more of a spectacle of herself, she silently resolved to visit both bars often and to be scrupulously fair in her patronage. With the diplomatic decision made, she took a seat in Il Gallo Giallo, among hordes of uniformed men who had not – as far as she could tell – uttered a single word since she had noticed they were staring at her. Gradually, as she settled in her chair, nodding and smiling in the general direction of their upturned faces, a small amount of noise returned to the bar.
The bar owner was soon standing before her, wiping his hands on his apron and asking what she would care to drink: ‘Tea or beer?’ For some reason, this seemed to be the root of much hilarity and she smiled gratefully at him, determined to demonstrate that she would not mock his good manners.
She deliberated for a moment. The tea here was awfully bitter, but beer might be a little unladylike, particularly quite early in the afternoon. Once again manners dictated her response and she turned her face up to the barman’s, smiling brightly.
‘Tea, please. Could you bring some honey, too? And I’m rather famished. Could I have a little bowl of crisps or nuts, do you think?’ He failed to return the smile and backed away into the dark interior of the bar. Once again, this smallest of exchanges seemed to have created a minor furore among her fellow drinkers and she was painfully aware that they were now slapping their palms on their knees as they laughed, openly and – Lizzie wondered – somewhat cruelly.
She replayed the conversation slowly in her mind. It might, of course, be a language thing, but she had already been so amazed by the almost perfect English used in the country that she couldn’t imagine she might have been misunderstood. While she pondered any possible unintended insult or double entendre, she looked out at the Piazza Rosa, marvelling once again at the splendour of the architecture and the vision of its creators. As the city crept up the valley sides on either side of the river, there were tiny discrepancies in colour of stone and style of building, but the piazza and its surrounding buildings had been dealt an incredibly even hand. Granted, the piazza was a little tired, but the scale on which it had been built was grand and the attention to detail stunning. From the profile of the clock tower to the elegant lines of Parliament Hall, its symmetry and graceful proportions suggested a master plan executed with care and pride.
While Lizzie contemplated the scene before her she was tempted to snap away with her camera but was aware that, in her duplicitous position, such behaviour might not be altogether suitable.
Meanwhile the bar owner was scrabbling around at the back of the bar, pulling out boxes and crates until he found a couple of packets of peanuts. Anxious that his royal visitor might notice that the use-by date had been exceeded by a number of years, Dario decided instead to decant them into a beer glass, which, though not exactly classy, was certainly an act of unprecedented hospitality.
He carried a small tin tray towards Lizzie’s table and, with something that might have resembled a flourish, set out the glass of nuts, a teapot, cup and small jar of honey. The latter he had fetched from his own quarters above the bar, confident that it was perfectly acceptable, after the judicious removal of some breadcrumbs from his breakfast.
The honey, though crystallized, smelt of rosemary and Lizzie stirred a couple of generous spoonfuls into the tea. Absently she groped for a handful of peanuts, tipped her head back and dropped them one by one into her mouth, still stirring. The o
nlookers, silenced again by this blatant display of sensuality, stared with unbridled lust, occasionally wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands.
The preceding ten minutes had attracted the attention of another onlooker. Not even when the American consultant had come into town had Dario deigned to bring tea to the table. As for the nuts, well …
‘He’s certainly been keeping those provisions up his sleeve,’ fumed Piper, to nobody in particular, as he surveyed the scene. He leaned at the doorway of his bar, silently furious that the important visitor had chosen his rival’s for her first drink. Arms crossed, he observed the customers’ childish behaviour as they swapped open-mouthed drooling for childish giggles. It was hard to imagine that those men represented the highest echelons of Vallerosan society. Piper shook his head in disgust, the taste of jealousy bitter in his mouth. Retiring inside, he half-heartedly wiped down his tables.
‘One amazing-looking woman! No?’ said Elio, the potter. ‘I could do justice to those curves.’ He chortled, imitating with his hands the fluidity of clay on wheel.
Piper dismissed the coarse gesture with a glare. ‘She, Elio, is exactly what I’ve been waiting for.’
‘Uh-oh! She’s exactly what we’ve all been waiting for, my friend, so get to the back of the queue!’ Elio laughed some more, delighted that young Piper might have set his sights on such a lofty prize.
‘No, you don’t understand. Not her, exactly, and it’s not even her royal status that interests me particularly. But somebody like her, a tourist, somebody who isn’t going to settle for the same old shit every day!’ Piper used his hand to take in his whole bar and his scattering of customers, who now looked up to see what had excited the usually gentle host. ‘I’m in the service industry. That’s what you all fail to understand. But what’s the point of serving anyone here if you don’t really care what you get? And most of you,’ he fired this point directly at Elio, ‘don’t even pay. Why should I bother to deliver anything other than the absolute basics?’
Elio stood up. He might be an artist but he still had his integrity and he certainly wasn’t going to take insults from a barman. ‘I do pay! I might run up a bit of a tab from time to time, but you just say the word and I’ll clear it. I won’t have a word said about my credit. My honour’s at stake here.’ Elio puffed out his chest, ready to fight if necessary.
Piper defused the situation with the flicker of a smile. ‘I know, I know. I meant no offence. I’m very happy to continue serving you and grateful for whatever you throw my way from time to time,’ he said, with a nod in the direction of the earthenware pots that lined a shelf above the bar, all proof of debts settled in the past. ‘But don’t you see? This is a real opportunity for me – for all of us. Here, at last, a discerning customer. Not even the American consultant counts. We all know his game, importing crates of his weak American beer and bringing in bottles of Jack Daniel’s. How many times has he graced us with his custom over the years? Once? Twice? And then only when he’s been currying favour with the toadies next door.’
Piper carried on wiping tables distractedly but his eyes were soon drawn back to the other bar. ‘But there, look at her!’ His voice softened. ‘Finally. A customer who deserves the very best.’
The two men stopped what they were doing to stare unabashedly at Lizzie. She brushed her sunlit hair off her face as she leaned forward to sip her tea. Then, realizing she had attracted the attention of the men at the bar next door, she gave a little wave and busied herself with the contents of her handbag.
CHAPTER 14
In Which Tourism and Recreation Go into Battle
After two or three cups of tea, Lizzie was beginning to get a taste for the dark brew. Just as she was wondering whether she should complete her circuit of the Piazza Rosa, then head back to her room for a nap before dinner, Remi the postman came rushing towards her, clutching a manila folder to his chest. He folded himself into a deep bow upon reaching her table. ‘Your Royal Highness,’ he gasped, ‘I have an important presentation to make.’ But as he scrabbled among the paperwork to pull out the relevant papers, two uniformed men shuffled forwards and swept him out of their way with a stern shake of their heads. Remi coloured as he resealed the folder, then retreated. The uniformed men sighed apologetically and indicated the empty chairs beside her. ‘May we?’ they chorused, in unison.
‘Be my guests!’ Lizzie gushed.
‘It is a great honour to introduce ourselves to you personally. We met this morning at the station and again with the president.’
Lizzie pushed up her sunglasses. ‘Oh, yes, of course, how rude of me. It was all a bit of a blur this morning and I’ve been up for what seems like days, so forgive me for not recognizing you immediately.’
‘Of course, of course, Your Royal Highness. Let me introduce us. I am Settimio Mosconi, senior minister for tourism, and this is Signor Marcello Pompili, the senior minister for recreation. We are part of Sergio’s inner circle. He absolutely depends on us to help our wonderful country continue to thrive.’
‘How marvellous. The ministers for tourism and recreation! What an amazing job you two must have, looking after such interesting aspects of Vallerosa. Tourism and recreation. So what is the difference? Who does what?’
Pompili and Mosconi shared a puzzled look. It was Mosconi who attempted a reply as they took their seats and pulled their chairs into the table, scraping them as noisily as they could to ensure there was not a man in either bar who hadn’t noticed whom they were taking their tea with.
‘The difference? Chalk and cheese! Tourism and recreation are two very, very different things. Completely and utterly different. There is no way that anyone could confuse tourism with recreation.’ Mosconi smiled generously to demonstrate the endless patience he would devote to explaining the complex workings of government. ‘I look after tourism. That is to say, I look after the outward-pointing aspects of our country. It is my job to ensure that we attract foreign visitors and that, once they are here, they have a completely satisfying time.’
‘And I,’ piped up Pompili, ‘am tasked with ensuring that everyone, citizens and visitors, has plenty to do while they are actively engaged in leisure time. For a tourist to enjoy recreational activity, he must first make himself at home. Once that has been established, I can ensure that his leisure is well spent.’
‘Without stepping on Signor Cellini’s toes, of course,’ Mosconi interjected, with a quick frown.
Pompili reddened a little and corrected himself: ‘Well, that goes without saying. I must not step on Signor Cellini’s toes. It is important to ensure the delineation between my role and his. Yes, indeed. I am the minister for recreation. Signor Cellini is the minister for leisure.’
‘Two completely different things,’ reiterated Mosconi.
‘Yes! Very different!’ agreed Pompili, still anxious that he might unintentionally have taken some credit for the role of the absent Cellini.
‘And the differences are?’ Lizzie enquired, now a little confused.
‘Well, it is not entirely my job to explain the role of Signor Cellini. I am sure he would be much happier to undertake the elucidation of his mantle himself. But, to put it simply, recreation is the action you take within leisure time. While leisure itself is really quite inactive.’
‘Resting?’ proffered Lizzie, hoping she was helping.
‘Oh, I think that might oversimplify the matter. There is probably much more to leisure than simply resting. But that is not my job, or my special interest, although I did once, as a much younger man, consider going into the leisure end of the business. But I believe, as it happens, that Cellini is much better suited to leisure and I have certainly found my niche in recreation.’
‘So I suppose the three of you work closely together? Tourism, leisure and recreation?’
‘Oh, very, very closely,’ agreed Mosconi. ‘Although of the three of us, I probably have the greatest fiscal responsibility so I will also work very closely with Feraguzzi. I have a budg
et. Recreation has no budget.’
Pompili drew himself tall in his chair, offended by the subtle but deliberate barb. ‘That’s not true at all. I would go so far as to describe it as a gross fabrication. I indeed have a budget, a substantial one. What you mean is that I have no income responsibility. Having an income agenda within a recreational framework would be counterintuitive. It is my government’s wish – and, indeed, my own – that recreation is something that should be free, accessible to all.’
Mosconi considered the distinction for a moment. ‘Yes, very true. I will give you that, and it is a valid differentiation between our two roles. As minister for tourism, I am keen that foreigners visit our country with an agenda that reaches beyond noticing that our country is attractive. I must also ensure that while our tourists are here they spend money that will remain within the country. My colleague here is intent on ensuring that there are recreational activities available to everyone, whether they are just visiting or not, and that many of those are free.’
Pompili, having sat quietly awaiting the restoration of his honour, now slapped both palms on the table in quick succession. ‘Tell Her Royal Highness about the bridge that is a perfect example of our different approaches to our ministerial roles!’
Mosconi nodded. ‘That is indeed a very good example.’ He leaned forward to be sure he had his visitor’s complete attention, then began his tale. ‘Once, Vallerosa had just one bridge to connect the south and the north banks of the river Florin. We debated in Parliament for years whether to make this a free or toll bridge. I argued on the side of the toll bridge, on the basis that a small contribution from the purse of each visitor was a good way to raise vital funds. I examined case studies from around the world and charging a toll seemed a very legitimate taxation.’
The Museum of Things Left Behind Page 11
