The Museum of Things Left Behind

by Seni Glaister

  They stood silently, gazing at the artwork in front of them and dwelling on their own interpretation: Mosconi, dreaming of lands and faraway shores he would never visit, and Lizzie recalling the average wheelie-bin full of rubbish that was routinely carted away from her gate.

  Their reverie was interrupted by the ostentatious shuffling of paperwork at the far end of the room and a series of polite coughs and throat clearings. The curator had returned. ‘Sir, madam, you honour me with your visit. I am glad that you were able to make yourselves at home in my absence.’

  ‘I am surprised that I had to. The museum opens at ten a.m. on Tuesdays, I believe?’ Mosconi approached the desk, his face much darker than his voice portrayed.

  ‘Unless the thermometer displays a temperature in excess of thirty degrees, sir. The constant opening and closing of the main doors allows too much light and heat to penetrate the museum, and I fear some of our more vulnerable exhibits are at risk. We are, of course, available by appointment at any time so no visitor would ever be denied access.’

  Lizzie, sensing tension, interrupted with a breezy ‘Postcards. I understand that you have postcards.’

  ‘Postcards? Most certainly. Please, this way.’

  Lizzie followed him, her hand already reaching into her bag for her purse.

  ‘A very fine selection, do you not think?’ The curator gestured towards a display cabinet where a host of postcards from around the world was displayed, some with their photographs turned away to reveal the handwritten scrawls of holidaymakers and the bright stamps of foreign countries. ‘Are you a collector?’

  Dropping her purse back into her bag, she smiled pleasantly. ‘No, just interested. Thank you. They’re perfectly lovely.’ She examined the cards for as long as she could feign interest, then thanked the curator formally for the delightful visit and turned to her guide to signal that they could leave whenever he was ready. It was clear that Mosconi could have lost himself in the delights of the museum for many more hours, but he respected his visitor’s need to leave, aware that it was a huge amount to digest in a first visit and certain she’d return for a more leisurely look.

  Lizzie and Mosconi enjoyed some easy conversation as they reversed their morning’s journey. They bade each other farewell as they entered the Piazza Rosa. As she walked across it, Lizzie admired the grandeur of the façade and marvelled at the sheer beauty of the architecture. The only thing that marred it was the scaffolding that shrouded the clock tower. Ugly green mesh, intended to restrict the view of the work, hung limply from the metal poles but had no purpose: there was nothing to hide. No work was being undertaken, though the scaffolding remained stubbornly in place. This blot on the landscape irritated Lizzie who, in a flash of impatience, resolved to convince Pavel to set aside his differences with the government. This was something she could fix, in the otherwise perfect city, and she set her heart on making it happen.

  CHAPTER 20

  In Which Lizzie Exerts Some Power

  Lizzie slept well, dreamed intensely and awoke with purpose. As she’d drifted off the night before she’d realized that she’d never had to make a single decision in her life. She had felt adult, independent, even, but she knew with absolute clarity that until she had arrived in Vallerosa and, most notably, until she’d got to know Pavel, she had been a child pretending to be an adult. Pavel was a man who acted on his principles. He had a deep sense of right and wrong, and was prepared to live by the guidelines that he had determined. He wasn’t much older than Lizzie but there he was, already a man with a past and a passion. Lizzie’s father had made a pretence of allowing her to think she was growing up but he had simply cast her in his own mould. Her thoughts, her beliefs, her ambitions, even, were all his. Her mother, too, had somehow allowed her own character to be subsumed entirely by her husband’s, so she and Lizzie were simply poor copies of his design.

  Here she had a role. A role that was hers to define and develop. She knew that she must make something happen while she was visiting this beautiful country. If she didn’t, what was the point of her?

  It was with renewed vigour that she shot out of bed to talk to as many ministers as she could find in an attempt to get the clock repaired. But in two hours of knocking on doors, hanging around in Il Gallo Giallo and asking for help wherever she went, she found that every man she wanted to pin down had suddenly become elusive. It was with growing determination that she marched towards the president’s quarters, motivated not by a sense of entitlement but of royal entitlement, the type of power that should open doors.

  She rapped decisively on the president’s door. Angelo answered. He would have liked, Lizzie thought, to show no surprise at the unannounced arrival of a visitor, but his raised eyebrows betrayed him.

  ‘Miss Holmesworth, how may we be of service?’

  ‘I’d like to come in, if I may?’

  ‘I don’t think that is possible, Miss Holmesworth. The president is otherwise occupied and was not expecting your visit. Perhaps another time, with an appointment?’

  ‘No. That won’t do. I want to see Sergio now.’

  If Angelo’s eyebrows could have climbed any further up his forehead, they would have. Not only had Miss Holmesworth’s voice increased in volume, she was now pouting and had seemed to plant herself more firmly, perhaps immovably, on the president’s threshold.

  ‘What is it?’ called Sergio, somewhat faintly – from within his bedroom, perhaps.

  ‘We have a visitor, sir. Miss Holmesworth is presenting herself for an audience.’

  Silence lingered until Sergio’s voice could be heard again, this time much closer.

  ‘Send her in. I am always happy to welcome my special guest, regardless of how inconvenient it might be.’

  Lizzie pushed past Angelo and made straight for the president’s desk. She faltered for a barely perceptible beat when she saw that the president was sitting at his desk in his bathrobe. A few seconds later a pretty young woman in a white apron left Sergio’s bedroom and shuffled past them, eyes averted, as if trying to make herself invisible. Lizzie swung around to watch the girl’s undignified exit.

  ‘Busy, were you?’ Lizzie said, barely masking her disgust.

  ‘I was having my back waxed.’

  ‘Your back waxed …’ Lizzie’s tone didn’t suggest agreement.

  ‘I was having my back waxed!’ Sergio insisted, drawing his bathrobe a little closer to himself.

  ‘With the help of Angelo here?’ Lizzie asked, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.

  ‘Well, with Angelo present, Miss Holmesworth, I am more likely to have been having my back waxed than indulging in any impropriety you may be suggesting. Would you like to examine my back for proof? I think you’ll find there’s a somewhat unbecoming patch that will now have to await further attention.’ Sergio began to part his bathrobe for inspection.

  ‘No. I really don’t want to see your back, thank you. And sorry.’ She lowered her eyes.

  ‘Sorry for coming up unannounced? Sorry for accusing me of something you have absolutely no business accusing me of? Sorry for what exactly, Miss Holmesworth?’

  ‘Sorry for coming up unannounced. But, one, there is very easy access through a gate in the railings and, two, I’ve been trying to get an appointment to see your people all day. I’m only here for a month and, thanks to your deceit, I’m here on official duty. As such, I’d like to get on with some of that duty without further obstruction. Do I make myself clear?’

  Sergio blanched. ‘Very clear, Miss Holmesworth. May I ask the nature of your official duty, as you see it? It might just pave the way for an easier passage if my men and I can be clear about the motive behind your investigations. It is an extremely busy time in our political calendar and I am hearing reports that the line of questioning you are taking is hinting at unwelcome criticism of our country. You must understand, Miss Holmesworth, we are a very proud nation and criticism of any aspect of our land is criticism of the whole.’

  Lizzie’s ha
nd shot to her mouth. ‘Criticism? From me? Absolutely not! I have nothing but respect for you and your country, Mr President, except perhaps for your passing me off as a royal visitor, and even that I can justify in my own mind for the sake of the government and all that. But, for the first time in my life, I have a sense of purpose. When I set out to come here, I had some grand notion of making a difference but I hadn’t any idea what that meant or whether that was even a realistic goal. The improvement I could make to my CV was my end-game and I had no notion of how I would do that. I just wanted to tick a box. But now I’m here I’ve fallen a bit in love with your country, and I can see very, very, very small areas that I really might be able to help with – but trying to get anything done here is incredibly frustrating. I’m helping you out, so let me get on with something I want to do, Mr President.’ She slammed her palm down on the table, a little half-heartedly.

  Sergio correctly interpreted her anger as the action of a passionate woman, rather than an angry one. ‘Who do you want to see? Who is proving difficult?’

  ‘I want to see Roberto Feraguzzi for a start.’ She met the president in the eye, the challenge evident.

  ‘You want to see my finance minister?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘So, the thing you want to make a difference with is my finances? You’re going to help run the economy, Miss Holmesworth?’

  ‘Of course not. But he is the key to unlocking some of the frustration of this place and I might need to speak to him before I can speak to Giuseppe Scota.’

  ‘You want to speak to Giuseppe Scota also? You want an audience with my minister for education?’

  ‘Yup. I need to speak to Giuseppe Scota before I can speak to Settimio Mosconi. I need to talk to them if I’m going to get things done.’

  ‘And these things, they involve finance, education and tourism.’

  ‘Well, I probably need to see Rolando Posti, too.’

  ‘And Commandant Alixandria Heliopolis Visparelli? You need to see my defence minister?’

  Lizzie frowned and looked up at the ceiling, seriously contemplating the offer. ‘No … I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well,’ sighed Sergio, ‘I suppose that is a blessing.’

  He picked up his pen and scrawled some illegible instructions. ‘Angelo, see that Miss Holmesworth has an appointment with each of the ministers she needs to see, beginning tomorrow. She has a difference to make, and this mission must not be interfered with.’

  Angelo smiled and opened the door for her. Lizzie shook the extended hand of the president, and breezed out. Angelo stopped her as she passed him with a soft touch to her shoulder. He dropped his voice to a register she could barely hear. ‘Let me give you some advice, Miss Holmesworth. Hierarchy is valued here by those who are the beneficiaries of its rewards and those who stand to benefit in the future from its successful continuation. If you want to access a minister, don’t approach him directly. For every minister there is an ambitious under-secretary. Make him your friend. And another thing, next time you want to see the president, you will make an appointment through me. A man, even a president, is allowed a little down-time. Understand?’

  Lizzie smiled as she skipped out of the room.

  CHAPTER 21

  In Which the Americans Play Ball

  In Sergio’s office, the atmosphere was tense. The president had chosen a smaller, more formal setting in which to conduct the interview. The room was clad with warm cherry-wood panels and the furniture was ornate, though sparse. An oil portrait of Sergio’s grandfather adorned one wall while opposite a watercolour painted by a junior minister provided the Big Deal with the eternally consistent view of an over-coloured river Florin at sunset. The room was used only on very rare occasions: with no external windows and just one entrance leading off a long, dark corridor, it was dank and airless. Sergio and Angelo occupied two seats at the far side of the table while Chuck Whylie and his tennis-playing colleague, Paul, sat opposite, nearest to the door.

  Whylie was relaxed, certainly more so than he had been on any of the occasions on which he had made formal representations to the ministers. He had already nudged his chair backwards by a foot or two, allowing him to slouch lower in his seat, his right ankle resting just above his left knee and his airborne foot wagging up and down in a playful rhythm that, despite the unchallenging reputation of the Hush Puppy, seemed menacing to the two Vallerosans. A smile played on his lips, and while the formalities of tea pouring were enacted, he leaned over every now and then to whisper a word or two in the ear of his colleague. On a couple of occasions Paul laughed more uproariously than a mere short phrase could justify and this, coupled with the almost tangible unveiling of a passive-aggressive game plan, contributed to the discomfiture of the two Vallerosan hosts.

  Paul quickly identified himself as another consultant from the Boston office of Whylie’s firm. ‘My visit,’ he reiterated, for the third or fourth time, ‘is purely speculative. Chuck’s been telling me about your beautiful country and some of the great ground you’ve covered together. I figured, why not chance it? You know what they say, you must speculate to accumulate. And, hey, if nothing comes of it, I go back with a great tan and a few good stories to dine out on.’

  Whylie stepped in seamlessly. ‘You see, guys, we’ve got a great relationship going and we’ve built some solid mutual understanding here. But Client Opted Inc. is not just about agriculture. We cover the whole gamut of specialisms from fiscal strategy to exit strategy, and we’ve rescued many, many small countries from some greater predicaments than yours …’

  ‘And some pretty sizeable ones, too.’ Paul, receiving the shot, lobbed it gently back to Whylie.

  ‘You’re gonna need some top-drawer coaching as you square up to face the hard balls you guys are going to be up against when you step up to the line for your first game outside of Little League.’ Whylie volleyed to Paul.

  ‘And let’s look at the field. There are some big hitters out there.’

  The current game had started more than an hour ago and, at an uncomfortable stalemate, they had broken for tea. In the preceding set, no amount of protestation on the part of Sergio had drawn the conversation to a close. Even when Angelo had painstakingly spelled out the government’s recent resolution on a cautious approach – they had unanimously agreed to see how the agricultural policy panned out over a number of years before entering into any other commitment – the consulting duo were determined that their audience should receive them and give them the attention they felt they were due.

  And while Sergio and Angelo had steadfastly refused to enter into a conversation that they were fairly sure was being forced upon them, they were also uncomfortably aware that they were the weaker side. The Americans were looking less like two men with a hard sell ahead and more like men who already knew the end-game.

  Impatient to bring the unscheduled tea break to a close and to resume the discussion at a pace they’d worked hard to establish, Whylie broke the silence first.

  ‘Guys, guys, guys. You need to hear us out. We’ve got something to offer that your country needs. And if you don’t think you need it now, well, you can bet your bottom dollar, you’re going to need it soon.’ He continued, the bit between his teeth: ‘You’ve managed to carry on pretty much unnoticed for a good time here and your survival instinct is impressive, granted. And I know that you’re justly proud of the neutral stand you’ve taken over the years. But, guys, just between these four walls, tell me something off the record. Can you put your hands on your hearts and say that over the last eight hundred years you actively sought to avoid war, or would it be closer to the truth to suggest that war has avoided you?’

  Both Sergio and Angelo remained steadfastly impassive even though Whylie was now broaching territory that Sergio would be compelled to defend most vocally. Eight centuries of peace was an achievement that nobody could take from them, but there was the hint of a suggestion from the American that it was about to be undermined in one hour of tea drinking.<
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  ‘My guess is that I’ve hit the nail on the head. War has avoided you, hasn’t it? Why is that? Why do you think you, of all the nations that surround you, have been so successful in evading conflict? I can tell you the answer to that, too. It’s because, up until now, you’ve had nothing that anybody wants. Diddly squat.’ He shrugged expansively and eyeballed his opponents, daring them to come up with a more plausible explanation.

  ‘But that’s all changed, guys. The political landscape has changed around you and you yourselves have changed your back-story in recent years. You are sitting pretty on a tidy export crop and a potential GDP that your neighbours would kill for, literally. I’ve got to look you in the eye and tell you I’m just not sure it’s going to be possible to stay under the radar for too much longer.’

  Sergio and Angelo, in tandem, ran a finger under a damp collar, wishing they’d chosen a cooler room for their chat.

  ‘And what happens when you’re finally noticed? How do you think your neighbours are going to react? Let’s face it, you’ve been living next door to them for ever without so much as a shared cup of sugar to show for it. What are they going to do? Come knocking on your door with a casserole and introduce themselves? Hell, no. I’ve worked with these guys before. They’re going to march straight in here and take what they want.’