The Museum of Things Left Behind

by Seni Glaister

  Both Sergio and Angelo, still acting in perfect unison, sat up and shook their heads. Sergio opened his mouth to respond, but Whylie was too quick.

  ‘You don’t believe me or you don’t want to believe me? There’s a big difference between the two. Wake up and smell the coffee, guys! You’re sitting pretty in the middle of one of the most unstable landmasses in the world. Let’s put the two world wars aside for a moment. Since 1950, if you take into consideration both military and civilian casualties, you’re talking about two million dead as a direct result of relatively unimportant and, in global terms, smallish skirmishes fought in the direct vicinity of your country!

  ‘And what are they fighting for? Something you haven’t got? Don’t underestimate yourselves, and please, please, please – like I’ve been telling you for at least a decade – please don’t sell yourselves short. What are they fighting for? You answer me!’ He used his whole right fist to pull back the thumb on his left hand. ‘There’s religion, first of all. And that’s the mother of all reasons. It’s lose-lose whichever way you look at it. If you don’t offend the guys to the east then you’re sure as hell going to piss off the guys to the west.’

  He moved swiftly on, pulling back his index finger and swinging his leg down at the same time, planting both feet squarely on the carpet. ‘There’s oil. You haven’t got any? Maybe not, but there are pipelines going in at the moment that make the New York Metro look like child’s play, and pretty soon somebody’s going to realize that the most direct route to get what they want from A to B means carving a path directly through your backyard.’ He pulled back his middle finger. ‘And if you need a third reason, there’s power. Europe’s gotten a lot bigger recently and the rest of the guys out here are going to want some strength in numbers. You might be small but, strategically, you could be huge to them.’

  Sergio rolled his pen back and forth between thumb and index finger. ‘So what are you suggesting?’

  At the first positive bite, Whylie resumed his relaxed pose. ‘Well, we need to examine all your options. You know, you might be proud of escaping a few wars over the years, but do you think the United States of America has seen much bloodshed on her soil? We’re talking about going back a hundred and fifty years to find a dead American soldier that didn’t have to be shipped home by airfreight. How do you think we maintain that stance? By ignoring the rest of the world? Hell, no, by defending ourselves. No one’s going to take a pop at us because the first guys that do?’ He gestured with a line drawn from one side of his throat to the other. He enjoyed the effect his hand signal had had on his audience’s eyebrows. ‘We’re talking about defence, guys, a little deterrent that’s going to make your neighbours think twice about taking a pop at you.’

  Angelo, though there strictly as adviser, stepped in, unable to sit through the American’s rant any longer. ‘We have defence. We have a strong police force and a highly skilled military unit. We feel confident that we are appropriately equipped should the need ever arise, but we are equally confident that, given our track record, these measures will not be necessary.’

  Whylie nodded enthusiastically, and even offered a warm smile of encouragement. ‘As I would have been, my friend, before you put your head above the parapet and started waving your big expectations around. Two years ago, most people wouldn’t have been able to point to you on a map, but I’ll tell you something for nothing, you’re going to find yourselves on the map now, guys.’

  Sergio, growing impatient, jumped back in: ‘What sort of defence are you talking about, over and above our immediate resources?’

  ‘Well, that’s where my friend Paul Fields comes in. He happens to be our resident expert on these matters. Over to you, Paul.’

  Paul smiled his thanks at his colleague and took a deep, theatrical breath while he captured the attention of his target. ‘I’ll cut straight to the chase, guys. The world’s moved on. A tank here, a fleet of F1s there, that’s nothing, these days. There are kids on the streets of New York City who have more modern weaponry than you can lay claim to. You want to do the right thing by your citizens? You want to sleep at night? We’re talking about nuclear deterrents.’

  Sergio stifled an automatic laugh. ‘That’s crazy … We’re not in the game … We have no such designs …’ Words to express his horror had fled, allowing Paul to step straight back in.

  ‘The entry level into the market is much, much lower, these days. You don’t even have to have homegrown nuclear capability. You’re our friend, our ally! Sometimes it pays to have friends in high places. You know what we do for our friends? We share our knowledge.’

  ‘Let me get this straight. You’re talking about developing nuclear capability, here, in Vallerosa?’ Sergio said, with a trace of a smile. The idea was so risible that a response other than ridicule would have given the suggestion too much credibility.

  ‘No, no, that wasn’t on my agenda. But if that’s the way you guys are thinking, then let’s talk. We’ll entertain any suggestions you want us to consider. But, no, I’m not talking about you taking such a big step. I was thinking you might want to dip your toes into the nuclear waters as a first move. We’re thinking we can hook you up with some guys who should be able to provide you with just what you need off the shelf. There’s a market in repurposed weaponry and I’m pretty sure that we’ll find something out there to suit your requirements.’

  ‘But this is preposterous! We’re talking about billions of dollars!’

  ‘Not billions. Millions. As I say, the entry level has lowered significantly. Obviously all the work I undertake is strictly confidential and I couldn’t possibly betray those confidences, but you would be pretty surprised to learn of some of the smaller countries that have already taken the step. And I don’t want to alarm you, but it wouldn’t surprise me if one or two of those weapons were pointed in this direction.’

  Sergio and Angelo exchanged a look. Alarmed.

  ‘OK, OK, they may not be pointed at you, but who’s to say they’re not pointed at an area just beyond you? Are you going to risk your entire country being obliterated by a bad aim?’ Paul allowed the idea to drift in the air before Whylie stepped in.

  ‘Do you think I want that on my conscience? Sure, you’d have got there on your own, but I’ve got to take my share of the responsibility here. The very fact that you’re more visible is partly thanks to me. Do you think, after the things we’ve been through together, I’d walk away and not at least help you to prepare for any potential ramifications? Hey, I want to sleep at night. Look at it this way, me introducing you to Paul is the very least I can do for you after all the great hospitality you’ve shown me over the years. And you’re on our books. Let’s face it, we’re practically partners in this!’

  Exasperation clear on his face, Sergio wanted to end the conversation, to dismiss the Americans from his office, attend to the needs of his country and get back to a world he understood. But, as hard as he tried, the vocabulary to do so failed him. ‘Even millions are beyond our means. Our country is tiny! We run a small economy. Our defence budget is minuscule. We just don’t have millions of dollars to play with.’

  Paul gave the polite smile of a patient teacher coaxing a reluctant child in the most rudimentary of lessons. ‘Don’t worry about the millions. While you’ve been burying your head in the sand, a phenomenon you might not have heard of has been established to look after these very matters. Ever heard of the World Bank? It is currently sitting on a fat purse and each year it lends tens of billions of dollars to developing and impoverished countries like yours. That funding is there for the taking.’

  Whylie cut in: ‘Guys. Access to credit is a basic human right. You’re going to deny your people that opportunity? You want that on your conscience?’

  ‘A basic human right?’ Sergio counted them off on his fingers. ‘Food, shelter, education, clean water …’ He hesitated. ‘Tea.’

  ‘You and I are not working off the same page here. Since when was tea a basic human right
?’ Whylie sneered, incredulous at his opponent’s ignorance.

  Sergio didn’t acknowledge this as rhetoric. Instead, he decided to take the question literally and answer it as best he could. ‘Well, what is tea? It is the leaf of a plant, grown locally, infused slowly in potable water.’ Sergio’s eyes became misty and he looked up at the Big Deal as he picked his way around the argument in his head. ‘The water must be boiling, of course, which serves a dual purpose. It greatly aids the alchemy that allows the release of the healing benefits of the leaf, but the act of boiling the water itself removes any impurities, which ensures a safe and thirst-quenching drink. Something healing and safe can be a great medicine in a poor country.’

  Whylie moved to interrupt but Sergio silenced him with a raised hand, still keen to follow his train of thought through to its proper conclusion.

  ‘If you have no access to a cup of tea – that is, some leaf, some water, some method of heating and purifying the water – you have nothing. If you cannot share a cup of tea with a friend, or indeed a stranger in need, you have nothing. So perhaps I would further justify my proclamation that tea is a basic human right by suggesting that the ability to offer a cup of tea to a stranger is a basic human right.’

  Sergio thought for a moment, pleased with this rationale, and as he continued to lock eyes with the Big Deal, he was already wondering whether his tea-sharing rights should perhaps be written into the constitution of his country. Angelo cleared his throat noisily, bringing Sergio back from his reverie. ‘So, I will grant you that food, shelter, education and sharing a cup of tea with a stranger all constitute basic human rights. But, debt? I don’t think so.’

  Whylie tutted, irritated now at Sergio’s obtuseness. ‘Credit, I said. Not debt.’

  ‘But the minute you give me credit, I am in debt to you, is that not correct?’

  ‘Credit allows a level playing field and there are people throughout the free world for whom credit makes the difference between poverty and subsistence.’

  ‘But the minute you are in debt, you have less than nothing. You are then truly impoverished.’

  ‘Listen. There is not a man in the developed world who will disagree with me on this one. Credit is a leveller and I’m telling you that you’re entitled to it. It’s there for the taking and the terms are so damned attractive that not to take advantage of it would be criminal. This is something I can do for you. The paperwork is not pretty – you need a degree just to address the envelope – but that’s where I come in. Client Opted Inc. has a successful track record in helping small to medium-sized nations apply for what is rightfully theirs. And you might as well get in line because if you’re not going to grab some of this cheap money the next country will. That’s what the money’s there for, to even out the playing field. To ensure that Little League guys can play ball in the Nationals.’

  Imploring now, Sergio took another tactic, one that had worked a thousand times before with his own ministers. ‘I don’t know. I’ve got to be led by my heart, and in my heart, this doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t even feel particularly honest.’

  ‘Well, guys, let me let you in on a secret.’ Whylie beckoned the Vallerosans to come closer. They leaned across the table until all four men were in a huddle. Then he took one of each Vallerosan’s hands in his own, bouncing them gently against the table surface in time with his words. ‘In my heart, it doesn’t feel quite right to pretend you’ve got a British royal staying with you when you and I know she’s a two-bit debutante from Sloane Square who’s never going to get closer to the royal family than the queue in the beer tent at a polo match. The deception of your people on such a great scale is not particularly honest … Sometimes, guys, you’ve got to ignore what your heart says and follow your head instead.’

  Sergio sat back heavily in his chair while Angelo moved in closer, taking a more aggressive pose. After a few moments, he felt his president’s sagging, defeated posture beside him and, reluctantly, he, too, fell back into his chair. Their united retreat suggested that the opposition had won the first round.

  Paul scrabbled in his satchel, feigning a spontaneity that both his hosts doubted. Sergio, resigned to his fate, muttered, ‘If you want us to sign something, it’s impossible. We pass no statute without a full quorum and, in this country, all twelve of my men must be present when issues of national importance are motioned.’

  ‘Go easy,’ said Paul, not looking up from his satchel, whose flap he held open with his chin. ‘I’m not talking about signing you up to anything. I’m merely here to offer my services as your consultant, on an exclusive basis, for a term of, say, five years while we establish your needs and come up with an appropriate solution for a position that we have already established is at best vulnerable, at worst, precarious.

  ‘I’d like to say the terms are the same on which you employ my colleague here but, as I’m sure guys like you are only too aware, when it comes to serious issues like defence, particularly when we’re using the N-word, then not only are the bangs bigger, but so are the bucks.’ Paul smoothed out a single A4 sheet of paper.

  ‘Don’t fret, it’s not a contract. You won’t need your quorum to sit for this old thing. Just the Ts and Cs, a heads of agreement that’ll let the guys back home get the ball rolling.’ He slid the document across the table, one proprietorial hand upon it until, reluctantly, Sergio dragged it the last few inches towards him. He turned to Angelo and their eyes met. Sergio paused, but not for long enough to let Angelo’s evident fury cloud his own judgement.

  Sergio brushed his hair back off his forehead and focused on the paper in front of him. He was barely able to make sense of the small type as it swam and danced before his eyes. ‘Where do I sign?’ More sad than bitter, he exhaled the words and made his mark.

  CHAPTER 22

  In Which the Visitor Gets Down to Business

  Lizzie had arranged for a meeting with Signor Rolando Posti, the minister for the interior. It would take place in his offices and she had been allocated a ten-minute slot. This had been bewilderingly difficult to organize, even though she had been given carte blanche by the most senior officer in the country and an access-all-areas pass. It had taken considerably more time to arrange her short meeting with Signor Posti than the amount an under-secretary had allocated to her.

  Carlo was a young man with great ambition. His youth was a source of great frustration to him. Although he found himself in a very favourable position, with great career prospects ahead, the dogged determination of the senior minister, whose job he hoped one day to inherit, meant there was no end in sight to the period – most likely decades – during which he would serve in this junior role. To ease the endlessness, he enacted every task allotted him with mind-numbing precision. By stretching a job that might ordinarily take just a few minutes into something that took days, or even weeks, he hoped to trick time and to make it work at a pace more sympathetic to his requirements. In this way, he believed, he might be able to manipulate and warp time so that he would soon find himself a middle-aged man with a desk in the centre of the room. His current desk, made of metal and tucked tightly against a pale beige wall, filled him with shame. Above it hung a watercolour of the Piazza Rosa, executed in the 1950s (you could tell this by the absence of any white plastic chairs outside the bar). He could help dissipate some of the humiliation by the knowledge that one day he would commission and hang an oil rendition of Signor Rolando Posti, his mentor and role model. ‘This man,’ he imagined announcing, as he invited an important visitor to pull up a chair to his desk in the centre of the room, ‘this is the man who taught me everything I know. Sadly he passed away a very long time ago.’ At the moment, however, Signor Rolando Posti was a belligerent though healthy seventy-something, and Carlo had to content himself with the punctilious filling in of forms.

  Before Lizzie could have her allocated time with Signor Posti, she had been instructed to visit Carlo in order to make an appointment to see Carlo in an official capacity at which time they could
discuss scheduling a time that might be convenient for her to see the minister. Naturally she tried charm and impatience to consolidate the first two meetings into one.

  ‘But, Carlo, I’m here now, and you have Posti’s diary in front of you. Could we please just make an appointment?’

  He shook his head. ‘You must understand, that is simply not possible. There is a protocol to follow, and protocol dictates that I must get the meeting cleared in advance of making it.’

  ‘Who do you have to clear it with?’

  ‘With my boss, Signor Rolando Posti.’

  ‘So perhaps at the same time as clearing the meeting with him, you could tell him the time that we’ve scheduled.’

  ‘That is simply not possible. Protocol dictates that I must follow the exact procedure for this set of circumstances. You need to make an appointment with me in order to make an appointment with the minister. There is much paperwork to complete and I cannot possibly prepare it all on the spur of the moment.’

  ‘Fine.’ Lizzie resigned herself to the fact that her access-all-areas pass had limited powers. ‘When might it be convenient to see you?’

  ‘Let me look.’ Carlo flipped through the diary, running his finger down page after page and shaking his head. Occasionally he would stop and nod, only to see something else that prohibited him making a time available. Tutting loudly, he continued to flick laboriously through the pages. Lizzie’s heart began to race when she realized she was now looking through dates towards the end of November. She started to speak but was hushed as he continued to scan his diary.

  ‘You understand, don’t you, that I am only here for one month, Signor Carlo?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, but you must understand that I am an extremely busy man and the diary of my boss, Signor Rolando Posti, is even busier.’

  ‘And you understand, don’t you, that I am due to see your president this afternoon and report on the co-operation I have received from his staff?’