The Museum of Things Left Behind

by Seni Glaister

  ‘Perhaps I know less now than when I first arrived. I seem to be relearning all sorts of things at the moment.’

  Ada nodded, enthused. ‘You mean you are having to undo some of the assumptions you had already made about our country before you had arrived?’

  ‘Yes. Quite. And now I’m not even quite sure on what grounds I had made those assumptions. There’s so little written about your country that it should have been a blank canvas. Somehow I was expecting a bit more misery and subjugation.’

  Again, Ada was pleased with her response, her face creasing into a tangled web of lines etched into her face through a lifetime of smiling. ‘And that would have suited you, I presume?’

  Lizzie sat forward in her chair as she forced herself to delve more deeply into her feelings for Vallerosa and her relationship to it. ‘In a funny way, yes. I was very much hoping to do some charity work while I was here. The British are brought up to believe that everywhere they go the people they meet will be somehow inferior – financially, emotionally, culturally, religiously – and, as such, in need of our help. It’s help we give generously and unstintingly but, here, in the context of Vallerosa, I’m rather embarrassed by the notion that I thought I might have something to offer you. Your country seems well organized, its people well looked after, and there’s a lightness in your footsteps that I don’t think I’ve ever encountered at home.’

  Ada smiled kindly and gazed across the room at a space just beyond Lizzie. She cocked her head, as if listening to another conversation that only she could hear. ‘A lightness, yes. That is a good observation.’

  ‘And I suppose the biggest surprise to me is that this country has such a strong military and governmental presence – it hits you as soon as you arrive – but it doesn’t seem to have a negative effect on the quality of life. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered such a peaceful or welcoming place.’

  Ada probed further: ‘And why do you suppose that is?’

  Lizzie thought for a few quiet beats. ‘Until you asked, I hadn’t really thought about it. It’s hard to put my finger on it.’

  Ada probed again: ‘So what else have you learned about my country? Is there anything you’ve noticed particularly?’

  ‘I feel … at ease. Which is a surprise, of course, because I must look like a freak to the people here. I tower over the men and I haven’t seen another blonde since I arrived …’ She trailed off as realization dawned.

  ‘Go on …’

  ‘Well, now I come to think of it, I’ve met just a couple of women since I’ve been here. I think you’re only the third I’ve actually spoken to. On the whole everyone I’ve met since the moment I arrived has been a man. I’ve only come across men in the government, the bars, the shopkeepers, the students … all men. And yet – it’s odd – it doesn’t seem to feel oppressively masculine.’

  Ada touched her heart with both hands, an expression of gratitude or relief fleetingly conveyed. ‘So it seems you have grasped quite a lot about my country, more perhaps than you’d understood.’

  Lizzie was now intrigued. ‘So where are all the women? What do they do?’

  Ada shrugged and looked down at her lap, unable now to meet Lizzie’s eye with the same honest gaze she had unleashed when Lizzie had sat down. ‘Oh, this and that. They do what women do.’

  ‘That’s funny – that’s just what your son said. But what exactly do they do?’

  Ada dropped her voice into a hoarse, theatrical whisper. ‘Can I trust you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Lizzie leaned forward, too, until their foreheads were nearly touching.

  ‘While the men play, the women run the country,’ Ada said, with a conspiratorial smile.

  ‘But … I saw no women in the parliament buildings, and the meetings I’ve sat in on so far have been attended only by men. Even the domestic roles seem to be played by men, from what I’ve seen.’

  ‘Of course, but who says a country should be run by its government? The more a government has to do with running a country, the less well it will probably succeed. The women in this country make things happen that no amount of statute-writing can achieve. We keep the wheels greased.’

  Lizzie was reminded of her own mother, who used to protest that her job of running the home, of keeping her father in order, was more important than his and that he couldn’t even get himself to work on time without her help. She wondered if the behind-every-strong-man myth was perpetuated even here as a means for women to justify their supporting roles.

  ‘You mean, by keeping the domestic side of life running smoothly, that enables the country to run smoothly?’ Lizzie posed, troubled by the feel of the argument on her lips.

  ‘No. Not at all. The domestic side of life runs smoothly because we have it organized to do so, but we control all aspects of this country. Our secret? Our secret is to let the men think they run it. But look at it realistically. Do you think they could actually run a country from a bar?’ She gauged Lizzie’s response. ‘No. I don’t think so either.’

  Lizzie laughed, uncertain of how seriously she should take the matriarch’s words. But as she was relaxing into the evening, and even as she could hear the footsteps that suggested Angelo had returned, Ada leaned forward once again. ‘And I’ll let you into another secret. The reason we are heading for disaster?’

  Lizzie’s eyes widened, now ready to accept the poisoned apple.

  ‘Because we’re running out of women.’

  At that moment, Angelo re-entered the room and, like a ray of sunshine, seemed to light it up, breaking the spell. Lizzie smiled gratefully at him, confused by the conversation and unsure of what she had heard or even understood.

  ‘Time to eat. Come through.’

  The two women stood up, Lizzie crooking her head to avoid the low beams. They filed down a tiled corridor and into a simple dining room where a table was set for five. Despite the empty chairs, they sat down. Angelo and Ada started pulling the lids off the pots and pans that filled the table.

  Until that moment, Lizzie had lived on a staple of pasta accompanied by a simple meat or tomato sauce, with an occasional treat from Dario or Piper. Here, they feasted. Thin slivers of dry cured ham. Jar upon jar of sweet preserves and spicy pickles. A rich stew of wild boar enhanced with the strong, perfumed flavour of juniper. A rabbit pie with the lightest, flakiest pastry and the most delicate, tender filling. The predominantly brown palette of the spread disguised a range of exotic and delicious flavours, covering the full spectrum of tastes, from the earthiest, richest porcini to the lightest, sweetest accompaniments that captured the very essence of summer.

  They ate heartily and talked rarely between plate after plate of the choicest morsels. Ada seemed to have lapsed into a more stilted version of English and Lizzie made no reference to their earlier conversation, restricting her comments instead to gushing enthusiasm in praise of a new flavour discovered or polite interest in the ingredients and their origin.

  Angelo seemed uninterested in the food. He ate hungrily but with little deference. A few minutes after they had started the meal, his brother, Marco, joined them at the table. Having kissed the top of his mother’s head, he nodded politely to Lizzie and took his place. Once he had piled his plate high, he leaned heavily on his left forearm while shovelling forkful after forkful into his mouth with his right hand. Every now and then he would use a finger to help load the fork even more ambitiously and, with virtually no conversation at all, he ate greedily while stealing furtive glances at Lizzie. When he had finished, he excused himself briskly, picked up his plate, fork and glass, then left the room.

  The fifth table setting remained unused.

  Once the table had been cleared, Angelo made his excuses to his mother and apologized, explaining that he and their guest had work to do. This was a signal for Ada to leave the room and now, the two of them alone, Angelo fetched paper and pencils.

  ‘Angelo, I can’t possibly think about this speech thingy. I’m absolutely stuffed. All I want to do is s
leep now.’

  He smiled but continued to scribble. ‘Stately, commanding and – above all – positive. That’s what we’re after. How did you find my mother? Inspirational?’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely.’

  ‘Thought you might. Right, anything you feel like talking about in particular? Your reaction to the country? It would help us enormously if you could be very upbeat about your impressions and especially about the president. We need an ebullient reference to his hospitality and maybe a bit about how much you like some of the specifics. The museum – we’re very proud of our museum so that would go down well. And the tea? Of course the tea. It’s our national drink, obviously, so perhaps a mention of how delicious you find it and how much you wish you could get something similar at home … That would serve a double purpose. You’ll flatter the people and reiterate that there is a market for Vallerosan tea elsewhere.’

  ‘There is?’

  ‘Well, we’re waiting to find out. Got a meeting with the American again tomorrow. He is supposed to tell us then exactly what sort of market he’s found for us. Keep your fingers crossed. And don’t forget the delicious pig. But don’t favour an individual pig. There are several from each quadrant and it wouldn’t do to offend some of the producers.’

  ‘Angelo?’

  ‘And the tipple. Perhaps you could take a glass with you to the podium and raise it. But don’t drink it on stage. It wouldn’t be good to see you choking. It’s strong stuff. In fact, don’t drink it at all. It would probably just about finish you off. Can’t have that. Better still, take a glass of water to the stage and pretend to drink it. That way you won’t offend anyone and you’ll live to tell the tale, too.’

  ‘Angelo?’

  This time he paused and looked up.

  ‘Why don’t you just write my speech? I’m happy providing you’re happy, and you’ve got a much better idea of what it should contain. If I think of anything specific, I’ll just add it, shall I?’

  Angelo, who was, after all, used to speech-writing in a non-collaborative way, was relieved. ‘Excellent idea. Leave it to me. I’ll make sure you get a final draft twenty-four hours in advance. That will give you plenty of time to practise your delivery. How long are you comfortable speaking for? Ten minutes? Fifteen? The crowd will feel they’re getting better value if you can last that long.’

  ‘Five minutes absolute tops.’ She glared at him sternly. She wanted him to understand that she meant what she said. She underlined the finality of her stance by pushing her chair back and excusing herself from the table. Head held high, she walked off in search of Nonna Ada. But Angelo’s mother had already disappeared: the small sitting room was empty, the fire in the grate had died to a few glowing embers and there was no sound coming from the kitchen. She called softly, but when there was no response she left by the front door and closed it quietly behind her. Stepping onto the cool, dark cobblestones of the alley she unwound herself gratefully to her full height and headed home.

  CHAPTER 32

  In Which the Ministers Measure Up

  The twelve men sat at the conference table, which was empty of everything but a scattering of pencils – though heavily laden with nervous expectation. They had, by silent consensus, decided to forgo the usual pre-meeting banter in favour of anxious throat-clearing, nervous pencil-twiddling and the occasional furtive exchange of worried frowns. The president’s increasingly irrational behaviour had set them all on edge.

  When, eventually, the president entered, all twelve sets of shoulders quickly slumped. It was immediately apparent that their leader’s good humour had not returned and that they were in for another dark, disturbing episode of haphazard governance.

  Before he had even sat down, Sergio barked his first question in the general direction of the table but intended for his minister of finance.

  ‘I’d like a recap on spending. Divisionally.’

  Roberto Feraguzzi responded immediately. He was an efficient man, frugal with words and sparing with small-talk. A direct question aimed at him with no preamble, while unfamiliar, was not an anathema, and he responded with an appropriate measure of forthright information combined with patient explanation to ensure that all present followed him.

  ‘We have ten days left of our annual budget and would expect all figures to be close to a hundred per cent. In this context that means we have spent the full sum allocated one year ago. A lower figure suggests we are ahead of budget and will carry reserves forward to the next fiscal year. By contrast, a higher figure suggests we have overspent and will have to cut next year’s budget or borrow from those departments that have some money left.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I think we’re all very well aware of how an economy runs by now. The details.’ Sergio was curt, his lip curled.

  Feraguzzi was unperturbed. As he launched into his summary, the ministers sat up a little straighter, aware that they were about to receive the latest figures that demonstrated how effectively they had run their departments. Each felt as if he was getting back a marked assignment and, just as within any classroom environment, there were the quietly smug ones clamouring to have their results publicized while others shied away from exposure, sending out silent prayers for a more favourable outcome than they could realistically expect. Accordingly, the ministers sat forward, smiling encouragingly, or back, more warily, depending on how they felt they would fare.

  ‘Health. Sixty per cent.’ The verdict on Rossini’s year was delivered loudly and clanged to the table, ringing painfully in the ears of all present.

  ‘How do you explain that, Dottore Rossini?’ barked Sergio, before the doctor had even registered the figure as his.

  He answered thoughtfully, considering an honest but diplomatic response: ‘I’d like to put it down to good management, sir, but I’m afraid it’s more likely to be as a direct result of lower than forecast birth rates.’

  ‘So, no good news there,’ Sergio stated, with a trace of accusation in his voice.

  ‘None, I’m afraid. I would like to ensure that the surplus is reinvested back into my health service, though, as I would hope to engineer some more proactive initiatives to deal with our current situation.’

  ‘You’re suggesting that we buy a larger population?’ sneered the president.

  ‘Not in so many words, but I believe there are some things we might be able to do to persuade our citizens to have larger families.’

  ‘We’ll come back to that,’ Sergio said firmly, then turned back to Feraguzzi. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘Tourism. Thirty per cent. The spend remains in line with the previous fiscal period, but you will recall that we budgeted for a significant increase in spending as we had some ambitious plans to exploit our tourism opportunities,’ Feraguzzi offered, on the minister’s behalf, aware that Mosconi might need some friendly support.

  ‘Mosconi. Your comments, please.’ Sergio glared at him.

  The minister cleared his throat noisily. ‘I still have my ambitious plans, sir. They are just harder to execute than I had imagined.’

  ‘Exactly what have you achieved this year? Tell me some good news. Are tourism figures up? Are visitors returning? Are they staying for longer?’

  Mosconi’s colour had risen alarmingly and he forced a smile to disguise his anxiety as he scrabbled for some positive spin with which to gloss over his evident inadequacies. ‘I think our recent esteemed guest might have a beneficial effect on numbers. She has friends, is well connected, and I know she is enjoying her stay immensely. I had the good fortune personally to escort her to—’

  ‘Mosconi. One visitor does not make a tourism industry. What have you actually achieved? Perhaps you think we should not be flaunting our country’s attributes abroad. Perhaps you are ashamed of Vallerosa and think it doesn’t deserve visitors. Is that closer to the truth?’

  At this Mosconi spluttered and fought not to dissolve into tears. To have his own loyalty questioned, and by none other than his president, without doubt represented the very worst momen
t of his life and nothing, thus far, had prepared him for it. He looked wildly around the room, seeking help or endorsement from his colleagues.

  ‘Vallerosa is everything to me, sir,’ he said. ‘It is the sweetest air to breathe, and if I never breathe any other I shall die a happy man. Vallerosa is my first love, my childhood sweetheart and my betrothed. Vallerosa is the one I have chosen as my lifelong partner, and it is in her warm soil that I will make my final resting place. I shall be proud to be enclosed by her, as I have been to live here, to walk upon her.’

  ‘Lovely,’ the president spat, pouring contempt into the word. ‘But I want action. I’m giving you forty-eight hours to come up with a plan and it needs to be convincing.’

  ‘Recreation,’ Feraguzzi continued.

  CHAPTER 33

  In Which Tourism Is Boosted

  Lizzie and Mosconi sat in Il Gallo Giallo, drinking tea. Mosconi had now dried his eyes but sniffed occasionally as he attempted to explain his overwhelming despair. ‘For the president to doubt me is the biggest tragedy of all. If he wants to call me an incompetent fool, I shall accept it. If he wants to tell me I have failed at my task, then I must bow to his better understanding of the requirements of the job. But to question my love of my country, my loyalty to the nation? It is preposterous and a slander of the highest order.’ The sniffing began again in earnest, and Lizzie dug around in her handbag for a tissue to hand to him.

  ‘But you tell me the president has not been himself. Perhaps this isn’t a personal attack on you at all. Perhaps he has other worries on his mind that you aren’t privy to and he is just taking his frustration out on you,’ she suggested brightly.