The Museum of Things Left Behind

by Seni Glaister

  ‘After his mother’s death, Sergio Senior jerked the controls with a much heavier hand. He was a man of integrity and wanted the best for his son, but was full of pride and also wanted his boy to be a reflection of himself – to act in a way that would portray him in a good light as both a father and a president. That looks, to the outsider, like successful management of parental responsibility but it leaves the child less able to feel his way to the right decisions. When Sergio Senior died, it was a very great shock to his only son, who had learned only to keep his father happy – I think that without his father’s guidance he felt lost. It was a tragedy that his mother did not live for longer. She would have encouraged Sergio to trust implicitly that he was doing the right thing, without looking for external reassurance. You will understand, Miss Holmesworth, that honest reassurance is hard to come by when you are in a position of power and surrounded by people whose own positions are furthered by agreeing with you.’

  His words, Lizzie thought, applied in some small way to her own upbringing. Her parents were both alive, but had her father really done anything other than try to perpetuate his own beliefs through her? Had she ever had an original thought that he hadn’t seized, examined, rejected and replaced with a superior version? She tucked the thought away as the professor returned abruptly from his own reverie.

  ‘Your conjecture is indeed very interesting. Perhaps I myself have been too distracted by the part I have to play in this country’s management. It has always been my assumption that my students are forced to stay in education to keep them from having a negative impact on the unemployment figures. It wouldn’t be the first time in political history, you know.’

  He poured them another glass of liquor, and drank his own immediately. Lizzie left hers to catch the sunlight in front of her.

  ‘I assume you know that the US government invented the concept of retirement and have since imposed it upon the rest of the world? Until this came along it was considered usual for men to continue working until they dropped. Not a bad thing, either. We’re programmed to work. That’s why our opposable thumbs evolved in the first place. Sitting down for twenty or thirty years towards the end of life was never the goal for a normal, healthy adult male. But in the USA, the unemployment figures were a bit scary and the government came up with an audacious plan. They invented retirement, insisted it was a basic human right, and thus lopped off a large chunk of the work force. Once everyone over the age of sixty was no longer expected or entitled to work, that freed up an awful lot of jobs for the younger folk.

  ‘The really clever bit was the psychology, selling it to the people as part of the great American dream. Hey, you’re worth it! You’ve worked hard, now it’s time to sit on your backside and do nothing for a few years until you die! It didn’t take long to catch on, either. Golf probably had something to do with it. That and the brainwashing.’

  He poured himself yet another slug of liquor and again drained the glass in one.

  ‘I always assumed that our prolonged education system was part of that same myth. Let young people feel it’s theirs by right and they won’t even notice they’ve been excluded from the job market for an extra few years.

  ‘But now I’m wondering. I might have underestimated Sergio. Perhaps he does feel it’s a basic right, which he was denied by his own father. Perhaps he’s even felt that the exclusion has held him back. Perhaps in insisting his people access education for as long as they wish, he is merely fulfilling his own desire vicariously.’

  ‘Perhaps?’ offered Lizzie tentatively.

  The professor filled and drained his glass again. ‘Psychology is just one of my degrees and I like to exercise it from time to time. Come, time’s up. Let’s go to the bar.’ He slammed the glass down.

  Lizzie scraped her chair back, feeling curiously light-headed as she got to her feet. It might have been the effect of the extremely strong drink or perhaps the discovery that she had an ally, a minister who hadn’t tied her up in knots and left her less sure than when she’d begun. It was with renewed vigour that she took his proffered arm and walked with him towards the bars.

  CHAPTER 36

  In Which Lizzie Dines Out

  The following day Lizzie was making her way back to her room, having spent the morning at the university, finishing only when siesta was officially declared. She was learning her way around the campus and making friends as she went. She had found that the more she collaborated with those she met, the easier it was to navigate the otherwise unfathomable by-laws that governed day-to-day living. The American she had failed to charm on her train journey was her frequent companion among the students and, most particularly, in those areas that offered internet access. Unlike Lizzie, he had chosen to traverse a less co-operative route and quite often found his internet access slow, interrupted or denied. Lizzie had long since stopped offering him help and had this morning left him alone, muttering over a dusty terminal, and headed back to her room and the daytime nap to which she was fast becoming accustomed.

  As she neared Parliament Hall’s gates, a figure lurched out of a doorway. Emitting a squeal, she put her hand to her heart, then laughed when she saw who it was.

  ‘Mr Whylie! I didn’t see you there – you startled me!’ She smiled at the American.

  ‘No, your head was well and truly in the clouds. And you appear to be skulking yourself, Miss Holmesworth, I’ve been watching your progress. Surely the quickest route would have been across the piazza.’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t skulking exactly, just heading back for a rest. I wasn’t quite in the mood for lunch at the bar, so thought I’d avoid it altogether.’

  ‘You’re tired of the folk here already, and you’ve been here a matter of days. I’ve been spending time in this goddam outpost on and off for years!’

  ‘Oh, that’s not at all what I meant. I’m not tired of them, just needed a bit of time to myself.’

  ‘I understand completely. Come, have lunch with me – that will give you the rest you need.’

  Thinking it might be rude to protest, Lizzie fell into step with the American consultant and followed him to his quarters. He, too, had been allocated lodgings within the palace walls, but on the far back corner of the building. His separate little house had its own private access from the alley that ran down the far right-hand wall, leading directly to the corner of the Piazza Rosa.

  ‘Wow, this is great, more like an apartment, really. They treat you well here obviously!’

  Chuck Whylie had a comfortable sitting room, with a door opening onto a small kitchen and another to his bedroom. The sitting room was ornately decorated with long silk hangings at either side of the floor-to-ceiling windows, which opened on to the dark rose stone of the building opposite. A sliver of blue sky above afforded some natural daylight but otherwise the room was dark and cool. ‘Beer?’ he asked, appearing from the kitchen with a Budweiser.

  ‘Not for me, thanks. I’d sleep all afternoon,’ said Lizzie, standing a little awkwardly by the window and feeling uncomfortable in the intimacy of the surroundings. She could see his bed through the open door and felt vulnerable.

  Whylie flopped down onto the sofa, patting the space beside him for Lizzie to join him. He gulped his beer greedily. ‘They have to treat me well. Their future is pretty much in my hands.’

  ‘Whose future? The government’s?’ asked Lizzie, taking the offered seat but instinctively leaving as much space as possible between herself and the American.

  ‘Yes, and for “government” read “the whole damn country”. The two are inseparable as you’ll come to learn – government, country, people, all one and the same. Whether you’re talking about the guys in their brocade or the un-intelligentsia down at the bar, you’ll find no more than a group of uneducated, undeveloped, unruly peasants. The guys in charge pretend to offer some sort of structure and stability but in reality they’re no better than the rest of them. You want my honest opinion? They’re barbarians, and back home I wouldn’t employ any of them
to pack my groceries.’

  Lizzie had been studying the stonework of the alley wall, her cheeks pink with embarrassment at the disloyalty she was showing by listening to the man. She turned now, with a forced smile. ‘That’s harsh. They seem incredibly well educated to me.’

  ‘Educated! You call them educated? They might be book-learned to a degree, but nothing that’s going to stand up to Western scrutiny. Tenth-grade kids back home would give them a run for their money. Anyway, if you’re going to get on in the real world it’s not about what you learn from books. Latin! Where’s that going to get you in the cut and thrust of modern business? No. It’s about what you’ve got up here.’ He gestured to his temple. ‘This country is permanently on the brink of financial ruin and, hell, I don’t want to be a scaremonger but, without my help, I don’t think they’ll come through.’ He shook his head sadly.

  Lizzie was torn between irritation at his condescension and genuine concern at the nation’s plight. ‘Gosh, how do you mean?’

  Whylie reached to pat her thigh as he framed his answer. ‘Oh, it’s complex, but they’re a small, underfunded nation with big, powerful neighbours, and I don’t think I’d be exaggerating if I told you they’re vulnerable to takeover.’ He took another long pull on his beer and used the hand that had been patting Lizzie’s thigh to wipe his mouth.

  Lizzie gasped. ‘War? Do you mean somebody is likely to attack them? That sounds terrifying.’

  This elicited something between a sneer and a snort from the American. ‘I don’t think war would be necessary. You could walk in here and have this country for the taking. First one to fly the flag would have it, in my opinion. Of course,’ he said, and had another swig, ‘they’re actually pretty safe. No one would want this place. Mac cheese?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mac ’n’ cheese. Years of travelling here have forced me to prepare well. My office ships me enough ready meals and American beer to keep me going for every trip.’ He stood up and went to the kitchen, throwing open a cupboard door to reveal row upon row of cardboard-wrapped food. ‘These are great – long shelf life, microwaveable and tastes just like home. When I first came here I wasn’t so fussy but now I insist that I have Budweiser brewed in America. I wouldn’t touch the stuff brewed in Eastern Europe. Plays havoc with my guts.’

  He pulled a couple of packages off the shelf and peered at them, reading out the labels as he sifted through. ‘Mac ’n’ cheese, tomato pasta bake, lasagne, take your pick – it’ll be the best meal you’ve had since you got here!’

  ‘Oh, no, thank you. I’m really not hungry. A glass of tap water is fine, thanks.’

  ‘Tap water? Are you mad? It’ll be full of all sorts of crap. Sewage, for sure. And, Jesus Christ, the pipes are rusty and probably full of rats. I’ve got some decent bottled water here. I don’t ship it, I’m not entirely crazy, but the guards stock my fridge every week. I consider it part of my rider.’

  Lizzie watched him as he punched buttons on the microwave and laid himself a knife, fork and plate on a tray. After a minute and thirty seconds he tipped the white mush onto the plate and brought it back to the sofa where he hungrily dug into it. ‘Sure I can’t tempt you? Smells good, no?’

  Lizzie’s nose wrinkled as she did her very best not to inhale the strange sweetness radiating from the forkfuls of gloop he was shovelling into himself. He would barely swallow a mouthful before loading in the next. She looked around the room, marvelling at the grand charm, the solid furniture and lavish soft furnishings. ‘You’re very lucky, you know,’ she offered.

  ‘Lucky? You’re joking. The guys back home laugh at me. They think I did something to piss off the CEO to get this gig. Other guys are chucking fine wine down their necks and dining in the best restaurants around the world. And you know the really lucky ones? The guys who get the small African states. OK, their accommodation is probably crap compared to this but the big bucks are all there. You can smell it. Know what money smells like, Lizzie?’

  ‘Yes, no, probably. I don’t know.’ She thought of her pink ceramic piggy bank at home and the memory of the sweet smell of her childhood bedroom filled her nostrils.

  ‘Oil. But there’s nothing like that here. First thing I checked out when I got here. Got the guys to run some pretty extensive geological reports on the sub-structure. Do you know what this country runs on?’

  Lizzie shook her head.

  ‘No? Water. Rock and water, that’s all they’ve got. Probably just as well. If they’d got anything else I’d have been pulled off this job a long time ago and it would have been handed to one of the big shots in the office. It’s how it works. But I’m doing my time, you know, slow and steady, and I’m bringing in a decent hourly rate here. Plus a good per diem. Few more years I’ll make partner – sooner, perhaps, if I land a really big contract.’

  ‘What exactly do you do for your firm?’ Lizzie asked, more out of habitual good manners than genuine interest.

  ‘I’m a consultant. I consult. I look at the big picture and try to monetize the obstacles. It’s technical stuff. I don’t want to bore you.’ He went on, pausing only to swig at his beer: ‘Imagine this country is a company. I look at its balance sheet, its statement of income, and try to help them balance the books. Some of it’s just good old-fashioned accountancy but I like to think I can do a bit more for them than that. Sometimes when you’re very close to a problem you can’t see the wood for the trees. I look at the issues with a fresh pair of eyes and they pay me to help them come up with strategies for growth and improvement. I’ve earned my keep too.’

  ‘I’m sure you have.’

  ‘And it’s not been without its hardships and frustrations. But I’ve got in place a sizeable deal for this country that will genuinely lift them out of poverty and take them on to bigger things.’

  Lizzie looked at her watch and feigned surprise. ‘Whoops! I’d really better be going.’

  Whylie put down his beer bottle, swung around to face her and continued, without missing a beat: ‘Stick with me. This country might look backward, but you’ve got to play the game to get on here. You can move with the big boys, or with the losers. I know my way around and if you want to maximize your return here, sooner or later you’re going to need my help.’

  ‘I don’t think I want to maximize my return. I just want to spend some time getting to know the people.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ He slapped his thigh. ‘Don’t give me that bullshit. I know who you are and I know where you’ve come from. I also know who you’re pretending to be. So don’t come over all innocent with me. You’re in the middle of a potentially volatile situation, dangerous for you and dangerous for the government. You’re going to have to tread a very delicate line.’ He paused to search for an analogy that would illustrate his train of thought. ‘You ever watch any of those PBS documentaries they run for charities? They show them from time to time about the land-mine clearing operations in war-torn Bongo-Bongo Land. You know the ones, where they’re using rats and dogs and all sorts of clever technology to find out where these bombs are buried. The bombs are small, they’re homemade, or they’re small and sold to poor countries by rich countries. Whatever, they’re pretty small but, despite the rats and dogs and other stuff they use, the bombs carry on going off, legs and arms flying everywhere. People get killed all the time. Even the good guys. Hell, especially the good guys. Well, imagine here, the paths you tread. They’re littered with potential land-mines. You can try to tread carefully, you can alter your route from time to time, you can cover your tracks – but make one false move, and don’t be surprised if they’re your limbs that are blown clean off.’ He wiped his plate clean and scraped noisily at his fork, licking the last remnants of cheese sauce off each prong.

  Lizzie had paled visibly.

  ‘Look, I’m not meaning to scare you, but you’re playing with the big boys now and you’re up to here in it.’ He waved his fork somewhere near his Adam’s apple. ‘All I’m saying is, I’m here to help. It’s w
hat I do. I seek solutions and I consider myself a diplomat, a people person. So, if you need help, I’m here. You understand?’

  Lizzie nodded. ‘Thank you. That’s really kind. Now I think I’d better be going.’

  He shrugged and picked up his tray to tidy it away but made no move to stop her.

  She let herself out, trembling inside. She had been violated in some way, but was unsure how. He had seemed to be offering his help yet the threats were barely veiled. Feeling tearful and out of her depth for the first time since arriving in Vallerosa, perhaps for the first time ever, she walked quickly back to her room where she lay down on her bed and stabbed at her mobile phone, trying again and again to find a signal that would deliver the healing tones of her mother. The American had touched a nerve with his land-mine analogy: nothing had moved her as greatly as the story of Princess Diana’s foray into Angola. Her mother had been greatly affected by the princess’s charitable work and had thought her the epitome of goodness and good breeding. ‘The more you have,’ her mother insisted, ‘the more you must give. Duty comes with wealth,’ she’d admonish, as she raced off to yet another charity auction.

  Lizzie lay on her bed, frustrated, lonely and a little bit scared. Eventually she sobbed herself into a fitful sleep.

  CHAPTER 37

  In Which Tea Is Taken

  The next day dawned brightly and the sun leaked into Lizzie’s bedroom through the gaps between the curtains. As she dressed she made a number of resolutions, and to seal them, she muttered to herself as she walked around her room. ‘I will not speak to the American. I will not speak to either of the Americans ever again. Who needs Americans anyway?’ And she marched out of her room and down the stairs, with the sure-footedness that was hers by birthright. It was with that renewed confidence and vigour that she made a beeline for Il Gallo Giallo, confident that this was now her breakfast spot and happy that, for now at least, her loyalty would not be tested or torn.