As she reached the bar she was rewarded by the scent of freshly baked bread, the heady, yeasty aroma reaching her before she had even stepped onto the bar’s apron. No sooner had she pulled out a chair than Dario manifested by her side, a clean white cloth around his waist and a broad smile cutting his face in two.
‘Good morning, Miss Holmesworth. Tea and honey to begin with? And perhaps a little fresh juice to accompany your breakfast this morning?’
‘That would be lovely, and there’s a delicious smell of baking. Could I order some bread and jam, perhaps?’
‘Well, of course, bread and jam is a possibility, but if I may be so bold as to trouble you to step inside the bar, I have a variety of breakfast choices at your disposal.’
Lizzie smiled and pushed back her chair, happy to be led inside the cool darkness. On the bar counter she found an impressive array of glass domes, offering protection to an amazing display of baked pastries and breads.
‘Honey and almond … honey and pistachio … walnut and syrup … apple tart … pear tart … fig tart … fresh custard pastry … fresh breads baked with pine nuts, with caraway seeds, with poppy seeds, with cheese and tomato … Or perhaps something more substantial. I can offer you our special homemade pastries of wild boar and sun-dried tomato … or wild boar sausage and juniper berry or perhaps ham and sheep’s cheese.’ The list tripped off his tongue so comfortably that anyone might have thought he was bored by the selection and almost a little apologetic for the lack of variety.
‘Gosh! They all look and smell absolutely amazing.’ She pondered and debated, giving each pastry proper consideration before plumping for one savoury and one sweet and returning the prizes to her table. As she sat down a shadow fell across the table, cast by the tall and gangly figure of Signor Enzo Civicchioni who wondered politely if he might join her.
He might have been about to launch straight into conversation but his eyes were drawn to the pastries in front of her and his stomach growled jealously.
‘Breakfast here? I never even knew they served it! I think perhaps it would be rude to allow you to eat on your own.’ He scampered off to the bar and soon returned with a plate laden with breads and pastries. He fell on them and it was a while before he wiped the crumbs off his moustache and turned his attention to his breakfast companion.
‘I would like, if I may, to talk to you about tea.’
‘But we’ve barely finished breakfast,’ said Lizzie, her eyes laughing at the idea of another meal already.
‘No, no!’ He jumped in quickly. ‘Tea to drink. Our Vallerosan tea.’ He pointed to the amber liquid in front of her and scolded, ‘You are not drinking it.’
‘Only because I’ve been concentrating on the food. I actually like it very much.’ She reached forward to spoon in a generous teaspoon of honey, then sipped.
Civicchioni leaned in, looking and sounding serious. ‘I have a number of worries about tea, Miss Holmesworth, and I would be honoured if I might voice them to you on a strictly confidential basis. Would that be a burden?’
‘Heavens, no. I’m not an expert, though of course I’m a big tea drinker. My family all are. Has to be Earl Grey in the morning, Lady Grey in the afternoon, and fine bone china any time of the day!’
He frowned a little, not entirely sure where the grand people to whom she had referred fitted in, but he pushed on: ‘The honey. It is necessary for your palate?’
‘For me, absolutely, because the tea here is much more bitter than I am used to.’
He winced a little. ‘Bitter is not good presumably.’
‘Well, it’s not what I’m accustomed to, certainly, but it has other qualities that I find hard to describe. I’ve only got into a routine very recently but already I look forward to my first cup of the day … It might be a little addictive but I’m not altogether sure why. It’s not – and please don’t take this the wrong way – it’s certainly not the flavour I crave. It must be the effect it has on me.’
‘Which is what, exactly?’ Civicchioni was leaning forward, a little more animated.
‘It seems to clear my head. I feel more awake. That’s what it is. And later on in the morning, if I feel myself flagging a little, I’m thinking I need my next cup.’
‘This is a good quality of our tea. Its wakeful properties.’
‘I mean, all tea has natural caffeine in it, doesn’t it, which is why we all drink tea and coffee? But perhaps this tea has more caffeine than others.’
‘Perhaps. It is possible. Miss Holmesworth, might I ask you a very pertinent question, please?’
‘By all means. Of course.’
‘Do you think there is a market for Vallerosan tea in the United Kingdom?’
Lizzie swilled the dregs of the amber liquid around her cup and watched it, as if she would find the answer there. ‘To be honest, I don’t know. It’s a crowded market. The British love their tea – we’re a nation of tea drinkers – but we’re sticklers for our traditional favourites. I mean, I’m not sure people are going to switch their brand – particularly to one that tastes so very different.’ His face was falling as she spoke, so she tried to redress the balance. ‘But, of course, if you could get people drinking it, they might find the benefits so overwhelming that they switch. It’s just difficult to know how you would get them to try something so unfamiliar. Not impossible, just difficult.’
Civicchioni’s admiration for her fought for space in his features with disappointment. After a short battle it gave way to resignation. ‘You are a tea expert,’ he declared, defeated.
‘I’m not. That’s just common sense, and a burgeoning interest in marketing.’
‘You are more of an expert than our American consultant, and we pay him for his expertise. He’s lectured us for more than ten years on the importance of exporting our tea crop and I’m not sure he has thought through who is going to drink it. Why would anyone exchange his or her brand of tea for another? It is a very perplexing conundrum and I think we must understand these issues much more before we make a terrible, terrible mistake. And perhaps we have already made one.’ He started the process of straining another cup for himself.
‘I really am no expert, but I was very surprised to see the tea plants here. I mean, isn’t tea usually imported either from India or China? I don’t think I’ve ever seen tea grown so close to home.’
‘You are absolutely right, and very knowledgeable on matters of tea, as you are on matters of marketing, Miss Holmesworth. We are a very surprising and inventive nation. But we also rely very much on our own traditions and there is nothing, not one thing, that is more traditional than tea. Tea goes to the very core of our nation. I would go so far as to say that without tea we might not even be here. That is the truth.’
‘Well, it’s the first noticeable thing about your country, and it’s so beautiful, the lovely glossy tea leaves against the red of your soil. It took my breath away when I arrived.’
‘Thank you. You are very, very kind. And perhaps now I might give you the history of the plant, the heritage of the very leaves you are now straining. Perhaps when you understand the nature of our tea, you will understand something more about the nature of our people.’
He stirred his tea, leaned back in his chair and, oblivious to the world around him, to the waking up of the city and to the gradual filling of the bar with people who had been drawn to Il Gallo Giallo by the fine scent of the pastries wafting through the alleys, he began his story.
‘Legend has it that our founding fathers were Cathars, chased here by those who were intent on persecuting them for their religious beliefs. They escaped from the Pyrenees in the south-west of France, journeyed across the southernmost coast of France, traversed the Alps, made the difficult and dangerous journey through the conflict-stricken region of northern Italy and then the unfeasibly difficult trek up into the Carpathian mountain range. When they left the Pyrenees, they would have been a band of some two or three hundred travellers, holy men in the main, but each leg of the journe
y would have depleted their numbers, and by the time they reached this beautiful valley there were just twenty-four weary travellers. They had been chased, hunted, starved. They had lost their families, their loved ones and their children. But they arrived here in this hidden valley and could journey no further. Perhaps because they could not face another mountain range.’ Here, Civicchioni gestured to the east vaguely. ‘Or perhaps because they knew they were home.
‘Those who had pursued them so vigorously for a thousand miles gave up at the last dangerous peaks, and our valiant forefathers were left in peace to build a small community of religious people, committed to living in harmony with the land. They were tired of fighting for their lives and their beliefs, and they were certainly tired of running. So they settled. What, Miss Holmesworth, would you say typified the landscape of civilization in all the areas through which our forefathers travelled?’
Lizzie thought for a while, recreating in her mind her school trip to Carcassonne where she had learned about the Albigensian Crusades. She also thought about the family holidays in the South of France, the pretty scenery and the thrilling drives they had taken up into the mountains. She thought, too, about the skiing holidays in the Alps and the various Italian villas they had hired throughout her childhood. The scenery all came flooding back to her, but in truth, one holiday was probably indistinguishable from another.
‘Well, scenically, I suppose, it’s the hilltop citadels that I’m most familiar with. The little mountaintop villages with their medieval churches and crumbling brick walls. Come to think of it, they’ve dominated the landscape in all of the areas I’ve been to in both France and Italy.’
‘And what do you see when you look around here?’ he probed.
She frowned, unable to follow his line of thought.
‘The inverse, Miss Holmesworth. The inverse of what springs to mind when you imagine a town designed to fortify itself, to protect itself from its enemies. Vallerosa is built in a dip, a great big valley, and if you can imagine the worst place to build a town to protect itself, it is here. And yet we have survived. Not only have we survived, we have thrived. We are one of only a handful of nations in the world never to have entered into any conflict at all. I wonder, and this is a conversation that you probably need to have with Commandant Alixandria Heliopolis Visparelli, but I wonder if our forefathers were tired of defending themselves, so tired of fighting that they chose to do the exact opposite. By building themselves into this dip, perhaps they were making a statement of peace. A quiet surrender to their fate. Of course, what they were also doing was quite clever, because nobody ever found them here and they were able to develop this great nation with no threat from any neighbour at any time in our long and extraordinary history. But I digress. Let me continue with my story.’
He cleared his throat and went on, conscious now that the other customers had paused in their breakfast to listen openly to the conversation. They were nodding in agreement, shaking their heads from time to time, but attending to every word. Even Dario, who had been busily wiping tables, replenishing pots of jam and butter, or pouring more tea, had found himself a comfortable pillar to lean against and was now listening to the story.
‘Our forefathers were not the only travellers to find this haven. You must remember that the twelfth century was a time of great conflict around the world. Education and religion were destroying dynasties, and for every intrepid explorer setting sail to further their understanding of the planet, many more were fleeing their enemies. As our forefathers settled here, other travellers were coming from the distant lands of the east. Legend has it that, at the time of the fall of the Yuan dynasty, land was being concentrated in the hands of Mongolian aristocrats and Han landlords. The people’s livelihoods were also suffering from a series of natural disasters that made farming all but impossible. A small group of travellers fled their homeland, leaving their families, who were living in dire poverty, in search of fertile valleys to farm peacefully. They, too, made an incredibly dangerous journey, their numbers dwindling by murder or illness as they made their way from mountain range to mountain range, from the Tien Shan and on to the Zagros mountains. Their route would have taken them, the scholars believe, north of the Black Sea until they, too, found their way into the Carpathian mountains. Just a small handful arrived here, in this forgotten valley. Their journey was similarly perilous and the fact that they had arrived here at all was a small miracle. They were given respite – roofs under which to shelter, food and wine to heal them. They were very grateful for the hospitality shown to them by the early Vallerosan settlers, and by way of a gift, they planted a few straggly tea plants they had brought with them, carefully wrapped in hessian and preserved – another miracle – throughout their terrible journey. The plants were nurtured and survived. The altitude, you know, is similar to that of Darjeeling as are the growing conditions. But the climate is very different and the winters are so very harsh here, which is perhaps why the tea tastes a little less sweet. But it is holy tea, you must agree. Every plant you see here has come from those first few straggly plants, given to us by the wise men of the east. And as such it must have magical properties, do you not think?’
Lizzie sipped again, suddenly awed by the sacrifices and journeys that had been made to bring that bitter tonic to her lips. ‘And what happened to the travellers from the east? Did they settle here too? Are you their descendants?’
‘Only the tea remains. Legend has it they were so terrified that they ensured their plants were going to live and then took off, heading further into the mountains, never to be heard of again. They were not tired of running. They were not tired of fighting for their beliefs. Perhaps they had just not found their home yet.’
Lizzie sipped her tea, and looked around the bar at the men gathered there. Their eyes were misted and their minds were travelling in the direction of the steep cliffs above them to where the tea plants flourished. She was bothered, not by the tale, but by the effect of the tale upon her. This tea was important. It was important to the city and to the people and it was possibly their salvation. But she didn’t understand how. ‘That really is a fascinating story. I can see that your tea is very significant to you, and you’re right to be proud of its part in your heritage. I would like to talk to you more about tea, if you would like. Perhaps we could meet again, a little later. At what in England we refer to as teatime – four o’clock?’ Lizzie ventured, the glimmer of an idea beginning to steep in her mind.
‘Teatime!’ exclaimed Civicchioni, delighted. The phrase rippled around the bar, the customers trying it out on their lips and enjoying the flavour it left behind. ‘Teatime!’ he exclaimed again. ‘Yes, let’s meet again then.’ He raised his cup in Lizzie’s direction and sipped slowly, savouring the taste and counting his many very good fortunes.
CHAPTER 38
In Which Dancing Spells Doom
Lizzie was quietly pleased with the progress she had begun to make. She’d had a very satisfactory meeting in which she’d introduced Civicchioni to a number of the talented young students who were now working closely with Mosconi on Vallerosa’s new website and marketing campaign. Far from being divisive, the arrival of another figure of authority, a passionate advocate of the nation’s favourite commodity, had served to increase the commitment devoted to the scheme and a tangible sense of change was in the air.
Much later that evening, Pavel had picked up a violin and was now holding court with one foot raised on a chair, tapping out the rhythm, as he entertained the gathered crowd. As the melody picked up pace, the audience clapped and laughed. Lizzie contented herself by watching the performance, smiling and nodding but steadfastly refusing to make any eye contact that might be construed as an invitation to dance. As the sun began to set over the piazza, yet more people began to snake out of the shadows, drawn by the sound of the fiddle. The nation’s women emerged from their homes, alone or in small groups, peering cautiously out of the heads of the alleys, wiping their hands on their aprons – o
r removing their aprons and flinging them over their shoulders as they came. The young women of Vallerosa were striking: raven black hair shining down their backs, high cheekbones, straight noses and complexions the colour of honey. And all small. Not one would come up to Lizzie’s shoulders, and their sandalled feet afforded them no pretence of greater stature. Lizzie found herself a chair and remained seated, terrified of overshadowing the newcomers and sending them scuttling back into the darkness of the town. In fact, she visibly shrank down in her chair, rounding her shoulders, making herself as small as possible.
The womenfolk had an immediate effect on the men. They all sat up a little straighter and were quick to offer up their chairs, even to brush away imaginary crumbs before the women sat. Some were obviously wives of the men there, and waved or smiled at their husbands, but preferred to seat themselves separately, heads huddled towards the centre of the table, laughing and gossiping among themselves. Other, younger, women were more watchful, twirling their hair in their fingers and standing a little to the edge of the proceedings, waiting to be invited to sit down or to join a group. Pavel beckoned his cousin Maria over. She smiled and called to a group of three young women, all Lizzie’s age or younger. They sat and gave their orders to a beaming Piper in turn. ‘This is good,’ the barman kept repeating. ‘So very good.’ He bustled away to load yet another tray with teas and beers, flourishing doilies as he went and filling plates with crackers and homemade pickles. At one point, replenishing Lizzie’s beer, he bent down and whispered in her ear, ‘You are just what we needed here, the contrast we all seek to remind us of what ties us!’ Lizzie laughed, flustered and flattered. These people, so warm and kind and generous, needed nothing from her. But she would find a way to make a contribution, if she could.
The Museum of Things Left Behind Page 27
