The Museum of Things Left Behind

by Seni Glaister

  Sergio chewed the end of the pencil. His writing was becoming more and more illegible as his ideas tumbled ahead of him, his pen furiously chasing across the page in a desperate bid to capture his last thoughts as president.

  As his working day drew to a close, the periods of time during which he felt able to concentrate were diminishing. After just a few minutes back at his desk he rose for another break, this time taking to the well-trodden paths around his chambers. At the first circuit of the room he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His face was haggard, drawn and grey. His hair was pasted to his scalp with sweat, making him appear much older than his years. His clothes were creased and tired-looking too.

  He pulled himself up straight in front of his reflection. His image sneered back at him. Ringing in his ears he could hear the mocking derision of his father.

  ‘So, my son, this is what you have amounted to, is it? A snivelling wreck of a man, not fit to wear the shoes I left for you to fill.’

  Sergio looked at himself in the mirror, his own face merging with his father’s. ‘Father, I have tried my best, but I can no longer tell my friends from my enemies. I am alone now, alone to make the decisions that will settle my fate.’

  His father glared back at him, contempt written in his small, dark pupils.

  Sergio strained to listen, using his powers of concentration to separate the cacophony of crackles and hisses from actual thought, until, like tuning a radio set, he was able, out of the confused noise of his inner turmoil, to decipher the clearly enunciated words of his father speaking to him. ‘A great leader has neither friends nor enemies! I bequeathed you a small country, son, not a vast empire, just a nugatory scrap of land that should have presented no challenge even to a man with so few obvious qualities. Is it to fail now? In your custody? You should be ashamed of yourself. You dishonour my memory and the memory of your forebears. Look at you! You are no longer worthy of your title and you are unworthy to be called my son.’

  Sergio examined himself slowly from head to toe. His father was right: he was a pitiful excuse for a man. And yet, and yet, his mother had found in him so much to be proud of even when he was a child. He pulled himself up a little taller and looked deeply into his reflection until he could see the light of his own eyes begin to replace the dark, contemptuous glare of his father’s. Within the lightness, he saw a glimmer of something familiar, a suggestion of the man he had once known and liked, a man with more integrity, more love, more friends than his father before him.

  It took only a few moments to find the clarity he sought. He nodded, determined once more. ‘If I am going to be destroyed, then let me face that moment with dignity and a clean shirt.’

  He headed to his bathroom to busy himself with pampering. Beginning with the feet that were not fit to wear his father’s shoes, he filed away at the cracked skin of his heels, shedding the sordid version of himself that clung to him parasitically. After oiling his newborn skin, he turned his attention to his toenails: snipping, filing, buffing to remove all traces of the tired yellowing toes that had begun to sicken him. From his feet, he moved upwards, carefully examining the nooks and crannies of his neglected self. He washed, scrubbed and preened while conjuring up long-forgotten memories of maternally applied ablutions. He shaved carefully and thoroughly, then plucked stray nose and ear hairs with a deft and determined hand. He applied moisturizer until his face shone. He doused his clean neck in cologne until it stung with the sting of a reawakening. At last, resurrected, he dressed in his finest suit and shirt, picking out his best cufflinks and strongest, most self-assured tie.

  When, a couple of hours later, he presented himself to his mirror for inspection he liked what he saw. ‘Now I’m ready,’ he said to the mirror, and as he straightened the knot on his tie, there was a soft knock on the door.

  Sergio’s stomach lurched. He opened the door, the condemned man facing his executioner for the first time.

  ‘Angelo, it’s you, just as I thought.’ Sergio greeted his oldest friend sadly.

  ‘Well, of course it’s me – who else might you expect at this time?’

  But time had long been unharnessed, as far as Sergio was concerned. A few weeks of increasingly troubled sleep had allowed all measures to slip and he was no longer able to distinguish the routine from the outlandish.

  Angelo spoke to him softly, kindly, and placed a protective arm around Sergio’s shoulders, holding him as a priest might comfort a dying man. ‘There is something you and I must do in preparation for tomorrow’s big day. I would like you to come with me. No questions asked. Would you do that for me?’

  Sergio squeezed his eyes tightly shut, removing any trace of sadness. When he reopened them he was able to look Angelo in the eye with calm resolve. ‘I understand. I am ready.’ He spoke with barely a tremor in his voice.

  Angelo propped up Sergio’s elbow, then guided him out of the room and along the dark corridor, taking the unofficial exit down the stairs, through the private door and gate into the piazza. Just before they stepped out from the cool of the palace interior, hovering on the threshold of the past and an uncertain future, Angelo moved in front of Sergio and turned to face him. Calmly, kindly he put both hands on Sergio’s shoulders and looked deeply into his friend’s eyes. Behind him it was dusk. The light was fading but the sky above remained the bright dark blue of midsummer. Sergio looked back at his friend and his heart ached for the pathos of the moment. All of their summers, their winters, their shared losses and loves were caught in those few seconds of eyes locked together.

  ‘Now, Sergio, I am going to ask you to trust me completely. Can you do that?’

  ‘I am beyond fighting, Angelo. I am in your hands now.’

  ‘Good. Please, to make this easier for us both, may I put this blindfold on you?’

  Sergio nodded his acquiescence. ‘Here, let me do it,’ he mumbled. A resigned submission had overcome him and, with shaking hands, he prised the black cloth from Angelo’s hands and secured it firmly across his eyes, adjusting it back and forth until he was sure that all light had been extinguished.

  ‘Let us go, Sergio.’ Again Angelo steered his leader with a light touch to his elbow, manoeuvring him through the gate and onto the rough cobblestones.

  They walked across the piazza, and Sergio quickly became aware, from the acoustics of his own footsteps, that he was being led into the centre. All was quiet. He was sure he could feel the presence of other men and women around him, but there was no noise to suggest this was anything other than a sensation. As they walked he began to falter, his feet occasionally catching on the cobbles. His instinct was to turn and run or to rip the blindfold off, but he took strength from Angelo’s quiet leadership and allowed himself to be led forward. After what seemed like an interminable time Angelo steadied him to suggest they had reached their destination. A firm hand on his shoulder pushed him downwards, not, as he anticipated, into a kneeling position but instead onto a chair. He recognized, from the soft give of canvas, the chairs they usually set out for parades and other formal occasions.

  That he was seated gave Sergio a whole host of other supposed outcomes to imagine. But, straining his ears, he could hear whispering: there were other men around him and they were awaiting a specific moment. He swallowed noisily, reminding himself that he would face his fate with dignity. Now the thing he feared most was that his terror would betray him in the presence of witnesses. These moments would be recorded in the annals of time so he must give a good account of himself. He had to acknowledge, though, that if he had been asked to walk any further his legs would not have carried him. The seconds ticked by. Occasionally Angelo gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze but otherwise his hand remained firmly in place. It might have resembled friendship but there was something commanding about that hand: its presence was a comfort but there was no doubt that its true purpose lay in keeping the president from bolting.

  The atmosphere around him changed. Something clanged to the ground, perhaps from a gre
at height – it sounded as if it bounced a couple of times. Angelo tightened his grip. Sergio flinched. Someone swore quietly. Someone else stifled a laugh. The president’s heart was thumping, threatening to explode at any moment. He wanted to appeal to Angelo to put him out of his misery quickly, but the seconds passed slowly, each one seeming to stretch ahead of him indefinitely.

  Suddenly out of the darkness a voice barked, ‘Now!’

  Sergio stiffened and leaned forward, an instinctive shrinking away from a blow. Angelo pulled off the blindfold with one hand while using the other to tilt Sergio back to an upright position, then tip him further back to face upwards. Sergio let out a gasp. In the semi-darkness he was struggling to interpret the scene ahead of him. Footlights on either side of the piazza shone upwards, momentarily blinding him and masking the structure lurking in the shadows – scaffolding … perhaps gallows? At that moment a tremendous noise started and further lights were thrown on, picking out the clock face on the tower. A bell was clanging defiantly, loud and true, ringing with a purity of tone that had not been heard for a quarter of a century. As it tolled its ninth clear stroke, the ancient doors to either side of the clock face sprang open and from each a pair of painted wooden figures leaped forward.

  From the left, Humility and Altruism emerged and shyly made their smooth journey towards the front of the clock where they met their fellow travellers, Fertility and Liberty, at the centre. Here, they performed a perfunctory greeting, Humility saluting Liberty and Altruism acknowledging Fertility with a stiff bow that tilted her from the ankle. Creakily, Humility raised her right arm, leaning forward to tip the teapot she held to touch the cup in Liberty’s now outstretched hand. After a few moments, in which Liberty lifted the cup to her lips, they bade each other farewell and, with a mechanical jolt that Pavel very much hoped to coach out of them in time, they continued their onward journey, disappearing into the darkness of the tower’s recesses. As they dissolved from view, the doors closed upon them, leaving them to the privacy of their own quarters. There they could continue to converse at leisure while they readied themselves to re-emerge exactly an hour later to remind the citizens of Vallerosa of the virtues to which they should all aspire.

  Sergio’s jaw dropped. It was all too surreal. He was alive, he was sure, but was that possible? Was this Hell or Heaven or both? That the clock was working surely meant he was no longer in Vallerosa as he knew it. But at the same time, there was cheering and laughing, and Angelo was pulling him to his feet and shaking him and hugging him, and there were men all around him clamouring and laughing and one word, again and again, was being shouted in his ear. ‘Surprise, surprise!’ they roared, and Sergio burst into tears.

  Later they celebrated in Il Gallo Giallo. Sergio hadn’t drunk with his men since his father was alive, but now he pushed through the crowded bar, his arms linked with Alix’s and Angelo’s. There, the rest of his men gathered with bottles of wine, decanting them generously into beer and wine glasses and toasting the success of their grand unveiling. They were pouring and drinking fast, refilling in time to file out to check the quarter-hour strike. Sergio still had tears rolling down his face but he had given up wiping them away. His friends were equally moved to hear the bells ring out in the square after such a long absence so they were not taken aback to see their president overflowing with emotion. The backslapping and laughter hadn’t stopped and Dario had to shout across three rows of customers to take orders from newcomers as they arrived.

  ‘There is somebody you must meet,’ Angelo shouted into Sergio’s ear. ‘Come quickly. He is in the next bar.’ Sergio was dragged through the crowd and across the alley into Il Toro Rosso. Pavel stood quickly to attention but Angelo put a friendly arm around his shoulders.

  ‘This is the man you really have to thank. He is the one who fixed your clock.’

  Pavel shook hands with the president and quickly introduced Elio. ‘This is Elio, the potter. He worked on the figurines and did a remarkable job on their features. You will see when you look more closely that he has already made some improvements. Humility has had that smug smile wiped from her face while Fertility is looking a little less licentious. Altruism’s basket is full again, but we need to do a little more work on Liberty – the way she wields that key makes her look like she’s ready to incarcerate Humility, rather than liberate her. We didn’t have as much time as we’d have liked and Signor Bianconi was determined that this should be a surprise for you, which meant working under the cover of darkness for much of the restoration process – not easy when we knew your quarters have a direct view of the clock tower!’

  Sergio laughed at the clockmaker’s joyful enthusiasm and shook his head at the audacity of the plan. Once again he used his handkerchief to wipe the perspiration from his head and the tears from his eyes. ‘I can’t thank you enough, or express how glad I am to have the clock restored. To me, this symbolizes the rebirth of our country, demonstrating that we can move ahead in step with time once again. I am for ever in your debt. You are a remarkable man to achieve this when so many of my own men have failed. Thank you.’

  Pavel shrugged. ‘The mending of the clock was not difficult. The true skill, perhaps, was not the horological demands but getting to grips with the mechanisms of the government and for that you must thank our British visitor.’

  Sergio had not noticed Lizzie sitting quietly to one side. Now she looked up with bright, anxious eyes, biting her lip and hoping she had not overstepped the mark.

  Sergio stepped towards her and took both of her hands in his. She drew herself up to her full height so that he had to look up to meet her eyes.

  ‘I really hope you don’t mind me interfering, but it seemed that everyone wanted to fix the clock but nobody seemed to be actually doing it. I took it upon myself to help sort it as it was just about the only thing in the whole country that wasn’t functioning well. I hope you’re not angry?’

  Sergio smiled. ‘Absolutely not, Miss Holmesworth. One day you must tell me the full story of how you unlocked the secret of time, but now I believe the half-hour is approaching. Shall we all go and observe?’

  They left the bar together. Sergio, Lizzie, Angelo, Pavel and Elio joined an expectant crowd gathered at the foot of the tower, craning their necks to look at the spectacle above them. As the hour hand clicked into place, a single strike sounded and a spontaneous cheer rose from the crowd. Pavel checked his wristwatch and his face broke into a broad smile. Good. He nodded.

  As they began to drift back to Piper’s bar, Lizzie fell into step with Sergio and allowed them to drop back a little from the others.

  ‘Pavel is the son of your father’s clockmaker, who had the contract to run the clock until it was withdrawn and reissued to the palace workmen twenty-five years ago. I think it might be diplomatic, if you don’t mind me suggesting it, to engage Pavel to look after this clock and any others you might have. Then you can ensure your country always runs on time. He is a good man. I don’t think you could find a better one.’

  She had barely finished her appeal before Sergio broke away from her and hurried after Pavel. ‘Pavel, this weekend is a time of celebration but you and I have some business to discuss on Monday. Be sure to make an appointment to see me at my offices with Giuseppe Scota. Let’s make sure that this country runs smoothly from now on, shall we?’

  Pavel nodded gravely and shook his president’s hand.

  Sergio linked arms with Angelo and they headed back to the palace. ‘Was it a surprise, or did you get a hint that something was afoot, Sergio?’ asked Angelo, teasingly.

  ‘Well, it is hard to keep anything a complete secret, but I can honestly tell you that was the very last thing I expected to happen this evening.’

  ‘And you’re happy? The surprise was worth the secrecy?’

  ‘I’m very happy. I can’t remember ever feeling so glad to be alive. But next time, Angelo, I would be even happier if you could let me know when you’re planning to surprise me.’

  ‘I’l
l do my best.’ The men hugged and went their separate ways, each carrying equal doses of relief and joy in their step.

  CHAPTER 43

  In Which Lizzie Explains the Birds and the Bees

  Lizzie had only a few hours at her disposal, and she knew better now than to lose them to a complex maze of protocol.

  She leaped out of bed as soon as she heard the clock strike six and headed directly for Angelo’s house, where she rapped impatiently on the door. Nonna Ada had already left the house for the day but a bewildered Angelo greeted her, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

  ‘You do know it’s Saturday, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course. That’s all the more reason for starting promptly – we have so much to do before tonight. Do you know where Giuseppe Scota’s house is? And Civicchioni’s?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Come on. Let’s go and get them.’ Lizzie grabbed Angelo’s arm impatiently and attempted to haul him into the cobbled alley.

  He motioned to the lower half of his body. ‘I suppose I may get dressed first?’

  Lizzie paused long enough to process the striped pyjama bottoms, then the white T-shirt he had obviously slept in. ‘Ah, yes, I suppose you must.’ As the door slammed in her face she shouted, ‘No longer than five minutes, though!’ And laughed at her own daring. She waited in the alley, tapping her foot and looking at her recently returned watch, calculating all the time the enormous amount they had to achieve before that evening.

  Angelo emerged, and they immediately hurried off, stopping briefly at Dario’s bar to allow Lizzie to arrange for breakfast to be delivered. ‘A good selection, if you don’t mind, and a pot of honey on the side – I know him, he’ll never serve it if I don’t ask. Delivered to Sergio’s in twenty minutes, OK?’

  Angelo looked around him at the bar, taking in the tablecloths, the fresh flowers, the selection of tantalizing breads and pastries laid out under glass domes on the counter. Dario, sporting a pristine white apron and a colourful tie, was whistling as he swept the bar. Angelo shook his head. ‘I sometimes wonder if your arrival coincided with the general madness that seems to have gripped this town …’ He wondered alone: Lizzie had already skipped out of the bar, leaving Angelo to chase after her.