On previous occasions, Sergio – as his father before him – had addressed the crowd from his balcony, keeping himself a little aloft and aloof. Tonight, however, he had arranged to speak from the stage on the piazza and had arranged for three chairs to remain on it throughout the proceedings.
As he watched the minutes click satisfactorily by on the clock opposite him, he read and reread his speech. Angelo had helped him to prepare it and he was satisfied with its intent and purpose, though something niggled as he tried to perfect its delivery in his mind. Occasionally he scribbled a question mark in the margin or underlined a word for stress, but he knew in his heart he was merely scratching at the surface: he had an underlying doubt that needed to be addressed before he could comfortably take to the stage. He paced backwards and forwards and continued to do so as the people of Vallerosa began to appear from each alley and file into the piazza beneath him. A noisy murmur grew in volume until the excited hum of conversation filled the air and he was unable to contain himself any longer. Checking his reflection once more as he hurried to the door, he left his chambers and descended the stairs, exiting Parliament Hall through his private gate while Angelo, the guards and the rest of his men awaited him at the main entrance. It was only when the men heard the cheers of recognition from the crowd that they realized their leader was making his way unchaperoned through the throng, shaking hands, patting backs and pinching the rosy cheeks of small children as he snaked towards the clock tower.
Pushing through the horde, Angelo hurried to catch him up, anxious that he was alone and almost invisible in the masses that crowded around him. Once he caught sight of Sergio’s beaming smile and shining eyes, though, he relaxed and held himself back. The president, confident and rested, looked both distinguished and accessible, and the people of Vallerosa were thrilled to be in such close and unguarded proximity to their leader.
Lizzie made her way to the stage at just before seven o’clock, as instructed. She, too, had made an effort with her attire, wearing the smartest outfit she had travelled with, an ankle-length skirt, short-waisted jacket and sparkling sandals on her feet. She hovered nervously by the stage, unsure of where to sit or stand to draw minimal attention to herself – but she needn’t have worried. Sergio spied her and made a beeline for her, the crowd parting to either side deferentially as they realized he had switched his attention from them to the tall blonde visitor. As he reached her, he hugged her warmly.
The noise around them made it almost impossible to have a quiet exchange, so she bent down and he spoke directly into her ear, his hands cupped around his mouth so that she could hear clearly. ‘My dear, I shall ask nothing of you that makes you uncomfortable. You have already done enough and you may consider your official duties discharged.’
Lizzie squeezed his arm gratefully, and pushed back, ready to take her place in the wings to observe the great spectacle.
‘But,’ he said quickly, grabbing her hand, ‘you would do me a great honour to sit on the stage, as my friend and most special of special guests.’ At that moment, Lizzie would have liked nothing more than to disappear quietly into the background but she looked at the appeal in his eyes and was unable to refuse him this most simple request. With a resigned smile, she took to the stage and sat on one of the three chairs facing the swelling crowd. She fidgeted with her skirt, tugging it down towards her ankles, then immediately fiddled with her blouse, deciding to do up one extra button. Once she was sure she was dressed with as much decency as she could muster, she raised her face to study the crowd in detail.
Chuck Whylie and his colleague Paul had been unsure whether to join in with the evening’s celebrations and had shared several beers at Whylie’s apartment while debating the issue. Paul felt strongly that since he had only recently established the broadest outline of a consultancy agreement with the government, his purpose would be better served by retaining a healthy distance and maintaining an arm’s-length relationship until the agreement was cemented with the time-honoured tradition of a financial commitment. Whylie, on the other hand, felt he’d pushed the president quite aggressively in recent times and would need to work on his softer skills to encourage a further extension of the contract he had enjoyed for so many years. Besides, he argued, he was a valued member of the wider team and his absence would almost certainly be noted. These Vallerosans were sensitive to protocol and he certainly didn’t want to snub Sergio at this delicate point in their negotiations. In the end the two men agreed that their different stages each required a slightly different approach and Paul went to the university to check his email while Whylie grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge to ensure he didn’t have to risk the local brew.
When he had arrived in the piazza he had been surprised to discover that no formal seating had been arranged for him at the ceremony. He had gone back to his apartment to reflect upon the meaning of this affront. No answer sprang to mind, so he drank a couple more beers for clarity. By the time he wandered back outside to join the throng, his surprise had morphed into outrage. Now, as he mingled with the crowd, pressing a cold beer bottle to his forehead to fend off a headache that was tiptoeing quietly behind his right eye, he caught sight of the blonde on stage, in a chair that, by right – when you took into consideration everything he had already achieved for the country – should have been his.
Their eyes met. She looked embarrassed. He rustled up a disarming smirk.
As the American consultant took a long swig of his beer, his eyes never once left hers. She detected a challenge. She half smiled back, in the hope it would deflect some of the unpleasantness aimed at her, then allowed her eyes to sweep across the crowd where she soon met the smiling face of Pavel. He waved and signalled his delight with a thumbs-up. Lizzie breathed a sigh of relief. As she did so, Angelo bounced onto the stage and took the seat next to her, then reached out and squeezed her hand. Her heart swelled with joy. She was surrounded by many more friends than enemies, and the American’s power, if he had any, seemed to evaporate into thin air, subsumed by the goodwill that emanated from everyone around him.
The band played the National Anthem, and the crowd stood to attention, singing the chorus loudly:
Vallerosa, Vallerosa,
Red valleys, green hills,
My cup overflows
With sweet, sweet tea.
Vallerosa, Vallerosa,
You mean the world to me …
As the final notes died away, a hush fell and Sergio took to the stage. He adjusted the microphone, tapping it with his finger. Once he had commanded complete silence, he turned his back to the crowd and looked up at the clock, raising his arms as if to conduct an orchestra. After only a few seconds the minute hand clicked up to the vertical. Sergio allowed both arms to drop dramatically and the seven chimes rang out across the piazza. The hush remained until the seventh stroke, at which point the entire audience erupted into applause, shouting, whistling and throwing caps into the air. The jubilation continued while Liberty, Altruism, Fertility and Humility performed their merry dance, and Sergio’s clapping thundered out, magnified by the microphone and exciting the crowd even further. Eventually, the noise petered out and Sergio cleared his throat.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, honoured guests, people of Vallerosa, I welcome you here tonight to this most auspicious of occasions.’ He looked down at the swimming text in front of him and faltered. The crowd sensed that this was more than a dramatic pause and held its breath. Angelo readied himself to help, and stared intently at his leader, searching for the reason behind the cavernous silence. The hush held as Sergio folded up his speech and placed it carefully in his pocket.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, friends. I can’t do this. I can’t stand before you and read a prepared speech, when I have so much in my heart that I want to share with you today. My speech, had I delivered it, was designed to make you feel confident in me. Designed to make you vote for me. Designed to make me your president again for the next five years. But I don’t want to make that hap
pen. I want you to make that happen. I don’t want to use words and promises to trick you into believing in me. I want you to believe in me anyway. Without the words and without the promises. Is that too much to ask? I suspect it is, because I have not always been honest with you. I have not always kept my promises.’
Sergio let this thought hang in the air, but the crowd were not yet shuffling nervously: they seemed intent on allowing the speech to deliver itself and were willing to let the president confess in this public space.
Angelo had begun to tense, but something in the air was shifting and suddenly he felt that the outcome of this election was not perhaps as important as the health and happiness of his dear friend. If Sergio’s moment of lucidity failed to convince the crowd, would he suffer any more than he was already prepared to suffer for his country? While he pondered this, with hope in his heart, a curious sense of calm descended on him.
Sergio continued: ‘I made a promise to you recently that I would throw a party and invite our royal visitor to address you. But that is not a promise I am prepared to keep.’ Here, he turned to Lizzie and smiled. ‘This woman has already made great changes to our city and I am not prepared to ask anything more of her. I have, just this evening, allowed her to relinquish any further official responsibilities.’
The groan was collective and audible, the disappointment almost palpable: the highlight of the evening had been revoked and the crowd had sensed the loss of something rare and irreplaceable. They turned their expectant faces towards Lizzie, who shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
The disconcerting moment was broken by the sound of glass shattering. And again. And again. Chuck Whylie had been drinking Budweiser continuously from the bottle and now he was deliberately dropping the empties on the ground, drawing concentrated attention to himself.
‘Imposter!’ he shouted, his fist raised in Lizzie’s direction. ‘Imposter!’ he yelled again, his voice slurring as he flipped the cap of another bottle of beer. The guards from beside the stage became alert and started to move towards him. But they were frozen in their tracks by Sergio’s roar, a shout of disgust that reverberated around the piazza with enough power to send pigeons scattering and force Commandant Alixandria Heliopolis Visparelli, lurking in the shadows of the clock tower, to reach for his handgun.
‘Imposter!’ Whylie yelled again, but this time his outburst was cut short by a scuffle. Pavel had fought his way through the crowd to the American and now held him in an arm lock. In the meantime the guards had quietly edged their way forward and were waiting for permission from a senior figure to deal with him.
‘Imposter?’ Sergio bellowed. ‘Imposter, he says!’ Sergio threw his head back to laugh at the absurdity of the claim and pointed a stern finger at the drunken American. He was aware that his words would reach the far corners of the piazza and perhaps down through the labyrinthine alleys to the river below, and even up to the sun-baked tips of the tea plants in the north. Nonetheless he addressed his words to Whylie alone, jabbing a finger in his direction as if he were the only man in the crowd. ‘You insult my men. You insult my people,’ Sergio hissed, gesturing wildly at the gathered crowds. ‘He insults me,’ he said, with equal passion, thumping his right hand on his chest. ‘And, most traitorously, he insults our precious visitor.’ The crowd hummed in approval. ‘And who is the greater imposter?’ He searched the crowd for an answer. ‘This woman who arrived here in the middle of the night, who appeared like magic to remind our women to dance, and our men to sing, and our clocks to chime?’ Here, the clock tolled the quarter-hour, and the audience’s voice of approval stepped up a notch in volume.
‘Or this man, who comes here from across the sea to tell us how to run our country!’ Once more Sergio jabbed a finger towards Whylie. ‘You dare to come and tell us what to do with our tea? You are the imposter. You don’t even like tea!’ Sergio bellowed this final insult, inciting a similar reaction from the crowd, who spat their disgust to match that of their leader.
As quiet fell again, Sergio appealed directly to the guards: ‘Take that imposter to his rooms, oversee him as he packs and escort him to the railway station. Commandant? Ah, there you are, good man, ensure that we remain on Code Red until the American has left our land. Vinsent Gabboni! Where is Vinsent Gabboni?’ Sergio scanned the crowd until the stationmaster raised his arm and stepped forward. ‘See that both of our American visitors board tomorrow’s train and ensure that neither of them is ever again issued with a visa. From now on, the imposter and his dangerous friend are banned from our country.’
Gabboni hurried forward, bristling with pride at being tasked with such a momentous responsibility. Confident that many drinks would be bought for him at the bar as he recounted each detail of the American visitors’ exodus, he bustled away in the company of the two guards and their prize.
Remi the postman was torn by his sense of duty to his president and to his country but intuited that more drama might yet unfold as the unwanted visitors were ejected from Vallerosa. After a moment’s hesitation, in which he hopped from foot to foot, feeling the equal weight of both responsibilities coursing through his body, he decided he, too, could risk missing the end of the speeches in favour of bearing witness to this event, perhaps even with the eventual release of a further commemorative stamp. It seemed appropriate, after all, that having played such a crucial part in recent Vallerosan history, he should continue to influence the proletariat from his unique perspective. He hurried after Vinsent Gabboni in order to ensure the smallest details of the eviction were accurately recorded and meticulously related in the bar later that night.
As Remi scurried away, silence had once again fallen upon the crowd and they waited expectantly to hear the rest of their president’s address.
‘Yes, my people, I owe you an apology. It’s true. I have not always seen clearly and on this occasion I have been blinded by an unhealthy ambition. Greed is a dangerous breakfast and I have allowed myself to taste its promise too often.
‘But I have learned some valuable lessons, taught mainly to me, at the expense of my pride, by the women of Vallerosa. But in order for my wounds to heal, I must deepen them a little further. I must expunge all trace of the rot I have harboured within me by reassuring you, in public, just moments before a crucial election, that I’m prepared to admit I was wrong.’ He drew a deep breath and allowed, for the briefest of moments, his eyes to travel to those of Angelo, who was now sitting forward in his seat, nodding and silently urging his president to continue along this path. Sergio read Angelo’s face and took courage from what he found there.
‘Tea, you see, is a unique crop. I listened to the American consultant because I wanted to believe that his great tea experiment might be a panacea. What did I want to achieve? I wanted so much to provide greater opportunities for you and I suppose, yes, I wanted to put us on the world map. Who knows what I was trying to prove and to whom? But I expect that my own ego played a starring role in that process and, if that is the case, I apologize wholeheartedly. The American consultant urged us to follow his long-term strategy and we did – or, at least, we nearly did. But what he failed to understand is that in the life of the tea plant, long term extends well beyond the life of a contract, or a presidential term. Those plants we put in will last for over a hundred years, so when we commit to a planting strategy we are locking ourselves into a plan that must outlast us all. Ultimately it is our grandchildren who will be the judges of our success, not this year’s election results.
‘But, just as a president is nothing without his people, a tea plant is nothing without its vital partners: the bees that pollinate it and allow us to harvest our beautiful crop for many decades to come. The relationship between the worker bees and their queen is complex, and they live in a society that can be brutal and hierarchical but, without external influences getting in their way, they flourish both magnificently and enviably.
‘The country from which our special guest hails,’ here he gestured to Lizzie, whose eyes, like An
gelo’s, were trained determinedly upon Sergio, ‘once at the helm of a great empire that controlled much of the world’s wealth, is allowing its own bee society to die. Not just figuratively, but in reality. Whole communities of bees are being wiped out because those good people of the United Kingdom of Great Britain have interfered with nature to the point that essential layers of the food chain are being eliminated.
‘It is what happens when we get greedy. We try to make nature work for us in a way that does not suit it. Once crops are farmed too intensively, the natural eco-structure begins to collapse. My minister of agriculture, Enzo Civicchioni, is an expert on this subject, and very recently he and I have had many interesting conversations about this very point. Signor Civicchioni, I must tell you, is an excellent minister who shares my ambition for our country’s export potential.
‘But we must be honest and admit that political gain blinded me and my expert advisers. However, unlike my government, the women of this nation had the wisdom and foresight to allow a safety net to be cast to catch us should we fall.
‘It is the women, Nonna Ada, and, may she rest in peace, Evelina Civicchioni, with countless others under their expert guidance, who have shown us the way. Not through talk but through action, action undertaken not for personal glory or for the amassing of power but out of an instinct to do the right thing for the good of us all. They knew, as perhaps we failed to see, that not only do the bees require pollinators and a diverse landscape in which to survive, but they also require diversity within their gene pool if they are to be successful. Similarly, we must take our ideas from a wide source and not just rely on the thinking and actions of a few men in power. Rather, we must draw upon the wisdom of the many to inform ourselves and strengthen our thinking. And I’m not too proud, I hope, to recognize that help can come in many forms and in most unexpected guises. Lack of diversity in bees, indeed in any species, can lead to reduced levels of fitness in future generations, and just as within the bee population there can be tens of thousands of drones awaiting the accidental flight of one virgin queen, so we, a proud small nation, must take advantage of the accidental arrival of …’
The Museum of Things Left Behind Page 32
