The Museum of Things Left Behind
Most residents of the city rarely referred to the bars as either Il Gallo Giallo or Il Toro Rosso, knowing the first as ‘Gallo’ or the Old Bar, and the second as ‘Rosso’ or the New Bar. There was little to choose between them as far as age went either: although Il Gallo Giallo was older by a full five years, they had both opened to custom in the mid-1800s, which meant that their shared history had them as close siblings, rather than relatives separated by a generation.
Il Gallo Giallo, the Old Bar, was run by a taciturn landlord, whose job it was, he felt, to slam beers down in front of his customers, allowing the top centimetre to slop onto the table below, and to leave teas cooling on the counter before delivering them at a less than satisfactory temperature. The tea was never strained, but drunk so dark and bitter that to the uninitiated it would be completely unpalatable. Those drinking in the Old Bar, however, had earned their right to consume their tea there, and to issue one word of complaint either about the manners of Dario Mariani, their landlord, or the temperature of the tea was unheard of.
By contrast, a young man, with traces of naïve optimism still visible on his face, ran the New Bar. He had inherited his position from his father, who had taught his son everything he knew before retiring, and then dying, both gracefully and considerately. His son, Piper, had been an attentive student and had learned the lessons of beer, tea, and of the illegal but much practised habit of fortifying the local wine into something that would chase the cold away from your kidneys in the winter. But he had aspirations above and beyond those he had acquired from his beloved father. Piper had a secret ambition to beat his rival. How he could judge his success in a battle that the other showed no interest in entering, he had not yet ascertained – perhaps by a gradual migration of loyal customers from the Old Bar to his, or through some as yet unimagined innovation … He lay awake at night, considering it.
In truth, though, a truth that Dario took for granted and Piper refused to acknowledge, there was no competition between the bars. A century and more of tradition was so firmly rooted that it was unlikely that anything would shake the unwritten rule that, come lunchtime, the men of government, heads of state, the police and the army – anyone who donned a uniform – made their way to Il Gallo Giallo. Within its yellowing walls you would find, too, those who aspired to a life in government and who were considered – either by themselves or others – as on the up.
Il Toro Rosso, on the other hand, was home to the labourers and farmhands, the teachers and health-workers, the artisans and musicians, and the students who lacked political ambition.
There was no edict that suggested this was where you belonged, and those whose instinct drew them to one or the other were probably unaware, at the time, of the partisan statement they were making when they went, at any age, for the first time to order a drink. But the distinction was inherent and abided by comfortably without the prejudice that similar apartheid might afford in other European countries. That is not to say that one could not choose to drink with a man from the other bar, but habitual practice suggested they were probably more likely to meet on the three or four tables that inhabited no man’s land between the two establishments. As such, these were often the most prized positions to occupy.
Today Remi entered Il Gallo Giallo, breathing in the scent of hops and tea while looking around to see who might be there to hear his news. He hung up his hat next to those of Mario Lucaccia and Giuseppe Scota and sauntered slowly, luxuriously, to the bar with affected patience and the quiet smile of a man who knows he has a story to share with a willing audience.
He told his tale in the smallest detail, with only the tiniest embellishment, describing the onion-skin quality of the perfumed paper and the gold-leaf emblem of the royal stamps, his immediate ascent through Parliament Hall and his private audience with the president, who had read to him, word for word, in the flawless hissing articulation of the English language as if he himself had been raised among the British nobility.
‘Oh, yes, the president’s English is word-perfect. Not a thotthage in thite for the president.’ The postman mimicked a peasant’s pronunciation of the country’s second or third language, depending on the number of years they had been immersed in pursuit of a full and useful education.
Remi continued to regale his audience with the contents of the letter, that none other than the royal Duke of Edinburgh, brother, he thought to the King himself or uncle to the Queen. One of the two. Anyway, a senior royal, certainly, who had set his sights on visiting their country, for he had heard such fine stories about it around the globe.
Draining his cup of tea, and pushing it back across the bar, he waited for a refill. Immediately speculation was rife, and the topic of conversation bubbled across the bar and out onto the adjoining pavement, trickling to those standing at the mouth of the alley and across into the New Bar. It was as if Remi himself were being carried above the heads of the drinkers, a victorious matador at the annual Bull Fling. His words seeped through the New Bar, gathering a momentum and meaning all of their own as they were taken, doubled and passed on.
By the time the president greeted his audience from the balcony there were very few who hadn’t heard one of the many unofficial versions of the extraordinary news.
CHAPTER 5
In Which a President Addresses His Nation
Angelo, Sergio’s chief of staff, had masterfully managed to intercede just in time to pull the president back from the potential error of donning full military uniform. However, Sergio’s smart black suit was decorated with a scattering of medals to add a sense of sobriety to the occasion. As the president slid open the long windows of his sitting room and stepped onto his balcony, he felt his mood lifted by the formality of the occasion and the splendour of pageantry. Behind him filed Angelo, Mario Lucaccia, the minister for the exterior, and his ten other senior ministers who now fanned out at either side of him. They stood to attention, their arms straight at their sides, their feet shoulder-width apart, as was the custom when the president made any public address.
Despite the dull spring day and the ceaseless drizzle, a curious crowd had assembled in Piazza Rosa, propelled by the contagious enthusiasm of Remi the postman. By the time the president had taken his position, at least fifteen hundred people were gathered in the piazza. As he approached the front of the balcony, the onlookers allowed their conversation to peter out and turned instead to fix their eyes on him.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, serfs and servants,’ Sergio began, using the protocol that had been introduced by his father. ‘Today is a day that has been much anticipated but always expected. A day when, finally, the rest of the world has decided to look kindly upon our statedom.’ Here, Sergio looked up from his notes and, with all the confidence of a gifted orator, spoke from his heart. ‘A day that marks a turning point in our history and is, perhaps, the end of the beginning of our history and the start of the middle.’ Losing his drift, he returned quickly to the notes. ‘A day when I have had pressed into my hand by our very humble servant Remi, the postman, a letter that bears the royal insignia of the British Isles and Her Majesty’s Great Britain.’
Here, he held up the letter, as if, from one storey below, the audience might be able to read for themselves the contents. With one arm raised high, he thrust his chest forward, allowing his deep baritone to ricochet off the piazza buildings, which provided natural amplification to the row of basic microphones in front of him. He drew a breath, then announced grandly, ‘It is my very great privilege to inform you that we shall be receiving a noble visitation from Britain’s far shores. No less than the royal Duke of Edinburgh himself shall begin a month-long tour of our humble state on June the fifth of this year. I therefore declare that the four days preceding the visit, from June the first to June the fourth, will be devoted to preparation. I ask that you all join me and my government to ensure that we come together to use this opportunity to showcase our country not just to Britain and Europe but to the rest of the world.’ Sergio paused, then continued, ‘June the fifth, when our royal visitor will arrive, will be marked by a day of celebration. We shall have just enough time to fortify some wine and fatten some pigs.’
At this, the susurrus of assent could be heard. General calls to celebration were open to misinterpretation, but specific detail – permission, they gathered, to turn a goodly portion of their wine reserves into something a little stronger – they could interpret very clearly. As the men turned to each other to discuss the specifics, Sergio became aware that he had lost their attention. ‘Carry on!’ he bellowed into the microphones, then retreated to his rooms.
Inside, he brushed the raindrops off his jacket and started to address his men. Angelo dropped into a chair to take notes and began scribbling.
‘Right, men. This is an opportunity for you to shine. First, we must form a committee. It will meet once a week until our preparations are well under way, then daily, of course, for the first crucial days of June. Agreed. Now, we’ll need you, Roberto, to look after the budget for the event. Perhaps we’ll form a separate working group to deal with the finer details.’ Roberto Feraguzzi nodded. ‘And you, Enzo, I’ll need you to ensure the first-flush tea is harvested and ready for consumption.’ Enzo Civicchioni grinned enthusiastically, patting his pockets for a non-existent pen with which to take notes that he’d only later mislay. ‘And you, Alix, you have a crucial role to play – that of national security. I cannot stress heavily enough the gravity of the situation. I suggest we are on Code Red between now and our visitor’s safe departure. Agreed?’ Alixandria Heliopolis Visparelli saluted smartly. ‘Mario Lucaccia, you are, of course, essential to proceedings, as minister for the exterior. What finer opportunity than this to showcase our country to the outside world? You, likewise, Settimio. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for you to realize some of your goals, touristically speaking. Giuseppe Scota, you may not think there is much of a part for an education minister to play but I see you as vital in bringing the students to the occasion. Exclude them at your peril.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Scota, already dreaming of the opportunities this might afford some of his older students.
Sergio continued, ‘Decio, there are many aspects of your role that will come into play. I want you in from the start. We’ve got health and safety to consider, not to mention the ongoing physical health of our visitor. I want absolutely no illness lurking to sabotage proceedings. You must see to it that everyone is well, understood?’ Dottore Decio Rossini smiled and agreed.
‘Vlad, I want you to work with Giuseppe Scota. Education and employment go hand in hand, as always.’ He scanned the room full of expectant faces. ‘Pompili and Cellini. This is your moment. This will be the best festa in the history of Vallerosa. You understand? That is a command.’
The two men nodded gravely.
‘And I’ll need you, Rolando, on board too. Detail, detail, detail. Proper planning will prevent a poor performance, yes?’
‘Yes, sir. Of course, always, sir.’
‘I think that group should just about cover it. Those mentioned will be required to satisfy a quorum. I apologize to those of you who cannot be part of the committee on this auspicious occasion, but I’m sure your expertise will be called upon in time. Sometimes it’s better to keep an operation a little leaner, just to ensure that we’re working as efficiently as possible. The rest of you, consider yourselves back-up of the very finest order.’ Sergio smiled at his men.
They looked at each other, trying to find a common expression that fell neatly between congratulations and commiseration.
‘That will be all, then. Those of you not directly involved in the proceedings are dismissed. The rest of you, let’s gather for the first ever meeting of the Committee to Ensure the Safe Arrival, Visit and Return of our VIP. That will be the …’
‘CESAVROV?’ interjected Angelo from the corner.
Sergio considered this. ‘Hmm, that’s not going to run. Work on it, will you, Angelo? Table it for the first meeting. OK, men, on with your day, please. I know it’s a disappointment but only committee members are now required.’
‘Sir?’ said Angelo, from the corner. ‘According to my minutes, everyone here has been appointed to the committee.’
‘Have they?’ The president frowned the most fleeting of frowns. ‘Of course they have. You will find that is because they are indispensable. There is not a man among them who could be spared from a visit of such national importance.’ Sergio used the moment to appraise them slowly, his gaze sweeping over the assembled group. Drawing himself tall, he dismissed them with a curt nod that interrupted any possibility of his eyes misting with tears. ‘Well, carry on, then. What are you standing around for?’ He ran a finger around his collar to loosen it a little.
The twelve men filed out to take their places at the boardroom table and begin the serious business of planning.
Several hours later, whoops and hollers could be heard from the assembled group and Sergio flushed with pleasure. A breathless Angelo came flying in. ‘It was tough, sir, but I do believe we’ve cracked it. The project will be named the Planning for English Guest and the Safe Undertaking of Security …’
Sergio thought for a moment, then a slow smile spread across his face, revealing itself eventually as a triumphant grin. ‘PEGASUS,’ he murmured, rolling the word around on his tongue and trying it from every angle. ‘Yes, excellent work. That, Angelo, will most certainly fly.’
CHAPTER 6
In Which Enough Tea Is Grown
Shortly afterwards, in the opulent surroundings of the Upper House, the Special Furthering of Agricultural Development Committee was gathering for its monthly appraisal. Eleven of the twelve quorum were assembled around the vast cherry-wood boardroom table, six positions marked out to each side of the president. Each member sat straight-backed, awaiting the moment at which the discussion would be initiated by the president, but no deliberation could begin until the tea had been poured. In front of each committee member sat two bone china teacups, a pair of identical silver tea strainers and a small, lidded china pot. Angelo, the president’s chief of staff, the cabinet member responsible for the care of Parliament Hall but also for the day-to-day care of the president, discreetly opened the proceedings by preparing Sergio’s tea. With minimal fuss, he poured it from pot to cup, then from cup to cup, through a fine-meshed strainer. Expertly, with a trained eye and an accomplished hand, he filtered it back and forth. With each passing, the dark green liquid took on a lighter tone until, with an almost imperceptible nod, Angelo indicated that it had achieved the requisite tint of amber and, as such, was ready for drinking. Then each committee member began to strain their own tea, with less precision and a lot more haste, catching up with their leader in time to join him as he leaned forward to take his first slurp.
Oh, the first taste of afternoon tea! It didn’t matter how many times the ritual was performed, the first sip always delivered a powerful shock to the system. Sergio slurped the liquid noisily through his teeth, allowing the bitter flavour to coat the inside of his mouth and marvelling as the aftershocks ricocheted through his upper jaw and settled somewhere beneath his eye-sockets. He grimaced and sucked in both cheeks to lessen the impact. After an involuntary shake of his head his entire upper body shuddered, allowing the effect of the tea to cascade through his frame, working its magic on every area that called for special attention, from his stiff knee and ankle joints to his cramping toes. As the president savoured the moment, the committee members joined in with the noisy ceremony, adding their own facial tics, scowls, lip smackings and flinches to the ritual.
‘Aaaah,’ pronounced the president. ‘That’s better. Shall we begin?’ He glanced around the room, taking a mental register of his staff, beginning on his left with Dottore Decio Rossini, minister for health (mental, physical and metaphysical). The doctor’s pallid, doughy face sported heavy brown bags under the eyes. His shirt, slightly fraying at the collar, bore the unmistakable yellowing stains of fatherhood on both shoulders – he had seven small boys. While Sergio eyed him, the weary doctor stifled a yawn and wondered where he would find the energy to keep trying to produce a daughter for his wife. The president noted his physician’s exhaustion but appreciated the reasons behind it and allowed his eyes to travel beyond him to Signor Vlad Lubicic, minister for employment and personal development. Vlad had telltale purple bags but his eyes today were dreamy, preoccupied, and he’d barely touched his tea. There had to be a significant new woman in his life, of that Sergio was certain. Excellent. The president made a mental note to find out who she was and, if appropriate, to hurry proceedings to their proper conclusion. It would be more efficient and a better use of ministerial time to bring the pining phase to an end as quickly as possible. And an official wedding was always good for the nation’s morale. Third on his left sat Signor Marcello Pompili, minister for recreation. Hair slicked back, rosy cheeks pumiced to a shine, keen, bright eyes glinting with vigour, Signor Pompili sat forward in his seat with a youthful ardour that radiated gusto. Yes, an excellent advertisement for the role, an outlook to be encouraged and replicated. Sergio’s appraisal continued to Signor Cellini, minister for leisure. What he observed here was far less encouraging. Where his colleague Signor Pompili shone, Cellini drooped. His shoulders slumped; his body language told of dissatisfaction or worry. His Adam’s apple leaped feverishly up and down his throat, sending out little signals of anxiety, and his eyes darted around the room, stealing glances at his colleagues and at the president but managing to avoid contact with either. Signor Cellini was brother-in-law, of course, to Signor Roberto Feraguzzi, minister of finance, seated now to Sergio’s right. Feraguzzi was a cool customer and, apart from the almost imperceptible tic that tugged occasionally at his upper left cheek, there was barely an anxious bone in his body. He chewed his inner cheek from time to time, in a subtle bid to disguise the tic, but Sergio knew that this meant nothing. His face had twitched for as long as the president had known him. Of much more concern was the remote but entirely plausible explanation that Feraguzzi had knowledge of a pending financial crisis and had chosen to share it with brother-in-law Cellini, whose face was less able to smother his emotion.
Between Feraguzzi and Angelo there was an empty chair, the usual seat of the minister for agricultural development. That they were assembled to hear from him made his lack of punctuality doubly irritating. Sergio’s eyes rested on the empty chair and glared accusingly, prompting Angelo to speak out.
‘Mr President, Signor Civicchioni sends his apologies. He will be joining us a few minutes late today, but he will bring with him a special report from the American consultant, who is available to meet with the committee today, should you wish it. I understand that the report was late being prepared because the typist was late for work due to problems of a feminine nature. I understand, however, that a second typist was subsequently drafted in and the completed report will be available for inspection at any moment.’
Sergio nodded and allowed his eyes to travel further on to Commandant Alixandria Heliopolis Visparelli, minister for defence. Alix had no interest in the Special Furthering of Agricultural Development; he cared nothing for the difference between an output and a yield, and he had not initially been invited to sit on this committee. He had, however, persuaded Sergio that he should be recruited to it, and of all members, he paid the closest attention at each of these gatherings. While he had no interest in crops or herds, he had a very grave interest in the comings and goings of the American consultant, and this assembly was an excellent one for studying a potential enemy at close quarters without allowing him to know he had been identified as a possible threat. Since these meetings had first convened, Alix had been known to throw in trick questions to flush out any ulterior motive on the part of the American consultant, but these cunning ploys were normally met with a frown from his president, who insisted, somewhat naïvely, Alix thought, on assuming everyone was a friend to their nation until proved otherwise. That Alix seemed to be uniquely suspicious made him more determined to be vigilant; he always double-checked the firing mechanism on his handgun before appearing at the committee table. Even now, as Sergio appraised his team, Alix’s eyes roamed in the other direction. He was preparing an escape route, should he have to rescue the president from an attempt on his life.
To the right of Alix sat Signor Lucaccia, minister for the exterior. That they were seated next to each other was the unhappy accident of the very first meeting. Since then, the men had assumed the same positions. If Alix and Mario had been able to choose, they would each have sat on the same side of the table (in order not to have to look at each other) and as far apart as possible (in order not to have to sense each other). Instead, they were destined to sit shoulder to shoulder for at least an hour each month and both men visibly bristled with discomfort. Alix was doing his best to lean into some of the vacant space allowed by the missing minister for agricultural development while Mario leaned heavily to his right, rubbing thighs with his neighbour, the minister for education, Professore Giuseppe Scota. Sergio glanced sympathetically at the professor, who looked as if he resented the intrusion into his personal space by the young exterior minister, but Scota returned the kind look with an almost imperceptible shrug. Both the professor and his president understood the rift between the two men. It was said that there were only two things worth fighting about in Vallerosa, pigs and women, and the two men had fought over both. Nothing could be done to heal the rift.
As Sergio shared his quiet moment of understanding with Scota, Civicchioni, the errant minister for agricultural development, entered, trailing a flurry of flying shirt tails and the flapping ends of a loosely knotted tie, while clutching armfuls of unstapled loose-leaf papers that drifted from him as he rushed to take his seat. Sergio nodded permission to him to join them and added a cursory study of the late arrival to his mental register. Today Civicchioni was agitated, partially undressed and harried. The big lock of curly brown hair that obscured his right eye added a moderately incompetent and slightly insane look. Sergio noted with satisfaction that this promising young man was behaving true to form.
‘Mr President. May I?’ As he patted and prodded his paperwork into some sort of order, he grabbed a gulp of unstrained tea, wincing while swilling it around as though it were mouthwash. With an appreciative smack of his lips, he used the palm of his hand to push the escaped lock of hair to the top of his head as he launched into the purpose of the gathering that afternoon.
‘You will all be fully aware that under section four, article five, sub-section twelve, particle b of last Tuesday’s emergency agricultural meeting, I have been asked by our esteemed president to meet with our American consultant, the expert who has been contracted to this government to review and enhance our agricultural policy.’