The Museum of Things Left Behind. Seni Glaister

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СКАЧАТЬ confidant, special adviser, chess adversary, bridge partner and, in all but name, the president’s deputy. He leaned forward, paper and pen at the ready, as Sergio paced backwards and forwards.

      ‘A few thoughts from that session, Angelo. Vlad – find out whom he’s fallen for. If she’s remotely suitable, let’s make sure her father finds out. That will hasten a marriage. And Cellini. He’s making me nervous. Check his bank account, and make sure there’s nothing to worry us. Too much or too little, either way I want to know. If we can rule out bad debt or blackmail, we can begin to work out what’s making him sweat. A speech. I need a good speech on this agricultural policy. I felt I was really on to something earlier. Was there anything there we can work on?’

      Angelo consulted his notes. ‘Continuity for sustainability, I liked. And the legend bit, definitely something there. But this is a good-news speech, sir. Good news always takes at least seventy per cent fewer words to deliver than bad. I’ll get going on something straight away.’

      The president stood with his back to the room, looking beyond the balcony to the Piazza Rosa. ‘Angelo. Something’s troubling me. I’m relatively new to this game and I understand that Feraguzzi has been running the economy well for a long time, against considerable difficulties, many of which were not of his own making. And I understand, too, that in comparison to our neighbouring countries we have probably fared better than most. But I’m wondering, Angelo, if it all stacks up.’

      ‘Stacks up how, sir?’ Angelo came to stand by Sergio and joined him in his appraisal of the view below, understanding that the trickier conversations were always much easier to broach without eye contact.

      ‘The numbers. Do they add up? If we’re not importing anything, and we’re going to sell everything we’ve got, and all we’ve got now is tea, what are our people actually going to live on?’

      Angelo rifled through his mental store of justifications and rationale, supplied with such ease by their American consultant. ‘I suppose, Sergio, it comes down to ambition and desire, whether those things exceed or fall short of our needs and expectations.’

      Sergio wanted answers not conjecture: ‘Our needs? But we’ve never needed anything. We’ve always had enough.’

      ‘Enough?’ probed Angelo.

      ‘Yes – enough food, enough tea, enough of everything. We’ve always been able to satisfy our needs without help from anyone.’

      Angelo thought about this and tried to remember the consultant’s arguments, which had seemed so compelling, so urgent, at the time. ‘It’s not very fashionable, I mean on a global level, to simply sustain yourself. It seems that by trading and entering into import and export contracts with our neighbours our world standing might improve.’

      ‘But do we need our world standing to improve? Our neighbours don’t think ill of us – they don’t think of us at all. And that’s always been fine, hasn’t it? Being ignored by the rest of the world has actually served us quite satisfactorily. And, anyway, why do we need more? Whom do we offend if we’re satisfied with enough?’

      ‘I don’t know the answer to that, Sergio. I think we feel a duty to our people to aim higher, to be more ambitious for them.’

      Sergio hesitated. Then: ‘I’ve always been interested in the notion of trade, of commerce, Angelo. It seems that the obsession the world has is whether we can ever have enough money to spend. And if we haven’t, how to get our hands on more. But it’s surely no coincidence that the English verb “to spend” can only be applied to the using up of two resources. Money and time. And we can choose how to spend both of these, can’t we? My concern, if I’m honest, is that we could find ourselves in pursuit of money to spend while finding that time is diminishing at an equal rate. We’ll all be working so hard that we won’t any longer have time to do anything else. We’ll have spent it all on the acquisition of money. And as we know that money can buy you pretty much anything but time, is that what we want for our nation?’

      Sergio thought quietly for a moment, the puzzle clear in his eyes. ‘And I’m still left wondering, Angelo, what we’re going to live on, if all we’re growing is tea and we sell that to another country. What will we eat?’

      Angelo paused. He had a fairly good idea, as he was no different from many of the people who lived in the valley. He had a mother and a brother under his one roof and a table to fill each evening and morning. But supposition in this scenario was not remotely appropriate. ‘I’ll make some enquiries, sir.’

      Sergio nodded, giving the outward appearance of a man who had been appeased.

CHAPTER 8

       In Which a Protestation Is Made

      Sergio was in his private chambers, writing quietly while the rest of Parliament Hall slumped in May’s debilitating afternoon sun. With the hours of siesta well under way, all was quiet both inside and out and, apart from the rattles, creaks and groans provided by the state apartment, Sergio was able to enjoy something very close to silence. His breathing had begun to steady and he was forcing his mind to concentrate on the speech he was preparing for his State of the Nation address.

      This speech, as Angelo had indicated, should have been easy. He had good news to deliver, the country had met the challenge made to it by the American consultant and, though he knew that many of the men, particularly those of the land, had always doubted the outcome, he felt that on the whole he had taken them with him, that this had been a cohesive effort of which the whole country could feel proud.

      But concentrating on writing a positive speech was hard when your subconscious mind was gripped by grim dread. Whichever technique he employed, nothing could shake the feeling that he was teetering on the brink of unmitigated disaster. There was something amiss in the angle at which his minister of finance sat now at assembly meetings. The silence had continued too long after siesta when it should have been broken by children’s laughter or the impromptu playing of music in the Piazza Rosa. Even the weather conspired to unsettle him. Vicious electrical storms and relentless rain showers were followed by the hottest, angriest sun that melted the mettle of everyone in the country. It was shining once again, and its long rays were making inroads into his chambers, picking out the faults and highlighting the dust at play in the air and the loose threads that threatened to unravel the carpet.

      Sergio’s large, mahogany desk reflected his mood. Sometimes it glowed, proud of the part it played in the presidency, and at others it was a tired piece of timber wearing the many scratches and scuffs that Sergio’s own face bore as thanks for the responsibility he carried.

      Now, his pen lid replaced with a deafening click, Sergio’s head sank into his hands as the dark knot took hold deep in his belly. He could actually visualize it when he closed his eyes: something black and tumorous, always on the move. Growing and spreading to tighten its grasp on the arteries and veins that fought valiantly against its slippery, superior force. He sighed deeply, knowing that the words would never flow when he was fighting this kernel of anxiety, and rose to retrace the most worn path in the carpet to his favoured position at the window. Today he was looking for something definitive out there, a positive sign that hinted at even the tiniest glimmer of hope.

      Instead, he had to blink a couple of times to try to banish the image below him. When the mirage persisted, he rubbed his eyes and even backed away from the window, then approached it again in the hope that what was, surely, a sunspot caused by the extremes of light and dark would have vanished. When it stubbornly remained beneath him, СКАЧАТЬ