The Museum of Things Left Behind. Seni Glaister

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СКАЧАТЬ from the Parliament Hall railings, and in full sight of the entire Piazza Rosa, should any of its sleepy occupants choose to glance out, stood a protester: a sole man clasping a placard in both hands. He wore charcoal grey flannel trousers with the white shirt and black tie of the educated. And while his sleeves were rolled up and his tie loosened to combat the heat of the early-afternoon sun, he had an air of respectability. Something about the tilt of his head, his proud stature, the shine of his shoes suggested a man of quality.

      Sergio, palms sweating, his breath caught tightly in his throat, leaned forward as far as he dared to read the words on the placard.

      ‘Negotii indigeo. Quaeso.’ The use of Latin confirmed Sergio’s immediate assumption. The language of education amplified by the manners of a gentleman. Perhaps this was worse than any of the nightmares he had hitherto imagined, one in which the civilized should revolt. He could understand the country’s few peasants and layabouts taking issue with recent policy, but should the educated decide to rise up, then the nation’s stability was over and it would be his fault. During his jurisdiction, chaos would reign. While acting as caretaker he would be responsible for the country’s first ever conflict and it would be this for which history would remember him.

      Sergio checked his watch. It would be a while before the city awoke, which was a good thing, but the timing was poor in that most of his ministers, including Angelo, would have wandered home for a bite to eat and a sleep. There was absolutely nobody around that he could call upon. So, wiping his sweating palms on his dressing-gown and licking his dry lips, he braced himself for confrontation, something he feared more – if possible – than the humiliation that the alternative offered.

      He slid the windows open and moved quietly onto the balcony. Obscuring himself in part behind one of the columns he signalled to the protester with as loud a hiss as he dared. The young man continued to look straight ahead, placard held aloft for the world to read and laugh at. Sergio stood out a little from the shadows and hissed again. This time the noise registered and the protester cocked his head, squinting towards the balcony. On a third signal he took the bait properly, moving one or two tentative steps forward to ensure that the shadowy man on the balcony was actually addressing him.

      ‘Come, come closer – quickly, quickly!’ Sergio beckoned with one hand while using the other to ensure that his dressing-gown stayed firmly closed.

      The protester looked left and right to ensure that the soporific palace guards weren’t going to stir themselves into action and came as far as he could, still holding the placard while straining to look up through the railings to the balcony above him.

      ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ hissed Sergio from the shadows.

      ‘I’m making a peaceful protest.’ The agitator stood firm, still sure of his actions.

      ‘Against what are you protesting?’ said Sergio, still in stage whisper.

      ‘Against the governm—’ At that moment the young man recognized the robed man on the balcony above him. ‘Against you. Sir.’

      ‘Well, that’s no way to go about it. Make an appointment to see somebody. What about Signor Lubicic? Have you spoken to him about it?’

      ‘Of course not,’ the protester shouted. Sergio silenced him with a finger to his mouth. The young man dropped his voice once more. ‘Of course not,’ he repeated, in a hoarse whisper. ‘Signor Lubicic is a government official. I am just a student.’

      ‘Just a student? Just a student? Do you know how privileged you are to receive an education, provided by your government? What about the minister for education? Have you spoken to Professore Scota? He deals with all matters pertaining to education, satisfactory or otherwise. Make an appointment to see him if you’re not satisfied with just being a student!’

      ‘That is not an option that is open to me,’ the student protester retorted. ‘You don’t just make appointments to speak to government officials. That’s why I’m protesting.’

      ‘Well,’ said Sergio, sternly, ‘quite frankly, I’d rather you didn’t.’

      The student protester became a little more agitated. ‘But I want my voice to be heard. I have serious issues to raise and I need an audience – an audience equipped to listen and take action.’

      ‘Well, speak now. You have an audience. I am your president and, as such, I am equipped both to listen and to take action. Get on with it – there’s no time like the present. Speak to me now.’ With this, Sergio thumped his hand on the balcony balustrade allowing his dressing-gown to fall open. He clasped it to him, now furious at the protester and his own less than professional attire.

      ‘Well, sir, with all due respect, the points I have to make are worthy of a more formal recourse. Apart from anything else, I’m not sure I can keep this whisper up for very much longer.’

      With a stamp of his foot, Sergio whispered, ‘Oh, very well,’ and disappeared back inside, sliding the doors behind him.

      Below, in the square, the minutes ticked slowly by and the student was unsure whether to flee before imminent arrest and possible detention, or to wait obediently and possibly indefinitely. But soon the president reappeared at a small door almost immediately below the balcony. He opened it just a few inches and beckoned the student to join him.

      ‘How do I get through the railings?’ asked the student.

      ‘Through the gate,’ came the exasperated reply.

      ‘The palace guards are at the gate. Will they let me in?’

      ‘Not that gate.’ Sergio was enraged at the suggestion that this wanton dissenter might drag his protest any more publicly through Piazza Rosa. ‘Through this gate – my gate.’ He pointed to a small gate that broke the otherwise continuous fence line. With nothing but the smallest catch to differentiate it, it was no wonder that the student had missed it on his first cursory inspection.

      The young man laid his placard at his feet.

      ‘Don’t leave that there. Anyone could see it. Bring it with you.’

      The student picked it up and tucked it under one arm. He tiptoed through the gate, closing it quietly behind him, and up the path to join the president, who was now wearing a casual pair of trousers and a shirt, his braces hanging down in loops at either side.

      In silence, the two men traipsed upstairs, the president leading, too hot and bothered to consider any potential security threat, the student following, with the barest trace of a smile, born of his own audacity in taking on the government and finding himself in this most unlikely of pairings.

      They entered Sergio’s private chambers where the president ushered his visitor to one of the lion’s-claw-footed chairs in front of the desk. The young man lowered himself, politely tweaking his trousers at the knees, a habit he had adopted to avoid creasing while at his studies.

      ‘Name?’ said Sergio, wresting authority out of the so-far-unsatisfactory exchange. He pulled a clean notepad towards him and dipped his pen into the ink with a flourish.

      ‘Woolf.’

      ‘Son of Renzo Woolf?’

      ‘Nephew.’

      ‘Hmm. Yes, yes, I think I know СКАЧАТЬ