The Museum of Things Left Behind

by Seni Glaister

  ‘No. I have at least another minute – see?’ She showed him her slow-running watch. ‘Quickly, while we have a minute. Tell me, please, why don’t you fix the clock?’

  ‘The clock,’ Posti snapped, quite unpleasantly, ‘is not my problem. The clock is the fault of –’ a third loud cough from just outside the door ‘– it is the fault of Roberto Feraguzzi, minister of finance. If you want to understand the innermost workings of our government with respect to things that don’t work, then I suggest you make an appointment with him. Good day.’

  As Lizzie left the room she heard him mutter, ‘Meeting closed satisfactorily at three twenty p.m.’

  Lizzie left Posti’s office blinking back tears of frustration. She wandered slowly to the bars and, barely cognizant of the choice that usually plagued her, she slumped heavily into a seat at Il Toro Rosso. Clouded by weariness, she felt unable to take in the scenery around her. She pulled her sunglasses down from the top of her head, happy to hide behind them while she pondered this latest encounter and wondered whether it was possible to make anything at all work in Vallerosa. Letting her eyelids close for a few seconds, she tipped her face in the direction of the sun, allowing its warmth to restore her. After approximately twenty seconds the coolness of a shadow fell across her. She opened her eyes and squinted at the smiling face of Piper.

  ‘Tea, beer, a little something to cheer you up?’ he asked, with the perfect balance of warmth and subservience.

  Lizzie sighed heavily and allowed a little of the despair she was feeling to creep into her voice. ‘Oh, right now if I was at home, I would probably ask for a large vodka tonic, but that’s clearly not the done thing around here. What do you suggest?’

  ‘Let me diagnose. You feel a little down? Sluggish, perhaps? Maybe even a bit homesick?’

  ‘All of the above. Yes, you’ve hit the nail on the head.’

  ‘I have just the thing!’ Piper snapped his tea-towel in the air and hurried off.

  Lizzie wondered what he might be prescribing. Truthfully she felt better already to have found somebody who was pleased to see her.

  Before long, Piper returned. He carried a small tin tray, on which stood a tall glass of pale sparkling liquid, the colour of good champagne.

  ‘Gosh, if that’s alcoholic I won’t be able to stand up!’ gushed Lizzie, reaching thirstily for the glass.

  ‘No alcohol. More effective than that.’ He took a step back the better to observe her reaction as she took a small sip from the cold glass.

  ‘Interesting, certainly.’ She couldn’t put a finger on the flavour, on the multitude of flavours. There was something floral that hit her nostrils as she leaned in to sip, but something decidedly herbal or medicinal on her tongue. She sipped again, more deeply.

  ‘I like it, but have absolutely no idea what it is. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted this combination of flavours before.’ As she pondered, and smiled generally in Piper’s direction, it hit her. Not recognition, but a response. A healing warmth had begun in her stomach and was working its way into her every nook and cranny. Never had she been so conscious of the connectors and pathways that made her body work. Veins, arteries, neurones and synapses were all being switched on as the effect spread, gathering momentum as it travelled. And then she felt better. Astonishingly awake, astonishingly alive. Altogether better.

  ‘Aha, I see from your eyes that my tea tonic has worked its magical powers upon you!’ said Piper, beaming.

  ‘Wow, gosh, that really is something special.’ She picked up the glass and drained it, then handed it back for an immediate refill.

  ‘You won’t be requiring any more. That will do the trick. Even for a woman of your, er, stature. Unless you want to be awake still tomorrow morning!’

  ‘Is it really that powerful?’

  ‘Indeed it is. My tea tonic has unique properties. It is designed to keep you alert, regardless of how physically tired you might be. The students here swear by it, and the night shift at the hospital too. It is made to my own secret recipe!’

  ‘Well, guard it with your life. You don’t want it falling into the wrong hands,’ Lizzie quipped, gesturing at Il Gallo Giallo.

  Piper shrugged. ‘It’s probably a little late for that.’

  ‘Dario has a similar recipe?’

  ‘Not Dario, no, but he might as well have. I gave the recipe to the American.’ Piper hung his head in shame.

  ‘Why on earth would you do that?’

  ‘He was particularly interested in it when he first came here. He even hinted that he had contacts in the drinks industry in the United States of America, so I wrote it down for him. Nothing seemed to come of it, though. Now I have to trust that he doesn’t share it further, but ever since I gave it to him he’s avoided me. If he deigns to drink in the piazza at all, it’s always next door.’

  ‘Well, I think we’d know if the ministers were drinking your tea tonic. They’d be bouncing off walls, wouldn’t they?’

  They both looked at the other bar, where several ministers sat dozing in the cool shade, barely finding the strength to lift their teacups to their lips.

  As her gaze travelled round the other bar, Lizzie caught Feraguzzi’s eye, and she jumped up. Suddenly she had the energy to deal with these infuriating ministers.

  ‘Hi, Roberto, can I join you?’ she shouted, and rushed towards him.

  Desolate, Piper was left alone again. He watched Lizzie weave her way through the chairs to join the minister. At least, he thought, he had been able to give her something that lay outside the reach of his rival. He resolved next time to keep her for longer if he could possibly engineer it.

  Lizzie dragged a spare chair towards Roberto Feraguzzi who, caught off guard, couldn’t decide whether to be affronted by the interruption to his little rest or thrilled that she had singled him out of the many men she might have chosen. After a short deliberation he decided to be thrilled and pulled himself up to his full height.

  ‘So, Signor Feraguzzi, I have just had a very interesting conversation with Rolando Posti. We were talking about the clock.’

  ‘Which clock would that be, Miss Holmesworth?’

  ‘The clock tower clock. I am very interested in clocks, always have been. I rather assumed that fixing it might be an issue for the interior minister, but I assumed wrongly. According to Rolando Posti, it falls out of his remit – and is one of the many areas under your management.’ Lizzie blinked slowly a couple of times while trying to disarm him with a steady stare.

  Feraguzzi craned his neck as if to scrutinize the clock from where he was sitting but, of course, it was out of view, being almost directly above Il Toro Rosso. He could see its profile, though, and allowing his eyes to train on its outline appeared to help him frame an answer.

  ‘The issue of clocks does indeed fall under the jurisdiction of the interior minister.’ Lizzie was about to protest, but Feraguzzi held up a silencing hand. ‘However, the distribution of contracts for the proper care and maintenance of said feature would fall under the jurisdiction of the finance department, my own.’

  Lizzie was relieved that she was closing in on this seemingly endless wild-goose chase. ‘And may I ask, in a completely unofficial, off-the-record, just-sitting-in-the-bar-with-a-friend sort of way, why can’t you fix it?’

  ‘Because I do not have a suitable contractor on my list of government contractors.’

  ‘And if one could be found?’

  ‘One can’t be found. There is only one person with the capability of fixing the clock but unfortunately he fails to meet the appropriate criteria to be an official government contractor.’

  ‘But isn’t that ridiculous? On what grounds does he fail?’

  ‘Well, in an unofficial, off-the-record, just-sitting-in-the-bar-with-a-friend sort of way …’ the minister reached for exactly the right words ‘… Rolando Posti doesn’t like him.’

  ‘Why? What on earth could Pavel—’ Lizzie caught herself a moment too late. Having named the contractor, she h
ad revealed her agenda too openly.

  Feraguzzi was shocked. ‘You understand, don’t you, that you have absolutely no business talking so brazenly about official government business while in a public place? No pre-meeting has been arranged. No meeting has been arranged. There’s no one to minute the business between us and, as such, we are already in breach of countless regulations.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. But I want to continue the conversation if I may. Hypothetically.’ Lizzie chewed her lip and held her breath, desperate that any progress had been stymied by her blunder.

  ‘Hypothetically.’ He considered the proposition. ‘You are sure this is strictly hypothetical?’

  ‘Yes, of course. What I meant to say was, why on earth would Posti take a dislike to any young man in the country? I cannot imagine the path of a senior government official would cross very often with the path of a tradesman of, I assume, very little consequence.’

  ‘Well, that might well be the case. But imagine that the young tradesman of very little consequence had been born to a woman of very great beauty. And imagine, if you will, that the then young minister for the interior, before he was even in such a lofty position, had been spurned by such a woman of very great beauty, who instead chose a simple clockmaker – a man of little more consequence than a peasant. Imagine what that would mean to a man with all the makings of greatness mapped out ahead of him. What a slur that would be.’

  ‘Well, I can see that, ego-wise, it would be pretty painful.’

  ‘And there is very little place to redirect that pain, I would imagine, other than at those satisfactory bedfellows: vindictiveness and revenge.’

  ‘So, the young minister, hypothetically, might have arranged to have the contracts revoked and to ensure that the successful clockmaker was suddenly less successful?’

  ‘One might be able to envisage such an outcome in those circumstances. Though, of course, it wouldn’t be the position of the minister to make or break such contracts. He would have to use his powers of persuasion to convince a minister such as myself not to invoke any contracts by, perhaps, bringing the reputation of the clockmaker into disrepute.’

  ‘And this, hypothetically, would be achieved how?’

  ‘With difficulty. It would probably take decades of work on the part of a bitter old man to exact his revenge and finish the career of a clockmaker who was probably very close to retiring anyway. But cross old men can be stubborn and it is difficult to undo the past.’

  ‘And young, vibrant ministers, can they be persuaded to change their minds?’ Lizzie asked, a smile playing on her lips.

  Feraguzzi’s eyes twinkled. ‘Young and vibrant?’

  Lizzie took a deep breath. The tea tonic was still coursing around her body and pieces of the jigsaw were falling into place. ‘You’re a married man, Signor Feraguzzi?’

  ‘I am indeed, happily married for these last twenty-five years.’ He sighed with a note of disappointment, as he looked into the pale blue eyes of the pretty girl opposite him.

  ‘And you have a daughter of about my age?’

  With a start, Feraguzzi pulled himself out of his daydream. Yes, of course, he had a daughter of about Lizzie’s age.

  ‘And, hypothetically speaking, what if your daughter had fallen in love?’

  ‘Well, I suppose I would be very happy. It is certainly the age to be married, as her mother was before her, but good men are few and far between. It wouldn’t get my blessing unless it was a very good match.’

  ‘Of course, but what if the match were good? What if she had fallen in love with a young man who hadn’t yet noticed her but probably would quite soon? Wouldn’t you want that man to have every opportunity ahead of him, so that he could provide well for that daughter?’

  ‘Hypothetically speaking, of course. Love is very important, but a poor bedfellow without a down mattress.’

  Lizzie struggled for a moment with the analogy, but carried on fuelled by the tea tonic and anxious that its magical properties might desert her soon.

  ‘And what if, as the father of such a girl, you had it in your power not only to increase the prospects of the young man in question, but to help bring the daughter to his notice at the same time?’

  ‘Well, that would be an admirable piece of matchmaking, I have no doubt, and I imagine the mother of the daughter in question would be very, very glad to know that the father had played such a key role in a romantic story with a satisfactory outcome.’

  ‘Well, come on. There’s somebody you must meet.’

  Lizzie scraped her chair noisily back and tugged Feraguzzi to his feet. As she marched him out of the bar she stopped to wave cheerily to Piper, who caught her broad smile and returned his own, forgiving her for her earlier desertion.

  CHAPTER 25

  In Which Love Is the Answer

  Lizzie left the bar with Feraguzzi in tow while Dario was still busying himself preparing a tray of delectable morsels with which to tempt his special guest. By the time he returned to the table, it was empty. This was witnessed, with much amusement, by Piper, who was suddenly very pleased to have had the patronage of Miss Holmesworth for as long as she had graced his bar. Though perhaps, he wondered, if he were to continue plying her with his tea tonic, she wouldn’t sit still anywhere for long enough to be called a customer.

  In the meantime, Lizzie was weaving her way through the back-streets of the north-east quadrant heading for the small shop kept by the young clockmaker.

  The metal shutters were still pulled down from the siesta, but not to the ground, suggesting that Pavel was in or around.

  She stooped and called into the shop through the gap. Feraguzzi looked around nervously, anxious that a passer-by might notice a senior government official in the midst of such undignified practice.

  There was a clatter from within and the shutter was soon being heaved up and out of the way, allowing Lizzie and Feraguzzi to enter. It wasn’t an impressive showroom, just a small space with a faded linoleum floor and a number of glass cabinets displaying clocks and watches, an assortment of straps and general timekeeping curiosities.

  Pavel bristled when he saw that Lizzie had company and retreated behind a glass-topped cabinet, assuming the position of shopkeeper rather than friend. He stood to attention and addressed Lizzie, ignoring her companion. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Holmesworth. I am glad that you have found the time to bring me your timepiece for correction.’ He motioned to her wrist and she undid the strap for him.

  ‘Absolutely, I’ve been meaning to do this for a while. Thank you – it works, just runs a little slow.’

  ‘No problem, happy to oblige,’ he said, removing the back cover to inspect the inner workings.

  ‘But that can wait, Pavel. I’m here to introduce you to Roberto Feraguzzi. He is the minister of finance and he’s come to have a word with you, if you have the time.’

  Feraguzzi was looking around the small room and wondering whether his daughter could do better. It was not much of a living, after all, fixing a watch here and there. And most watches lasted a lifetime, so it wasn’t likely the business would expand. He watched Pavel as he busied himself. On the other hand, he thought, as he contemplated him, he was a fine-looking man, and who was he to stand in his daughter’s way?

  ‘I believe you know my daughter.’

  Pavel stopped what he was doing and frowned. ‘Do I? No, I don’t think I do.’ Genuinely confused, he looked to Lizzie for guidance.

  ‘Claudia?’

  ‘Claudia! Claudia is your daughter?’ His delight at the memory of her name, her face, her eyes as they had danced briefly together on the night of the spontaneous party, clouded with this new piece of information. ‘I knew she was a daughter of a government official. But I had no idea she was the daughter of a minister. Pity.’

  But Feraguzzi had seen the young man’s eyes light up and was not immune to the magic of young love. He also understood instinctively that if he were to be complicit in his daughter’s courtship and subsequent marriage
, his wife would be extremely pleased with him.

  ‘She’s a very fine woman. Of marrying age. She’ll be looking for a partner at the Spousal Waltz, I imagine.’

  ‘The Spousal Waltz is an outdated tradition, one that demeans the men and patronizes the women. Nowadays, young men and women like to get together through less barbaric practices.’

  Pavel was not making a good impression.

  ‘Nevertheless, even if traditions change, a young man will still need the blessing of a young woman’s father. That, I assume, is not outdated.’

  Pavel met Feraguzzi’s eye. His shoulders relaxed a fraction. ‘I apologize if I was rude, sir. I am not used to the company of government officials in my shop. I forgot my manners.’

  ‘Your shop is a little humbler than I remember it under your father’s care. Times are tough, perhaps?’

  ‘Times are just different. I’ve diversified a little.’ He laid Lizzie’s watch gently on a piece of soft cloth and spoke as he searched for an eyepiece in a drawer. ‘I mend a few watches, but that isn’t really a business any more. Timepieces are funny things, these days. They’re built either to last or to throw away. Nothing much in between. My father’s business existed on fixing watches and running the government contracts. My business would have gone under if I’d relied on either of those as an income stream.’

  ‘So you have diversified how?’

  ‘I build clocks. Come.’

  He went through a door behind him into a cavernous workshop. Hefty wooden benches lined the walls and clocks of all sizes filled every space. The floor was littered with coils of metal shavings. Shelves hosted glass jars of every size, all immaculately labelled. There were sheets of glass taped and stacked in one pile, and heaps of timber in various stages of polish in another. To the far right a large object was covered with a dustsheet. The workshop smelt of an amalgamation of raw materials: the acrid sting of metal, the sweet odour of wood recently cut, the honeyed tones of wax.