The Museum of Things Left Behind

by Seni Glaister

  ‘You are a very wise woman. I think this is exactly what has happened. But the knowledge does not lessen the humiliation, and my predicament remains the same. I must convince him I am worthy of my job or I will be removed from my post. The shame! The humiliation! It does not bear thinking about. My life certainly would not be worth living.’

  Lizzie assumed her most practical and businesslike air, the one she had watched her father employ to great effect over the years. ‘Well, let’s think about your task. You need to come up with a convincing plan to show that you intend to bring tourists in, yes? Well, it might just be that you’ve come to the right person. My father has always suggested that marketing is a good career for me but, for the first time ever, I’m actually interested in it – now I can see there’s a real purpose for it, a real problem to solve. Much of it must be common sense, surely, so let’s brainstorm.’ She chewed one arm of her sunglasses thoughtfully. ‘First, you need a marketing strategy. Maybe a catchy line that will sum up your entire campaign.’ She reached into her handbag for a notebook and pencil.

  At the thought of such decisive action, manifested by the practical utilization of executive tools, Mosconi became animated. ‘Oh, yes. That’s very good. The president is very keen on sound-bites, particularly those that are alliterative or rhyme. If I can come up with one it would certainly show I mean business.’

  Together they thought for a while. Mosconi stared off into the distance, mouthing words and shaking his head impatiently. Lizzie, in the meantime, repeatedly doodled on her notepad and scribbled out her musings.

  ‘How about “Vallerosa, a forgotten Paradise”?’

  ‘No!’ squealed Mosconi, his voice rising by an octave to highlight his vehemence. ‘No alliteration, no rhyme, and to be forgotten is the worst thing that can possibly happen to you.’ He became glum once more.

  In an effort to distract their attention from the long silence, Lizzie summoned more tea and, as she slowly stirred honey into hers, she began to smile. ‘I have it, I think. “Vallerosa knows the secret of time …”’

  For a few moments, Mosconi allowed the phrase to swill around in his head as he tested it from every angle. Lizzie bit her lip anxiously as he processed the idea, narrowing his eyes to bring its full effect into focus, tilting his head, allowing the sound of the words to ring true and clear. Eventually a slow smile spread across his face, splitting it in two. ‘That’s completely marvellous, undeniably original. There is no alliteration, no rhyme, and yet, and yet … I love it. It is the most perfect phrase I think I have ever heard. It is poetic and lyrical. It summons up our heritage and our glorious future and perfectly presents the unique selling point of our great nation.’ He thought for a few moments, then exclaimed, ‘We could have posters!’ This time the tears in his eyes sprang from happiness, not despair.

  Lizzie was delighted by his enthusiasm. ‘And you must print postcards with that strapline. People can send them home to show their friends where they’ve been!’ She was happy to have played such an important part in the minister’s transformation.

  Remi the postman was sitting two tables away. With his dark glasses over his eyes, he had remained as inconspicuous as possible while straining to listen to as much of the conversation as he could decipher. At the mention of postcards, he was unable to feign disinterest any longer. He leaped to his feet and dragged a chair next to the minister without waiting for an invitation. ‘Your Highness. Sir.’ Nodding politely to each in turn. ‘You talk freely of postcards.’

  Mosconi sighed impatiently. ‘Did I not ask you to make an appointment to see me, Remi-Post?’

  ‘You did indeed, but getting an appointment with you has proved harder than I had imagined. I have tried several different approaches and the goalposts have frequently changed. The most recent instruction I have received is to write a letter that I suppose I must then personally hand-deliver to your under-secretary before he will entertain the idea of an appointment. While I am much in favour of the full exploitation of the postal service, and the value of a handwritten letter, it is my fear that our guest will have left this land long before my idea is allowed to reach fruition. You, Your Highness,’ he said, turning his attention boldly to Lizzie, ‘are vital to its success.’

  Mosconi looked at his watch, anxious that this intrusion would erode the special time he was sharing with Miss Holmesworth but conscious, too, that he must show himself in a favourable light in front of his guest. ‘And your idea is what exactly, Remi-Post?’

  ‘Your Highness,’ Remi said, still with his eyes firmly fixed on Lizzie, ‘in my remit as postmaster, as well as the humble postman, I have been monitoring outward-bound mail very closely and it appears to me that you have not yet written a letter home. It seems rather sad to me that your arrival in this country was facilitated through the dependence on a number of national postal services throughout Europe and yet you have chosen to eschew the service that would see a missive from yourself take the return journey. I do not wish to intrude, but wonder whether you might be able to explain this oversight.’

  ‘Well, I’ve telephoned, of course, and I certainly plan to send a message home, but I suspect I will email as soon as I can access the internet. Not out of disrespect for your service, but out of convenience and speed.’

  ‘Convenience? Could a letter be any more convenient? And speed? When has speed ever added to the quality of a letter sent or received? Your Highness, do you know how much an airmail stamp costs?’

  Lizzie tried to remember what it had cost her at home. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t quite recall.’

  ‘No, no, you probably can’t. Why would a person of your position ever stop to consider the value attributed to the manual labour of a mere civil servant? Well, let me tell you. An airmail stamp costs less than a cup of tea. And for that you receive a hand-delivered bespoke service! If you were to choose to send a letter to the United Kingdom from Vallerosa, it would be these very hands that would process your letter and it would be granted onward safe passage using a number of methods of transport – most certainly train, and perhaps road, too. It would cross the sea by boat or perhaps by air. And all of this for less than the cost of the tea you are drinking!’

  ‘Well, I agree it is enormously good value. But I come from a generation that likes the immediacy of email. I press send and my family immediately know what I’m up to – it feels like a miracle.’

  ‘A miracle you say! Your Majesty!’ he admonished her, with a disappointed shake of his head. He paused for a moment, searching for exactly the right analogy. After a while he asked earnestly, ‘Do you watch the night sky?’

  Lizzie considered the question seriously. ‘Yes, I do. I often find myself looking at the stars. Particularly here where the sky is so clear and the stars are so bright. It’s extraordinary.’

  ‘You talk of a miracle. But think of the miracle of starlight. Some of the light that reaches your eyes was emitted by stars that have long since died. Stars that might have actually extinguished tens or hundreds of thousands of years ago! When you look upon that star, you are looking directly at the past and with this you are defying time. That is a miracle.’

  ‘I find it hard to get my head around that sometimes.’

  ‘Well,’ said Remi, in the voice of a man who had already won his argument, ‘a letter is just the same. Just as miraculous.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Of course. Post a letter now. Don’t affix an airmail stamp, just a regular overland stamp. It will probably arrive after you return home. But when it arrives, it will carry all the magic of the moment you wrote it. The scent in the air, perhaps even the moisture in your skin. When you open it, Vallerosan air will spill from the envelope and it will be exactly as it was when you were here. A time capsule. And not only will it carry the essence of the moment. Something else will have been added to it. Other ingredients that cannot be included in an immediately delivered email. Nostalgia, interpretation, reflection and context. It is a different you who will receive the
letter.’

  ‘What a lovely thought! I suppose I’ve grown to value immediate gratification over the romanticism of the post but, now you put it that way, I’m very tempted to send a letter to myself, perhaps to my family as well. In fact, I shall! I shall tell myself exactly what I’m feeling now, today, and I’ll write it among the tea plants and send some of that dusty air with it! What a joy!’

  ‘I’m so glad you seem to understand. That makes me feel very proud.’

  Excluded from the exchange, Mosconi interrupted: ‘And this is going to further tourism how exactly?’

  ‘Oh, forgive me, the sending of the letter itself won’t further tourism. I have a much bigger idea. But it needs the approval of Her Royal Highness and of our government.’

  ‘And your idea is?’

  ‘A stamp!’ Remi was unable to contain his excitement. ‘A series of stamps. A series of stamps that commemorate the arrival of our royal guest to Vallerosa.’ He turned back to Lizzie. ‘Your Eminence, you are delighted by the thought of sending a letter, but can you imagine how proud you will be if the envelope of that letter is adorned by a stamp that specifically celebrates your stay here?’

  Mosconi mulled over the postman’s idea and liked it immediately. Certainly a combination of a carefully orchestrated marketing campaign backed up with themed postcards and stamps might encourage a large amount of outward-bound marketing of the viral nature that everyone had seemed so excited about lately, however poisonous it sounded.

  ‘And you envisage the stamps looking like what exactly?’

  Remi produced a piece of paper that had clearly been refolded on many occasions and now bore the stains of regular handling. He smoothed it out, stammering, ‘I – I have only commissioned the f-first in the series. Y-you understand it would be an expensive undertaking to c-commission further images purely speculatively but you will warm to the m-motif, I hope, and your imagination will allow you to see how this series might d-d-develop.’

  Mosconi and Lizzie looked at the drawing. The pencil lines were deftly executed and portrayed a man on a bicycle, wearing a peaked cap and bicycle clips, waving a disproportionately large envelope above his head. The cyclist was undoubtedly the postman himself.

  ‘This, you understand, is the first in the series, representing the arrival of the news, the heralding of glad tidings, if you like. The first inkling that our lives would soon be irrevocably changed …’

  Mosconi admired the drawing and enthused without reservation: ‘This is a first-class idea. Yes, the arrival of the letter, then perhaps an image of Gabboni at the railway station. And perhaps some of the official tours, too, could be represented. A senior minister outside one of our greatest tourist attractions, having just shown our visitor around. Perhaps with the suggestion that she is still inside, browsing. What a marvellous idea. I think this might be a very good concept indeed, Remi-Post, and one that I shall propose to our president and my government colleagues at the very first opportunity. I can imagine a good deal of enthusiasm from across the board.’

  Remi beamed with relief and exhaustion. His idea had kept him awake for several nights, and that it had received such a positive response from one of the most senior ministers in the land was sweet.

  Lizzie patted Remi’s arm. ‘Well done, and I will certainly be paying a visit to your post office, you can count on that. But I might have to wait until we’ve printed some postcards and commissioned your stamps. What an excellent afternoon’s work!’

  Hardly able to believe his luck, and unwilling to risk it by outstaying his welcome, Remi left the bar in search of some citizens with whom he could share it.

  Mosconi remained at the table, staring at Lizzie. He was now beginning to believe she was not only the most beautiful woman he had ever set eyes on but that she was clearly a marketing genius as well.

  ‘But, Settimio, this is not enough,’ said Lizzie, placing a steadying hand on his own. ‘A strapline and some special-edition stamps will give you a hook to hang your marketing campaign on, but you’re going to need some concrete plans to present if you’re to convince the president that you’re the right man for the job.’ She thought for a moment, once again chewing her lip in deep contemplation. Mosconi sat absolutely still, trying not to remind her that her hand still rested lightly on his.

  ‘What about a website?’ she exclaimed, gripping his hand more tightly in excitement. ‘A website would have been really useful when I was trying to find out about Vallerosa and, honestly, there’s nothing very helpful when you Google it.’

  Mosconi shook his head sadly, but placed his other hand on hers, now sandwiching it between his. To a casual onlooker they might look like lovers, an impression Mosconi was happy to encourage. Lizzie, suddenly aware that her hand had become trapped, wondered whether she might be able to release it casually, but as she began to experiment with the manoeuvre, Mosconi simply strengthened his grip. ‘We’re beyond a website now. That’s not thinking big enough. That was my revolutionary idea for last year, and if I mention it again I will simply remind them that I haven’t yet achieved my ambitious goal. They’ll just laugh me out of the room. They might even laugh me out of the country.’ He hung his head in shame. ‘I am a failure, it is true. Perhaps I don’t even deserve the job.’ His body slumped in despair but his grip on Lizzie’s hand tightened again. He was refusing to relinquish his prize.

  Quiet for a moment, Lizzie brightened. ‘A website isn’t actually that difficult to build – it needn’t take months and months. How about if I enlist the help of a couple of students? We could probably have something to look at in time for your meeting. You say you’ve got some money to spend? Well, let’s pay the students to do the work – they’ll certainly get on to it if you chuck a few lire at them.’

  Mosconi considered this, but slumped again. ‘This is all very kind, and I appreciate your great efforts, but still I need a bigger idea.’

  Lizzie used her next thought to free her hand and used both to gesticulate expansively. ‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is?’ Mosconi said, sadder to lose the warmth of the pale pink hand than he could have believed possible.

  ‘Yes. You want to attract tourists, but the single biggest issue that prevents people coming is transport. I cannot tell you how difficult it was to get here by train – it’s a miracle anyone finds their way here at all. How about you begin conversations with one of the budget airlines and offer it the opportunity to be the first airline to fly to your country? They’re operating all over Europe now, flying to the most outrageous places, cities you’ve never even heard of. They’re amazingly cheap – you can get to the most unlikely places for, like, a pound or something. I’m sure you could get them interested.’

  ‘An airline? But we have no airport! We have no runway! Where is an aeroplane meant to land in our country?’

  ‘Even better. If you haven’t got an airport, you build one. That’ll create loads of jobs and opportunities. The country will know you’re serious about expanding your horizons.’

  Mosconi felt a prickle of excitement but the biggest obstacle was insurmountable. ‘But we have no room for a runway.’

  ‘With all due respect, you seem to have an awful lot of tea plants. I mean, I’m sure it’s a very important crop to you, but every square inch seems to be devoted to the damn stuff. I’m sure you could spare a few acres to get a runway in. I have no idea how much land you’d need, but I’m sure I could find out.’

  Mosconi’s imagination stretched upwards to the high plains of the Alta Mesa, seeing for a moment a vision of endless possibility. ‘An airport. A runway. Aeroplanes coming and going. People arriving and departing. Tourists, lots of them. Arriving to stay in our country and all because of me and my marketing strategy.’

  ‘Exactly. You wanted a big idea. That’s the biggest you can have. And if we get to work on it right away, you can make a huge presentation on Tuesday. I can help you, if you want, with timelines and budgets and … We wouldn’t have t
o go into a massive amount of detail, just outline the plan and say you’ll work closely with the Department of Finance to come up with the figures.’ Lizzie was now acutely aware that already she was substantially out of her depth. She hoped that the answers she would need to seek would be readily available somewhere within the university.

  Mosconi, however, was sold, and where doubt had plagued him before, absolute certainty had swept in to replace it. ‘This really is amazing – absolutely amazing. I have a big idea. I have the biggest idea of all the big ideas you could possibly have when considering the finer aspects of tourism. Yes, I can see it now. An airport with a departure lounge and an arrivals lounge. We’d need Customs officers and baggage handlers and ticket staff. We’d probably need airport police and many more pony traps. Think of all the jobs we’ll create!’

  Then reality stopped his dreaming in its tracks. ‘But how do we pay for them all? I cannot pay all of these people out of my tourism budget. It won’t stretch much beyond some posters.’

  Lizzie answered, with a confidence she had no right to wield: ‘I suppose you get the airline to pay for it. I assume they have to pay for the right to land here and for all the services you provide. On top of that most countries can tax every single person coming in or when they leave.’

  ‘People would pay a tax to visit my country?’ Mosconi asked, his eyes widening at the thought.

  ‘Oh, absolutely. You sort of expect it. Particularly when you’re visiting countries that are a bit off the beaten path. You can’t charge a huge amount, maybe a thousand lire or something when they leave.’

  ‘You would charge them to leave the country? This is most unlikely. I am sure there are many countries that a visitor will happily pay to leave, perhaps even yours. America, I suppose, you might pay a lot to leave. And Switzerland, I imagine. But here? Vallerosa? I think they would want to pay to stay.’

  ‘Well, either way, there’s a tax to pay on arrival or departure.’