The Museum of Things Left Behind

by Seni Glaister

  ‘And the men really don’t know at all? Is that possible?’

  ‘Oh, they most probably do – they must wonder where the food comes from that graces their tables each night. They just don’t seem to think too deeply about it. What they’re missing, though, is having their womenfolk around and that is the aspect that is likely to cause a revolution. The women hide themselves up here all day, from first light to dusk, and they’re physically exhausted when they get home. It takes a lot of strength to feed a nation, you know.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I can see that, of course. But, surely, some of the men must understand what is going on.’

  ‘It’s a complex matter. Nobody wants to be complicit, do they? Nor do they want to be the first to suggest to the government that their policies are pure madness. And it’s all working now. The government quotas appear to be met and there’s food on the table at the end of each day. Who is going to rock the boat? The time will come, I suppose, when the consultant delivers a big fat contract and we have to sell our tea. When it comes to harvest time we’ll have less than half the amount we need to deliver and then the truth will come out, I suppose. But there’s any number of things we can blame for the deficit … a poor harvest, bad weather … Who’s going to question our authority on the matter of tea? Will the consultant have a clue? No. Will the minister for agricultural development have any better answers? Well, that’s a different matter altogether.’

  ‘But that’s Enzo Civicchioni, isn’t it? He seems like a good guy … Would he be so hard to reason with?’

  ‘In Civicchioni’s heart of hearts he knows. But he’s doing what every other member of that government does. He’s telling Sergio what he wants to hear and hoping it doesn’t all come home to roost on his watch.’

  ‘How much do you think he knows, really?’

  ‘Well, his mother was Evelina Civicchioni – she died recently. But she was Ada’s sister, so aunt to Angelo Bianconi, the president’s chief of staff. That’s the way it all works here – everyone is related, everyone knows everyone, so it’s hard to keep a secret. But Evelina was one of the first women to instigate this. She saw what her son was allowing to happen and immediately set about coming up with a counter-plan. As he took crops out on the north side, she replaced them on the south. Plant for plant. And it didn’t take her very long to recruit a whole army of women to help her.’

  Together they sat in silence and admired the hordes of women at work. The sun was already high enough to beat down on them directly but they never slowed their pace. As it gathered in force, they kept at work, not allowing anything to break their rhythm as they toiled. Occasionally somebody would say something funny, or irreverent or both, and a ripple of laughter would break out but on the whole they worked in silence.

  Maria threw her apple core into the long grass to her right. ‘Nature is a funny thing, Lizzie. It has a way of righting itself despite man’s intent to conquer it, harness it and bring it under control. You know why this land is so fertile, so special, so very productive?’

  Lizzie shrugged, unable to guess.

  ‘Because we used the excess tea from the early abundant years to make a very high-grade fertilizer. It’s astonishing stuff – it appears that other plants respond to a good dose of tea tonic too. There’s little wastage in nature and it’s humbling to remember we must always work with it, for it, perhaps. Certainly never against it.’

  ‘I’m amazed and touched that you shared this with me, Maria. But …’ Lizzie hesitated. ‘But I’m not stupid. There was no way I would have stumbled upon this on my own – I thought I’d already discovered everything there was to discover in Vallerosa. There was no real reason for you to show me. We’re friends, that’s true, but what you’re sharing with me here goes beyond friendship. I have a feeling you want me to do something with this information, and if I’m going to honour our friendship, then you’ll need to spell that out very carefully so that I get it right.’

  ‘Perhaps that is so. But I can’t spell it out because I don’t fully know what it is I’m asking of you. But you’re here with us for a reason. A woman in government, however temporary, is an asset the rest of us women cannot afford to waste. While you’re here we must hope that your intuition will work, and together we will find our way through this. We have successfully introduced a solution that offers us some respite from any damage that government policy might inflict. But we must not continue to grow our crops in secret because they will soon begin to taste bitter.’

  The two women rose to their feet and walked towards some shaded trestle tables where a number of women were filling in charts tacked to large pinboards that leaned against the trees. Colour-coded columns, in neat handwriting, detailed rotas and schedules, yields and rotations. Another gave today’s market prices for key crops and yet another detailed a complex flow chart of product exchange rates. ‘Oh, you’ll like this,’ exclaimed Maria, as she noticed Lizzie frowning at the symbols. ‘This was worked out a long time ago, our way of cutting out the middle man.’ She went on to explain, ‘Each crop has a designated unit size and each unit has an exchange rate. That way you don’t have to sell your corn to buy tomatoes. You simply swap your produce unit for unit. It actually gets a little more complex than this as units can appreciate in value through additional labour. One jar of sun-dried tomatoes becomes three times as valuable as the equivalent number of fresh tomatoes. Under this system women can go on to increase their own productivity and ensure that their labour is fairly valued.’

  ‘So, you barter?’ asked Lizzie, delighted.

  ‘Exactly. That’s the name we use for this process! You’re familiar with our system? I thought it might be unique. I had no idea that bartering was employed elsewhere.’ Disappointment had crept into Maria’s voice.

  ‘Well, I’m quite familiar with the concept, but I’ve never seen it in action. Believe me, Maria, you’re light years ahead of us.’

  Maria smiled proudly, and they wandered on towards the allotments. The women didn’t down tools, but they smiled shyly as they continued with their work. Their silent prayers, had they been spoken aloud, were shared by all. There wasn’t a woman there, working on the land, who didn’t secretly pray that Lizzie’s visit might herald a solution.

  CHAPTER 41

  In Which a Meeting Is Tabled

  While Lizzie and Maria had been taking their long walk up to the far north mesa, Sergio had called an emergency meeting. Not one of his ministers had been forewarned, not even Angelo. He wanted his men caught off guard, in the hope that an element of surprise would work in his favour and to the disadvantage of any potential dissenters. He had called the meeting for eleven o’clock and intended to be there a few minutes early to look for patterns of collaboration within the sequence in which his men arrived. However, at ten fifty, as he entered the room, the twelve men were gathered, already pouring tea and talking in low voices. Too late to retreat and listen, Sergio could only stumble blindly in, trying to catch the last words of the hushed conversation. As the mumbled discussion evaporated into silence, it was only ‘tonight’ he caught, an affirmation from Signor Posti that was quickly bitten back into the suggestion of the word as soon as the president joined them.

  Sergio swallowed and took his seat. He dropped his papers to the table and fixed the silence with a long hard look at each man. He nodded to himself as he scoured the room and the men looked back at him quizzically, half smiling, waiting.

  ‘I’ve called the meeting today to talk to you most seriously. This room,’ he said, encompassing its four walls with a hand, ‘has served us well. It is the room in which we have steered this country together. United. As one. And the table. This table,’ he said, banging the flat of his hand upon the mahogany to the shock of the assembled ministers, ‘has served us well. It is the table that has lent us support through many hours of deliberation together. United. As one. Together we lean upon it and it shares our burden, taking one equal part of each of us and spreading the load. It is a table crafted b
y some very skilled artisans, who understood the symbiotic relevance of form and function. And imagine, if you will, what would happen if one leg should be crooked, if even the slightest alteration were to take place that should see one leg shortened, say, by one inch.’ He let the image linger in the air. ‘The balance of the table would be lost. Things would slip and slide. Our tea!’ Sergio suppressed a sob. ‘The very symbol of our nation might turn from healer to hurter as a pot unloaded its burning contents into one of our laps.’

  While he spoke, fleshing out the imagery as he went on, he scanned the room for latent unease. His stare was met with polite nods, half-smiles, encouraging murmurs, but with none of the sweat beads or furrowed foreheads that he was hoping to flush out. Decio Rossini was doodling, but not in a particularly offensive way. Commandant Alixandria Heliopolis Visparelli was sitting upright, arms folded in what might be perceived as an aggressive fighting stance, but his face was set in what appeared to be a generally interested expression and he looked as if he was both enjoying and following the analogical preamble. And, if anything, Settimio Mosconi seemed keener, brighter, more excited than usual.

  Sergio swallowed loudly. ‘Among us today is a crooked leg.’ He folded his own arms, a mirror image of the stance Alix had assumed. He let the words sink in and, for the first time since the meeting had been called, the gathered men appeared to pull themselves upright into a more concerned, alert group.

  ‘And the table will not function with a crooked leg. If one leg is crooked, all might as well be crooked. Because the table is no longer a table that can be depended upon to serve its function.’ He chewed the inside of his cheek and nodded slowly, allowing the underlying threat to settle.

  ‘And for me? As your leader? I would rather have no table than a table with a crooked leg. So I am going to leave the room, and you men are going to discuss the implications of this among yourselves. When we reconvene, there will be one leg fewer to support the table. The crooked leg will have removed itself. It will have limped and hobbled from the room and as such we will then be allowed to find a new, straighter leg to support our table. Do we all understand?’

  Their bafflement was almost palpable. Roberto Feraguzzi pushed his chair a little back from the table to get a clearer view of the support mechanism beneath the gleaming tabletop. Up until today, this was something he had taken for granted, but it was clear now that further examination was necessary. He peered beneath him but his line of vision granted him a view of only one table leg, immediately to his left; though it was bowed, and therefore not exactly straight, it appeared to be deliberately so shaped and not, then, technically crooked. He looked up at his peers with a shrug. Sergio was already leaving the room, his head held high, but his men were deflated.

  The president walked a few steps down the corridor, then darted inside the first door to his right, a utility cupboard that housed an assortment of mops and brooms and the best tea trolley, reserved for visiting dignitaries. Sergio squeezed himself in and pulled the door behind him. The slats that kept the cupboard aired gave him a disjointed but reasonable view of the boardroom’s door. He held his breath, steadied his nerves and waited to see who might be expelled from the room. He stood still, his heart hammering, for a few anxious minutes before he was rewarded with the sight of the boardroom door opening. Through the slats Sergio could clearly see slivers of Angelo as he emerged, peered down the corridor, then held the door open to allow his comrades to exit.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ he said, in a hushed but firm voice. ‘We are all in agreement that this small fly in the ointment changes nothing. We proceed, as planned, tomorrow. Agreed?’ Each of Sergio’s hitherto loyal band of men filed past Angelo and nodded or spoke their assent. Mario, Settimio, Decio, Vlad, Roberto, Enzo, Alix, Rolando, Giuseppe, Tersilio. The affirmative noises bounced ominously around the corridor, each one delivering a further blow to Sergio’s crumbling nervous system. Marcello, the last to leave, stood for a moment and put his hand on Angelo’s shoulder, looking him squarely in the eyes. ‘We’re with you, boss,’ he said, and followed his colleagues down the corridor.

  Sergio grasped the handle of the tea trolley with both hands to prevent his trembling knees failing him altogether. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut to banish the image of the betrayers but still the words reverberated in his mind. Sweat poured into his closed eyes and he let it run in rivulets down the crevasses of his face. Eventually tears joined the sweat, until he could no longer distinguish between the two.

  CHAPTER 42

  In Which Sergio Faces the Music

  Midsummer’s Eve: it was so close now to a measurable dose of balance and equitability. The period in which a man could enjoy the greatest share of daylight of the year, and traditionally a time to celebrate the summer with carefree abandon. But Sergio was moping: the sickness in his stomach had spread, his limbs were heavy and his forehead leaked an oily sweat that stank of something rotten. By five thirty a.m. the sun was already hoisting itself over the eastern range, spilling its happiness into the crease below, but Sergio was pacing up and down, twisting the cord of his dressing-gown between his thumbs and fingers, working the silken knots like worry beads. His head ached and a dull numbness secreted by exhaustion was seeping through his body. His eyelids fluttered in half-wakefulness as he muttered his angst-ridden pleas to furniture unable to care.

  The anxieties that were plaguing the president had reached their pinnacle. His beloved country depended on him to make the right decisions but now he felt sure he had let his people down. All of the conviction with which he had guided his ministers had dissipated and he wondered now whether entering into this Faustian pact with the non-royal from the United Kingdom of Great Britain had prompted a higher force to punish him. He would lose this election, of that he was certain. But before that, he would lose every ounce of credibility that had carried him thus far. They would laugh at him tomorrow, when it came to the speeches. He had nothing to give them, no promises to make, no assurances for the future. Instead, he would stand before a rebellious crowd incensed by dissatisfaction. If they didn’t assassinate him, they would certainly overthrow him and leave him languishing in the city jail.

  For a moment Sergio entertained the notion of imprisonment. Where would they make him wait while they cleared the cell of the filing cabinets that had gradually monopolized the space? One whole wall of the small room had been turned over to wine storage – the jail boasted ideal conditions for putting down the best reds. They’d have to empty that out, certainly, unless he was to become an inmate with a steady supply of claret. Perhaps with this, and a desk at which to write, he could be a happy convict.

  He shook his head to clear his brain of the increasing flow of rambling nonsense and, with a growing sense of urgency, set to work, prompted by his reverie to submit to his increasing compulsion to transcribe his innermost thoughts.

  He spent the morning at his desk, drinking tea and scribbling furiously into his notebook.

  If these are my last words, then let them speak the final truth. Power for power’s sake has no value. The only power that a man can accrue is power he doesn’t unleash, for the moment it is put to influence, its currency is depleted. To wield power, therefore, it is better to be unaware of it. And, as such, the truly powerful man is the man with none. Conversely, the man with acknowledged, spoken power is so quickly feared that he is at once the enemy of himself and of his servants. To hold power in one hand, and friendship in another, is not an equation that balances, and therefore a man with power cannot use it to benefit his friends or his servants, only himself. This is why there is no such thing as a noble or true leader.

  He replaced the lid on the pen and took a break, quietly confident that he was on the brink of a thought of startling importance. To find clarity, he took to his regular position behind the curtain at his window. Not far from the balcony, just a third of the way up the piazza, he saw a small group of men. He recognized Woolf immediately – the man’s features haunted his dr
eams so it was no surprise to see him jump out from the shadows into the blazing sunlight of reality. And who was he huddled with? Pavel, yes. He knew him too. A bolshie desperado in the making. That was an obvious pairing, certainly. The two men were talking head to head but made way to include a third stepping from the dark catacombs under the arches. It was the burly form of Giuseppe Scota, capped and uniformed with his distinctive medals and gold brocade, mocking his leader from afar. The two young men, rather than shying away from the uniformed minister, welcomed him into their huddle and continued the conversation between them. Once they looked up towards the balcony, and Sergio shrank back into the protection of the curtains. When he next dared to peer out they had turned their backs to him and were looking across the far length of the piazza. And then they had gone, absorbed back into the murky depths that had spat them out just moments before.

  One could have power with no friends and no supporters. Or friends but no power and no supporters. Or supporters but no friends and no power. But with power, you are an island, and it is only a matter of time before your friends and supporters merge into one beast whose sole purpose is to wrestle your power from you. And then new power will be dispensed, and the person with the most power will quickly find himself alone too. The job of the leader is perhaps the loneliest job in the world. Better to be an influencer than a leader. An influencer can achieve so much of the role of the leader without setting himself up to fail through the futile acquisition of power. A powerless influencer is more potent than a leader without influence. As such the influencer has power, but only as long as the influence is never promoted as power. Then his influence can thrive and take on many of the properties of true power without the inevitable downfall.