Читать книгу The Museum of Things Left Behind - Seni Glaister, Seni Glaister - Страница 20

CHAPTER 9

In Which PEGASUS Has Her Wings Clipped

The PEGASUS steering group met with increased frequency as the early June deadline drew closer.

Sergio now oscillated between great optimism and unalloyed dread, and his men, guided by the lightest touch from Angelo, did their best to anticipate, interpret and respond appropriately to the increasingly frenetic swings in his mood.

The solitary protester’s stand had unsettled the president more than he had at first realized, and the impact on his behaviour was immense. Where he had experienced moments of self-doubt before, he now lived almost perpetually in fear of imminent failure. And though Sergio Senior had been dead for some years, it was his father he most feared failing. When Woolf had appeared on that sultry afternoon, Sergio had been momentarily proud to have dealt with the matter singlehandedly. But the ramifications of acting alone now ran deep: the memory rattled around in his brain only, haunting him day and night. There was nobody with whom to share the burden so the protester’s significance was greatly magnified by memory.

It was hard to say who bore the brunt of his vacillations. There were moments when Feraguzzi’s economic strategies seemed the root cause of Sergio’s dissatisfaction. At other times, Alixandria Heliopolis Visparelli was to blame for either his lackadaisical border controls or his over-zealous military presence, which was clearly the underlying reason for the distinctly dour disposition of the citizens. Scota was simply confused when an accusatory finger pointed towards him, while Cellini, Mosconi and Pompili took turns to cower in the background, shuffling their colleagues into the limelight in an unlikely imitation of chivalry.

The one person who remained untouched by the preparations was Chuck Whylie: he kept to his own quarters, only venturing out to the university to catch up with his email, the purpose of which seemed to be to make snide and inappropriate comments at his hosts’ expense. If the consultant had picked up on the increasing tensions in the city and among the ministers, he failed to show it. If anything, he appeared more self-satisfied than ever.

At the penultimate meeting of the PEGASUS steering group, as the days stretched out to show their true potential, Sergio assembled the quorum and made an unexpected announcement. ‘I cannot risk a Big Celebration on the night of the arrival of our royal visitor. There is simply too much at stake.’

Twelve pairs of eyebrows shot up simultaneously. For the previous two and a half months the men’s collective focus had been almost exclusively upon the impending Big Celebration. The food, the drink, the security, the protocol, the music, the dancing, each detail had been prescribed.

Angelo, the least cowed by his president’s moods, spoke first. ‘Sir, with respect, our main focus has been on the Big Celebration. Will it not be a considerable disappointment to the people if there is to be no party?’

‘I did not suggest that there would be no party,’ snapped Sergio, imperiously. ‘What I cannot risk is a Big Celebration, planned by the government. If the party is not well attended, if the crowd attendance falls below expectation, if the music is sub-standard, if the atmosphere is dull, if the wine does not flow, if the food is not the tastiest that has ever been served, then the political ramifications will be enormous.’ Sergio accompanied each scenario with a thump of his fist on the table and followed his inventory of potential pitfalls with a slow and deliberate appraisal of the assembled men, glaring at each in turn, sparing none. ‘I don’t think any of you has grasped the importance of this period in my political career. The date for my re-election is set for just after midsummer. There is absolutely no time for any political recovery between the Big Celebration and election day.’

Signor Posti piped up – somebody was clearly expected to respond to this challenge. ‘With respect, sir, we’re not anticipating any difficulty at re-election. The mood of the nation is good, we have positive news to report, we’re expecting less than a handful of negative option returns, and I can probably tell you who will be responsible for those …’

‘Well,’ countered Sergio slowly, fathomless contempt dripping from every syllable, ‘I keep my ear a little closer to the political ground than you do, Signor Posti, and I think you overestimate the mood of the electorate.’

Rolando Posti examined his fingernails and waited for another voice to fill the considerable chasm the president’s words had left in the air.

‘So,’ ventured Rossini, after a prolonged and painful silence, ‘what are you suggesting? That we cancel the Big Celebration?’

‘Cancel the—’ spluttered Sergio. ‘Are you mad? I hope you’re substantially more skilled at healing the sick than you are at managing political unrest. No, I’m suggesting that we replace the Big Celebration with a spontaneous outpouring of jubilation.’

‘Spontaneous?’ echoed at least half of the gathered men.

‘Yes, I want a party organized by the people, for the people, on the spur of the moment.’ Sergio looked around him, as if this was the most obvious idea he had yet put forward. It was clear from a dozen blank stares, however, that he needed to enlighten them further. ‘That way, if the party is a disaster, it will be the fault of the electorate. If it is a success, it will be our triumph for providing an atmosphere conducive to the flourishing of such impulsive festivity. I want our visitor to witness a nation that can literally burst into merrymaking.’

The men kept their eyes firmly on the president for fear that a shared glance between one and another might constitute betrayal.

‘And,’ ventured Civicchioni, tentatively, ‘who would you like to, er, spearhead the spontaneity?’

Impatient at the stupidity of the question, Sergio responded, enunciating each word as if addressing a particularly stupid child, ‘The committee, of course. Do you think I’d leave something as important as this to chance?’ He snapped shut his notebook, pushed his chair back and, with exaggerated irascibility, flounced from the room.

Angelo turned to a clean page in his notebook. ‘Right, gentlemen, you heard the boss. A spontaneous outpouring of jubilation it is.’

‘And don’t forget to schedule some merrymaking,’ quipped Scota, but Angelo silenced him with a look, reminding them that merrymaking was no joking matter. The men continued to sit and talk, each individually wishing to honour his president’s demands and to take the instruction seriously, but each also knowing that what had been asked of them was both illogical and impossible.