Читать книгу The Museum of Things Left Behind - Seni Glaister, Seni Glaister - Страница 22

The VIP was due to arrive on the 05.05 freight train, the only one to stop in Vallerosa. The track actually serviced a major network that began in the French Alps to the south-west and ended in Austria to the north-east and managed, through the judicial placing of a mountainous outcrop, to carve a narrow route through the uppermost corner of the country. This meander across Vallerosan soil lasted less than three kilometres, but the government of the time, led by Sergio’s canny grandfather, had been quick to recognize the opportunity: it had granted permission to the rail company to lay the track across a corner of its land. In return the rail company would provide, at their cost, a station and a generous annual stipend with which to manage it. At the time, the deal had been heralded as an international negotiation of unparalleled success, and many days of celebration and festivity had followed. Sergio’s grandfather had earned himself the nickname ‘the Deal Maker’, and had justly garnered the praise of his fellow citizens, who now had access to and from other countries. The Deal Maker, however, was not blessed with the wisest of financial counsel, and while the fee paid by the rail company had seemed a grand gift from the heavens, the incumbent minister of finance had failed to negotiate an annual increase in line with inflation or any other monetary index. Over the intervening decades the annual income had been eroded by the ravages of economics, and today the stipend barely covered the wage of the part-time ticket collector.

Whether it was a reflection on the retrospective change of circumstances, or the genuine linguistic trickery that often takes place when a name is translated from one language to another, via Latin, and back again, Sergio’s grandfather was remembered now in the history books as ‘the Big Deal’; the ambiguity of the moniker suited those with a fond, ever-patriotic nostalgia for the previous regimes as well as those who remembered less kindly the deals with which the country was now lumbered in perpetuity.

Three times a day the diesel would roar through Vallerosa, accelerating as it drew towards the station. Curving dangerously as it sped past, the passengers on board might just glimpse the short platform and the black and red flag snapping in the train’s draught. Since the mid-1940s, the passenger trains had no longer stopped in Vallerosa, and this arrangement suited the current administration. While civilization had mercifully ignored or forgotten the small country during two world wars, today’s increasingly unstable climate would have required the opening up of rigorous border patrols, including a full-time Customs and Immigration Service.

Demand for travel to the country was negligible and as no one in the world had yet come up with any particular reason to visit Vallerosa, the current traffic was restricted to a single freight train stopping once a day. Upon this service, the occasional visitor might have negotiated a fare and, depending on the amount of currency that changed hands, take their chances with a seat among the parcels and packages in the mail carriages or secure a much comfier ride in the driver’s cabin, where there were two springy fold-down chairs and copious amounts of tea from the seemingly bottomless urn. From there visitors would alight, crumpled, disoriented and in desperate need of the washrooms that waited, spotlessly clean, to service them.

The current stationmaster, Gabboni, relished his dual role as ticket and passport inspector. Indeed, he had one of the most enviable roles in the country. Admittedly he must be up early to greet the train each morning, but for most of the time he lived a relaxed and solitary life, tasked with keeping the station platform swept, the toilets and washrooms stocked with paper and towels, and ensuring there was always a glorious display of hanging baskets and window boxes to guarantee that one’s very first sighting of Vallerosa was a positive experience.

Each year several intrepid travellers would deliberately set out to discover this most elusive of countries for themselves and Gabboni dedicated himself to welcoming them. On the whole, this group was made up of hikers and mountaineers, historians and students of General Isaak von Bunyan, explorers, cartographers and tea connoisseurs, who had heard talk of rare flavours and properties of the local brew. But there were many more whose visit was entirely accidental. Typically, these weary travellers would have embarked on a night train somewhere in the pretty hills of the north-east of Italy, or as far back as the south-eastern tip of France, and would have awoken suddenly, confused, to the screech of the diesel brakes and a neck-jerking deceleration. They would shake themselves awake to the incomprehensible realization that they were pulling into a station, although they had been told, in many multilingual announcements, that there were no further stops along the way. Leaping to their feet, hastily grabbing their luggage from the rack above their head, they would hurl themselves and their cases from the train on the false assumption that either they had slept through the country they were intending to visit or they had arrived at their destination slightly ahead of schedule.

While the statistics would almost certainly be excluded from the annual report issued by the minister for tourism, it is fair to guess that the majority of visitors to Vallerosa would have begun their unintentional visit with a glance at their watch, a quick but futile calculation of any number of time zones they might have crossed during their eastward journey, and a hurried exit from the train, tumbling to the platform alongside the mailbag, in the pre-dawn darkness. Internal panic rising, they would turn to see Vinsent Gabboni emerging from the shadows, smiling the knowing smile of a stationmaster who has seen it all before, many times.

Gabboni, so keen to protect that most coveted of positions, ensured that he did every aspect of his job with absolute diligence. And so, on the rare occasions when a visitor chose to stop at that crease of a country, he would draw himself up to his full five foot seven inches and guarantee that the visitor, American or otherwise, was treated with the unabridged Vallerosan welcome. Having allowed his visitor to alight, he would walk purposefully towards them to greet them. First he would place a friendly hand on each shoulder, and then, staring into the eyes of the often startled traveller, he would pronounce, syllable by syllable (always respectful of most foreigners’ lack of learning), ‘Your weary feet can find comfort here, your wandering soul can find answers, your heavy heart can find solace and your parched mouth can be quenched.’ Then, before the visitor had had time to recover, he would draw them firmly to his chest, laying his head briefly on their right shoulder. With a slap on the back, they would be ushered into the waiting room to meet him in his official capacity as junior minister in charge of Customs and Immigration. While the visitor would reorient himself in the small, tidy waiting room, wondering if, perhaps, he had been mistaken for somebody else, Gabboni’s head and shoulders would reappear alarmingly through the hitherto unnoticed hatch in the wall.

This very special morning, which had begun more than an hour before with the unruly clanging of the church bells, it had been decreed that Gabboni’s special welcome alone was not enough for the expected VIP.

There had been much debate, both in Il Gallo Giallo, and in Parliament itself, as to who, or what, would be most appropriate to form a welcoming party. At the peak of the debate, it had been suggested that Sergio himself might be there to greet the visitor but Angelo had spelled out the danger of allowing the visitor to think that too much significance had been attached to the occasion. In the end, it was felt by all that Sergio must retain a healthy detachment and act with the standoffish dignity of a leader who was accustomed to (perhaps even bored by) state visits. Eventually, through a rigorous process of elimination, three ministers had been duly elected to form the welcoming party.

Settimio Mosconi, the minister for tourism, was an obvious choice, and with the addition of the ministers for recreation and leisure, it was felt that just the right level of gravitas without obsequiousness had been attained.

It was agreed by all that Vinsent Gabboni had excelled himself. The station gleamed, while the scents of geranium and rose made all three ministers proud to be Vallerosan. Mosconi’s shoulders heaved and he was seen brushing the back of his hand across each eye, but whether this was because the moment was charged with emotion or because the air carried a little dust that dry morning was open to speculation. Gabboni had unrolled the red linoleum, reserved for just this type of occasion but which had only been called upon once before. On that occasion, Sergio had left the country for a week’s visit to his neighbouring countries but returned just two days later, apparently because his work had been accomplished with unrivalled efficiency; those closer to him wondered if he had been homesick.

With a full ten minutes to go before the scheduled arrival of the train, the three men took their place. Initially they ordered themselves tourism, recreation, leisure, but the gradually descending height differential added a comic dimension that was neither dignified nor intended and they quickly regrouped with tourism, the tallest, flanked on either side by recreation and leisure. On this solemn occasion, Gabboni had been relegated to the ticket office but he was proud and excited to be included and had, without either the knowledge or permission of Mosconi, agreed to head afterwards for Il Toro Rosso where he would hand an exclusive scoop to Edo Cannoni, a post-graduate English student who aspired to run the country’s only independent newspaper, the Vallerosan Reporter. As this newspaper was still an idle dream, young Edo was resigned – apparently indefinitely – to running the student newspaper and it would be to the thundering photocopying machine in the basement of the university that he would turn once his copy was filed.

The sound of the diesel engine cut through the clear morning air and could be heard for some minutes before it eventually slowed to a screeching halt at the small station. A few moments later, two heads poked out of the driver’s cabin door, which swung back fully on itself. A smallish sports bag, with a tennis racquet strapped to its spine, was thrown to the platform. This was soon followed by the unceremonious dumping of a large rucksack, which hit the ground heavily, raising a cloud of dust. Moments later, two tired visitors stepped down from the train and looked, first, at the line-up of smartly saluting men to their right, then to their left, where the end of the platform and the tracks curving into the distance offered no alternative exit route. The middle-aged man stepped forward, casually slinging his jacket over one shoulder and picking up the sports bag in his other hand.

The three ministers held their breath. There was, they admitted to themselves later, a degree of disappointment that this man, clearly a man in charge, had not thought to dress in official uniform and hadn’t even deigned to sport a necktie. But, of course, they quickly rationalized, for security reasons it must be safer to travel incognito and, with no security men to accompany him, this precaution was probably very wise.

They shared, too, their simultaneous reaction to the second visitor, previously partly shielded by the man. Lagging behind, having taken a few seconds to heave her heavy rucksack to her back, she hurried forward to catch up with her travelling companion, falling into step silently beside him. The three ministers, in unison, dropped their saluting hands to their sides and stared, unprofessionally, unabashed and unashamed, at the tallest and most beautiful woman they had ever set eyes on. Not even the sum of their combined dreams had yielded anything quite as mouth-wateringly, tear-jerkingly heavenly as the vision that now walked towards them. Perhaps the equestrian habits of their forebears were behind their unanimous thoughts as they sized up (with the open admiration of stockmen at market with a full purse to spend) her powerful legs, her wide but graceful shoulders, her magnificent neck and incredibly strong, shiny white teeth. The sun had not yet risen and still her pale hair glowed in a luminescent halo, as if illuminated from within. The few short seconds, as she strolled towards them, spiralled recklessly into cinematic-quality slow-motion as each man harboured unsolicited images, set to the music of harpsichords and tumultuous cymbals, of tumbling naked limbs, of the strong hindquarters of Arabian stud horses, of Amazonian hunters, of peach-skinned necks, of open mouths revealing rows and rows of pearlescent teeth, of whips and jodhpurs and the palest, smoothest, roundest buttocks.

The tall blonde woman approached the welcoming party, first with a little trepidation and then with confidence, as she realized that these three uniformed gentlemen, each resplendent with shiny ribbons and glinting medals, were there to meet her and her fellow traveller. She towered over the man beside her as her generous mouth spread into a wide smile and she stepped forward, her right hand held out. The male visitor shuffled forward, hand extended, with a puzzled smile. The two weary travellers were greeted with a moment’s confusion followed by three stiff salutes.

Mosconi was the first to gain control of his senses. He wrestled the sports bag from the gentleman, falling smartly into step beside him and only dropping back when it was apparent that they could not both fit through the turnstile at once. In an embarrassing moment of previously undefined protocol, the tall blonde woman was left alone behind the men. With her sunglasses now pushing her silky hair off her face, she waited to have her paperwork examined.

Gabboni’s moment had arrived, but the agreed-upon procedure had disintegrated. On receipt of the required documents, he looked for leadership from Mosconi, who met his eye with a stern shake of the head. He grasped both lots of paperwork tightly to his chest, bowed low and returned it to the owners. With a small scuffle, the dignitaries and visitors shuffled themselves into order, passing through the turnstile one by one and stepping out to meet the rising sun.

The blonde had been delighted by the sweet-smelling station, enthralled by the formal greeting and enchanted by the warmth of Gabboni’s cursory ticket inspection. But nothing had prepared her for the view that met her as she passed through the ticket office to the station forecourt. The sun was poking its head above the far valley wall, and its gentle light was starting to penetrate the vast crevasse below. The landscape of Vallerosa was unique, for virtually its entire landmass was dominated by the steep walls that rose dramatically from either side of the powerful river Florin. The country tilted, too, from north to south, which lent drama to the water, which tumbled and frothed as it made its way through the mountainous region. The only land that could properly be considered horizontal was the plain at the top of the valley, on which the passengers now stood. For as far as the eye could see, the land there was host to hundreds of hectares of tea plantations. To anyone visiting Vallerosa for the first time, this view was quite literally breathtaking. The elaborately whorled tea plants at the top of the valley, resembling acres and acres of tightly quilted velvet, gave way to the city, which clung precariously to the valley walls. Houses, built from a uniform red rock, seemed hewn from the cliffs. And now, as the sun began to play on the rapids below, the river Florin began to reveal its many hues.

‘Oh, my gosh!’ the tall blonde squealed, clapping her hands together in delight. ‘It’s absolutely gorgeous. I had no idea!’ Despite her height, she skipped daintily forward, breathing deeply, then turned to face the ministers. ‘It’s really, really lovely! I can’t believe I’m here at last!’ She gambolled forward and ran her hands across the closest of the tea plants. The densely packed leaves gave under her touch and bounced back into place obediently as she marvelled at the plantation. A goat lifted its narrow head from beneath the leaves and stared unblinkingly at her. It bleated half-heartedly and disappeared again. Around the animal, the shrubs panned out, filling every spare inch between the station and the start of the city. The combination of dark, glossy leaf and the red town below stirred something in the visitor and she stared, open-mouthed, into the distance. Remembering herself at last, she returned to her small audience.