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‘That will be all, then. Those of you not directly involved in the proceedings are dismissed. The rest of you, let’s gather for the first ever meeting of the Committee to Ensure the Safe Arrival, Visit and Return of our VIP. That will be the …’
‘CESAVROV?’ interjected Angelo from the corner.
Sergio considered this. ‘Hmm, that’s not going to run. Work on it, will you, Angelo? Table it for the first meeting. OK, men, on with your day, please. I know it’s a disappointment but only committee members are now required.’
‘Sir?’ said Angelo, from the corner. ‘According to my minutes, everyone here has been appointed to the committee.’
‘Have they?’ The president frowned the most fleeting of frowns. ‘Of course they have. You will find that is because they are indispensable. There is not a man among them who could be spared from a visit of such national importance.’ Sergio used the moment to appraise them slowly, his gaze sweeping over the assembled group. Drawing himself tall, he dismissed them with a curt nod that interrupted any possibility of his eyes misting with tears. ‘Well, carry on, then. What are you standing around for?’ He ran a finger around his collar to loosen it a little.
The twelve men filed out to take their places at the boardroom table and begin the serious business of planning.
Several hours later, whoops and hollers could be heard from the assembled group and Sergio flushed with pleasure. A breathless Angelo came flying in. ‘It was tough, sir, but I do believe we’ve cracked it. The project will be named the Planning for English Guest and the Safe Undertaking of Security …’
Sergio thought for a moment, then a slow smile spread across his face, revealing itself eventually as a triumphant grin. ‘PEGASUS,’ he murmured, rolling the word around on his tongue and trying it from every angle. ‘Yes, excellent work. That, Angelo, will most certainly fly.’
CHAPTER 6
In Which Enough Tea Is Grown (#u3c792d31-806d-5bdc-a81f-be19d4816de8)
Shortly afterwards, in the opulent surroundings of the Upper House, the Special Furthering of Agricultural Development Committee was gathering for its monthly appraisal. Eleven of the twelve quorum were assembled around the vast cherry-wood boardroom table, six positions marked out to each side of the president. Each member sat straight-backed, awaiting the moment at which the discussion would be initiated by the president, but no deliberation could begin until the tea had been poured. In front of each committee member sat two bone china teacups, a pair of identical silver tea strainers and a small, lidded china pot. Angelo, the president’s chief of staff, the cabinet member responsible for the care of Parliament Hall but also for the day-to-day care of the president, discreetly opened the proceedings by preparing Sergio’s tea. With minimal fuss, he poured it from pot to cup, then from cup to cup, through a fine-meshed strainer. Expertly, with a trained eye and an accomplished hand, he filtered it back and forth. With each passing, the dark green liquid took on a lighter tone until, with an almost imperceptible nod, Angelo indicated that it had achieved the requisite tint of amber and, as such, was ready for drinking. Then each committee member began to strain their own tea, with less precision and a lot more haste, catching up with their leader in time to join him as he leaned forward to take his first slurp.
Oh, the first taste of afternoon tea! It didn’t matter how many times the ritual was performed, the first sip always delivered a powerful shock to the system. Sergio slurped the liquid noisily through his teeth, allowing the bitter flavour to coat the inside of his mouth and marvelling as the aftershocks ricocheted through his upper jaw and settled somewhere beneath his eye-sockets. He grimaced and sucked in both cheeks to lessen the impact. After an involuntary shake of his head his entire upper body shuddered, allowing the effect of the tea to cascade through his frame, working its magic on every area that called for special attention, from his stiff knee and ankle joints to his cramping toes. As the president savoured the moment, the committee members joined in with the noisy ceremony, adding their own facial tics, scowls, lip smackings and flinches to the ritual.
‘Aaaah,’ pronounced the president. ‘That’s better. Shall we begin?’ He glanced around the room, taking a mental register of his staff, beginning on his left with Dottore Decio Rossini, minister for health (mental, physical and metaphysical). The doctor’s pallid, doughy face sported heavy brown bags under the eyes. His shirt, slightly fraying at the collar, bore the unmistakable yellowing stains of fatherhood on both shoulders – he had seven small boys. While Sergio eyed him, the weary doctor stifled a yawn and wondered where he would find the energy to keep trying to produce a daughter for his wife. The president noted his physician’s exhaustion but appreciated the reasons behind it and allowed his eyes to travel beyond him to Signor Vlad Lubicic, minister for employment and personal development. Vlad had telltale purple bags but his eyes today were dreamy, preoccupied, and he’d barely touched his tea. There had to be a significant new woman in his life, of that Sergio was certain. Excellent. The president made a mental note to find out who she was and, if appropriate, to hurry proceedings to their proper conclusion. It would be more efficient and a better use of ministerial time to bring the pining phase to an end as quickly as possible. And an official wedding was always good for the nation’s morale. Third on his left sat Signor Marcello Pompili, minister for recreation. Hair slicked back, rosy cheeks pumiced to a shine, keen, bright eyes glinting with vigour, Signor Pompili sat forward in his seat with a youthful ardour that radiated gusto. Yes, an excellent advertisement for the role, an outlook to be encouraged and replicated. Sergio’s appraisal continued to Signor Cellini, minister for leisure. What he observed here was far less encouraging. Where his colleague Signor Pompili shone, Cellini drooped. His shoulders slumped; his body language told of dissatisfaction or worry. His Adam’s apple leaped feverishly up and down his throat, sending out little signals of anxiety, and his eyes darted around the room, stealing glances at his colleagues and at the president but managing to avoid contact with either. Signor Cellini was brother-in-law, of course, to Signor Roberto Feraguzzi, minister of finance, seated now to Sergio’s right. Feraguzzi was a cool customer and, apart from the almost imperceptible tic that tugged occasionally at his upper left cheek, there was barely an anxious bone in his body. He chewed his inner cheek from time to time, in a subtle bid to disguise the tic, but Sergio knew that this meant nothing. His face had twitched for as long as the president had known him. Of much more concern was the remote but entirely plausible explanation that Feraguzzi had knowledge of a pending financial crisis and had chosen to share it with brother-in-law Cellini, whose face was less able to smother his emotion.
Between Feraguzzi and Angelo there was an empty chair, the usual seat of the minister for agricultural development. That they were assembled to hear from him made his lack of punctuality doubly irritating. Sergio’s eyes rested on the empty chair and glared accusingly, prompting Angelo to speak out.
‘Mr President, Signor Civicchioni sends his apologies. He will be joining us a few minutes late today, but he will bring with him a special report from the American consultant, who is available to meet with the committee today, should you wish it. I understand that the report was late being prepared because the typist was late for work due to problems of a feminine nature. I understand, however, that a second typist was subsequently drafted in and the completed report will be available for inspection at any moment.’
Sergio nodded and allowed his eyes to travel further on to Commandant Alixandria Heliopolis Visparelli, minister for defence. Alix had no interest in the Special Furthering of Agricultural Development; he cared nothing for the difference between an output and a yield, and he had not initially been invited to sit on this committee. He had, however, persuaded Sergio that he should be recruited to it, and of all members, he paid the closest attention at each of these gatherings. While he had no interest in crops or herds, he had a very grave interest in the comings and goings of the American consultant, and this assembly was an excellent one for studying a potential enemy at close quarters without allowing him to know he had been identified as a possible threat. Since these meetings had first convened, Alix had been known to throw in trick questions to flush out any ulterior motive on the part of the American consultant, but these cunning ploys were normally met with a frown from his president, who insisted, somewhat naïvely, Alix thought, on assuming everyone was a friend to their nation until proved otherwise. That Alix seemed to be uniquely suspicious made him more determined to be vigilant; he always double-checked the firing mechanism on his handgun before appearing at the committee table. Even now, as Sergio appraised his team, Alix’s eyes roamed in the other direction. He was preparing an escape route, should he have to rescue the president from an attempt on his life.
To the right of Alix sat Signor Lucaccia, minister for the exterior. That they were seated next to each other was the unhappy accident of the very first meeting. Since then, the men had assumed the same positions. If Alix and Mario had been able to choose, they would each have sat on the same side of the table (in order not to have to look at each other) and as far apart as possible (in order not to have to sense each other). Instead, they were destined to sit shoulder to shoulder for at least an hour each month and both men visibly bristled with discomfort. Alix was doing his best to lean into some of the vacant space allowed by the missing minister for agricultural development while Mario leaned heavily to his right, rubbing thighs with his neighbour, the minister for education, Professore Giuseppe Scota. Sergio glanced sympathetically at the professor, who looked as if he resented the intrusion into his personal space by the young exterior minister, but Scota returned the kind look with an almost imperceptible shrug. Both the professor and his president understood the rift between the two men. It was said that there were only two things worth fighting about in Vallerosa, pigs and women, and the two men had fought over both. Nothing could be done to heal the rift.
As Sergio shared his quiet moment of understanding with Scota, Civicchioni, the errant minister for agricultural development, entered, trailing a flurry of flying shirt tails and the flapping ends of a loosely knotted tie, while clutching armfuls of unstapled loose-leaf papers that drifted from him as he rushed to take his seat. Sergio nodded permission to him to join them and added a cursory study of the late arrival to his mental register. Today Civicchioni was agitated, partially undressed and harried. The big lock of curly brown hair that obscured his right eye added a moderately incompetent and slightly insane look. Sergio noted with satisfaction that this promising young man was behaving true to form.
‘Mr President. May I?’ As he patted and prodded his paperwork into some sort of order, he grabbed a gulp of unstrained tea, wincing while swilling it around as though it were mouthwash. With an appreciative smack of his lips, he used the palm of his hand to push the escaped lock of hair to the top of his head as he launched into the purpose of the gathering that afternoon.
‘You will all be fully aware that under section four, article five, sub-section twelve, particle b of last Tuesday’s emergency agricultural meeting, I have been asked by our esteemed president to meet with our American consultant, the expert who has been contracted to this government to review and enhance our agricultural policy.’
At the mention of the visiting American, Alix allowed an audible hiss to escape from his lips. With one enemy practically sitting in his lap and another central to this discussion, he bristled with an urgent need to kill somebody. Sergio was quick to sense his defence minister’s simmering displeasure and managed to catch his eye, silently holding up four fingers in admonishment. Alix hung his head in shame, and muttered quietly to himself the mantra, ‘Restraint is a powerful weapon.’ He looked his president in the eye and half smiled an apology. The president empathized, as he himself had suffered from moments of weakness in which he occasionally struggled to live consistently within the strict teachings of their shared military guru, General Isaak von Bunyan.
(Restraint Is a Powerful Weapon is the fourth book in von Bunyan’s six-volume military compendium; its title loosely but not absolutely translates as ‘Avoiding Military Conflict Through Ingenuity and Psychological Camouflage’, a thesis studied in depth and adhered to by both Alix and his president. This masterpiece of warfare avoidance had for some decades been widely credited with the shared success of Vallerosa and Switzerland in their unblemished records of peace. If asked to compare the success of each country, it could probably be argued that Vallerosa’s interpretation of the Eight Rules of Camouflage is perhaps even more successful than that of Switzerland: not only has it successfully blended with all its surrounding countries to avoid conflict, it has done such an effective job that half of its neighbours think of Vallerosa as a poor and undesirable province of their own state, while the other half have failed to notice it exists at all. And, while on the subject of comparing success in this area, any one of the assembled men, whether followers of General Isaak von Bunyan or not, could have pointed out that Vallerosa had never knowingly harboured a war criminal or condoned the laundering of money.)
Enzo Civicchioni continued with his briefing: ‘You will all remember that our American consultant was initially contracted to us for six months. His contract has subsequently been reviewed and renewed on a number of occasions, and he has now been helping us to shape our agricultural policy for, let me see …’ he glanced down at the handwritten notes scribbled in the margin of his document ‘… Yes, here we are. Our temporary contractor has now been engaged by this government for two full governmental terms.
‘Further to this, it is my understanding from various discussions with our esteemed president and ongoing discussions with our finance and employment ministers, that it is still our government’s belief that the American consultant is best equipped to find an export market for this great nation’s produce. Now that we have followed his advice and altered the methods by which we farm our lands, and having done everything asked of us to assist our American consultant, we are confident that we might soon be in a position whereby our very desirable produce should be paired with an appropriate overseas customer.’
After another gulp of tea, he continued, ‘You must understand that while I had no dealings with our American consultant in the earlier years of our relationship, this being my first term of office, it is my understanding from those who have championed these discussions,’ here he nodded towards Feraguzzi, ‘particularly Signor Feraguzzi – who has been able to combine the expertise garnered in his previous role as minister for agricultural development with his current role as minister of finance – that by continuing with the policy set out under the aforementioned section four, article five, sub-section twelve, particles a, b and c, we should soon find that the many years of hardship and sacrifice endured as we implemented the changes should bear fruit. I do believe, in fact, that Signor Feraguzzi may be able to add a little flesh to that fruit, if he would elaborate a little.’
Civicchioni took the opportunity to regulate his breathing as he passed the baton to the minister of finance. He also used the moment’s pause to wink at Vlad, who blushed in response, indicating that he had understood the message conveyed in the wink. Now Vlad suppressed a shy smile and concentrated fiercely on the blank piece of paper in front of him while Signor Feraguzzi cleared his throat to speak.
‘Esteemed president, gentlemen, colleagues. For the last twelve fiscal reporting periods, our export portfolio has remained constant at zero. When you take into consideration the marked depreciation of our currency and unprecedented inflation of almost all other economic measures, which is unsurprising given the consistently volatile backdrop against which we must compete, managing to hold our exports constant has been a sizeable challenge. However, we have set our sights on more aggressive growth and, in the grand tradition of our forefathers, we have our eye on the bigger prize. With this in mind, following detailed discourse with our American consultant and much high-level analysis, it is my estimation that, with a successful export contract in place, we should be able to realize an export income in excess of twenty million American dollars.’
Feraguzzi paused to allow a ripple of applause to complete its circuit. ‘There’s more,’ he continued. ‘Against a backdrop of considerable financial instability, our import portfolio has similarly remained constant at zero. However, it is our intention to continue with our policy of zero imports while simultaneously increasing our share of the export market, allowing us quickly to establish ourselves as a nation in control of one of the most impressive GDPs in the world!’ Feraguzzi stopped briefly to allow this ambitious statement to sink in.
‘But the good news does not stop here. I would now like to invite our American consultant into our meeting, with the permission of our esteemed president, to present to you his most recent findings.’
With that, Angelo jumped up and threw open the double doors to allow the American consultant to enter. The American’s readiness at the door suggested he had long been prepared to be called for. He strode in alone, yet managed to convey the air of a man with an entourage in his wake. Exuding calm and confidence in his pressed chinos and neatly ironed, monogrammed shirt, he brushed past the seated ministers. Without waiting for an invitation to join them, he took the position recently vacated by Angelo, forcing the chief of staff to retire to a chair in the corner to continue with his note-taking.
Before speaking Chuck Whylie swept a cool hand across his hair, in an unnecessary move to correct any stray locks. With a polite cough into a closed fist, to indicate that he was going to speak, he began his address.
‘Mr President, it is indeed an honour to join you once more. You know, sir, I have been coming to this fine country of yours for many years now and I do believe this is the twenty-fourth occasion on which I have addressed your government. Before I begin today I would like to reiterate that I am profoundly proud of our association and acutely proud of the work that we have been able to undertake together.’
Whylie nodded encouragingly while he allowed his message to sink in, a mannerism he deployed habitually to allow the foreigners an opportunity to assimilate his words. This impersonated – pleasingly, he thought – the rhythm and flow of a speech to the United Nations, with built-in delays for multilingual dissemination. In the small, tea-scented boardroom, the attendant audience were unsure of their collective purpose during these pauses, so allowed their minds to wander far enough afield to be returned to the room shocked and confused by the next burst of speech, thus reinforcing Whylie’s misapprehension that his interludes were necessary for the assembled company.
‘Of course I do not act alone. My partners back at Client Opted Inc., together with the not inconsiderable team of expert advisers that have taken your country on as a special project, are truly honoured that we have been able to work so closely with you. We think of this relationship not as one between two distinct nations on opposite sides of a great ocean, or as one between buyer and seller, contractee and contracted, employer and employee, biller and billed. No, indeed, we think of ourselves as partners, as equals, and we take our shared responsibility for the economic future of your country very seriously indeed.’
Another generous pause allowed enough time for Alix to imagine exposing the interloper as an assassin but not before he himself had taken a non-fatal bullet intended for his president.
‘You are, in fact, one of our top ten clients on a global basis.’ Chuck nodded, smiled, and took the small round of applause graciously. ‘And it is not without some sadness that I see this project beginning to draw to a close. But we understand, as you understand, that this separation is only possible because of our success. We never intended to leave until the job was well done, and I have an impressive set of figures in front of me that suggests the job is nearly done well.’
Nine expectant faces stared at their American consultant. Trained on his ruddy cheeks and suspiciously immaculate manicure were the tiredly interested eyes of Dottore Rossini, the smiling, aloof eyes of Vlad Lubicic, the ebullient, excited, shining orbs of Signor Pompili, the cautious, defensive slump of Signor Cellini, the alert businesslike scrutiny of Signor Feraguzzi and the barely concealed suspicion of Alix. Civicchioni was too personally involved in the project to maintain any impartiality and held himself back from interjecting. Instead, having borrowed a pen from Angelo, he focused on scribbling notes into his margins. ‘Partners! Top Ten!’ he scrawled, emphatically ticking and underlining the praise as it was dealt. Signor Lubicic and Professore Scota were now not looking intently at the American but instead stared jealously at the laptop that Whylie now prodded to life with a few stabs of his index finger.
‘I would like, if I may, to give a brief résumé to contextualize our progress. More than a decade ago, when I first joined you, we were asked by the dear departed Sergio Senior to analyse your strengths and set forward a proposal that would allow you to compete in a global market. What foresight that man had! He understood immediately when Client Opted Inc. set out to explain that not only had you picked the low-hanging fruit but eaten it and forgotten to replant the pips! What we found here was, I’m going to have to admit now to you, disheartening at best.’
Vlad used this latest pause not to be disheartened but to revisit a walk he had taken the previous night with a young woman upon his arm. He sighed and smiled to himself, already imagining the next and the many walks beyond it. Whylie resumed talking and Vlad tumbled back to earth.
‘Even the untrained eye could recognize that your output was simply too negligible to take to the market, and what you did have was cut so fine between your various crops that we had to wonder whether there was anything worth saving. I, of course, was much too young to express it – hey, I was practically in short trousers – but, let’s face it, my boss and your previous president, they spoke the same language. You were nothing more than bit players. A bit of this and a bit of that.’
He stopped to allow his audience to catch up. Dottore Rossini used the break to do a mental walk-through of his hospital, wondering whether he might be able to call in for a quick ward-round between this meeting and his siesta. If the American consultant could just talk a little faster, with a touch more fluency, they would all get out of the Special Furthering of Agricultural Development Committee meeting sooner and achieve more in all of their respective roles, not just those of an agricultural nature. But the doctor had long worried about the American consultant’s mental health and knew he should set an example by being as patient and generous with him as he could.
Chuck Whylie, having punctuated one of his uncomfortably long silences with a round of nodding, returned to his soliloquy, having sufficiently damaged any momentum his talk might have gained. He took to his feet and banged his fist on the table to emphasize his point and elicit greater engagement from those whose eyes were politely trained on him. ‘The thing is, gentlemen, you simply had nothing substantial to take to the world stage with any credibility at all. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to stand here in front of you and knock the great effort you made. You had a …’ he sought the right word ‘… an interesting assortment of produce, some of which might have found a niche market, if anyone else had known what on earth it was!’ He laughed alone, so quickly continued: ‘It was then that we set about maximizing your potential. Together, our goal was to plant three thousand hectares of a single crop with commercial prospects. At that time, with a total landmass of 3672 hectares, you had just fourteen hundred given to tea plantation, yet that was the crop you recognized as your core strength, a national symbol no less! But your output was here,’ he stretched out his left hand, ‘and if we could establish a market with a USP that was going to really give us something to work with, the demand was going to be here.’ His right hand reached considerably higher. ‘And, boy, were those two numbers a long way apart.’
The American consultant rested the heels of both hands on the table in front of him and leaned forward, deliberately making eye contact with each of the assembled group. ‘I left you a challenge, if you remember, to set about converting the high land that was at that time little more than waste. And I know, for the sentimental among you, that that was a tough call. People get emotionally attached to the strangest things, a little bit of pasture here, an orchard or two there. But what was it really good for? Nothing!’
He shook his head sadly at the memory. ‘But, hey, guys, I’ve got to hand it to you! You know how to rise to a challenge. By the time I had next returned, not only had you substantially increased the size of your plantation, but had doubled the number of plants you were growing per hectare. What a great achievement that was! And I think, as we take this little jog around Memory Park, we should applaud that achievement.’ The assembled group were in collective mourning for the loss of their orchards so the American consultant clapped alone. ‘But none of us will ever forget that terrible realization when we analysed the results of the first significant year. We just had to face up to the facts. Your best, our best, just wasn’t good enough. With the greatest will in the world, we needed more. We knew there was a market for it, but we weren’t even going to get a nibble without a bulletproof strategy behind us.
‘So, phase two of the review saw more tough decisions as you set about converting the smallholdings of your nation and reclaiming land that was, frankly, in the wrong hands if you wanted to make your country count.
‘As they say, every little bit helps.’ Up on the screen popped a series of statistics, represented by a complex Argand diagram. Most of the assembled group were impressed, both by the clarity of the PowerPoint presentation and to see their work – their nation – featured so positively in a chart. The professor alone understood the methodology behind the diagram and tilted his head to try to interpret the mathematics. The numbers were seemingly nonsensical, expressed as they were by a vertical line of conjecture, but he nodded approval to hide what must surely be his own misinterpretation.
The American consultant, having built up his audience’s confidence with praise, dashed it with a slow shake of his head. ‘But you will recall that even those great efforts weren’t enough.’
One by one, the assembled men hung their heads in shame, including the president, whose eyes filled at the memory of his nation’s shortcomings.
The consultant broke his silence with a bark: ‘But did we give up? Did we give up on you and turn our backs on a floundering client? No way, siree. When our clients are struggling, we’re struggling. That’s in the small print, remember! That was when our very brightest guys got together and strategized you out of your predicament. You had the benefit of some of the best thinkers in our organization. Blue sky? Forget it. We’re talking about stratospheric thinkers. It was the best of the best, our alpha team, that came up with the final phase of Operation Acorn. It was then that we asked you to gather your men and prepare for the final assault.’
Alix’s sharp intake of breath could be heard around the table. The word ‘assault’ hung painfully in the air and the American consultant grasped it with both hands. Conscious of the power it had granted him, he wrestled metaphor from it with unbridled enthusiasm.
‘From general to foot soldier, you rallied the troops, assembled at the front line and formed the ranks to make the final push. That great effort, the final full-scale attack, allowed momentum to gather. The conversion of gardens and domestic curtilage to full-scale crop production allowed us to break through that final frontier. Together, the effort made on behalf of your people has provided the additional land we needed and I am now delighted to announce that you have met your quota and, with some eighty-eight million tea plants now producing the finest Vallerosan tea, we have enough to sustain a viable export market.’
The most indiscernible of pauses was followed by hearty spontaneous applause and Sergio breathed a huge sigh of relief, as he mopped the sweat from his brow. Throughout the preamble he had been dreading a further postponement of good news and the timing of this delivery was perfect for the week’s campaign plans. Without a note to rely upon, he leaped to his feet and delivered a heartfelt oration.
‘Gentlemen, ministers, advisers, our American consultant. It is on occasions like this that I am able to remind myself of our duty as governors. We are here not simply to uphold law and order but to mould the country for the future. This is a living example of the beauty of Elective Dictatorship – Continuity for Sustainability! – and a perfect instance of the practicality of a government with longevity. We are not merely parliamentary officials, we are custodians! Caretakers of a land that, properly nurtured, we can pass on to our successors with pride. We are responsible not just for creating a legend but delivering that legend, and actually harvesting its crops! My predecessor, my father, instituted a change in policy and that was a brave, bold move, one that has taken more than a decade to implement. It has been implemented now, not without considerable sacrifice and hardship. A weaker leadership might have abandoned the policy much sooner, but because we have been entrusted with the safekeeping of this nation for such a long time, we are able to see through these changes for a much brighter future. A government that is not hampered by the ever-changing direction of new leaders and the policy U-turns that are inevitable as adversaries take to the stage, pulling the country’s people from left to right and back again. We are able to stick to our guns and make a real difference. I’m proud to be part of that change, proud to be part of such a defining moment of our history.
‘Now, honoured guest, would you care to join us in a cup of our finest?’ He raised an empty cup in mock salute. In a synchronized movement, the assembled group swirled the dregs in theirs and brought them to their lips, showing their respect not just to their leader but to the many men and women who had sacrificed their own small plots to meet the targets set by their visitor. The American consultant smiled blankly until he realized he was supposed to join them in their tea-sipping ceremony. He shrugged and twiddled a pencil. The men around him were expecting something more. He shrugged once more, by way of an apology.
‘Guys, guys. I’m from the United States of America, don’t forget that! Tea might be the most popular drink in most nations, and it’s that global potential we’re tapping into here, but I’ve got to tell you, in the great US of A, tea is just not that important. In fact, it trails behind soft drinks, milk, beer and coffee.’ He let this fact sink in and, noting the assembled ministers’ look of disbelief, added for emphasis, ‘Actually, eighty per cent of the tea drunk in the US of A is served cold. I can’t imagine that tea as you know it would feature in any ranking of preferred beverages.’
Enzo Civicchioni visibly paled and there was a low growl of disgust from the commandant. The rest of the men were trying to redefine that strange country, which appeared to be devoid of any good taste or culture. ‘I’ll drink your health at the bar later. Don’t take it personally, guys. I’m just not a tea man.’ With that, he closed his laptop decisively and shuffled his belongings into a neat pile.
CHAPTER 7
In Which the President Has Doubt (#u3c792d31-806d-5bdc-a81f-be19d4816de8)
Sergio was meeting in his private chambers with the man formally known as Signor Angelo Bianconi, chief of staff to the president, but more comfortably known by Sergio as Angelo, good friend and occasional drinking partner. A decade the president’s senior, he could easily be mistaken for the younger of the two. Lean, lanky and with an unruly fringe that refused to conform, his habitual lack of tie and jacket, and his blatant disregard for the hierarchical procedures that governed both Parliament and the country, Angelo’s languid nature belied his seniority within the cabinet. He had known Sergio all his life and had been there to share the milestones, from the woefully early death of Sergio’s mother, to the first breathtaking bicycle ride down the north-west run, from his ascendancy to president upon the sudden death of Sergio Senior, to his first non-elective election. As such, Angelo was the only cabinet member who really had the president’s ear. He was confidant, special adviser, chess adversary, bridge partner and, in all but name, the president’s deputy. He leaned forward, paper and pen at the ready, as Sergio paced backwards and forwards.
‘A few thoughts from that session, Angelo. Vlad – find out whom he’s fallen for. If she’s remotely suitable, let’s make sure her father finds out. That will hasten a marriage. And Cellini. He’s making me nervous. Check his bank account, and make sure there’s nothing to worry us. Too much or too little, either way I want to know. If we can rule out bad debt or blackmail, we can begin to work out what’s making him sweat. A speech. I need a good speech on this agricultural policy. I felt I was really on to something earlier. Was there anything there we can work on?’
Angelo consulted his notes. ‘Continuity for sustainability, I liked. And the legend bit, definitely something there. But this is a good-news speech, sir. Good news always takes at least seventy per cent fewer words to deliver than bad. I’ll get going on something straight away.’
The president stood with his back to the room, looking beyond the balcony to the Piazza Rosa. ‘Angelo. Something’s troubling me. I’m relatively new to this game and I understand that Feraguzzi has been running the economy well for a long time, against considerable difficulties, many of which were not of his own making. And I understand, too, that in comparison to our neighbouring countries we have probably fared better than most. But I’m wondering, Angelo, if it all stacks up.’
‘Stacks up how, sir?’ Angelo came to stand by Sergio and joined him in his appraisal of the view below, understanding that the trickier conversations were always much easier to broach without eye contact.
‘The numbers. Do they add up? If we’re not importing anything, and we’re going to sell everything we’ve got, and all we’ve got now is tea, what are our people actually going to live on?’
Angelo rifled through his mental store of justifications and rationale, supplied with such ease by their American consultant. ‘I suppose, Sergio, it comes down to ambition and desire, whether those things exceed or fall short of our needs and expectations.’
Sergio wanted answers not conjecture: ‘Our needs? But we’ve never needed anything. We’ve always had enough.’
‘Enough?’ probed Angelo.
‘Yes – enough food, enough tea, enough of everything. We’ve always been able to satisfy our needs without help from anyone.’
Angelo thought about this and tried to remember the consultant’s arguments, which had seemed so compelling, so urgent, at the time. ‘It’s not very fashionable, I mean on a global level, to simply sustain yourself. It seems that by trading and entering into import and export contracts with our neighbours our world standing might improve.’
‘But do we need our world standing to improve? Our neighbours don’t think ill of us – they don’t think of us at all. And that’s always been fine, hasn’t it? Being ignored by the rest of the world has actually served us quite satisfactorily. And, anyway, why do we need more? Whom do we offend if we’re satisfied with enough?’
‘I don’t know the answer to that, Sergio. I think we feel a duty to our people to aim higher, to be more ambitious for them.’
Sergio hesitated. Then: ‘I’ve always been interested in the notion of trade, of commerce, Angelo. It seems that the obsession the world has is whether we can ever have enough money to spend. And if we haven’t, how to get our hands on more. But it’s surely no coincidence that the English verb “to spend” can only be applied to the using up of two resources. Money and time. And we can choose how to spend both of these, can’t we? My concern, if I’m honest, is that we could find ourselves in pursuit of money to spend while finding that time is diminishing at an equal rate. We’ll all be working so hard that we won’t any longer have time to do anything else. We’ll have spent it all on the acquisition of money. And as we know that money can buy you pretty much anything but time, is that what we want for our nation?’
Sergio thought quietly for a moment, the puzzle clear in his eyes. ‘And I’m still left wondering, Angelo, what we’re going to live on, if all we’re growing is tea and we sell that to another country. What will we eat?’
Angelo paused. He had a fairly good idea, as he was no different from many of the people who lived in the valley. He had a mother and a brother under his one roof and a table to fill each evening and morning. But supposition in this scenario was not remotely appropriate. ‘I’ll make some enquiries, sir.’
Sergio nodded, giving the outward appearance of a man who had been appeased.
CHAPTER 8
In Which a Protestation Is Made (#u3c792d31-806d-5bdc-a81f-be19d4816de8)
Sergio was in his private chambers, writing quietly while the rest of Parliament Hall slumped in May’s debilitating afternoon sun. With the hours of siesta well under way, all was quiet both inside and out and, apart from the rattles, creaks and groans provided by the state apartment, Sergio was able to enjoy something very close to silence. His breathing had begun to steady and he was forcing his mind to concentrate on the speech he was preparing for his State of the Nation address.
This speech, as Angelo had indicated, should have been easy. He had good news to deliver, the country had met the challenge made to it by the American consultant and, though he knew that many of the men, particularly those of the land, had always doubted the outcome, he felt that on the whole he had taken them with him, that this had been a cohesive effort of which the whole country could feel proud.
But concentrating on writing a positive speech was hard when your subconscious mind was gripped by grim dread. Whichever technique he employed, nothing could shake the feeling that he was teetering on the brink of unmitigated disaster. There was something amiss in the angle at which his minister of finance sat now at assembly meetings. The silence had continued too long after siesta when it should have been broken by children’s laughter or the impromptu playing of music in the Piazza Rosa. Even the weather conspired to unsettle him. Vicious electrical storms and relentless rain showers were followed by the hottest, angriest sun that melted the mettle of everyone in the country. It was shining once again, and its long rays were making inroads into his chambers, picking out the faults and highlighting the dust at play in the air and the loose threads that threatened to unravel the carpet.
Sergio’s large, mahogany desk reflected his mood. Sometimes it glowed, proud of the part it played in the presidency, and at others it was a tired piece of timber wearing the many scratches and scuffs that Sergio’s own face bore as thanks for the responsibility he carried.
Now, his pen lid replaced with a deafening click, Sergio’s head sank into his hands as the dark knot took hold deep in his belly. He could actually visualize it when he closed his eyes: something black and tumorous, always on the move. Growing and spreading to tighten its grasp on the arteries and veins that fought valiantly against its slippery, superior force. He sighed deeply, knowing that the words would never flow when he was fighting this kernel of anxiety, and rose to retrace the most worn path in the carpet to his favoured position at the window. Today he was looking for something definitive out there, a positive sign that hinted at even the tiniest glimmer of hope.
Instead, he had to blink a couple of times to try to banish the image below him. When the mirage persisted, he rubbed his eyes and even backed away from the window, then approached it again in the hope that what was, surely, a sunspot caused by the extremes of light and dark would have vanished. When it stubbornly remained beneath him, he edged shakily to the curtain to peer out at the apparition more closely.
Beneath him, not twenty feet from the Parliament Hall railings, and in full sight of the entire Piazza Rosa, should any of its sleepy occupants choose to glance out, stood a protester: a sole man clasping a placard in both hands. He wore charcoal grey flannel trousers with the white shirt and black tie of the educated. And while his sleeves were rolled up and his tie loosened to combat the heat of the early-afternoon sun, he had an air of respectability. Something about the tilt of his head, his proud stature, the shine of his shoes suggested a man of quality.
Sergio, palms sweating, his breath caught tightly in his throat, leaned forward as far as he dared to read the words on the placard.
‘Negotii indigeo. Quaeso.’ The use of Latin confirmed Sergio’s immediate assumption. The language of education amplified by the manners of a gentleman. Perhaps this was worse than any of the nightmares he had hitherto imagined, one in which the civilized should revolt. He could understand the country’s few peasants and layabouts taking issue with recent policy, but should the educated decide to rise up, then the nation’s stability was over and it would be his fault. During his jurisdiction, chaos would reign. While acting as caretaker he would be responsible for the country’s first ever conflict and it would be this for which history would remember him.
Sergio checked his watch. It would be a while before the city awoke, which was a good thing, but the timing was poor in that most of his ministers, including Angelo, would have wandered home for a bite to eat and a sleep. There was absolutely nobody around that he could call upon. So, wiping his sweating palms on his dressing-gown and licking his dry lips, he braced himself for confrontation, something he feared more – if possible – than the humiliation that the alternative offered.
He slid the windows open and moved quietly onto the balcony. Obscuring himself in part behind one of the columns he signalled to the protester with as loud a hiss as he dared. The young man continued to look straight ahead, placard held aloft for the world to read and laugh at. Sergio stood out a little from the shadows and hissed again. This time the noise registered and the protester cocked his head, squinting towards the balcony. On a third signal he took the bait properly, moving one or two tentative steps forward to ensure that the shadowy man on the balcony was actually addressing him.
‘Come, come closer – quickly, quickly!’ Sergio beckoned with one hand while using the other to ensure that his dressing-gown stayed firmly closed.
The protester looked left and right to ensure that the soporific palace guards weren’t going to stir themselves into action and came as far as he could, still holding the placard while straining to look up through the railings to the balcony above him.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ hissed Sergio from the shadows.
‘I’m making a peaceful protest.’ The agitator stood firm, still sure of his actions.
‘Against what are you protesting?’ said Sergio, still in stage whisper.
‘Against the governm—’ At that moment the young man recognized the robed man on the balcony above him. ‘Against you. Sir.’
‘Well, that’s no way to go about it. Make an appointment to see somebody. What about Signor Lubicic? Have you spoken to him about it?’
‘Of course not,’ the protester shouted. Sergio silenced him with a finger to his mouth. The young man dropped his voice once more. ‘Of course not,’ he repeated, in a hoarse whisper. ‘Signor Lubicic is a government official. I am just a student.’
‘Just a student? Just a student? Do you know how privileged you are to receive an education, provided by your government? What about the minister for education? Have you spoken to Professore Scota? He deals with all matters pertaining to education, satisfactory or otherwise. Make an appointment to see him if you’re not satisfied with just being a student!’
‘That is not an option that is open to me,’ the student protester retorted. ‘You don’t just make appointments to speak to government officials. That’s why I’m protesting.’
‘Well,’ said Sergio, sternly, ‘quite frankly, I’d rather you didn’t.’
The student protester became a little more agitated. ‘But I want my voice to be heard. I have serious issues to raise and I need an audience – an audience equipped to listen and take action.’
