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THE MUSEUM PIECE
Where could Felipe Crespi hide the box ? He had but little time before the Prince of Nassau-Siegen arrived to talk to him. Talk to him about what ? But already he knew. And knowing, he cursed the English deserter George Wilkinson, on whom he had taken pity five months before, offering him work at his cattle-yard and general store. How George Wilkinson had appeared in Montevideo, M. Crespi neither knew nor cared. He made his living - good living - by selling provisions, and especially oxen, to the great sailing ships. Increasingly these vessels were to be seen on the oceans around their continent. And man cannot live by bread alone. Felipe Crespi was no longer a young man. He desired no more than the simple life, uncomplicated by intrigue. Malnourished as George was when he first walked into his yard, Felipe recognised that he needed the strength of this youth to continue his business. But time was passing. Breathing rapidly now, he grabbed the rusting metal casket and ran to the dilapidated chicken house adjoining his storeroom. Pushing aside the rickety structure, he reached behind the squawking hens and
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wrenched open the door to his secret strongbox. Here was hidden his cache his just reward for long years of honest toil. With one quick movement he stowed the coffer at the back, slammed shut the cleverly disguised opening in the wall, and swiftly replaced the hencoop against it.
The Prince of Nassau-Siegen strolled amiably into M. Crespi's premises. In spite of weeks at sea, he retained a louche elegance, at once dandified and insouciant. His open manner though, concealed a cunning all the more dangerous for his apparent imprudence. It led the listener to indiscretions. Yesterday, he drawled to Felipe Crespi, he had wandered into his tradingpost - did not the victualling of the vessels Boudeuse and Etoile represent valuable commerce to Crespi ? The Prince could not help but overhear a conversation between Crespi's youthful assistant and a Spaniard. « The name, perhaps, was Navarro, » said the Prince. He had heard talk of great famine on board the San Fernando , yet there remained few gold coins to replenish the ship's provisions. George Wilkinson and M. Navarro had lowered their voices to a whisper when they realised the Prince was eager to hear the exchange : not before
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though, he had heard the words « Maps of Nomedia... part payment for oxen and rations. » « So, enquired the preening young aristocrat. What may you tell me of this encounter ? — Nothing at all, replied the old man. I was buying cattle from Gregorio Gonzalez - his farms is two hours ride north from this place. — And your assistant ? persisted the Prince. When may I speak to him ? — There I cannot help you. I had to dispense with his services last night soon I shall leave this wearying work. I've grown old, and wish no more than to smoke my pipe in well-earned peace. » Prince Nassau-Siegen curled his lip in disbelief. His eyes narrowed and there was now a steeliness in his voice. « Then I'll be gone - the youth cannot be far away from this corner of Montevideo. I'll make it my business to find him. » He turned, languidly, towards the open door and sauntered into the evening light.
Raymundo Crespi was disappointed with his find. Countless Crespi generations had occupied this house and surrounding land. Now, as the 1970's drew to a close, and the military junta in Uruguay tightened its grip on the country and its people, he was leaving for a new life in Europe. Perhaps
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London ? He smiled as he imagined his two young children struggling, at first, with the English language. They would survive the move, as would his beloved Miranda. He was sure of that. He believed that foreign ears would hear, as well as listen, to their children's eager efforts. Right now, though, he must prepare the old house, with its open verandah facing the restless port, for sale. He had decided to tear down the rickety outbuildings, leaving just the old stone dwelling - enduring home to his ancestors for more than two hundred years. After all, he needed the best possible price for the Crespi estate, and derelict storerooms and ramshackle chickenruns lent a neglected air to the once proud house. Now, after a morning's energetic labour, he held in his calloused hands a casket. It had been buried in the wall of the storeroom adjacent to the chicken coop. Even without a key it had been childsplay to open it. So rusted were the metal hasps that even Miranda could have cracked apart the corroded metal. But his initial elation - for who has not dreamed of hidden treasure ? - had turned to dismay. Now he saw that there was no money, no valuables, in the tarnished box ; he lifted out the folded, yellowed paper with a vague curiosity. Perhaps the museum would be interested ? If so, he must take care in handling the stained parchment. He gently unfolded the fragile paper, so brittle, so delicate ! It was just a map. An old, old map. A map, he saw, of the vast and mainly empty Pacific ocean. Some small islands - yes - there was marked Tahiti.
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Unmistakedly though, just off-centre as is the beating heart, was a distinctly outlined continent. The name read NOMEDIA. Mystery or myth ? It meant nothing to Raymundo. His thoughts were already returning to his plans, his preparations, for the family's exodus. Perhaps, if he had time, he would offer it tomorrow to the museum in Montevideo. Perhaps. He picked up the heavy sledgehammer and swung it against the last remaining wall to be demolished : bricks, earth, mouldering wooden beams the centuries crumbled under his repeated blows.
