The Gardener Returns, A Dialogue, Part Ten D

Writer – The first time the Gardener saw a mobile device in someone’s hand was sometime early in the last decade of the last century of the last millennium. In the moments preceding this vision he heard a loud voice filling the heavens. Later he realized the owner of the device must have been standing on the steps at the south end of the High Garden. He had entered the High Garden voice first. The instant he heard the voice, the Gardener mistook the owner for a small group of visitors dominated by a tour guide leading his group up the stairs. But when the group was passing under the Pearl Bush, is that right?
Gardener – Exochorda racemosa, yes, the Pearl Bush, because it’s racemes of flower buds look like pearls.
Writer – the Gardener realized this was no ordinary garden group; the guide was oddly severed from the reality around him. Somewhere between that tall Egyptian grass. . .
Gardener – Arundo donax.
Writer – And the narrow English oak. . .
Gardener – Quercus robur fastigiata.
Writer – the Gardener concluded the impossibility of an approaching group since the inevitable shuffling of many feet on the gravel pathway was missing. He prepared himself for the worst, perhaps an actor preparing his lines or a man recently released from a nearby hospital. Then the embodiment of the voice stood beneath him – the Gardener was on the roof of the gazebo cutting back a vine growing on a yew.
Gardener – Clematis Montana rubra, he was probably thinning it out sometime midsummer.
Writer – The owner of the strange device walked around the side of the gazebo and stood in front of the entrance in the gravel clearing. He didn’t seem to notice where he was. He was listening to a voice or voices the Gardener couldn’t hear. Then he nodded and began walking in a circle as if orbiting around someone unseen at the other end of the conversation. The man gesticulated with his free arm while the other arm, cocked at the elbow, was bent to his ear where he held in his hand something black the size of an eggplant. He wore a grey suit. Occasionally he stopped, shoved his free hand into the his pants pocket and stood on the heels of his black shoes, tassels showing. He brought with him the vertical structures of New Drake, the rising buildings, the congested streets. He was wheeling and dealing in a world of his own, numb to the organisms growing around him. The Gardener imagined the person at the other end of the imaginary radius walking in similar circles through a different world, perhaps the floor of the stock exchange or inside an air conditioned office on the seventieth floor of a palatial skyscraper over looking a public square. Though the day was calm he felt the force of an unseen wind roaring through the garden diminishing the garden’s significance. With his hand still stuffed deeply in his pant’s pocket the man puffed up his chest then compressed his circular peregrination to a straight line which he now walked with the agility of a tightrope walker from the holly at one end of the clearing,
Gardener – Ilex aquifolium.
Writer – to the edge of the crabapple bed on the other side. . . well?
Gardener – Malus, maybe floribunda.
Writer – and back again. Importance permeated the area like the smoke from a burning cigarette. The sweet scent of something nearby
Writer – a clump of a white Phlox paniculata. . .
Writer – was decimated by the smell of a man on a mission. And then the man vanished in the direction of the Aquatic Garden, his voice remaining for a while like a distillation of burning tobacco lingering in the air, an aural fossil around the Gardener’s ear, an otic footprint left on the edge of his consciousness.
Since that first event in the High Garden the cellular infection had gone viral. So it comes as no surprise to him when the Garden Star and his assistants are preceded by a chorus of detached voices heard in the parking lot. Unlike that first visitation which arrived in high summer this occurrence descends on the Garden with all the sunlit expectations of the vernal equinox. The Gardener, who has never seen Whose Garden? doesn’t know what to expect. He knew the TV star had been expected a month ago but had overstayed the winter traveling somewhere between the Chateau de la Garoupe on the Mediterranean and the Villa Noailles in the foothills behind Cannes. When he finally appears between the shrub borders at the pedestrian entrance he is followed by his retinue of camera people who fan out onto the lawn south of the Greenhouses. The President, accompanied by her entourage, is there to greet him enthusiastically. But they must wait until the Captain retires from his cell conversation. Meanwhile some of his retainers continue chattering independently on conversations of their own, while the rest apply their digits on tiny keyboards like bees stuffing nectar into sacks. But at long last congruity is achieved and Morning Glory smiles at the President and her officers. She tells him “our entire Institution is placed at your disposal.” He thanks her “eversomuch” his smiles galvanizing the young Public Relations, who finds her breath vanishing with excitement, her emotions choking with enthusiasm until Development saves her with a sharp elbow to her ribs. The President is about to introduce Horticulture and the Assistant when the Captain’s phone rings with the opening bars of Fleur-de-lis. He excuses himself from the formalities and once more enters the aural world. The President and her court look at each other, trying expressions of importance or at least meaningful, envying the facility of Morning Glory’s following who have continued their private conversations both audible and tactile throughout these proceedings. “Ah,” he exclaims, pausing on the line, “one of my Assistants tells me there is room for us down in that direction where there is some sort of turn around.” The President looks to Horticulture, who looks to the Assistant, who nods his head avidly and tell them, “there’s plenty of room.” The Captain returns to his cell conversation and moments later, a huge “accommodation” trailer pulls around on the south road under the huge European Copper Beech,
Gardener – Fagus sylvatica Atropunicea. One of five and all a hundred years old.
Writer – brushing past the drooping lower limbs, passes the former home of Total Power’s man now the permanent day residence of the Institution’s Managers, sweeps past the Institution’s leaders, mouths agape, rounds the garage and disappears down the hill. “I will spend a day or two deliberating,” he tells the President, “I want to spend time, looking and thinking.” Public Relations, having returned to her senses, is of the opinion that Morning Glory’s home away from home will interest visitors on their way to and from the restaurant in the North House.
For the remainder of the week Morning Glory’s accommodations-on-wheels is a permanent fixture parked in the turn around south of North House. To keep the Captain’s home away from home comfortable the eight cylinder diesel engine rumbles most of the day. The Gardener can hear it up in the High Garden, where even the noisy mockingbird is distracted. To accommodate the Captain’s installation and camera crews, the Assistant suggests to Horticulture who tells the President that the crew should consider the potting shed theirs. “Maybe some of their glamour will rub off on your gardeners,” the President tells Horticulture, while she and her officers wait for the coffee to brew. Public Relations christens the Captain’s crew, Morning Glory’s Angels and Heroes. This becomes the standard tag used by management in discussions and eventually makes it’s way into the publicity releases. The following morning the Heroes arrive at the potting shed around 10:00. Since the regulars are already out working, the Heroes make a pot of coffee for themselves in the potting shed kitchen down in the basement and wait for their Captain, who makes his appearance between 11:00 and 11:30 with his Angels in tow, who put down their ever running video equipment and make another pot for themselves. Morning Glory, who only drinks Thai Tea sweet with milk over ice, doesn’t wait but immediately begins looking and thinking, while his angels scramble after him, sipping coffee from coffee mugs, their cameras running. The footage becomes standard fare on Morning Glory’s show. Public Relations, never seen before on the grounds unless attending meetings in the North House, now flits about the Greenhouse Beds like a wren searching for a nest. She boasts to the President that having the Institution hosting the Garden Show is marvelous advertizing. “Well, my dear,” says the President cuttingly, “I’m glad you thought of it.”
At lunch break the gardeners return with only thirty minutes to eat lunch and discover the five Heroes sitting in all the available chairs, texting on handhelds. Down below in the kitchen the gardeners find the five Angels queuing up at the microwave, chatting on their cells. “What about your star’s mobile,” asks the Gardener. “Oh, that’s the Captain’s makeup and dressing room,” one of the Angels replies. “And that’s where he privately watches tapes of his show in between takes,” says another. When the gardeners come in for the afternoon break they discover their now empty coffee can open on the counter, the coffee pot drained and stained, the coffee filter full of grounds and their cups missing. The Old Timer checks the communal coffee cash jar and says, “At least they didn’t take the money, too.” The Gardener, who drinks green tea, shakes his head. The next day he confronts the Angels and Heroes with the open coffee can and tells them to chip in like “the rest of us and bring your own fucking cups.” After that they drink the North House restaurant coffee in paper cups which begin to appear under shrubs.
The following Monday Morning Glory, or rather Bindweed as the gardeners are now calling him, Bindweed and his Japanese Knotweed and Mugworts, walks with great ceremony from one end of the Greenhouse beds to the other before announcing to an imaginary crowd, made up of nodding hellebores and fresh crocus, with his Japanese Knotweed filming the newscast as it comes to be known, Publicity looking on in admiration, “these beds,” he says, “will simply not accommodate my proposal. And what is my proposal,” he asks himself, looking from side to side, with hellebores and crocus, dipped in an agreeable afternoon light; “I propose to engage the elements of earth, air and water in a dialogue. I want to bring the visitor into a dialog with the ever changing always the same River Slang and its cohort the apparently same but ever eroding Palisades beyond. I want the visitor to see these magnificent creations of nature as they have never seen them before. Can that be done all the way over here? Think of Brunelleschi, una bella perspectiva! So with that in mind I will create a new garden on that lawn over there!” He points in the direction of the lawn in front of the Pergola, which has yet to achieve the high order of brilliance it will possess in the months to come, the colorful hanging planters, both in flower and leaf and the other assorted semi-temperate and tropical plants that will crowd around the base of the columns. “But the questions is this, what becomes of Dorothy when she comes skipping down the yellow brick road over there? Does it take her to Oz? Absolutely not! It ends at the macadam. She is left in the middle of nowhere. Instead of going straight toward paradise there beyond the pergola, she becomes confused. Does she dare carry on or must she turn left or right? The yellow brick road leads from the parking lot to a black road and dull green lawn. Esthetically it goes nowhere.” The President whispers to Development, “that’s exactly what I told the Board!” “Does the river merge with the Ocean and fulfill its destiny or does it disappear in a desert of sand? Something is missing. And that something is what I will call The Elevator Shaft. Yes, I can see it now, a garden dropped into the lawn, literally, as if levers have been pulled and the entire garden drops into the earth, the mother of all creation. The retaining walls will be made of thin corten steel plates The excavated soil will be moved in front of this place where we are standing,” and here he casually throws his hand behind him to indicate the place where he is standing, “a great cone of earth, a counterpoint in height to the sinking notes of the shaft, if you will. Stone steps will beckon the visitor coming to the end of the yellow brick road down into the new garden space and out the opposite stairway near the pergola. Now to best understand the condition of the soil where our lush garden will be installed, we made tests and our recent tests demonstrate the complete inadequacy of the existing soil. To prepare the display beds in the shaft I will add an enriched garden soil, specially blended by experts for me.”
Horticulture, who is standing to the left of the President two steps behind Publicity, is shocked by the scope of the work but afraid to say anything. Both Publicity and Development applaud and the President laughs. “He’s putting all the crap over here.” “I’m anxious to see his plant list,” mentions an excited Assistant; “then we can begin ordering for this year’s plant sale.” Then with his Angels and Heroes following, Morning Glory enters the greenhouse. There in the Palm House, where the Gardener once imagined a temple to Flora, the Captain turns and tells everyone that yesterday morning he had an epiphany while shaving. I saw myself in a tropical forest, bowers of sweet scented liana clamored into the bright sunshine through a canopy as bright as a mother’s day bouquet. I thought, that is what the Institution needs!” “What, what,” Horticulture whispers to the Assistant, “what do we need?” The Assistant is not sure, “possibly liana?” “Liana, what, where, out there on the lawn?” The President seeing the bewilderment on Horticulture’s face asks him, “Liana, what is that, sounds beautiful and photogenic?” Horticulture is speechless and can only point to the Bougainvillea still blooming on the wire rack against the back wall of the temperate house.
As this moment the Gardener enters the potting shed and sees everyone in the palm house. He asks the Pruner, who is washing pots, “what’s going on?” The Pruner tells him, “no one knows.” They watch the long cortege disappear into the tropical house with Morning Glory, leading. “Of course,” the Captain explains, “we can’t simply erase reality? But we can alter it by changing the way we see it. Our new garden will have an east-west axis like a house of worship. But our temple will no longer be here, invisible under walls of white smeared glass. We will take this tabernacle,” he exclaims, casting his open hand and outstretched arm around the tropical house like a magician introducing the beautiful woman about to be cut in two, “to where it belongs, to the shaft!” This is met with instant applause by Hero and Angels, with management joining in. “We’ll offer reality as we know it, that wall of stone, that magnificent river, our offering of a new idea. Since our expulsion from the Garden of Eden, we’ve been searching for the lush jungles of our imagination, seeking a return to our prehistoric Eden. Why else garden? Of course our tropical forest will be diminutive,” he says with great emphasis on the minu. “Da Vinci’s human scale cannot be forgotten!” “But,” he reassures everyone, “ we’ll supplement our offering of hope with large bananas and Canas. They’re lush! And perhaps if the President assents we can use the large tree ferns growing the other house.”
And with this the TV star of Whose Garden? takes over the greenhouses. The curator of the Tropical House is told she can continue the watering and the upkeep of all plants until the artistic evacuation is completed. But the curator of the Tropical House is upset. She comes to the Gardener. She’s afraid she’ll be demoted in pay, since her responsibilities are being reduced or even fired with the arrival of summer. “Remember the new guy!” she complains; “remember the old guys in maintenance,” the other gardeners remind her. When the Gardener complains about the removal of greenhouse tropicals, Horticulture tell him “they’ll all be returned.” “Yes? When?” “In the fall I assume.” “Assume? And who’ll return them?” “Well, I’m sure they will.” “You’re sure? I don’t think so! And why are we recommending tropicals as a viable solution for the average homeowner?” “We’re not,” injects the Assistant. “No,” he responds, looking at the Assistant in disbelief, “What about Bindweed’s plant list, which you’ve been waiting so anxiously for? Well, it’s here, in our greenhouses, all of it! According to your plan, we’re going to sell tropicals to the public in September just before the first frost!”
A week later Horticulture and the Assistant book a flight to Oregon, home of giant wholesale nurseries. Before leaving Horticulture and the Assistant call the gardeners together. The Assistant says, “I think you will appreciate what we are about to tell you; from this day forward, we want you to plan your own day, take responsibility for your own work. This year we want you to design and implement your own gardens.” “We already do that,” says the Gardener. “For one,” the Assistant continues unfazed, “you’re adults; you don’t need to be monitored like children. Neither the Director nor I are running a nursery school. The Wizard may have thought so, but we don’t. We’ll be gone for a few weeks.” “Why Oregon,” asks the Old Timer, “why not south Jersey, or Allendale for lord’s sake.” “Think of yourselves,” the Assistant continues without listening, “as free men and women implementing your own vision. Are there any questions?” A long pause follows. Then the Gardener asks if the sanctions on buying plants and materials has been lifted. Horticulture looks at the Assistant with some embarrassment. The Assistant says, “No. So if there are no other questions then we have a plane to catch.” Then the Old Timer asks, “why do we need managers if we’re now managing ourselves?” The Assistant reels on the old man and tells him, “there will always be managers as long as there are people like you.” Horticulture, putting his hand on the red faced Assistant answers the Old Timer, “Please consider management an invisible hand. You won’t see us looking over your shoulders any more, inspecting your work. Your work will speak for itself” “Damn right,” mumbles the Pruner of Yews. The Assistant looks harshly at the Pruner, then looks to the rest, “Remember, no one, I repeat, no one other than Horticulture or I should ever tell you what to do.” “Ah, but the invisible hand knows,” someone adds, alluding to the secret cameras the gardeners have been finding on the grounds. Everyone laughs. “Why can’t the invisible hand weed the Greenhouse beds!” says the Tropical House curator. She is now weeding the Greenhouse beds for the Assistant, who tells her he’s too busy. The gardeners explode with laughter. At that moment Development is passing by the potting shed with Public Relations. They have just been admiring Morning Glory’s live streaming for Whose Garden? “That’s a sound you never heard during the Wizard’s reign,” she exclaims. But inside, unaware of the favorable opinion those on the outside have of this merriment, the Assistant slams the trowel on the table and says, “the invisible hand is a metaphor for your desire to do your best. It’s a moral imperative in a free society.”
With Horticulture and the Assistant off in search of the golden apples in the west, the excavation of the shaft begins. The Heroes finally show their mettle, two of them pounding stakes into the lawn at the four corners of the square, two of them tying line to the four stakes, and the last, carrying a bag of lime which he spills beneath the line to form a white perimeter on the ground. The next day a dump truck pulls up in front of the garage, pulling a flat bed trailer on which a yellow front end loader with backhoe is strapped. “I’m surprised Horticulture didn’t volunteer to drive our tractor,” the Pruner of Yews tells the Gardener. The backhoe carves out the large square “shaft” in front of the pergola, dumping the earth into the dump truck. When the box bed is full, the truck backs across the lawn in front of the greenhouse garden, past the giant elm and releases it’s load on the far side of the walkway leading toward the greenhouse. Once the excavation is complete, Mayan laborers spade the sides straight with admirable precision and shovel the excess soil into the front end bucket of the loader which then runs the soil over to the pile and finishes off the cone by smoothing the sides with the smooth underbelly of the bucket. The following day an extremely long flatbed truck carrying the steel panels arrives at the front gate. After a few hours of negotiating the gate with the only accident being the removal of inner corner of the south most stone post, it slowly makes its way around the gatehouse. Before arriving at the beech the driver realizes he can’t make the tight turn in front of the former home of King Total Power’s man(and wife – remember she donated the property to New Drake in 1968). The new residents watching from the windows on the second story, their excitement palpable, are disappointed when the driver gets out of the cab and begins a long discussion on his cell, while standing at the curve in the road near the house. When he finally returns to the cab, he leaves the private roadway entirely and cuts across the lawn close to the Dawn Redwood. Behind him another flatbed hauls a crane across the same lawn. The crane’s gantry, though down, snaps the lower branches of the redwood in half as if they were twigs. Four enormous trenches follow this last vehicle to its rendezvous with the macadam. Once on site the gantry is raised and the crane lifts the plates from the flatbed and swings them over into the shaft where the Mayans guide them into place, along the earth walls of the shaft. A newspaper reporter with a camera woman appears and Morning Glory dutifully picks up a shovel and jumps into the shaft where he starts digging a hole. After the picture is taken he goes back to the Beech Tree growing at the north end of the lawn where he has set up court and receives the reporter for an interview. A Mayan then jumps into the shaft with a rake and rakes the soil back into the hole and levels it. Two Mayan remove a welder and the acetylene tank from the flatbed, then weld the seams at the corners where the steel walls meet. The following day a flatbed truck returns and delivers eight grey granite blocks six feet long. Again the crane which has remained on site hoists the stone blocks and swings them into place with the help of the Mayans. A stairway now descends into the shaft near the macadam road and ascends on the opposite side to the pergola. That afternoon the dump truck returns bringing soil which it releases on the roadway. Again the Mayans are there to distribute the pile. After the floor of the shaft is raked smooth, the Heroes appear again with stakes and line to mark out the path and beds. On the fourth day the other flatbed truck returns, carrying wooden pallets loaded with rolls of grass sod and pulling a large cylindrical tank with sprayer. Management flocks onto the lawn in awe. “Now this is gardening,” boasts the President. The crane sets the pallets of sod on the ground. Then the Mayans carry the green rolls down into the shaft. They roll them out like red carpets at a ball along all four sides of the shaft and up the middle from east to west, from stairway to stairway, and from north to south, from wall to wall. While the crane is dismantled, the Mayans unravel a long thick hose from the cylindrical sprayer and pull the nozzle over to the cone beyond the Elm tree and the yellow brick walkway. The pump is started and a green grass-seed gel is sprayed on the entire surface of the cone.
Throughout the week’s proceedings, with Horticulture and the Assistant away, and with the President and her officers watching in awe from the windows of the former home of King Total Power’s man, coming down only once to watch the rolling out of the green grass carpets, Morning Glory, sitting beneath the large copper beech already mentioned, commentates “on the process” to his crew of five, who are at his side. His Angels flock about him, cameras capturing the historic stream. From time to time his Fleur-de-lis disrupts his commentary after which he sends one of his Heroes out with an order to the Mayans. When the roadway is clear, mothers pushing children in stroller stop to watch the TV show, some brave enough to get his signature when they learn he’s a TV star. The retirees pass by on their way to the restaurant either offering their advice or complaining of the inconvenience. The only Institutional presence on the grounds other than the gardeners, who stop by regularly to evaluate the damage, is Public Relations who blends in perfectly in her black leather jacket and tight jeans with those sitting under the Beech. It is she who tells the Gardener, the Old Timer and the Pruner of Yews that the Captain’s commentary will one day become a valuable document and “we’ll be selling it in the shop one day.” The Pruner asks her when “the Mayans will be planting out the tropicals?” To which she replies, “Are they here too?” As they leave, he warns her “to watch out lest the Invisible Hand reach out and pluck her bower!”
When Horticulture and the Assistant return The Great Week, as it is now called on the second floor of the former home of Total Power’s man, is over and life at the Institution goes on as usual; well, not exactly, a great deal of curiosity is shown toward the strange new courtyard stretched several feet below grade in front of the pergola. But on the summer equinox at exactly 12:00, Morning Glory’s vehicle reappears and resumes its position south of the North House. Morning Glory and his entire retinue step out onto the ground like the ambassadors from a strange planet. With pomp and circumstance they take up where they left off beneath the Beech which now is in purple leaf. Horticulture resumes his place in his office on the second floor of the home of Total Power’s man and the Assistant calls in sick. The curator of the Tropical House frets about like a robin distracting a cat from her nest. As to the question the Pruner of Yews asked earlier, the answer apparently is “now!” As Morning Glory pulls the inventory from the tropical house, the Mayans carry the plants over to the shaft. There the Mugworts position them in the new garden beds. Then, as in now, the Mayans plant them.
The grand opening of “The Elevator Shaft” is on the first day of July, hot and steamy, a tropical delight. The Angels supplemented by a full squadron from the studio set up their equipment at strategic points between the entrance from the Parking lot to the shaft garden. The liquor flows like the waters of the River Slang, keeping everyone talking about this marvel that was once just a lawn. Great lights illuminate the crucial scene, that is, Morning Glory’s table where he sits signing the DVDs entitled. His valiant Heroes bring him gin rickeys, while they drink one of the Kings’ beers which they consume from the bottle. It is already obvious that more than a few of them have taken a shine to PR. They can be seen her nibbling Gruyère together and later disappearing into Morning Glories’ home away from home. Many downtowners, here for the first time, walk down the yellow brick road just as Morning Glory had prophesied. They look neither left nor right, nor out toward the palisades but at the magnificent tropical paradise rising up from the ground like an orchestra in the pit, or more precisely, like an oasis in a desert, for as the Captain is fond of saying, “a river must flow into the waters of the ocean and not into a desert of sand.” The visitors cry “marvelous” to those beside them as dozens of servers in black skirts and pants and white blouses and shirts appear before them with drinks and hors’dourves. “Awesome” is conveyed through the Ethernet to those waiting anxiously back at New Drake or points beyond for a tweet from Morning Glory’s court. Everyone is anxious to soak up the Captain’s sunshine, the arc lamps radiating over his presence like the spirit of the universe. Other celebrities hoping to appear on Whose Garden? make an appearance. Everyone is talking about the shaft. And to the President’s delight, representatives of the major newspapers and TV stations are photographing it all.
A month later a huge trailer truck from Oregon arrives loaded with woody and herbaceous plants. Forty of this variety and forty of that variety, all in black 1 to 13 gallon plastic pots. “Should we plant them in the nursery,” the Old Timer asks hopefully. “No, just line them out on the ground down there and keep them watered,” the Assistant instructs.
Gardener – In the trade they’re called liners.
Writer – What are called liners?
Gardener – Nursery pots, as in plants in pots that are lined up for sale.
Writer – That September, the plants are brought up from the nursery for the annual garden party and lined out near the auction tents. The sale is a success in spite of that fact that nothing used by Captain Morning Glory is for sale. When the gardeners inform the guests, who want to buy schefflera for the front of their house, that Shefleras are house plants, the guests go off in a huff looking for someone in charge. “After all,” they complain, “the Shaft is the hit of the party. Do you think Morning Glory,” they ask the President when they think they are alone, “could install one for me?” Nonetheless all the late summer-early autumn flowering perennials and a third of the shrubs sell out before diner is served. Because of their size, only a quarter of the trees move. Even so by the end of the evening, a profit is turned. During the following weeks, the prices of the inventory are dropped until everything is selling at cost. These are scooped up by homeowners who know value. Once the President discovers that big money can be made selling plants, she mandates, in an impressive paper, the creation of a permanent sales division that will run the envisioned Sales Shop. The Assistant pleads to be included in the Sales Division. The President doesn’t see why not since he was part of the original shopping spree in Oregon. When Horticulture hears of this he too requests a place. This too is granted and managers are knighted at the next meeting.
The Board is thrilled about the Institution’s new venture, but once again the Treasurer, while agreeing that supplementing public funding is essential, has difficulties accepting the idea of a pubic garden running a full scale business, let alone balancing income against the huge expenditures of the so called shaft project. The Secretary, who is a lawyer and is taking the minutes, duly acknowledges the reservations of the Treasurer.

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