The Maltese Goddess Page 5
Continuing on with the tour, we doubled back and turned up a street that ran parallel to the main street where Anthony pointed out another building, the General Post Office, also a Cassar design, of course. As I stepped back to admire a particular feature of the building that Anthony was pointing out. I inadvertently stepped on someone’s toe. I turned to apologize profusely, and found myself face-to-face with the strange fellow from the Air Malta flight the day before—he of the khaki safari gear, my Great White Hunter.
He did not appear to recognize me, which was fine with me, and after suitable expressions of regret on my part, and forgiveness on his, we parted company and the Cassar/Farrugia tour continued on. From the Post Office we went back to the main street via a little road called Melita Street. Republic Street, as the main street was called, was clearly the main shopping thoroughfare of the city, filled with shops and boutiques tucked into the fronts of some very old buildings, and we turned right, or away from the city gate, onto it.
A block or so further on. Anthony stopped to point out the National Museum of Archaeology. “Built by Cassar,” he said. Then added in a more boyish aside, “It’s now filled with pots and fat ladies.”
Sophia glared at him, and he put an arm around her waist and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “Soph is studying really early history, not Cassar’s architecture,” he said. “She’s interested in archaeology and spends a lot of time here. The fat ladies are statues that have been found in ancient sites around the island.”
“I’m interested in archaeology too, Sophia,” I said, “so you must tell me something about that later.” She blushed but nodded and we moved on. Coming up the street behind us I saw the Great White Hunter again. I think he saw me too, but he gave no indication. In fact, he ducked rather quickly into the doorway of a shop.
A few yards further on we came upon a large church. Like the other Cassar projects, this one was of a very severe design, almost ponderous, but it had a certain solemnity to it I could appreciate. There was a little market set up in front of the church, and Sophia and I hesitated for a moment, both of us no doubt feeling the urge to shop, but Anthony, ignoring it, pressed on to the steps of the church. “This is one of Cassar’s greatest projects, St. John’s Co-Cathedral,” he said. “It is not the first church in the city, but it is the largest and the most impressive. It’s called a co-cathedral,” he said with some pride, “because Malta, unlike most other countries, has two official Cathedrals. Unfortunately, the inside has been completely redone in the baroque style and is not Cassar’s work,” he said severely.
“Can we look inside anyway?” I asked. As charmed as I might be by Anthony’s obvious enthusiasm for the accomplishments of his illustrious forebear, I wanted to see more of Valletta than this. “It would prove an interesting comparison, I’m sure, and would help to emphasize the finer points of Cassar’s work,” I ventured.
He looked somewhat mollified. “Okay, let’s go in,” he said. Sophia gave me a sunny smile that indicated she could see through my subterfuge but was quite prepared to go along with it.
The interior of the cathedral bears no resemblance to the austerity of the exterior whatsoever. It is in fact staggering in its ornamentation, almost every surface, every inch of the place, covered with arabesque carvings and gilt. The high altar is marble, silver, and lapis lazuli, the vaulted ceiling is covered in paintings, and the floor is emblazoned with elaborate marble tombstones. Both sides of the cathedral are lined with chapels; I counted eight or nine of them, linked by narrow little corridors.
As I wandered about, I saw in front of one of the prettiest chapels, which was enclosed with a silver gate, the man in the safari suit. He did not hear me approach, intent as he was on inspecting the interior of the chapel through the gate.
Not wishing to engage him in conversation again, I made to quietly move on past him, but the toe of my shoe caught in a raised stone in the floor and I stumbled. He turned quickly around and saw me. I assumed that he would think me a complete klutz what with my first stepping on his toe, and now stumbling around behind him, so I tried a wan smile. He tried to look as if he had not noticed me, a studied nonchalance I found amusing, and we both moved on. Obviously he was no more eager to talk to me than I was to him.
When I’d finished my quick tour of the cathedral, resolving to return when I’d have more time, I found Anthony and Sophia sitting in a pew near the back of the church, and we left together. We moved a little further along the main street and came to a pleasant square filled with tables and umbrellas and presided over by a large statue of Queen Victoria. On one side of this square was another large impressive building of a rather stolid nature that I was beginning to recognize. “Cassar?” I asked, pointing.
Anthony beamed. “You recognized it! It’s the House of Representatives,” he added.
I noticed Sophia looking longingly at a tray of sweets at one of the cafés on the square. “Can I treat to coffee and a sweet?” I asked. “In appreciation of a great tour?”
“We’ll come back here,” Anthony said. “There’s one more building I want to show you,” he said, gesturing further down the street. “The Mediterranean Conference Centre.”
I was not paying much attention to Anthony at this point, partly because jet lag had set in once again, but also because I was mesmerized by the now familiar khaki hat bobbing among the Sunday crowds, heading in the direction Anthony had pointed. When I turned my attention back to the two of them, Sophia, sensing my fatigue, gave Anthony a warning nudge.
“Actually,” he said, catching on, “a coffee would be great!” Despite my intentions, I turned back to where I had last caught sight of the hat, but it was nowhere to be seen.
As we selected a table in the square beside the House of Representatives, and I had a chance to sit down and really look around me, I began to forget the occasionally tacky shops and the advertising billboards, and to see Valletta as I think Anthony did, as a beautiful city of plazas, palaces, and churches laid out on an elegant grid. I could see that the plan and the style of Anthony’s hero, the great Gerolamo Cassar, had been a pervasive influence; indeed, he had set the tone for the city and influenced its structure over the centuries since he had first envisioned and built it. It really was a magnificent achievement, and I was pleased for Anthony, for some inexplicable reason.
We ordered coffees and I, hungry for lunch, bought a couple of little pastry pies called pastizzi, filled with cheese and peas and onions. Both Anthony and Sophia ordered sweets, he a cheesecake of sorts, she something called a treacle tart. I, as the tourist and host, got to try everything, but found my new young friends’ sweet tooth far exceeded mine.
While we were eating, I mentioned that I would like a good guidebook on the islands so I could see as much as possible in the time I was there. Anthony leapt up as soon as he was finished and said he knew exactly the guide I needed, and that he would get me one immediately. I insisted on giving him some money despite his protestations, and off he went.
Sophia and I sat enjoying the sunshine but saying little. She was very shy.
“I expect the guidebook will have a section on Gerolamo Cassar,” I said as an opening conversational gambit.
She giggled; “I think you may be right. A long section, probably.”
“He’s a very nice young man,” I said, sounding to my own ears, at least, like a doting auntie or something. Nothing like being with a couple of teenagers in love to make you feel old and tired.
“He is, isn’t he?” she glowed. “Even if he does go on about Cassar.”
“It’s difficult to be an architect, you know,” I said, continuing on in my aged auntie mode. “It takes years of study and dedication. Lots of people never qualify. And then it’s hard to get started. And it must be very difficult to put so much of yourself into a design and then have people criticize it. I think you have to be pretty committed and focused.
She nodded. “I think he’ll do it,” she said.
“Are you married
?” she asked in a moment or so, glancing at my ringless hands.
“Not anymore,” I said.
“Have a boyfriend?”
I thought to explain to her that at her age you had boyfriends; at mine you had the chronic problem of coming up with a suitable description for the man, like partner, or significant other, or whatever. But I restrained myself.
“Yes,” I said. “His name is Lucas, and he’s an archaeologist.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Then you really are interested in archaeology!” I nodded.
“I’m studying history. You know they don’t teach us much of anything in school about our own history, just everybody else’s,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the statue of Queen Victoria in the square.
“I have this great new teacher. She’s here from England, on a sabbatical, but she knows more about the history of Malta than anyone I’ve ever met. She’s teaching us about the ancient archaeological sites—she says they are among the oldest and most important in the Mediterranean. I’ve been going to see them since I was a little girl and I had no idea! I can hardly believe what she’s teaching us. We’re even doing a play about Malta’s history right from ancient times. The teacher calls it a tableau, or something. I have a small part in it.” She smiled shyly.
“I think it sounds wonderful!”
“Do you, honestly?”
“I do, yes.”
“She’s giving a public lecture Tuesday night at the University. I really want to go, but I’m not allowed to go by myself. I can’t ask my parents. The teacher talks about ancient gods and goddesses, and my parents would think that’s heretical. Anthony says maybe he’ll come, but I know he’s not really interested in anything except architecture, and anyway he has to study every night if he’s to get into the Academy next year. I don’t suppose…”
“I’d love to come,” I said. And why not? I thought. By that time the painting and electrical work at the house would be done and the furniture would be there, or at least on its way. A couple of hours off would be fine. “Just tell me where and when,” I said.
Just then Anthony returned with a guidebook, and immediately showed me the section on Cassar. Sophia gave me a conspiratorial grin. Anthony, on learning that I planned to attend the lecture, suddenly announced that he too would attend. I told them I’d meet them there, and Anthony spread out the map that came with the guidebook and began to give me directions. He also pointed out other sights of interest, all designed by Cassar, of course, including something called Verdala Palace, not too far from the house.
Then we sat companionably together watching as the late afternoon sun began to turn the yellow stones of the buildings around us to gold.
As we did so, I got that feeling we all get occasionally, the feeling that we are being watched. I don’t know why or how we know. Perhaps it’s some vestigial remnant of an ability inherited from our earliest ancestors who lived in more dangerous times. But I think we are almost always right when we get this feeling. I scanned the crowd, and caught a glimpse of a now familiar figure near a column in the shade of the arcade that runs down one side of the square.
“This island sure is a small place,” I said to my companions, trying to hide my unease as I pointed my fellow tourist out to them.
“Neat outfit!” Anthony said admiringly. Sophia rolled her eyes.
As we turned our attention to him, the Great White Hunter drew back quickly and vanished into the darkness of the arcade.
“Skittish too,” Anthony said.
“Creepy,” Sophia demurred.
I agreed with her. I also think that in addition to knowing when we’re being watched, we sometimes have a sixth sense when a stranger wishes us ill. I had that feeling now.
I shook off my apprehension, however, as the sun and the beauty of the surroundings soaked in, and was actually reluctant to leave the square when the three of us headed back. The house looked much the same as it had when I left. Except for a dead cat, strung up and swinging from the branch of a little tree in the backyard.
FOUR
From Tyre and Sidon they come, the seafarers, children of Melqart, puissant protector of Phoenician sailors. Neither chart nor compass guides them, sights set on distant lands. Is it My temples, long abandoned, that beckon you from the safety of North African shores? Traders, craftsmen, keepers of the color purple, leave us alone. But leave your language, your alphabet, when you go.
*
It took all the courage I could muster to stay in the house that night, but I managed it. Indeed, by the next morning, I’d persuaded myself that the dead cat incident, as it became known in my mind, was a childish prank of some sort. An exceptionally cruel one, but a prank nonetheless.
Anthony had cut the cat down, as Sophia and I clutched each other, and we found a little patch of ground to bury it in. They’d stayed with me a while, but then Sophia had to get home, so I found myself alone. I spent the evening checking the doors and windows, peering out into the darkness, but most of all thinking about The Deez, my shop cat, whom I loved even though he was a rather standoffish little beast. In the end, mercifully, I slept.
The next day, though, there was an even nastier surprise in store for me.
Anthony had obviously told Marissa and Joseph about our problem with the car, because as soon as they and two workmen arrived on Monday morning, the men began to inspect the vehicle. Despite my protestations—the car could sit in the driveway forever, as far as I was concerned—it was decided that before work on the house could begin, the car would have to be repaired. After much gesticulating, sounds of annoyance, and shrugging of shoulders, one of the men, Eddie by name, headed off somewhere in Joseph’s car.
“Have you found what’s wrong?” I asked, hoping for an affirmative and a diagnosis that would not take long to fix.
“Part missing probably,” Joseph replied. “If Eddie moves fast enough, he may get it back. For a price, of course.”
I looked from Joseph to Marissa. “I’m not following this conversation,” I said.
Marissa smiled at me. “We have a lot of old cars here. People grow very attached to them. Parts are scarce; sometimes they aren’t even manufactured anymore. So they get stolen fairly regularly if you’re not careful. We thought the place was far enough off the beaten track that it wouldn’t be a problem. But I guess we were wrong.
“There are body shops around that miraculously always seem to have parts. Everyone knows who they are. So Eddie will visit a couple of them and get the part. It could even be the one we lost.” She smiled wryly.
“Isn’t that theft, or extortion, or something?”
“Probably. Here we call it the way things go. Joseph will clear some of the construction materials out of the garage so you can lock the car in at night.”
“You know, the first night I was here I thought I saw someone out by the edge of the cliff. Someone wearing a hood. Perhaps he’s our thief!”
“Did you now?” Joseph said. “Strange things go on here from time to time,” he added. Marissa’s usual sunny smile faded somewhat, but neither said anything more.
Eddie returned about a half hour later with a mechanic, and the two of them got to work. At first Eddie was very talkative: he told me that while he was at the body shop he’d also checked for a part that would fix the transmission, which is to say, give it a second gear. He’d had no luck. Someone had beaten him to one by minutes, he told me.
But suddenly there seemed to be a chill in the air, metaphorically speaking, and both Eddie and the mechanic grew silent. Soon there was a whispered consultation with Joseph, who in turn whispered to Marissa, who looked really upset. Joseph started clearing his tools and construction materials out of the garage, and Eddie headed out again, returning this time with a huge padlock which he went about installing on the garage door.
All of this was making me nervous, and by extension, annoyed. “We need to talk, Marissa,” I said to her. “I want to know what is going on around here!”
“The problem with the car was a bit more serious than we thought,” she began.
“More serious than a stolen part?”
“A bit worse than that,” she replied carefully. I waited.
“It’s not so much a part missing. The mechanic said nothing was missing, actually. Some minor problem with the carburetor,” she said. “It’s just there was also a broken line, or something.”
I watched her face carefully. She was frightened, I could tell.
“To the brakes,” she said finally. “You... we were all lucky the car wouldn’t start,” she said. “I’m sure it’s just because the car is so old,” she went on. “But the mechanic says there is a possibility that the line didn’t break, that it was cut.”
I just looked at her. “It’s fixed now, of course,” she said, then burst into tears.
Anyone with any sense would have moved out of the house after this, I know, and I’ve often asked myself since why I stayed. It was partly my capacity for self-delusion, which is as strong as anyone’s. I, like Marissa, preferred to believe the brakes were just old, not tampered with. In addition, I just decided, I think, that these horrible events were not directed at me. Furthermore, I had a job to do, and I didn’t like the idea of telling Martin Galea his house wasn’t ready for his important entertaining. Somehow I didn’t think he’d find a dead cat and what was probably just an accident with the brakes a good excuse for not getting the house finished.