02 _ Maltese Goddess, The (17 page)

“What happened to the temple builders, by the way?” I asked, thinking about the scene in the play about the temple builders where the music is supposed to end abruptly and the lights go out quickly.

“You mean did a group of parents put a stop to the temple building?” She hooted. “Seriously, nobody really knows. All activity just stopped. Maybe famine, drought, a plague of some sort. One of the great mysteries of history!”

When we got to Mnajdra, we found the site had been closed off to all but our group and a number of workmen who were erecting a large awning designed to protect the guests while they were watching the performance. Several members of the police and army were watching over the proceedings. Security for this performance was going to be very tight, that was clear. A guard met the bus and checked off each of our names as we disembarked, then all our cases, mine with the wardrobe and all Victor’s electrical equipment, were opened and searched.

We got to work. We did a quick run-through of one of the later scenes in which two of the girls represent women trying to find enough food to feed their families during the German blockade of the island during the Second World War. I knew the story of Malta’s heroism during the war: The day after Mussolini joined forces with Hitler, the bombing of Malta had continued until the island acquired the dubious distinction of being the most bombed out place on the planet. Such was its strategic importance in the Mediterranean that in a two-month period, twice as many bombs fell on Malta as fell on London in a year at the height of the blitz.

Rationing began in 1941, the island completely cut off by the Axis blockade. In August of 1942, two weeks before the island would have had to surrender, five out of an original convoy of fourteen Allied ships limped into the Grand Harbour with supplies. For its heroism, and in recognition of the terrible suffering the islanders had sustained, Malta was awarded the George Cross, the only nation ever to receive it.

I knew that the islanders had suffered terribly, on the brink of starvation, bombed day and night from Italy. But I had never heard the story so poignantly told, seen as it was now by these students, and even though I’d heard the scene before, I was again quite moved by it. It was one of the parts that Sophia had written.

“This scene is quite wonderful, you know,” I said to Sophia. “You have a rare talent for this. Maybe you should think about a writing career.”

She blushed. “Thank you. Dr. Stanhope said that too. I’d really like to try to write. But my father wouldn’t let me. He thinks I should get married soon and stay here and raise a family. He’s not too keen on Anthony either. If he goes away to school, my father won’t let me go with him. It’s a problem,” she sighed.

I’m a firm believer in the Prime Directive, whether it’s applied to intergalactic journeys or to the kind of travel the rest of us do: that is, that you should leave a place the way you found it and not do anything to affect the future. I realize this rule would severely restrict the activities of the Anna Stanhopes among us, to say nothing of the missionary zeal of various religious organizations and those nations with aspirations to empire. But there it is. I could not help feeling, though, on hearing Sophia’s words, that the world had not changed much since Marissa Cassar had decided to do what her father wanted rather than following her heart, and that a little education about the Great Goddess might be just what Sophia and her friends needed.

I left Sophia to help Victor, who was working away at his lights. I could see he really was good at “electricals.” I helped him string wires as the girls rehearsed and he worried a great deal about the exact placement of the poles. Camilleri and his assistant, Esther whatever her name was, were also helpful. They’d arranged for the grassy area in front of the site to be cleared and smoothed out so chairs could be placed there, and for the hydro people to string a temporary line all the way from the restaurant at the entrance to the temple site way up the hill. Most of the time, though, they fussed a great deal about the comfort of the guests. Camilleri watched as a couple of heaters were placed in the tents, since evenings were still cool.

“We’ll have a bar set up for them at the back of the tent,” he explained to me. “Champagne, caviar, the best, of course.”

“Of course,” I murmured.

“After the performance there will be a state banquet at the Palace. We’re out to impress these people, to convince them we can play in their league, so to speak.”

Mr. Camilleri had seen to it that a temporary storage shed had been set up out of site behind the temple, so we were able to leave a lot of our equipment and the costumes there. After the rehearsal, we all piled back on the bus and headed into Valletta. I had been planning to walk back to the house, but Anna suggested I accompany them. “Victor is not entirely happy with the music we are using to open the show,” she said. “He has an idea, a modern Italian composer, that he thinks is just the ticket. Such a cultured man!” she said rather breathlessly. “Anyway, if you haven’t seen the market, it’s kind of fun, and if we hurry we can get there before it closes. Why don’t you come along?”

Since I had been trying all day to avoid thinking about the conversation I’d had earlier with Marissa and what the implications of what she’d told me in connection with the murder of Martin Galea might be, I decided to go.

The open-air market in Valletta is situated in the steeply sloped, narrow, and aptly named Merchant Street. The street is closed to vehicular traffic almost every morning, and vendors set up temporary stalls right down the middle of the street, from which they sell everything from tapes to T-shirts to towels. That day it was very crowded, and while we all started out together, I soon lost track of Victor and Anna, Sophia and the rest of the girls, as gradually we all went our separate ways, our paths crossing from time to time as we looked around. I saw Marissa and Joseph in the crowds, but they didn’t see me.

I was inching my way along, close to the buildings on one side of the street, when suddenly I felt a strong arm reach out of a doorway, grab me, and pull me into the darkness. It was the Great White Hunter again. “We’ve got to talk!” he croaked. “There is something you should know, something wrong. You, the others, danger!”

He was unshaven and reeked of alcohol and sweat. At close quarters, his jaunty hat was stained, as was his shirt. In the closeness of the doorway, I felt almost ill in his presence. I wrenched my arm away and made a run for it. Convinced he would follow me, I dodged through the crowds in the marketplace, looking for someone I knew.

I finally stopped and looked behind me, but couldn’t see him. By now the fright was passing, and I could feel myself getting angry. “Enough of this!” I said to myself, and then, determined to be the hunter rather than the hunted, I started looking for him to give him a piece of my mind.

At first I couldn’t find him, but then I saw his hat bobbing along in the crowd about a block and a half ahead of me. I followed as quickly as I could but gained very little ground because of the crowds. I did manage to keep him in view, however, and saw him turn down a side street. I reached that corner just in time to see him enter St. John’s Co-Cathedral, the place where he and I had already had our baffling conversation in the crypt.

By the time I got to the church, a tour group was slowly filing in, delaying me enough that there was no sign of him when I got inside. I moved quickly through the chapels on the left of the altar, but could not find him there. The gate to the crypt, I noted, was chained this time. Trying to keep my eye on the main doors as best I could, I looked in the vestry and then moved to check the chapels on the right-hand side of the church. He wasn’t there either. I couldn’t be absolutely certain he hadn’t left while I was checking the chapels, but there was still one place to look: the cathedral museum.

I paid the entrance fee and quickly walked through the first room where the Caravaggio was exhibited, then along a hallway and up a flight of stairs to a room with huge tapestries covering all the walls, and a choice of left or right. I listened carefully but could hear no sound. There was no one in sight, neither staff nor visitor. I chose to go to the right, since left led to the exit, and walked along a narrow hallway with windows on one side overlooking the street. I paused for a second or two to look out, and found myself overlooking the market. The vendors were beginning to take down their stalls, so the scene was even more chaotic than before, but I did catch sight of Anna almost directly below, and a little further down Marissa was talking to someone that I assumed was Joseph, although I couldn’t see his face.

I left the window, turned right at the end of the corridor, and came to a room, a dead end, with another display of tapestries and some glass cases filled with illuminated manuscripts. Once again there seemed to be no one there. I quickly circled the room to make sure GWH was not hiding behind one of the cases, checking for telltale bulges in the tapestries that would reveal his hiding place, but he was not there. I retraced my steps, looking out the window again. Anna and Victor were studying a tape at one of the stalls. Sophia and Anthony were chatting on the far side of the street. I could not see Marissa or Joseph.

I cut through the room with the tapestries and headed toward the exit. I found myself in a room filled with memorabilia of the Knights of Malta. Elaborate robes were displayed in high glass cases, and on the walls were crests and other items significant to the Knights. I didn’t see him at first, because the room was ill lit, presumably to protect the exhibits.

He was standing at the far side of the room, and watching him through one of the glass cases, I could see he was assiduously studying a suit of armor. I walked quietly up behind him, determined to frighten him as he had frightened me. But the Great White Hunter, whoever he was, had saved his worst encounter with me for last. He was dead, shot in the head, but still standing, locked in a ghastly embrace with the suit of armor, his body impaled on the Knight’s long sword.

AHRIMAN

TEN

It is come. The Ottoman fleet. Thirty thousand men strong. Beacons flare along the coast, My people scurry for shelter. In vain. The stench of death is everywhere. Ditches fill with putrifying corpses, headless bodies float on crosses in the harbor, the water red with blood. But still the Knights, stubborn, no, reckless, in their faith, hang on.

Is it possible? That flag? The Knights’ Cross? Is the battle won? Will there be peace at last?

“Would you like to tell me about it?” the Mountie said in a studied casual tone as he handed me the chopping board, knife, and a bunch of parsley and gestured to me to start chopping.

It was late in the day following my discovery of the body in the museum. I had gone for help, of course, and had once more found myself at police headquarters in Floriana. This time, however, it was Tabone’s day off, and I was forced to endure a questioning that bordered on interrogation from another policeman who evidently felt Tabone’s belief in my innocence misplaced. In retrospect I suppose it was understandable, this being the second dead body I’d found since arriving on these shores. The more he badgered me, however, the more closemouthed I got, refusing to tell anything other than the details of how I’d found the body. I said nothing about the episode in the market, nor my other encounters with the deceased, deciding to wait until Tabone’s return even if it meant a night in jail. I did learn one thing while I waited. The police had no more clue than I did as to the identity of the body.

It was the wee hours of the morning before Tabone could be located by telephone, and I was allowed to leave in the custody of the Mountie. Rob had brought the car and drove me home, and I’d have to say he showed a tact I wouldn’t have credited him with in that after asking me if I was okay, and hearing my rather prim answer that I was, he’d not bothered me for information on the way to the house. I went straight to bed when we got there, and slept pretty well all day, not awakening until almost dinnertime.

When I went downstairs, Rob was already starting dinner preparations. He’d put on his apron and a pair of those demilune reading glasses through which he was peering at a piece of paper, a recipe presumably, on the counter. It gave him a rather endearing air, I had to admit.

“What are you making?” I asked in a feeble attempt to avoid his question.

“Something called beef olives if I have understood the name correctly,” he replied. “Beef sliced very thin, then rolled and stuffed with ground pork, hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes, and spices. It’s cooked in a red wine, onion, and tomato sauce. I decided to try to make something local. A very nice woman in the grocery store gave me detailed instructions,” he added, gesturing toward the piece of paper on the counter.

“You do very well with the women in the stores here,” I said, recalling the women in the bakery in Mellieha.

“Don’t I?” he replied, grinning. “Found the same grocery store as before. The proprietor and I are old friends now. I’m starting to get the hang of finding my way around here. You ignore the signs, I take it. Just because you think your route takes you to Siggiewi, for example, doesn’t mean you follow the signs for Siggiewi. You just head in its general direction. It’s sort of like a bypass on the thru way right?”

I nodded.

“And the rules of the road. Technically, I know, one should yield to the right. I say technically, because as near as I can tell, no one yields to anyone or anything. But once you enter into the spirit of it all, approach driving with a kind of
joie de vivre,
shall we say, and as long as you don’t mind the odd dent or two, it begins to work for you.

“I’m also getting used to the car. In fact, I’m wondering why Ford and General Motors ever felt the need for second gear! Now, after that pleasant diversion, perhaps we should get back to the subject at hand,” he said, peering at me over the top of his glasses.

“Which is?” I tried, assiduously lining the parsley up in neat little rows and starting to chop.