by S L Zammit
The structure is crowned with ornate stone balustrades and effigies of saints and angels, griffins, imps and demons.
One of the heavy doors slowly cracks open before I have time to lift the doorknob, a large metal ring encircling an impressively evil-looking cherub, which I had full intention of using in lieu of the doorbell.
The menacing head of a crusty old woman emerges from the door wobbling with age and indignation.
“What were you about to do?” she snaps. “Wake up the whole city?”
Her beady, black eyes sweep over me, feet up, sizing me up. She mumbles inaudibly, her thin, mustachioed mouth contorted in disapproval. She slowly pushes open the giant door, hobbles sideways and reluctantly ushers me in.
As I step onto the shiny, cream marble floor of the entrance hall, my whole body shudders as it adapts to the cold temperature of the house, a sharp contrast to the balmy weather outdoors. The woman eyes me like a perched hawk considering a mouse.
“Good morning,” I whisper tentatively as I step forward, formally extending my arm. “My name is Graziella. I am here to see the Marquis Andras Valletta.”
“He’s expecting you,” she responds, her voice dry and prickly, her face unfriendly, as I awkwardly pull away my ignored protracted arm.
I follow the stubby, bent figure as she shuffles down the shadowy hallway, with one hand on her hip, mumbling the whole way.
“Can’t imagine why I still put up with his nonsense,” I hear her mutter. “It’s the crack of dawn,” she mumbles. “Getting ready for church is what people ought to be doing,” and so on.
My eyes wander up the soaring pointed archways along the passageway, to the high rib-vaulted ceiling. Intricate delicate drawings form a frieze along the walls, which have a vivid lifelike appearance.
The early morning sunrays glow against the red, yellow and blue tinted glasswork of the ocular windows clustered high up on the walls, impervious to the shining warmth.
The palace looks vast, much larger inside than I expected, but I can’t make things out in the space beyond the hallway albeit squinting my eyes due to the darkness of the rooms.
The place is quiet and still, the atmosphere tinged with the smell of the damp walls. It seems to get colder the farther we walk inside. My heels clank on the veined seamless marble of the floor and the old woman glares her disapproval every few steps until I feel forced to tiptoe.
Finally we come to a locked wooden door, which she opens with a key produced with a flourish from her apron pocket. Pushing the heavy door open with surprising dexterity, she motions me in with her head.
“You wait in there,” she orders.
The old woman watches me intently as I enter the room, shuts the door on me, and shuffles on along her way.
The morning sun filters weakly into the cold room through a huge rose window that takes up most of the wall facing the doorway casting dim-colored floating rays through the tints of its intricate traceries. I’m instantly overcome by a strange foreboding, a creepy feeling of familiarity and anxiety that I chalk down to my nervous disposition.
The large room is a library with walls of beautiful wooden cabinetry holding endless shelves of books. At the far end of the room, a spiral staircase leads to a balconied upper floor holding more bookcases and shelves. The forearms of two large, winged creatures sculpted in wood on both sides of the room hold up this floor, which extends all around the hall.
Having been left alone, I make my way towards the centerpiece of the library, a large mahogany desk heaped haphazardly with books and papers.
Aurora’s shoes are unbearably tight, squeezing and crippling my toes, sending a surge of sharp, shooting pain up my legs. I unsuccessfully try to wiggle my toes around in an attempt to shake out the hurt.
Scanning the deserted room, desperate for a seat, I decide to sit in the beautiful upholstered armchair at the desk, from where I have a full view of the door to the library until the marquis arrives.
Grabbing the arms of the chair, I plop myself onto the seat unaware of a curled up, black Siamese cat napping there. The cat hisses at me, fangs bared, and runs away towards the back of the room snarling and growling.
“Sorry kitty, kitty,” I whisper startled and nervous as the cat disappears.
Sitting comfortably in the chair facing the mess on the table, I notice the skillfully painted portrait of a beautiful, young woman on parchment. Her head is tilted sideways. I instinctively run my fingers over the lush, black hair framing her face.
Her large, dark eyes look pensive and her full, red lips are unsmiling. Her facial expression is one of deep melancholy. I find myself looking intently at the woman and feel a strange connection to the portrait, as if she is actually present.
The eerie feeling is interrupted by a sudden change in the atmosphere of the room. As the air gets chillier, an icy shiver runs down my spine.
Noticing a name inscribed at the bottom corner of the parchment, I lift the painting from its spot on the desk in an attempt to decipher the inscription. The writing is illegible, but under the portrait I see a shiny rectangular sheet of pearly white material etched with a curious three-dimensional graphic. The material of the sheet is glossy, stiffer and thicker than paper.
The elaborate topography maps locations along the Mediterranean coastline. Various marked places on the map are highlighted and tagged with events ranging from far back in antiquity upon which are superimposed more current happenings.
The illustration indicates a timeline, however there are no dates on the map, and the lines on the curious three-dimensional graphic, curve, dilate and contract as I move the sheet.
The shape of the image changes depending on the angle I look at it. I scan over the inscriptions and notations trying to make sense of the diagram. Time seems to be depicted in waveform and at angles rather than linearly from event to event.
Lifting the pearly sheet off the table with both hands, I move it between my fingers and notice that the motion seems to linearize the timeline. The piece is pliable between my fingers and bends as I twist it.
The manipulation of the sheet has caused a thin line to join some of the points, I manipulate the sheet further until the center of the paper bends and dips forming a cone.
I have no idea what I’m trifling with. Panic sets in at the idea of the marquis surprising me making origami with his documents; I quickly reshape and flatten the sheet.
I shudder as the room gets even colder and wish it had been this cool in my apartment last night, I would have slept much better.
“I see you’ve made yourself at home,” the voice is deep and soft, a silken murmur, a trickle of honey. It comes out of nowhere, shaking me to the core. It’s a sound I hear in my head rather than my ears. I leap out of my seat and almost out of my skin.
I hear myself emit a high-pitched sound, a weird scream, or a yowl perhaps. A very loud “Aaaooooo!” resonates around the library.
I can’t believe I just howled in the presence of a marquis. I must be making a great first impression.
His face comes into focus. His glacial blue-green eyes, a sharp contrast to his dark skin and jet-black hair, bore deep into mine. His mouth is turned up in a small amused smile; a dimple grooves his left cheek. His jaw is strong and angular, his chin pointed and defined, giving his face a determined look. He is tall and broad and towers over me. There is nothing old about him. He is probably the most beautiful human being I’ve ever laid eyes on.
“You must be Graziella,” he says before I can introduce myself. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Thank you for seeing me sir,” I respond inanely as I jolt out of the armchair.
The marquis reaches for the document I’m still clenching in my hand.
“I asked Rosina to bring in some tea,” he says. “Go ahead and take a seat. I’d like to analyze this diagram with you.”
With that he pulls up a chair and sits very close to me at the desk.
The marquis points to a spot on the map.
“Put your index finger right there,” he requests. “Press it on the spot like this.”
He presses firmly on a point off the coastline leaving a fingerprint for a split second. “I’d like you to tell me what stands out to you.”
Following suit and pressing on the map, I allow my fingerprint to fade then squint my eyes as I look over the detailed inscriptions and resolve firmly to somehow turn the interview in my favor by showing off my knowledge.
Disregarding the more recent events noted on the map, I focus on the history pertinent to his residence and his last name. Fortunately, that period in the history of Malta has always fascinated me.
Some of the names related to one event in particular stand out. Hayreddin Barbarossa, the infamous medieval pirate and his protégé Turgut Reis, also known as Dragut, one of the most brutal and fearless seamen of the time, and the Grandmaster of the Knights of St. John, Jean De Valette.
I remember the dramatic episode in 1541 in which De Valette, not yet a grandmaster, clashed with his nemesis Dragut.
“In a naval battle between the knights’ galleon ‘San Giovanni’ and a Turkish pirate ship under the command of Dragut, the Turks overpower their opponents and take the defeated as slaves. Among them is Jean de Valette who was surprisingly released from slavery a year later,” I respond.
The marquis is observing me intently, his handsome face far too close to mine. It strikes me that he doesn’t smell of perfumed soap or designer cologne, which I, like most people, consciously appreciate. He has a clean, raw masculinity about him. I feel an involuntary urge to move closer to him while hoping I didn’t wear too much make up and perfume.
“Why does De Valette’s release surprise you?” he asks, his voice smooth and probing. “Exchanges of prisoners were common in those days.”
“I remember reading about an encounter between De Valette and Dragut, shortly after the knight was released from slavery,” I continue, refocusing on the map. “This time it’s the pirate in chains rowing in the galleys. He had been defeated by the knights and is being held captive. De Valette comments in his presence that it is customary to find oneself in such a predicament in times of war and the corsair makes a quip about a rapid change in fortune. Dragut had courteously secured better conditions for the knight while in captivity. I always wonder why it took over four years for Dragut to be released from slavery although the pirate Barbarossa continuously offered up ransom for him. Finally, General Doria of Genoa capitulated to his pleas, and conceded to release Dragut, following a meeting with Barbarossa. History has it that the payment for the release of the corsair was three hundred fifty thousand gold ducats. I have a feeling there was more to it than just gold.”
“De Valette does seem to have been shown some leniency at the hands of the Turks,” agrees the marquis. “It’s hard to imagine the most feared admiral of the Turkish Empire acceding to liberate such a worthy opponent, especially since the knight had certainly endured brutality while captive. When the tables turned, no one returned the favor, and Dragut’s captivity was inordinately prolonged.”
“Do you mind if I hold the map?” I ask.
With an intent look, the marquis hands me the mysterious pearly diagram. My interest intensifies as I twist it around. The center of the sheet dips forming a cone, and the thin line that had previously attracted my attention noticeably extends to a subsequent historical event of note. Andras Valletta studies me keenly. Undaunted, I continue:
“In 1557, years after his release from slavery, Jean de Valette was elected Grandmaster of the Knights of the Order of St. John. The onslaughts between the Knights of Malta and the corsairs of Tripoli raged throughout the years culminating in a battle near the Tunisian island of Djerba in 1560, where the Turks overcame the knights capturing and sinking most of their ships. This period in history was characterized by rapid stealth landings on the islands of Malta and Gozo. Turkish pirates plundered the scattered farms, taking the able bodied men as Turkish galley slaves. On their part, the knights took every opportunity to ambush and pillage every vulnerable Turkish merchant vessel they came across. These daring attacks by a comparatively small band of Christian knights against the might of the Crescent were an affront that could not be tolerated. The House of Suleiman the Magnificent, Sultan of the Turkish Empire, which by its might had up until then, vanquished and defeated all who opposed it, in 1565 decided to send an armada of 200 ships with 40,000 men to besiege the puny island of Malta, crush the 9,000 stalwart Knights of St. John, and possibly go on to swamp Europe and western civilization. Dragut had by then become the most dreaded foe of the Christians and the ultimate commander of the Turkish armada. The Sultan’s orders to his admirals were to defer to his superior capabilities. It was hard for the Muslims to capture fort St. Elmo due to Grandmaster de Valette’s careful war plan. In fact, Dragut eventually paid with his life. The fierce pirate was hit by a projectile and died by the end of the day. In retaliation, the Turks decapitated the bodies of the fallen knights and floated them across the bay on crucifixes.”
The marquis is searchingly looking at me.
“De Valette retaliated by firing the Turkish prisoners’ heads as cannon balls into the enemy’s camp. Considering the ever-present antagonism between the two cultures during that period, I reiterate that releasing a prisoner like Jean de Valette from captivity strikes me as very strange. Those were savage times, sir. I always wondered about the underlying events.”
The marquis smiles, “Please don’t call me sir,” he says. “Makes me feel like an old man. Call me Andras.”
“The device this map is imprinted on is amazing. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. What is it, if I may ask?” I question, hoping he doesn’t notice the rush of blood to my face.
“I agree,” he says. “It’s hard to believe that all there is to it is basic code. Events in perpetuity held together by nothing other than a sequence of zeros and ones. The material of the document is embedded with a wireless technology that constantly updates data into a simple equation.”
I turn the smooth seamless sheet around and notice a pinpoint flashing green, opening up at the upper right hand corner.
“I acquired the map from a collector I met while yachting in the South of France,” he continues. “I was surprised that anyone would give away such an amazing thing, but he did not have any use for it at the time, and was horribly strapped for cash or any other leverage at the crucial point of a very high stakes poker game.”
The marquis’ beautiful mouth is curled into a small smug smile as he continues, pointing at the map, “It’s so addictive. I have to admit I’ve been studying it for months now and I’ve made a very interesting observation. I noticed that the result of one action becomes the inception of another. An event is repeated and the result either gets bigger and bigger until it overshadows all else, or it shrinks to nothing and falls off the map. The processor draws a boundary dividing events into two distinct zones: all happenings occur with the freedom of boundless growth distinct from concurrent events that fade to nothing. An enormous amount of raw data seems to be archived providing information access and shifting of events, depending on who is reading the map and who makes contact with it, creating a range of scenarios. Each moment is an infinitesimally small fragment of a timeless whole. Past and present interconnected, then and now superimposed to provide a seamless undivided reality. The right technology does simplify things,” he explains. “The information aligns itself with the touch of a finger. The original owner of the map attributed this alignment to DNA affiliation and atomic alliance forming a predetermined configuration. The more I look at the map, the more I realize that this here is a vital piece of what has been an endless and puzzling quest for me. See, I have been searching for an old artifact for years. A treasure if I may! All I need is someone capable to assist in my pursuit.”
“You recalled the dates of the events that looked outstanding to you,” he continues, “dates you recall from your education. But as I’m sure you’ve not
iced, time on this map is not shown as a linear progression from one happening to the next. Rather, the coordinates rotate and join points forming a continuous dimension. The element of time is arbitrary and omitted. All points in time exist. Basic coding superimposes the particular events that are continuously being experienced. What every individual perceives in every aspect of reality is unique and limited by consciousness. Each, individually experiences his or her story unaware of its purpose.”
“There is always purpose,” he says in an emphatic tone. “In this case, the events became visible after you left your finger imprint on the map. I believe that every small detail is expressed by reference to something more wide-ranging, and the closer one looks at the detail, the simpler the complex thing becomes, but at the same time the event is represented in more and more detail. I find the fact that we both picked up on the same events from the millions of happenings throughout time in that particular instant very interesting.”
I’m about to say that maybe I cheated. Maybe I focused on events linked to his name.
“I always thought it conceited to believe in destiny or some higher purpose for my existence, in my case specifically,” I mutter instead. “Why, there are so many random events happening simultaneously in the infinite universe: stars and planets and galaxies and suns. I find it hard to believe there is some predestined path mapped out just for me.”
“You are so wrong my dear,” he says with a gentle smile. “It is because the universe is so infinite and complex that there is a predesigned course for everything.”
“But what about choices and chaos?” I insist.
“What if I were to tell you that chaos is just a few simple instructions repeated over and over. It is not random but repetitive. Nothing ever changes, not even time since it doesn’t move. The same story is simply cycling in perpetuity, and chaos is just a disturbance that makes the same story seem different, but the closer you look the more you realize it’s the same thing repeating itself. And since everyone perceives things differently in the here and now, no one remembers. Not even the participants in the story. The choices you think you’re making have already been made for you.”
