by S L Zammit
“How did that go?” she asks eagerly. “What’s the marquis like? You look like you’ve been through a ringer.”
“It went well I guess. The marquis seems to think I’m perfect for the job,” I tell her, the elation I should be feeling as I share the news vividly absent, “but I can’t imagine why. It was a strange interview. He kept talking about being in control and loyalty and devotion, and he asked me to take a few days to decide if I wanted to be completely devoted to him. I really don’t know what to make of the situation. When I was in there talking to him, I was overwhelmed by this feeling that I wanted to work for him and be close to him, but the farther I get from the place, the less sure I am.”
“He does have the reputation of being eccentric and a control freak,” she says. “Is he very old?”
“No! Not at all,” I say picturing Andras Valletta’s handsome face, my heart beating a little faster. “He’s actually much younger than I expected and very good looking. He even gave me a charge card and insisted that I charge everything to it.”
“He’s perfect then!” says Aurora laughing. “I don’t know what you’re apprehensive about.”
“I have a feeling I’m in over my head,” I say. “I’m not sure I can help him in his search and he seems to take this thing very seriously. I feel like a fraud.”
“That’s because you’re the queen of self-sabotage,” says Aurora, voice heavy-laden with sarcasm. “You’ve always been such a perfectionist, doubting yourself and anything good that comes your way. He’s a bored, rich man who has more money than he knows what to do with. How do you think I felt when I first started working for the judge? I think you should go ahead and take his charge card and everything else he has to offer, and go along for the ride, until he realizes his quest is futile or you find something else you want to do. Now take out that charge card and let’s buy a nice bottle of bubbly to celebrate!”
I nod and smile but deep down feel a cold creeping sense of sickening unease.
2
Early Monday morning finds me in Valletta. The area around the Triton Fountain just outside the recently remodeled City Gate, or Bieb il-Belt (door to the city) as it is known in Maltese, is already bustling with migrant pigeons pecking food crumbs on the ground, locals rushing to work or running errands, tourists and idlers, bus drivers and street vendors.
I have an early appointment at my regular hairdressing salon, Chez Pierre on the Bastions, which I reluctantly made partly inspired by Half-naked-fawn-eyes and her flowing, velvet hair, and partly coerced by Aurora who thinks I hit the trifecta with the marquis and should succumb to his every whim. I am sure Pierre of Chez Pierre will not be pleased to see me return so soon with my “four-heads-of-hair” as he calls it, to undo the perfect honey-blend it took him five long hours to create.
I also need to renew my passport as the expiry date is overshot by a few months. Not to be found at fault at this initial stage if I’m required to proceed overseas at short notice, Aurora coaxes her connections to activate the express 24-hour passport procedure meant for VIPs to update mine. Minimizing the to and fro scurrying to the passport office and waiting in queues, affords me the time to tackle other important items on my agenda.
While in Valletta, I intend to visit a small antique shop on St. Ursula Street belonging to my old mentor, an esteemed university professor and a great connoisseur of antiquity, who was a huge help while I was researching my thesis.
Profs spent most of his youth in a seminary, but was never ordained a priest. Rumor has it that he did not concur with certain teachings of the church. Having known him for a while as a man who bases his thinking on facts and things that are evident to the senses or as commonly put the real and factual, I don’t find the rumors hard to believe. After leaving the seminary, he submerged himself in the studies of antiquity. Profs is notorious for his detailed knowledge of every history facet of the islands. To augment his university stipend, he spends his summers traipsing the choked with bric-a-brac shops around the cities of Europe purchasing, restoring and selling antiques, the passion of his heart.
Although strapped for time, I make the obligatory stop by the food truck at City Gate, to get his favorite dessert that his caretaker, his spinster sister who lives with him, strictly forbids, fried date pastries (known in Maltese as Imqaret).
No one makes Imqaret like those sold from this particular silver-colored food truck: delicious soft and flaky pastries filled with sweet orange and anise-infused dates. I know Profs will be doubly delighted to see me in anticipation of getting a few portions of this otherwise banned delicacy. I feel convinced that if anybody on the island can give me any insight on the whereabouts of the jewelry box, it is this man.
The streets of Valletta are crowded with various sorts of pedestrians. Impeccably dressed lawyers scurry towards the courthouse, celebrity politicians flock into the House of Parliament and fashion-conscious office workers rush to work.
Shoppers from all around the islands flock to the capital city, which is still one of the main shopping hubs for clothes, bridal gowns, jewelry and shoes. Its streets are dotted with old-world cafes, restaurants, wine bars and souvenir shops.
The air is infused with smells of strong percolating coffee, fresh-baked, thick-crusted Maltese bread (or hobz tal-Malti), pea and cheese cakes, known as pastizzi - delicious flakey pastry filled with ricotta or pea paste; and honey rings (or qagħaq tal-għasel): buttery pastry filled with honey, marmalade and spices, and other mouthwatering confections.
On street corners, buskers, mostly foreign, play the violin and the harp, henna-tattooists and face-painters erect makeshift booths and sell their services, and on certain days, like this morning, old-fashioned costume re-enactments erupt in the small squares, attracting crowds of local onlookers mingled with the throngs of visitors spewed off cruise ships at Valletta Harbor nearby.
When the Emperor Charles V bestowed the small island of Malta to the Knights of St. John in 1530, they looked upon it as a barren rock ravaged by pirate attacks, nevertheless having excellent harbors, an asset to a maritime and military order.
The emperor’s grant of the island to the knights had strategic overtones; being stationed close to the north-African coastline they were charged to defend Tripoli, a territory constantly harassed by Barbary corsairs.
The knights had been wandering Europe for seven years since being defeated and ejected from Rhodes by the Ottoman Sultan, Suleiman the Magnificent. Many knights clung to the hope of recapturing their former home, beautiful Rhodes, but from the moment the Order arrived in Malta they began to enlarge the defenses of the main harbor, fort St. Angelo, which also protected the fishing village of Birgu where they were stationed.
They went on to build two other strategic forts, one in the north overlooking the very entrance of the Grand Harbor and another star shaped fort to guard the southern section of the harbor where the galleys of the Order were moored.
These fortifications proved to be formidable. The Ottoman armada, made of two hundred ships, laid siege and attacked Malta for three months, after which they had to retreat, defeated and humiliated by a comparatively small but valiant order of Christian knights.
At the point when the fort of Birgu fell to the Turks during the siege, seventy-year-old Jean de Valette led a hundred or so of the local militia to the invaded area and stood sword-in-hand at the most precarious point of battle and fought valiantly until the enemy retreated. I remember how the story had enthralled me as a child, leading me to pursue the study of history.
After the siege, Grandmaster de Valette, spurred by the vulnerability of the Order surrounded as it was with the ruins the siege had wreaked, reached out to European kings and princes to help finance the building of a new city on Mount Sciberras, the vantage point overlooking the two adjacent main harbors. The prestige of the grandmaster and the fame of the heroic island were so great by then, that very substantial contributions were readily made.
The city, a veritable testament to his
foresight, built for European noblemen, decorous aristocrats of the 16th century, and triumphant knights, on completion was referred to as the most proud.
Departing from traditional Maltese city architecture which historically consisted of narrow, meandering streets and alleys that made it possible for the inhabitants to give the slip to marauding corsairs, the new urban center was built in the elegant styles of the late Italian Renaissance and Baroque. A uniform grid of wide parallel streets stemming from the city’s gates, enclosed by massive embrasured bastions and surrounded by deep moats, housing seven stately Auberges which served as the headquarters and lodgings for each of the Order’s seven national groupings or “langues”, religious buildings, palaces and infirmaries.
Grandmaster de Valette solicited and was successful in getting the funds needed to build the magnificent fortress city he commissioned. Although he personally laid down the first stone and his remains lie entombed forever within its walls, he never saw it finished due to his sudden death.
Valletta turned out to be the most aristocratic and unique fortress in Europe. Over the centuries, it withstood the ravages of two world wars. When I walk down Republic Street and look at the elaborately rich façades, the coats of arms in high relief on their parapets, the religious statues and elegant balconies, I feel transported back in time to the local ambience of the Renaissance era. History is forever cast in its limestone walls and palaces. Scattered throughout the city are streets composed entirely of low steps, making it possible for knights in full armor to ascend. Glancing down one of the step streets, I almost hear the clanking of heavily armored knights, plodding up the stairways.
The farther I walk along these solid timeless streets, the more I wonder if all this could have happened, had de Valette not been released from slavery. Some subtle and mysterious universal alchemy must have fated that his contemporary, Dragut, who ironically was eventually killed in combat on Maltese soil during the Great Siege, would free him from the hellish conditions of a Turkish galley slave.
Aurora’s intervention bore fruit; my stop at the passport office is a fast one. I had been worried about making my hair appointment on time.
As predicted, Pierre of Chez Pierre does not seem too happy to see me, and is tremendously salty throughout the whole process of covering up his painstaking work of art, the signature five shades of honey and ash blonde highlights he’s popular for, in black hair color.
“There goes,” he complains, “from fabulous to blah!”
I have to admit that I’m not completely disappointed with the result. The face that looks back at me in the salon mirror revives pictures of a much younger and less lived-in me.
It is almost noon when I finally make my way to Profs’ house. St. Ursula Street is quite long and the part where Profs resides is a daunting flight of ancient stone steps flanked by the weathered walls of tall and narrow houses with their many-times-painted-over, aged wooden doors and wrought-iron balconies spilling overgrown plants onto the alleyway.
Lace curtains flow from the open windows of the pervasive green box balconies and some residences have wide open doors hoping for the non-existent breeze through the finely wrought bamboo curtains.
Profs’ antique shop is immediately adjacent to his residence where his spinster sister is standing on a wooden stool vigorously scrubbing the inner glass door with soapy water. A delicious smell of home cooking emanates from inside. One could almost expect to find a Maltese homemaker to be laboriously occupied either cooking or cleaning some corner of the house at all times, whilst being fully mindful of the goings-on within a five mile radius.
And true to form, “He’s next door,” she calls out to me from her perch as I rush by, feeling a sudden pang of guilt over the illegal fried date pastries I’m about to smuggle in. I open the glass door to the workshop, automatically triggering the melodious jingle of a doorbell.
The antique shop is stacked with marble statues, old pottery vases, statuettes, lamps, chaises, bed frames, monk’s benches, liquor cabinets, cupboards and armoires, but seems to be missing anything animate.
Profs has aged tremendously in the past year, and blends in so well with the beige and brown furniture in his store, I almost miss him curled in a large armchair reading a newspaper.
“My dear Graziella,” he greets me jovially, “do come in. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? It’s been such a long time. I was so glad to hear from you!”
“It has been a long time,” I admit, “but I haven’t forgotten how much you like these,” I say as I reach for the pastries in my purse.
Profs chuckles and thanks me profusely as he inspects the contents of the oily brown bag. “Tell me dear, what can I do for you? Have you found employment yet? I hear it’s been hard for you.”
“I’m still looking around,” I fib. “I was in the neighborhood and came by to say hello.”
“It’s always nice to see you,” he says. “I’m still hoping you take my advice and further your studies. I would have liked to see your name on my PhD candidate list. I feel you would make an excellent lecturer at the university.”
Since I have absolutely no intention of furthering my studies, I change the subject. “I am aware of the extensive research you’ve done about the Knights of St. John and the Great Siege of Malta. I am wondering if you can be of help. I am currently researching an item that belonged to Grandmaster de Valette’s daughter, Isabella Guasconi. I am interested in anything related to the jewelry box her husband swiped after her murder.”
Profs raises a bushy eyebrow beneath his thick rimmed, old-fashioned glasses and strokes his peppered facial hair, raking his beard as if racking his brain, something he always does while deep in thought. He looks disappointed and I instantly know he isn’t going to be of much help. My experience with the man is that if any information, however trivial, was available about the jewelry box in question, he would be privy to it. It would be stored right there in his vast mental archive and the stroking of his beard would have sufficed to exhume all details.
Right now he is looking at me as he had done when I failed to research a paper thoroughly enough, or the time he caught me reading a fashion blog and surfing the web for tidbits of pop culture during his lecture. I realize that Isabella Guasconi’s jewelry box is not something he considers historically relevant.
“I did carry out extensive research on the subject,” he says, “however all the information around the grandmasters’ supposed affairs and illegitimate children is nothing more than speculation. Unfortunately, apart from folk tales, there’s hardly any legitimate documentation about the private lives of the grandmasters.”
Without revealing my disappointment in his lack of information and enthusiasm about the matter, I change the subject to other topics and later accept his invitation to a late lunch since whatever his sister is cooking smells heavenly.
It is late afternoon when I finally drive away from Valletta. I decide to head back to the marquis’ palazzo, and since Profs had not been enlightening at all, revisit the library and start working on the mountain of books in the room as Andras had recommended.
Rosina opens the door to the palazzo when I knock. The entryway is cluttered with a full set of gorgeous LV luggage and various neatly stacked boxes. Two men are hauling the luggage and boxes and piling them by the doorway.
I look at Rosina questioningly since I expected the marquis to have left on his trip already, and this is way too much luggage for one short visit to Rome anyway.
“Do you remember the girl who was here yesterday?” Rosina shares, sounding terribly enthused. “I believe you met her. Very beautiful isn’t she?”
I nod at the old woman who has a smirk on her face and is observing me with eyes that convey utmost distaste.
“Her name is Haifa,” she informs me without any coercing. “He brought her here all the way from Saudi Arabia. A real princess in the flesh! But alas,” she grins, her eyes shiny and wicked, “she’s about to meet the same fate they all d
o.”
She tut-tuts maliciously making me wonder why the marquis would have such a batty old crone in his employ.
“And you know what, little lady,” she continues, “this is what he always does. He leaves me here to clean up his messes. He expects her gone when he gets back. Gone, is exactly what he said! And no traces of her left behind!”
I have to admit that I feel elated at the thought of gorgeous Andras Valletta being romantically unattached, a feeling I am embarrassed by. Envisioning the old library packed with books and the daunting task ahead of me, I decide not to get involved with Rosina and the situation she seems to be enjoying tremendously.
“I have work to do,” I say as I hurry away from the old lady and head to the library.
“This is how it always ends,” she calls after me chuckling, but I ignore her.
Closing the door behind me, I walk along the bookshelves. Being used to simply typing a search word online and getting a multitude of results related to my search within a few seconds, the prospect of having a long, difficult night ahead of me researching my subject makes me cringe.
Although the book collection in the room is daunting, I soon discover that what I’m looking at is a thoroughly organized library. Most of the books are incredibly old, but appear to be in excellent condition. There are shelves of first-edition printed books dating from the sixteenth century with delicate pages that feel like calfskin rather than paper. I also come across the original editions of the works of William Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe. Some of the beautifully bound volumes are written and illustrated by hand, reminding me of some of the more popular works by Leonardo da Vinci.
I come across an old version of the Bible in black and red ink on vellum, with illuminating gold flourishes and deep red annotations in the columns. A whole shelf contains a considerable number of music manuscripts on parchment that remind me of medieval French monks copying away in seclusion. I find a set of ancient geography books containing extensive maps and ancient theories about the world. The collection contains books written in Latin, Greek and Aramaic.
