A Dead Man in Malta

by Michael Pearce

  ‘My project.’

  He bent over her shoulder and read the opening sentence. Then he read it again. And then he sat down and read it yet again.

  “The Victoria Lines in themselves are not important. It is the Victoria Lines in our hearts that are.” That’s pretty good, Sophia. That’s pretty good! It’s the Victoria Lines that you carry about with you that matter.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I know so. The Victoria Lines are engraved on every Maltese heart.’

  ‘That’s what I think!’ said Sophia, pleased.

  ‘I don’t know how they get engraved, but it starts early.’

  ‘It’s your parents.’ said Sophia.

  ‘Your mother is a wonderful woman, Sophia. Don’t ever forget that!’

  ‘On the whole she’s not bad,’ conceded Sophia.

  ‘And her heart’s in the right place. You know that, Sophia.’

  ‘Her heart’s in the right place. But sometimes she’s distracted by realism.’

  Paolo laughed.

  ‘Well, that’s something that could never be said of me,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve always been an idealist, Paolo,’ said Sophia.

  Paolo laughed again. ‘Oh, Sophia, if you only knew! If you only knew.’

  ‘You want to pull yourself together, Paolo. You’re wasted. And it’s you who are doing the wasting.’

  ‘You can only do what you can,’ said Paolo. ‘It comes back to the Victoria Lines. Once they’re there you can’t get them out.’

  ‘You let them loom too large.’ said Sophia.

  ‘Maybe I do,’ said Paolo thoughtfully.

  He got up from the table and went over to the window and looked out.

  ‘But, you see,’ he said, ‘there’s another question: if you don’t do anything about them, can you ever put things right? Can you ever get yourself right?’

  ‘I ask myself that.’ said Sophia. ‘I’ve asked Chantale that, too - you know Chantale? Of course you do!’

  ‘I know her.’ said Paolo. ‘Chantale: is that her name?’

  ‘Miss de Lissac is what other people call her,’ said Sophia offhandedly.

  ‘And what does she say?’

  ‘She says that in the end everybody has to compromise. That’s life. Now, in fact, I don’t altogether agree with her. It seems to me that if you really believe in something, you let yourself down if you don’t go for it absolutely. But Chantale says you can’t go for things absolutely, in the end you always have to compromise. It’s the point at which you decide to make your compromise that’s the thing. It’s a question of balance, she says. And, she says, you nearly always get it wrong.’

  Paolo laughed. ‘Well, I certainly get it wrong.’

  ‘I may do,’ admitted Sophia. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘It’s easier for you,’ said Paolo. ‘You’re not an Arab.’

  ‘Chantale is an Arab,’ said Sophia. ‘She comes from Morocco.’

  ‘And what does she say about that?’

  ‘She says that things are such a mess there that the only practical thing to do now is to compromise.’

  ‘Yes, but what do the Moroccans say?’

  ‘She is a Moroccan.’

  Paolo was silent.

  ‘Actually,’ said Sophia, ‘she’s only half a Moroccan. The other half is French.’

  ‘Ah, well - ’

  ‘She says that seeing things from both sides ought to make it easier. But that she’s damned if it does.’

  Paolo laughed uproariously.

  ‘That lady is the only person who really understands me.’ he said.

  He turned to go.

  ‘But she’s wrong, you know,’ he said. ‘It’s too late for compromise.’

  After Paolo had gone, Sophia put down her pen and sat thinking. She sat thinking for quite a while then got up and went out.

  As Seymour was walking down the road, the heavens opened. A torrent of rain descended. In seconds the street was awash. In less than a minute the road had become a river flowing downhill to the bend round towards Sliema. It was too much for the bend and for the drains to cope with, and the river become a lake. It had spread now right up to and over the pavements. Seymour, suddenly finding that it was reaching up over his ankles, bolted into the nearest shop, which turned out to be an ice-cream parlour. In which Sophia was sitting.

  The parlour was already crowded but Sophia made room for him beside her on a bench. It seemed only fair to the shop to buy an ice cream. He bought one for Sophia, too. Sophia had already bought one but she was able to manage two, taking lick upon lick alternately.

  ‘I am very pleased, Mr Seymour.’ said Sophia, ‘to see you and Chantale getting on so well. But what does it feel like to you, as an Englishman, to be married to an Arab?’

  ‘Pretty good, actually.’ said Seymour. ‘Although, I have to tell you, we are not, in fact, married.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’ said Sophia, with great interest.

  ‘Yet,’ said Seymour.

  ‘But you are going to?’

  ‘If I can talk her into it. At the moment, she is holding out for independence. She is still not completely sure.’

  ‘I would be like that,’ said Sophia. ‘Not completely sure. And holding out for independence. Is that because she’s an Arab?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Because it might make a difference. She might be proud, you see. And reluctant to surrender her independence to an Englishman.’

  ‘She is proud.’ said Seymour. ‘But I’m not sure that my being an Englishman would make much difference to that.’

  ‘Well, it might.’ said Sophia. ‘You are a representative of an occupying power. At least, that is how it will seem to her.’

  ‘Britain certainly occupies a lot of Arab countries.’ said Seymour. ‘But it hasn’t occupied Morocco yet. Which is where Chantale comes from.’

  Sophia nodded, and licked her ice cream.

  ‘She has told me,’ she said. ‘And from what she told me, I don’t think it’s very different there from the way it is here.’

  ‘I like to think,’ said Seymour, ‘that we relate as individuals.’

  ‘That would be ideal.’ said Sophia. ‘But is it possible? Is it realistic?’

  ‘We like to think so.’

  ‘But you’re still not married.’ Sophia pointed out.

  She gave the ice cream in her left hand another lick; held the flavour, considered, and then gave the ice cream in her right hand a lick.

  ‘Why I’m asking,’ she said, ‘is that I am wondering about Uncle Paolo. You see, his mother married an Arab and it didn’t work out. And it’s left him all messed up. At least, Grandfather thinks so. But my mother thinks it’s nothing to do with that. She says that they were both difficult people anyway.’

  Sophia took another double lick.

  ‘I never knew my Aunt Debra.’ she said, ‘but if she was anything like my mother, that could be true.’

  ‘I think your mother is charming!’ objected Seymour. ‘And so does Chantale.’

  ‘Chantale is very generous,’ said Sophia, ‘as well as being proud. I’m a bit like that, too. And, probably.’ she said, mopping up a drip, ‘Grandfather is, too. It nearly broke his heart when Aunt Debra moved away to Tripoli. He didn’t really mind her marrying an Arab. He says he could have lived with Uncle Raoul. It was his daughter moving away that he couldn’t cope with. I have told him,’ said Sophia, ‘that he is lucky my mother didn’t move away, too. And that when I am grown up I shall certainly move away. Grandfather says that the most he will concede is that it would be a mixed blessing. But whenever I say that, my mother flies into a tantrum. They are both.’ said Sophia, ‘rather alike in many ways.’

  She considered her ice creams and then gave both a series of quick licks to reassess the flavours.

  ‘Mother says,’ said Sophia, ‘that what’s wrong with Uncle Paolo is not that he’s half Arab but that he’s never had a proper family. Aunt Debra died so
young, you see. And, anyway, she was over here and Paolo’s father stayed over in Tripoli. So it’s all been divided, and he’s been divided, ever since. And Mother says the family ought to try to make up for it, and she certainly tries to make up for it. And even Grandfather does. Or did, when Uncle Paolo was small. But then Uncle Paolo went away and when he came back, he was very difficult to get on with. Grandfather says he’d become a real pain in the ass. And that,’ said Sophia, licking away, ‘I’m afraid is true.’

  ‘Perhaps, when he gets back to sea - ’ said Seymour. ‘Perhaps, actually, he needs to get away from the family.’

  ‘I said that,’ said Sophia, ‘and Mother flew into another tantrum. The trouble is, every time he gets home again, he’s got worse! He says it’s the British - he’s usually on British boats. Grandfather says, for Christ’s sake, stay away from the British, then! But he can’t. As I say, he’s divided. And that makes it worse.’

  Sophia was down to the last tips of the cones.

  ‘Mother says he ought to settle down and start a family of his own. But Grandfather says he’s not like that. Mother gets cross with him and says, what a dreadful thing to say about a member of your family! And Grandfather, trying to be helpful, I think, says maybe it’s just the Arab way. The men putting their arms around each other and all that. And Mother says: will he stop going on about Paolo being an Arab? He’s only half Arab, and, anyway, all Maltese have got some Arab in them. Including him, Grandfather. I wondered,’ said Sophia, finishing off the cones and looking at the rain pouring down outside, ‘how you and Chantale found it.’

  ‘Found - ?’

  ‘Mixed marriage.’

  ‘We don’t think of ourselves - ’

  ‘And what about the children?’ said Sophia. ‘How will they find it? I mean, will they turn out like Uncle Paolo? I mean, that has to be a consideration.’

  ‘I’m a bit of a mixture myself,’ said Seymour. ‘We all are. Once you get a little down the line.’

  ‘That also is true,’ said Sophia, going over to stand by the door and look out. ‘I wonder what Felix would think about it?’

  ‘About - ?’

  ‘Marrying a Maltese.’

  ‘It’s a bit early to start thinking about that, isn’t it?’

  ‘One has to look ahead. And, in any case, it’s probably better if I do the looking. Because I don’t think an idea like this has ever entered Felix’s head.’

  ‘I thought I would find you here!’ said Seymour, taking Dr Malia by the arm.

  ‘I usually am,’ confessed Dr Malia. ‘I feel at home in the hospital.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. Now, look, there’s something I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘Please do!’ said Dr Malia cordially.

  ‘I don’t know if you remember, but when we met last time, I asked you about the people who had come out of the boiler room that night, the night when there were so many people coming and going, and the sailor was murdered. You recognized them, you said, but at the time you couldn’t remember their names.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Dr Malia. ‘They popped out of the boiler room like rabbits. Most odd! And, by the way, Mrs Ferreira is holding a fenkata. Did you know? I hope you are coming.’

  ‘I am coming, as it happens. But let’s just go back to the boiler room for a moment. You saw two people and recognized them, but you couldn’t remember their names.’

  ‘Couldn’t I? Oh, dear! I’m rather like that these days, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Can you remember them now?’

  Dr Malia thought, then shook his head.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said, with genuine regret.

  ‘I thought perhaps you wouldn’t. But never mind. Would you mind stepping along here with me?’

  ‘We’re going to the boiler room?’ said Dr Malia.

  ‘We certainly are.’

  Along the corridor, from around the corner, they suddenly heard Luigi’s voice.

  ‘Benito, I don’t like it here!’

  ‘I don’t like it much, either,’ said Lucca’s voice. ‘But you won’t have to stay long.’

  Seymour and Dr Malia turned the corner.

  ‘Were these the men you saw coming out of the boiler room?’ asked Seymour.

  ‘One of them was,’ said Dr Malia. ‘Not Benito, of course. I know him. But the other one. Luigi. I know him, too, of course.’

  ‘He was with a different man that night. Do you remember the name of that man?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ said Mr Malia contritely.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Seymour. ‘I think you will when I show you him.’

  ‘I hope so!’

  ‘I don’t like it here!’ said Luigi agitatedly.

  ‘You won’t have to stay here long.’ said Inspector Lucca, reassuringly.

  Two nurses came along the corridor. They fell upon Dr Malia with delighted squeals.

  ‘There you are! We thought we’d lost you!’

  ‘Someone said they’d seen you over here!’

  ‘You’re coming, aren’t you?’

  ‘Certainly. If you want me.’

  ‘We do, we do!’

  ‘Where, exactly?’ said Dr Malia hesitantly.

  ‘Well, it’s not till Friday, actually. But we want to tell you now.’

  ‘And every day until it happens! To make sure you remember.’

  ‘Yes, yes. But what is it?’

  ‘And hang a big reminder notice around your neck!’

  ‘Actually, that may not be necessary since Melinda says she’s going to pick you up herself and put you under armed guard.’

  ‘Dear, dear! What have I done?’

  ‘We don’t want you to miss it.’

  ‘Miss what?’

  ‘The fenkata!’ Mrs Ferreira’s arranging one. Over by the Victoria Lines. Everyone’s invited - nurses, St John’s, the English visitors. You’re invited, too,’ she said to Seymour.

  ‘And you,’ said the other nurse to Dr Malia, ‘are especially invited. And Bettina’s bringing her mother, so you’ve got to come!’

  ‘I would certainly like to see Bettina’s mother.’

  ‘I’ll bet! Are there any other old flames you would like us to invite?’

  ‘It sounds as if the young flames will be enough,’ said Dr Malia.

  ‘Now, Luigi,’ said Inspector Lucca, once they’d got him in a quiet room by himself, ‘you’ve got some explaining to do.’

  ‘Benito, I don’t like it here!’

  ‘So why did you come here, then?’ asked Seymour. ‘That night when the two of you came out of the boiler room and saw Dr Malia?’

  ‘He made me!’ said Luigi whimpering. ‘I didn’t want to come. I said it would make my clothes dirty! And it did!’

  ‘Did you go on into the hospital?’

  ‘No, no. I would have lost my way.’

  ‘So you just stayed by the boiler room?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So that you could help him get out? That board’s very stiff, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. You have to wedge it. And he wanted me to be there right beside it so that I could hold it open for him.’

  ‘And you did that, did you, Luigi?’

  ‘He made me. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to come at all. And I didn’t want to get down that filthy hole, not with my suit on. I knew it would make my suit dirty!’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Preparations for the fenkata were under way. Mrs Ferreira had chosen a spot right beside the Victoria Lines where there was soft grass to sit on and the wall would give protection against the wind, or, if some more rain should come up, against that, too. Tablecloths were already spread and, on the other side of the wall, rabbits, some alive and in cages, others already dead, were assembled. There were going to be a lot of people, with the two St John Ambulances, Maltese and British, the nurses, some staff from the hospital - Umberto and Berto, for instance, and Laura and Mario, working like a slave carrying baskets and boxes over to the picnic sp
ot from the carts on the road. And, of course, the band.

  But which band? The Birgu band, Birgu being the place most of the people had come from, or Mrs Ferreira’s home band, Mrs Ferreira being host and convenor? This could have turned awkward but, as Chantale pointed out to Sophia, even here compromise was in the end reached. There was a joint band.

  And, of course, given the large numbers of people, well over a hundred, indeed, more like two hundred, there had to be a corresponding amount of provisions. The number of rabbits, for instance . . . Seymour feared a wholesale massacre of rabbits on the island but, apparently, they had already been massacred, years before, and the rabbits were grown for the market. Even so, there were startling numbers of them and Seymour worried now about the cost and whether and how far he should make a contribution. It was totally out of the question that someone as poor as Mrs Ferreira -

  He confided these worries to Mrs Wynne-Gurr and she admitted that originally she had shared them. The West Surrey St John Ambulance would do its best but even those redoubtable ladies were daunted. Mrs Ferreira, however, was not at all daunted. The Maltese were used to this sort of thing. The nurses chipped in, the hospital chipped in, the Navy, with characteristic nautical legerdemain and disregard for accounting, switched massively from buying a battleship to funding a fenkata, half of Malta, it seemed, threw in a bit and suddenly there were funds in plenty.

  In any case much of the chipping in took the form of contributions in kind, most of which came, of course, from the generous Maltese ladies, who produced pastizzi galore, the aniseed-smelling mquaret, crunchy kannoli, guabbajt, nougat hard or soft, brittle or chewy, kzuarezimal almond biscuits covered with honey and nuts, and, especially, for an occasion such as this, the quaghaq tal-ghasel that Seymour and Felix had already encountered, a ring of heavily treacled pastry.

  And then of course, there was the main dish: the rabbits, as big as piglets, plump and fleshy, not at all like the rabbits that Seymour knew.

  Chantale did not know rabbits and viewed them doubtfully: but the nurses, who used up a lot of energy during the day and often the night, and were always hungry, knew exactly what to do with rabbits, and did.

  The Registrar of the hospital had brought along an Admiral, and Sophia explained to him her project.