Faye and I chose a table beside a towering fern and eased off our tired feet. Within moments a 50-something man with an unshaven, grey-flecked chin bustled towards us, placing upon our table an ashtray and a dish of olives.
"My kind of place," Faye commented, pushing the ashtray away with a long finger and then snapping a photo of the olives. They were elongated and fat, brownish-purple skin glistening with a fresh pour of olive oil and green with a cascade of oregano. Faye popped one in her mouth and her eyes widened at the intense burst of briny goodness. "I love little quaint places like this. You can't get olives like this at Olive Garden!"
"From my home," boasted the proprietor. "I also recommend the kumquat liqueur: also from my garden."
"You can juice a kumquat?" I asked. "Does it get mad? Bring us a couple while I try to think of a joke using the word kumquat. Might take me awhile, but I know there's one in there somewhere."
The kumquat liqueur came and we enjoyed the experience, if not the drink. It was dense and syrupy, like Coca Cola from a broken fountain that didn't add enough carbonated water. Perhaps inspired by this, we sipped on a bottle of sparkling water.
"I'm so enjoying this, you know," Faye said. "It's so fun to travel with someone like-minded. I hear you never really know somebody until you travel with them. Of course, that really pertains to sharing a hotel room."
“Well, if you insist…” I joked with a profound roll of my eyes to signify that she was putting me out.
"Which we're not doing," Faye quickly added.
"At least I saw you in your bra," I replied, grinning.
"For what little that's worth," she grumbled good-naturedly.
But I quite agreed with Faye's sentiment. I was sick of traveling alone. My first overseas traveling had been with Bianca. The experience had been so sublime that I had followed her to ships in the hopes of keeping it going. Through sheer effort we made a go of it, but the initial excitement of wild international travel had succumbed to logistical fatigue, the sizzle to cold steak.
"It's so important to share these experiences with someone," Faye continued, as if reading my thoughts. "Life is about people, after all, not places. But when you're with another, even if you can't make a personal connection with where you're traveling, you still have that connection with the person you're with. You're sure to bring something back."
"Interesting," I said. "I hadn't really thought about travel in regards to a personal connection. I always thought it was about keeping yourself out of it as much as possible, so you can be open to the ways of the others you're visiting."
"How can you keep yourself out of it?" Faye asked. "You are seeing things through your eyes and remembering them with your brain. But it's more than that. As a ship doctor I've volunteered on dozens of ships and seen dozens of countries. Most are nothing at all like Oklahoma. But my family and friends are there. How else can I share with them—they, who've been nowhere and seen nothing—the joys of travel? If I don't make a connection when I'm in that far off place that is so different, how can they? The best way to let my family share the experience is to live it, even if only a moment, through me. Bringing back a T-shirt is a meaningless gesture."
"To play devil's advocate," I countered lightly. "A T-shirt is proof you're thinking of them while you're away. That's not meaningless."
"I disagree," Faye said, shaking her head. "If I'm in Greece, I don't want to be pining for the plains of Oklahoma. I'm only here for a short time, so why waste it? My family knows I love them. I don't need to prove it with a trinket. If my bringing back a thing is that important to them, they're being selfish. Traveling is my chance to grow and I shouldn't waste such a wonderful and rare opportunity gathering stuff to prove my love. That's not how you prove love anyway."
"Interesting," I said again. "I quite agree that traveling is an opportunity to grow. But here we are, focusing not on Greek culture—other than these orgasmic olives!—but finding the spots where they filmed an English movie twenty-five years ago. The personal connection I understand: I'll think of this every time I see a James Bond movie, past or future. I'll have this joyful memory popping up the rest of my life and, unfortunately for those around me, I'll tell the story again and again, ad nauseum. But I don't see how it has made me grow."
"Self-awareness is an important manner of growth," Faye offered.
I snorted. "Yeah, I'm now more aware than ever that I am not the stuff of James Bond."
"Like I'm a Bond girl?" Faye rebutted. "Maybe we're not, but you have learned that you are a quest taker. You create new and intellectually stimulating challenges for yourself, and aren't afraid to undertake them."
"At least today," I agreed, pleased with Faye's take on things.
3
"How was your date with the Witch Doctor?" Cosmina asked through a cloud of cigarette smoke. She exhaled upwards, billowing it towards the awning above our table.
"Witch Doctor?" I chided lightly.
"Fine," she retorted. "Dr. Faye, Medicine Woman."
"So she's from Oklahoma," I defended with lessening patience. "And has some Native American in her. What's your problem? You're from Romania: should I call you a gypsy?"
That shut her up. There's nothing Romanians hate more than being called a gypsy—unless they were one, that is.
I sighed inwardly and looked away. We sat upon a long terrace on the edge of a thirty-foot seawall. Twilight was soon to pass into night, and numerous points of light popped up in anticipation, some wavering at the tops of masts of ships hidden in the gathering gloom, others steady but blinking across the distance to the Albanian coast opposite. I was surprised at how black and menacing the Ionian Sea looked at night, a total disparity with its inviting tropical blue of day. We were at a restaurant tucked behind the St. George's Gate in Corfu Town, located in a dingy five-story apartment building at a noteworthy bend in the road down to the Old Harbor.
"Anyway," Cosmina said into her glass of white wine. "I asked you all here so I could apologize for last night's... mix-up."
I made an overt motion to point out there were only two of us at the table. "Yet only I am present."
"Barney's on watch," she said simply.
"And Faye?"
"Apparently your Bond girl can't read directions. I'm not waiting for her to get her shit together."
"Yeah, physicians frequently have trouble following directions," I sniped back, intentionally tweaking Cosmina's jealousy over station. "I hope there wasn't a medical emergency or anything."
"Hmm," Cosmina said blandly, stamping out her cigarette butt. I marveled that the neighboring tables didn't mind the stink while they were eating. Then again, most of them had a cigarette burning in the ashtray while they tackled food themselves.
"And what about Susie?" I asked. "She's the one who's upset."
Cosmina answered by tilting her head to light another cigarette.
We waited a bit longer, no doubt so Cosmina could keep up appearances, then ordered dinner. We both had Greek salads, which were utterly unlike salads in America. There was no lettuce of any kind, but rather chunks of meaty tomatoes and snappy cucumber, copious rings of red onions, and plentiful juicy kalamata olives. Atop the large bowl were several thick triangles of feta cheese upon which olive oil was dumped and oregano tossed. The flavors were brilliant and bold.
"So tomorrow," Cosmina said, "I take you to Valletta."
"Who's that?"
"It's the capital of Malta," she said, giving me a look that clearly indicated only idiots didn't know that.
"Okay," I said, feeling more embarrassed than perhaps I should have. "What's in Malta?"
"Damien," she said. "He owns the biggest tour company in Malta. Also ones in Sicily and Libya. He wants to meet you."
"Me?" I said, blinking in confusion. "What do you mean?"
"He wants to create a ghosts of Malta tour."
My jaw dropped and I stared at Cosmina, dumbfounded. "How did...? I never told anyone here I wrote a book about ghost
s."
"Real ghost stories of an Old West ghost town," she said with a proud wiggle, like a parent boasting of her child's accomplishment. "With maps and history of each haunted building."
"You... you Googled me!" I suddenly realized.
To her credit, Cosmina did not bother denying it. Instead she just continued, "Damien was excited when I told him about your book. He is extremely important. Trust me, you don't want to miss this. You'll see."
"Sure, sure," I said, anything but sure of being ready to head out into port with Cosmina again. But she did have me intrigued.
Taking a swig of my local beer, Mythos, I gathered the courage to say what I felt needed to be said.
"If we're going into port together again," I began cautiously, "Well, I just want to make it clear that it's all business."
Cosmina looked up at me, face pinched in innocent confusion.
"You know I used to date a Romanian," I explained. "That's over. Not just with Bianca, I mean—and I do not want to talk about it yet—but with foreign women in general. It's too soon and it's too complicated."
Cosmina grunted while reaching across the table to spear the last hunk of feta from my salad.
"I'm serious," I said decisively. "I just broke off a three year relationship with Bianca very suddenly."
"Yoyo said you proposed to her," Cosmina prodded. Then with a gleeful flippancy she asked, "That not work the way you planned?"
"Actually it did," I snapped, suddenly irate. "Coming to Wind Surf didn't work the way I planned. It's... whatever. I'm just done with women for a while, leave it at that. Certainly I'm done with Romanian women. D-U-N, done."
"Sure," she said with a slight shrug. I was not at all reassured. Tomorrow, I sensed, was another trap.
Chapter 6. Valletta, Malta
1
There are offices, and there are offices. The difference between the two can be excellent furniture, extreme views, or excessive spaciousness. Sometimes all three. Damien's office had none of these things, and was a paper-filled mess, to boot. His furniture of solid-colored cloth was new, if not particularly nice. His third-floor view of a Maltese harbor was unique, if not particularly beautiful. Of space his office had but little. Yet those other criteria, arguably commonplace, could be bought. Damien's office walls were loaded with something that could not be so easily put on a credit card: photographs of Damien with U.S. President Carter, Damien with U.S. President Reagan, Damien with U.S. President Reagan and Soviet President Gorbachev. A fourth photograph was of Libyan President Qaddafi, autographed in Arabic with text surely reading, 'to my good friend Damien, love Moamar.' Yes, Damien had an office.
After being chauffeured to the office by one of his drivers, Cosmina and I had only a short wait before Damien himself arrived. I nearly did a double-take upon sight of him. Based upon the pictures of presidents past, I had assumed Damien would look at least middle aged, if not older. He most certainly did not. Yet when he smiled the wrinkles around his eyes contracted to reveal a man who had seen many, many summers. His oily black hair was slicked back in a wet look that at a glance hid the shoots of grey. He was incredibly handsome and groomed, his handshake that of a self-disciplined as well as a self-made man.
"I greatly appreciate you taking the time to see me," he said in English with an ever-so-slight hint of British accent. "Cosmina says you might be able to help me with a project I'm considering."
"I find it hard to believe I have much to offer a man with such esteemed colleagues," I replied, nodding to the wall of awe with an appropriate sense of, well, awe.
"Colleagues?" Damien demurred, "Certainly not. Men for whom I've performed a service, yes. Malta has ever been a bridge, between south and north, west and east."
"A service?"
"As host," he clarified with a smart smile. "For being a host is everything in my country. Tell me, Brian, have you been to Malta before? No? Then first: a tour of my home."
"Surely you're too busy a man for—."
"Nonsense! Come, I'll show you a place in the world unlike any other."
I hadn't known what to expect of this meeting Cosmina had arranged, but certainly not a personal tour of the island by a man such as Damien! Within minutes we three were in Damien's Mercedes sedan—sleek and black as his hair—cruising through some of the most unique streets I had ever seen.
"Malta is in the very center of the Mediterranean," Damien explained as he barreled down streets so narrow that to poke my head out the window meant decapitation. If that were not nerve-wracking enough, his emphasizing words with both hands was downright terrifying. Apparently being on an island a mere 50 miles from Italy rubbed off. "A land bridge between Africa and Europe for millennia! We have some of the rarest and oldest archeological finds on Earth. Our ancient temples are unrivaled, our collection of Venus figurines unparalleled."
"Really?" I said, impressed. "We studied Venus figurines in college. I remember clearly the Venus of Willendorf, but I've never seen one in person."
"What's a Venus?" Cosmina asked. She did not sound curious so much as annoyed at not being part of the conversation.
"Venus figurines are paleolithic fertility symbols," I explained. "They are always really fat women with big breasts and big bellies. For whatever reason, they never have heads. They are some of the oldest sculptures mankind has ever made, probably for ritual use. Usually they're found in Europe. I understand that they are only inches tall."
"Not all of them," Damien said proudly. "We have an intact Venus of human size. In fact, we have the largest of them all. The entire temple of Ħaġar Qim was built in the rounded curves of a Venus. It's the oldest stone building in the world, built a full one thousand years before the Pyramids of Giza."
"You've got to be kidding!" I exclaimed.
"Would you like to see it?"
"Are you kidding?"
"He's not kidding," Cosmina muttered irritably from the backseat. "That's a horrible expression. He's not a child."
"Please, let me take you there," Damien said, beaming. With a sharp push against the pedal, onward we zoomed through the streets of Valletta.
The capital city of the island nation of Malta was originally built as a fortress at the tip of the great peninsula that split the great harbor in two. Generation after generation of defenders ensured the fortress grew in height, wave after wave of invaders ensured the fortresses grew in number. Over the course of well over a millennium, the forts and bastions and auberges enveloped the entire peninsula.
Reflected in the dazzling waters grew city after city along the irregular coastline, surrounding one of the world's best natural harbors with a jumble of piers, quays, ramps, bastions, and cliffs. Not a single structure was without something stacked upon it, be it house, warehouse, or henhouse. In 2005, Malta boasted 350,000 inhabitants on a cluster of islands only 123 square miles, making it the densest urban environment in all of Europe. And Malta, though at a glance staggeringly non-Western, was indeed of Europe. Their currency was part of the British Commonwealth and valued nearly three times that of the U.S. dollar. Being the perfect crossroads kept the Maltese pound stronger than that of even the British pound sterling.
The contrast of the sea and stone was particularly striking, with the waters a stunningly bright, baby-blue despite being deep enough to harbor the entire British Royal Navy. Pretty as the calm waters were, the stone was what arrested attention: the color a creamy, pale tan, like the wax of a honeycomb. Every single building was made with it through and through: every castle, fortification wall, pier, park, and street. As far as the eye could see, both nature's bedrock and man's infrastructure were of color alike.
"This stone is amazing," I commented. "It's beautiful. It reminds me of a big, important building I saw on Corfu yesterday."
"Yes!" Damien exclaimed. "The Palace of St. Michael and St. George is indeed made of Maltese stone. I'm impressed you observed that. I'm pleased I'm not the only man who gets excited over good stonework."
"Yes, ex
citing," Cosmina mocked beneath her breath. I was thrilled she had been relegated to the back seat.
"Every building in Malta is made of this limestone," Damien continued. "The whole island is limestone, so in the beginning it was the obvious choice. The ancient temples of Tarxien and Ħaġar Qim are made of it, as are all the fortresses built by the Crusaders. Now it is a law, a way to keep our heritage despite global influence. Some will cover it with plaster and paint, but most people are proud of our stone. Some call it simply Maltese limestone, or perlato maltese, but its real name is globigerina."
Damien continued at length about the limestone and its role in the long, convoluted history of Malta. He seemed to know everything there was to know about the stone, just as he seemed to know everything there was to know about Malta. He was a very charming man, very smart, very rich, and very driven—not to mention very nice and very handsome. Some people have all the luck!
But Cosmina was certainly not feeling lucky. She obviously had no idea what she was getting herself into when she thought up this meeting. No doubt it was a shock to her to discover that normal, everyday people can enjoy not only history, but even paleontology and urban development. If she'd been intent on luring me into a trap, it certainly backfired this time. I was greatly amused by this. Her inability to hide her boredom, while rude, was hilarious. I would have laughed out loud if I wasn't so distraught over presenting ourselves badly to Damien. Yet he seemed to take it all in stride.
"Can I smoke in here?" Cosmina suddenly asked.
"Of course," Damien replied smoothly. "What is mine, is yours."
Before he even finished replying, Cosmina had already tapped open her pack and was lighting a cigarette. She took a long, loving drag, then blew out an even longer, more loving stream of smoke. It billowed across the roof of the car to waft into every corner. Thusly fortified, Cosmina asked, "Let me guess: the Venus things are made of limestone, too?"
High Seas Drifter (Cruise Confidential 4) Page 8
