Andras: Beyond Good and Evil

by S L Zammit

  The old man proceeds to attempt the delicate rescue of the soggy holy wafers from the ground.

  Convinced that he hasn’t yet been recognized, Tony seizes the opportunity to leap on the old man and strikes him over the head with the candlestick. Having suffered many a drunken fall, Tony sincerely hopes that the old man will later awaken from his concussed state with no recollection of the preceding events. The sacristan tumbles onto the ground in a moaning heap, sighs and is silent.

  Satisfied with the old man’s disposition, Tony rushes over to the wicker basket and stuffs its entire contents through his torn pockets into the coat’s lining. He finds that he has gravely underestimated the generosity of his fellow Gozitans and his coat is so heavy with money, he can hardly move.

  The sacristan moans and squirms on the ground and Tony knows he must make haste. But as he heads for the door, a glinting chunk of shiny metal catches his eye.

  It is the broken-off bottom of the golden tabernacle, an ornately decorated, rectangular box. Tony picks up the piece and upon closer inspection realizes that the surface is covered with engravings and a complex etched illustration that looks like planets and comets. The closure of the box is a brass six-pointed star surrounded with four gems across which are etched strange words he can’t read. He unsuccessfully tries to open the box.

  The old man moans again and grasping the box firmly in both hands, Tony flees the room.

  PART TWO

  GRAZIELLA

  Her Perspective

  Chapter 5

  The Interview

  1

  Aug 22nd 2015

  I set my alarm for four AM and turn in ridiculously early for a Saturday night in summer. A bad decision since I’ve been awake all night tossing and turning in bed.

  Despite the suffocating heat and humidity, I try shutting all the windows and fasten the door to the wooden enclosed balcony (a salient feature of the apartment providing a gorgeous view of Valletta across Sliema bay) in an attempt to block out the hubbub of Tower Road and the waterfront. Nevertheless, the summer sounds filter through the green wooden frame and shutters of the balcony. And although at a much lower level, the disturbance is not conducive to sleep.

  The normally placid Mediterranean, audibly lapping onto the rocks and languorously retreating, the cheese-and-pea-pastizzi and deep-pan-pizza vendors vehemently blaring out their wares, the ear-piercing screaming of rambunctious children up and down the street, playing tag and hide-and-seek and their loud-voiced pleading for cotton candy and ice cream at the ridiculous hour of one AM, a cacophony of street performers and balloon twisters, the artists selling oils-on-canvas and fading watercolors, the incessant chatter of people of all ages strolling up and down the promenade, the foreign-language students interacting boisterously in transcontinental-flavored English, the buzz and hum from the coffee shops, lidos and restaurants, the weary fishermen coming in on their blue, red and yellow fishing boats, known as ‘luzzu’, the wide eye of Osiris at both sides of the bow, with their plentiful catch amidst the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ of onlookers. The only missing sound to complete the customary nighttime ruckus is the deafening fireworks of the seasonal village fiestas, held in commemoration of their patron saint.

  It’s been four long hours of mental discomfort in my sheets shrouded by the emotional tension of my apprehensions.

  Yesterday, Aurora and I spent a languid afternoon on the rocky beach under the blazing sun, a few meters from one of the lidos in Sliema, among the animated throng of coconut-oiled tourists, the laughter, screams and splashing of children jumping off rocks, and the blissful cries of wanton beach goers. The sparkling cold water and sea breeze, a welcome escape from the stifling heat of the apartment.

  Aurora wears oversized wayfarers and a bitty black bikini. Her flaxen hair glistens in the sun and her body looks lean, toned and stunning as she performs the ungainly task of smearing sunblock all over her pearly skin.

  I stretch on the rocks, fatigued but a victorious warrior against my strong Mediterranean genes. A regimen of strict dieting since I was twelve years old, vigorous exercising and relentless grooming has helped transform my unfortunate genetic package of unruly curly black hair, olive skin, intense dark eyes and a small curvaceous build into a fit complement for flawless Aurora.

  She seems oblivious to the fact that everybody on the beach is gawking at us; intermittently glancing at her phone laying on the rocks.

  When the screen flickers, momentarily displaying a word bubble containing an indecipherable message, she looks up and waves to a man standing in the distance on a stone balustrade balcony across the Strand. The man holds binoculars up to his eyes, waves back and swiftly retreats into the house.

  “That’s Mark,” she informs me smiling. “He owns this cool new club in Paceville.”

  Aurora fills me in with sporadic tidbits of information at the appropriate time when she deems it necessary. I’ve known her long enough not to coerce her into giving me details. I’ve also known her long enough to know not to bother her about the names of her male friends. Aurora has no problem attracting men, they flock to her like helpless moths to a flame, but she never allows them around long enough.

  Today is all about me. It’s been over a year since my graduation and I still don’t have a job. I am finding it increasingly impossible to stave off the underlying feeling of panic and anxiety as my credit card bills burgeon. And just as I had conceded that it is practically impossible to find gainful occupation with a degree in History and Anthropology, an excited Aurora called me a week ago and said she had found the perfect job for me.

  Aurora was employed as a judge’s assistant almost immediately after we graduated from the University of Malta in a market where employment opportunities were, and still are, scarce. Aurora has a degree in International Law and runs the judicial chambers for the Honorable Judge Joe Montfort. She also helps organize and host several social events for the judge’s wife, Dame Esmeralda Montfort, or Dame Esmie as she is widely known, who uncharacteristic of a woman of her status, has taken a strong liking to Aurora.

  Due to Dame Montfort’s influence, Aurora’s social standing has been transformed, a perk that comes with being under her preeminent and ever reaching wings.

  Aurora jokes that she is the dame’s charity token case, an evident manifestation of her benevolence. Instead of sponsoring an offspring of one of her innumerable friends, she chose an orphan girl from the small island of Gozo. In my present state of dejection, the result of a long succession of unsuccessful job interviews, I would gladly grab the opportunity if some charity came my way.

  “So,” Aurora asks, “have you followed up on the email I sent you?”

  Aurora had forwarded me a cryptic email from one of the judge’s friends. It reads:

  Dear Joe,

  I find myself in quite a predicament since none of the candidates that have been sent to me are right for the job. The task at hand requires a very specific person and I intend to keep interviewing until we find the perfect fit. Please keep the matters I revealed to you between us and do not hesitate to contact me if you come across a suitable candidate.

  Truly,

  Andras Valletta.

  Before I finish reading the email, my cellphone rings. It’s Aurora.

  “So?” without greeting me, her voice excited.

  I feel crestfallen since the email doesn’t contain a job description and I have no idea who Andras Valletta is. Not promising at all, considering the fact that individuals of consequence are well known around a small island.

  The fact that Aurora says he is a real, honest-to-God marquis, makes the whole situation feel more like a sick joke than anything else. I don’t put anything past Aurora.

  The last name Valletta brings to mind an image of the fortress capital city of Malta, the namesake of the 49th Grandmaster of the Order of the Knights of St. John who commissioned its construction, Jean de Valette.

  A valiant and noble knight clad in metal armor, an eight p
ointed cross on his chest. I picture a handsome warrior standing fearless, strong and determined over a bastioned city, sword drawn, in the face of an overwhelming attacking armada of bloodthirsty Turkish pirates spread over an expanse of water. All I can see are fragments of history, shreds of a time long past; what I’m looking for in reality is employment.

  Once again I go over the email. A dejected sigh escapes my mouth before I can contain it.

  Although she doesn’t know the exact details of the job, Aurora knows that the guy is filthy rich and obsessed with antiques, and Dame Esmie is obsessed with him.

  “She can’t stop yakking about him,” says Aurora. “He’s lived in Antibes for many years after which he moved to Saudi Arabia and now he’s back in Malta. From the way the Great Dane,” Aurora’s catty nickname for her boss’ wife, “raves about him, he must be someone!”

  “I can put in a word for you with the judge and set up a meeting with the old man. He probably wants someone to do research! Don’t you see?” she continues, her voice enthusiastic and upbeat. “This is it! This is the job for you.”

  Preliminary Internet searches for Marquis Andras on my laptop prove futile since they only produce cyber junk, endless references to demonology and a demon associated with the name, the grand Marquis of Hell, having under his command thirty legions of demons and an image of a naked winged angel with a raven head riding a fierce black wolf. Andras Valletta is completely non-existent online.

  This sets me on a personal investigative effort that yields meager but important information; a palazzo I already know about, an Aston Martin sports car licensed in his name and a boat slip leasing agreement at the Ta’ Xbiex Yacht Marina.

  With Aurora’s help and through her connections, I discover that Andras Valletta is indeed a marquis, which is a rank above a count, a nobleman by descent, a very private man, an elitist by reputation, and an avid antiquarian who owns and sometimes resides in a palace in Mdina, the old capital city of Malta.

  His palazzo once belonged to Isabella Guasconi, the love child of Grandmaster de Valette. Isabella’s husband, convinced that she was cheating on him, murdered her viciously in a jealous fury and absconded with a box containing her jewelry never to be heard of again.

  I toss and turn in my sweaty bed.

  Unclear about the requirements of the job I am to be interviewed for in a few short hours, I am anxious about the chances of landing this promising opportunity. I have been feeling less capable lately of adapting or turning easily from one task or field of endeavor to another; the expertise I had acquired during my university course seeping out of me bit by bit through lack of use.

  My despondency increases when I realize that not one of my goals has materialized: job, husband, kids and happiness-ever-after. I wish I had researched the man better; my breathing gets heavier.

  Aurora comes in and from the sounds of it she has company. I hear her giggling in the kitchen and a hushed, unfamiliar male voice in the corridor, then the sounds of amatory wrestling in her bedroom, the climaxing groans and contented sighs as all becomes silent in the adjoining room.

  Aurora’s uninterrupted succession of boyfriends never ceases to amaze me. She taunts that I’ll be waiting for the perfect man forever. Easy for her to say, having the face and body of a model doesn’t hurt, Aurora always attracts handsome guys. On the other hand, I feel that the Gollums and the Egors court me.

  Aurora and I are frequently drawn to the same guy and without fail her flawless body, porcelain skin, sea-blue eyes and strawberry mouth win out every time. Although it is quite embarrassing that I’ve never had a close boyfriend, I wouldn’t change my lot. I love Aurora more than a sister.

  To be honest, Aurora has occasionally introduced me to cute guys of her acquaintance. Although I’d like to believe that I would have happily settled with Aurora’s last boyfriend or any one of the previous four, the few dates I had were a complete disaster. These involved boys constantly staring at and obsessing over their phone and its battery life, swiping left and right, checking social media, unable to discuss anything of interest, making me feel as if I were out on a date by myself, sitting across from a person obsessed with his gadget.

  Any attempt to pull them out of their engrossed state is countered with the question of how I expected to kill time if I hadn’t brought my own mobile device along. Moreover, not one of them seemed to be interested in the things I like, so conversation is altogether pointless.

  Although convinced that there aren’t many eligible guys around, I normally join Aurora on a Saturday night out.

  I’m glad that I rummaged through her closet before turning in last night. To be fair, she did give me free rein to her wardrobe for the purpose of showing up to the interview appropriately dressed. I suppose she is sick of hearing me complain about my constrained financial situation.

  The carefully chosen outfit is neatly set on the chaise at the foot of my bed: Aurora’s black Armani fitted dress that fits me better than it does her though she doesn’t admit it, an Hermès silk scarf that Aurora had given me as a graduation present, Aurora’s super-high Manolo Blahnik black pointed-toe pumps which fit me tightly but match so perfectly with the rest of the outfit that I’m prepared to suffer the discomfort. The last item is Aurora’s latest acquisition, the absolutely gorgeous, matt black calfskin LV Capucines MM handbag that cost her a fortune, in which I secured my meticulously compiled résumé in preparation for the interview.

  The shrill sound from the alarm clock cuts through the dark startling me; time has slipped by and the sounds of the street have finally abated. It is the hour before dawn and Tower Road is at long last asleep. Although I can’t account for the entire night, I dozed off sporadically.

  I rapidly go through the perfunctory motions of breakfasting and showering, carefully apply my makeup, and emerge onto the lethargic street lined with palm trees.

  The morning is overcast, grey and still, the street mostly devoid of traffic. Restaurants, cafes, pharmacies, clothes shops, coffee huts, spas and hair salons, are boarded and shuttered. Even the sea seems indolent, heavy with sleep.

  I catch a glimpse of myself in a shop window and am pleased with my reflection. The dress is subtle and elegant, accentuating my figure. My perky breasts, my long neck, small waist and muscular legs are elegantly pronounced, hopefully up to the standard of the marquis’ reputed predilection for elegance and refinement.

  As I totter towards my car, I am grateful that Sunday was chosen for the interview since I won’t have to deal with too much traffic, especially at this hour. In fact, although the ancient city is as far from the sea as you can get on the island, I get onto a bypass and am at my destination in only twenty-five minutes.

  The scarlet dome and belfry of St. Paul’s Cathedral are outlined by the dawning sky, the old stone fortifications rise high from the hilltop and huddle the medieval city and its architectural treasures.

  I park my car and amble towards Greeks’ Gate following strict instructions that have been issued to me from Judge Montfort’s office.

  I had only received one formal and very straightforward email about this interview that still offered no detail as to what the job would entail. I have been instructed to avoid the main stone entryway into the old city but rather use the side gate through the fortifications.

  As I comply, I can’t help wondering if this is a symbolic demand since historically slaves and servants used to enter the city this way. Aurora did say the marquis was an elitist.

  The email guaranteed “handsome remuneration for services rendered” if successful. I am in no position to disregard instructions.

  Scrutinized by the holy eyes of the top half of St. Paul’s figure, rising in high relief from the city’s coat of arms, brandishing a sword in his right hand and a cross in his left, the ancient-stone passageway engulfs me in its darkness infused with damp smells, lit solely by feeble candlelight emanating from a depression in the wall.

  I instinctively press my curled index finger a
nd thumb to my pursed lips as I pass the candle-lit sculpture of the Blessed Virgin, hoping for the promised forty-day indulgence. The gesture is habitual as I have no intention to recite the Salve Regina as inscribed below the statue. I doubt if I can still recite a Salve Regina.

  The clanking of my stilettos on the cobbled street bounces off the ancient lichen-covered grey walls of the alley into the silence of the city. My movement disturbs a group of roosting pigeons that drift in a feathered flurry from the iron balcony to the roof across the narrow street. I hastily tug Aurora’s expensive purse under my arm, smoothing my hair with my free hand, determined to wear something other than stilettos on my next visit.

  Following the emailed directions, I walk down the meandering streets lit by the fading glow cast by ancient overhanging lanterns, toward the end of a short alley, and the majestic red doors of the marquis’ palazzo.

  The building is a classic gothic masterpiece that stylistically predates the predominant Baroque style of the neighboring structures.

  I’m immediately transported to a culturally rich era when the local noblemen evinced for posterity their aspirations for grandeur in these large and elegant buildings.

  A significant part of the façade is elaborate stonework as intricate as a brocade pattern. On the second floor, two quaint cone-shaped balconies flank a sharp flame-like pleated arch, made up of two smaller elongated arches, the points of which are embellished with a maze of fantastic traceries. Distinctive floral tinted glass windows decorate the upper floor. The wooden door, the window shutter and the large wooden central balcony are matt crimson in color.

  Brandished at the top of the edifice is the coat of arms, enclosed in an elaborate stone frame, topped by a crown. Inside, a cross is depicted in relief on each of two diagonal squares and a large falcon together with a fierce lion with its tongue sticking out of its mouth standing on its hind legs on the other two. These four squares are superimposed on the Maltese cross.