by S L Zammit
“Consider an ant colony,” he says. “An ant has no idea that it’s been born into a role. Yet each ant knows what it has to do and unwittingly goes through the motions every day. What happens when one ant falls out of line?”
“Another ant marches in its place,” I respond.
“Even though an ant’s fate is so clear to you and me, the ant doesn’t get it,” he says. “The anthill is its world and everything beyond that is too immense for it to fathom. But imagine what would happen if the ant knew of the mounds of dirt beyond the anthill and the gardens and meadows and jungles and mountains and rivers and oceans and the whole big world and the infinite universe beyond.”
He looks at me sideways with eyes that seem to contain a galaxy and I am so overwhelmed that I could follow him to the very end of the immense universe. There is something so very appealing about the man. I just want to move in closer.
He smiles as if he is reading my thoughts; a hot flush runs through my head and I can’t bring myself to utter a word.
Thankfully, the door to the library squeaks open and Rosina, the old lady who had ushered me in earlier, shuffles in with a tea tray.
She is now wearing a black lace veil over her head and I notice that she has changed into an alternate boxy black dress and hideous orthopedic shoes with short heels as opposed to the hideous flat ones she was wearing earlier. A conspicuous wooden crucifix hangs from her neck and the silver rosary beads around her wrist clank against the tray. She looks even more disgruntled than she did on our previous encounter.
“Here’s your breakfast tray marquis,” she announces, shooting me a look of utter distaste. “I must be off to church right now, or I’ll miss first mass.”
As if on cue, the bells of St. Paul’s cathedral resonate in the room, a few tentative bell chimes that climax suddenly into a symphony of clanking metal.
“Go Rosina, my dear,” he winks at me and jovially salutes her backside as she hustles out of the room. “Please pray for our souls.”
“Rosina is a woman of the church,” he says smiling. “And how could anyone possibly be anything else on this island when there’s a church on every corner?” His pupils dilate and I read mischief in his eyes. “Now I really must have something to eat since I’ve been up all night.”
I divert my eyes downwards from his handsome face and broad shoulders, and notice his crossed legs at the calves. I hadn’t noticed he was barefoot; I try not to imagine what he had been doing up all night.
The marquis pours me some tea without asking if I want any and then gobbles his fried eggs and Maltese sausage hungrily.
“Do you know whom this house belonged to?” he asks me as he dabs his mouth with a napkin.
“Grandmaster de Valette’s lovechild Isabella,” I respond promptly. “Her husband murdered her some time after their marriage, and I assume this is where she was murdered.”
“Her husband disappeared with her jewelry box and was never heard from again,” says the marquis. “And that, Graziella, is what I’m interested in finding. Jean de Valette loved his daughter Isabella dearly, he even held her in his arms at her baptism, a custom frowned upon since knights were sworn into celibacy; this child must have meant a lot to him. After years of research, I have come to the conclusion that there is more to that gold box than just material value. Jean de Valette, who by some cosmic alchemy had been freed from his enslavement by the Turks, and had triumphed against the odds when besieged by thousands of Turkish soldiers during the Great Siege, had suddenly run out of luck. The grandmaster died three weeks after his daughter was brutally murdered. Many hold that he died of grief over her fate, but I’ve discovered that he was also greatly concerned that an object of great power had fallen into the wrong hands. I have documentation of the council meetings he convened after her death. De Valette decreed not only to bring Isabella’s killer to justice, but also to retrieve the gold box that was stolen from the murder scene.”
How nice it must be, I think to myself, to be incredibly wealthy and occupy one’s time searching for old jewelry boxes.
“What was so special about this jewelry box?” I ask him. “Its contents?”
The marquis rubs the corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. “The contents of the box are irrelevant to me,” he says in a rather stern tone. “I’ve collected antique artifacts for years and each piece is uniquely special, missing pieces brought back where they belong. I believe that this would be the culmination of my collection.”
He furtively glances at me with a softened demeanor, “I have to admit that it’s been extremely difficult for me to locate this final piece.”
After a second’s pause, he looks deep into my eyes. “Can you feel her presence in this room?” he asks looking quizzically at me, lifting the picture I had been fiddling with earlier from the desk. “Look at her, she looks so much alive in this picture.”
Since I don’t have the slightest idea of how I could possibly be of any use in his search for something that has been missing for centuries, I simply stare back at him. For lack of anything better to say, I pull out my résumé from Aurora’s bag and hand it to him adding bluntly, “Here is a summary of my educational qualifications and work experience. I can only hope that you will consider me for the job.”
He takes the folder from my hand and puts it aside on the desk without looking at it.
“Had I no interest in your involvement we would not be this far into the conversation,” he says kindly. “It struck me from the moment you walked in that you fitted this position, a small but significant piece of the puzzle finally falling into place. Your participation in my quest is now entirely up to you.”
Andras Valletta reaches over and puts his hand over mine. His touch takes me by surprise but I don’t pull back. A peculiar comfortable feeling of submission runs through me.
“Clearly you came here this morning with a mission in mind,” he says gently.
“Yes!” I blurt out, surprising myself. “I need a job. I need money.”
He smiles at me, sliding his hand away from mine, obviously relishing the rising flush on my face.
“That I can provide,” he says softly. “Money is not that important to me, and I can be very generous with it as long as I get your complete dedication, devotion and trust. This is a difficult choice to make, but once you make it, you have to be fully committed. It has to be a carefully considered and definite decision. This task entails you to dedicate all your hours and attention to my service. You would have to give me utmost priority in your life and every moment of yours would be at my disposal.”
He looks deep into my eyes, smiling, “I need to be able to call on you at any time, with any request, no questions asked.”
After a pause he says, “In return, you will have at your disposal unlimited funds for all your needs, whether related to the job or not. You can purchase anything you require or fancy, whatever it is. I will ensure that you get whatsoever your heart desires.”
The room is cool and quiet apart from the melody of his hushed seductive voice and I feel a disempowering lull linger over me. This gorgeous man is asking for my time, which of late has been filled with a lot of nothing, and in return he wants to give me everything. I wonder if what I’m hearing is truly what he’s saying or simply a consequence of my previous night’s sleeplessness. I feel a hot rush inside me.
The black Siamese cat appears out of nowhere and leaps onto his lap purring as he strokes its head between the ears.
“Take Rosina for instance,” he continues in an annoyed voice, shaking me out of my stupor. “I had such high hopes for her. She’s been with me all her life but she never really dedicated herself to me and as you can see her achievement was to turn into a cantankerous old crone. An utterly disappointing maid.”
He pauses, and seeming distant, utters in a musing tone, “She could have been so much more had she made the right choices. She consciously chose to live a life bound by archaic rules, chasing an invisible deal. I’ll bet yo
u she’s been in every church on the island, all three hundred sixty of them, telling her beads with a crucifix around her neck. And, as I warned her, she was constantly having a one-sided conversation that rendered her unanswered and unnoticed. All she has to account for her misguided devotion are old age and decrepitude. I could have given her so much more.”
Sighing heavily, his eyes wide open but devoid of anger, he continues emphatically, “I can’t have any more of that around me.”
Picturing old Rosina, I hope that he isn’t making an analogy between that garrulous old woman and me. The woman is ancient, probably close to a century old, a veritable fossil. I can’t fathom what he could possibly mean.
“What she never understood,” he continues subdued, almost whispering, “is that it’s all within. The divinity she pursues and the demons she chases away. All within, down to the last atom.”
To be completely honest, his rant sounds quite inane, making him less intimidating in my eyes. I haven’t gotten a single job offer after being incessantly interviewed during the past year. Ironically, I find his apparent insecurity over my loyalty as a possible employee quite comical.
“I want you to take some time to decide,” I hear him say. “I need to know you are committed to me and me alone. I need to know I can count on your total loyalty.”
I regard his face as he speaks, his intense eyes and strong jawline, his beautiful mouth and dimpled left cheek. I feel an overwhelming surge of warmth and attraction toward him and an urge to quell his insecurities and assuage his unfounded fears.
“I assure you marquis,” I say softly, my voice tremulous, “given the position, I will make it the priority of my existence.”
He looks pleased, excited even, and lifting the cat off his lap, stands up from the desk. He paces around the room, his hands crossed behind his back seemingly deep in thought.
“I believe that this very room holds many answers and is an excellent starting point,” he says as I eye the walls of endless books. “I have kept everything within the library intact and will need you to start by familiarizing yourself with what we have here.”
“I will also need you to travel on short notice,” he says. “So make sure your passport is in date. You will need to be always ready for me.”
He walks to one of the bookshelves and pulls out a folder.
“This is for you,” he says handing me a black plastic card. “It’s a charge card, and from now on I want you to use it for everything you need. I don’t want you bogged under the anxieties of daily living.”
I feel my eyes bulge in incredulity. The marquis notices and his blue-green eyes narrow, his mouth tightens.
“There are a few conditions,” he continues emphatically. “Once you’re in this there’s no way out until I get what I’m looking for.”
I find myself ingenuously nodding at him and the charge card, but something about the sudden intensified depth in his eyes, something inhuman beyond the unusual deep shade of cerulean accentuated by the savage, voracious look on his tanned face, startles me.
As he walks away, his countenance darkens in the shadows of the feebly lit room, leaving only a silhouette of his hulking frame as he stands by the sculptured columns holding up the second floor.
The room is freezing cold now and unbearably musty. In an unnerving instant he seems to blend in with the wooden creatures, and out of the shadows momentarily appears a pack of snarling black wolves baring their sharp fangs as they growl at me, mouths curled, staring at me hungrily in unison.
In a state of terrifying suspense, I gasp. The transfiguration dissipates suddenly and the marquis steps out of the shadows. He smiles amiably making me snap out of my crazy illusion.
“This is where it all starts,” he says. “Since I am absolutely certain this house is the last known location of Isabella’s gold box, this is the outset of our search.” He stretches out his arms as if embracing the space.
“I will be at a collector’s meet in Rome all next week,” he continues, “but Rosina will be expecting you. I want you to use the library and visit the house to familiarize yourself with Isabella and the grandmaster and form your own impressions.”
“I realize that this sudden development is difficult to process and accept instantly,” he says, smiling affably. “I need you to take time and freely mull all this over. Think everything through whilst cognizant that what I am asking of you is a mammoth deal. This is a marriage of sorts,” he winks a perfect one-eyed humorous wink that befuddles me. “Once you agree to this, there is place for nothing else in your life other than our mission of which I am the master and commander, I would be your master. You would have to submit to my command.”
He regards me carefully as if to ensure that I am registering his emphatic words. After what seems to be an endless pause he continues, “And also, before you leave, I have a couple of personal requests.”
“Yes sir?” I ask, maybe too eagerly.
“What did I say about calling me sir?” he responds.
“Yes Andras?” I say meekly.
“Is that your natural hair color?” he asks.
“It’s slightly lighter than my natural,” I respond blushing, startled by the unexpected question, unconsciously twirling my recently highlighted honey-ash curls.
“Go darker,” he demands. “Black. I like black hair.”
I gulp, unsure of how to respond to his candor. My expensive hair job suddenly feels like an unnatural, garish appendage protruding from my head.
“I need to insist that you use the charge card for all your expenses from now on,” he continues, ostensibly insensitive to my discomfort.
“And one last thing before you leave,” he says, walking towards the library door, his tone abrupt and imperious.
I look at him, eyes wide, attention peaked, mentally listing and registering all the job requirements he’s piling on me, and am completely caught off guard when he says, “Go get some clothes and shoes that fit!”
Before I can insert a word in my defense, he opens the library door and steps into the corridor saying, “You know the way out. I’ll call you when I need you. I expect you to be there for me.”
The library door slams shut behind him, his departure as abrupt as his appearance had been, turning the room into an eerie silent vacuum of old dark wood and walls of books swaddled in dim tinted light.
Overcome by a sudden frantic urgency to leave the house, I collect my belongings and make my way out of the room and towards the exit as fast as the crippling stilettoes I’m wearing permit.
The front door is equipped with a complicated three-lock fastening device that engages me in a futile fiddling match. I am just about to surrender when I hear footsteps approaching down the hallway. Assuming that it’s the marquis coming to my rescue, I swing around beaming.
A graceful figure is sashaying down the hall. She too is barefoot and is wearing a halfway-buttoned men’s dress shirt and nothing else. Her glistening black hair flows down to her waist. I try not to stare at her long and slim legs.
She walks up to me, towering head-and-shoulders over me. Her skin is flawless porcelain, her face sheer perfection. I can’t help thinking that she is what the marquis had been doing up all night. I feel an involuntary pang of jealousy.
She regards me momentarily through heavily lashed, fawn eyes; her button nose crinkled as she almost concedes a smile.
“Here,” she says, her voice is soft and gentle, “let me help you with that.”
The woman unlocks the door in one swift gesture.
“Mind the step,” she says eyeing my painful, tight shoes. And this time she smiles, a mocking little smile, and when my eyes meet hers I perceive a subtle, wicked glint.
Flustered, I stagger out into the bright, sweltering morning and stumble out of the alley towards Inguanez Street as she fastens the heavy door behind me.
Although he had knocked my highlighted hair and outfit, the marquis had come across as starkly flirtatious, almost as if he was tryin
g to seduce me into a partnership of sorts. The appearance of beautiful Half-naked-fawn-eyes is confusing, I must admit.
Somewhat annoyed by the impact her presence had on me, I decide instead to focus on the employment opportunity within my grasp and the rather desperate situation I was in before I entered the palazzo.
Groups of people are following umbrella-carrying animated tour guides around the piazzas and the narrow streets of the old city, some break away to take pictures. Others have opted to take the tour of the old city in horse-drawn carriages.
As I walk down the alley, I hear my phone buzz repeatedly in my purse. I find that I have a few texts from Aurora and Zia Marie. The thick walls of the palazzo must have blocked the mobile phone reception completely, I think to myself.
Zia Marie is my grandfather’s sister, my great-aunt, but I’ve always called her Zia, the vernacular for Auntie. My old aunt has taken to texting since Aurora and I gifted her a cell phone. I smile as I read the hour-old text.
Good luck on your interview. Hope all goes well, it says.
I text her back a winking emoticon blowing a heart kiss. I know she’ll like that. Her message is followed by a slew of texts from Aurora.
Hey you!
How did it go?
Hope you killed it!
Can’t wait to hear.
I’m at Coco’s for brunch join me.
The muggy climate outside is a drastic contrast to the chill inside the palazzo. The dress I’m wearing feels unbearably tight, the shoes weapons of torture, and my whole being feels swollen and clammy in the suffocating heat, but I still text: On way. See you soon. I feel the need to share the morning’s happenings with Aurora.
Coco’s is a small café in Sliema, a short stroll from our apartment and one of Aurora’s favorite hangouts. Aurora is already sitting with a group of people chatting away when I get there, but as soon as she sees me, she gets up from her table and walks towards me motioning me towards a table for two.