by S L Zammit
On way, she texts.
Great, she’ll be home in fifteen minutes. I quickly make sure she has everything she could possibly need: clothes, makeup, and hair stuff… My plan is to ambush her at the door and convince her to catch the seven PM ferry with me.
TGIF, she texts, I’m ready to rage!
This might be a little harder than I imagined.
“But Gozo is so, so, boring,” I almost hear her say, “so boring.”
But this time I’m prepared for her and I’m not taking no for an answer. Zia Marie has her prayer fellowship every Saturday night, we can drop her off and head back to Malta and rage as much as Aurora wants on Saturday night. We haven’t been back to see Zia Marie in months; this visit is way overdue.
Bracing myself as I hear Aurora’s key in the lock, I carry the two bags to the door.
“Hey doll, what’s all this?” she says, walking in.
“We’re going to Gozo and spending the night,” I say, emphasizing every word. “We’ll be back Saturday night. I promised Zia Marie we’d do lunch with her tomorrow.”
Aurora laughs. “You really want to do this don’t you?” she says. “How sweet, you packed for me and everything. Did you tell your parents and siblings you’re visiting?”
“No,” I admit, embarrassed that I didn’t even consider telling my parents I’d be there. I called my mother yesterday and she seemed overwhelmed with grandchildren. “It’s just a day trip and I want to spend it with Zia Marie.”
“All right then,” says Aurora sounding defeated. She sighs. “Of course I’ll go. Especially since you went through all the trouble of packing.”
I rush out the door with the bags before she has time to change her mind.
“Promise we’ll be back by Saturday night,” she says following me. “I have places to be.”
“All right, all right, I promise,” I assure her.
“I’m driving,” she says. “You take forever to get anywhere.”
Aurora takes the coast road from Sliema to Cirkewwa where the Gozo Ferry departs. Driving gets her face out of her phone but she’s flying through beach towns, the road close to the coast where children are still splashing in the water, screaming as they jump off the rocks, and lazy villages, up and down hills, through curvy roads and through multiple village squares. The air smells like fresh timpana, pasta with olives, tomato and feta cheese, and salty seawater.
“I wonder if I should just get out of here altogether,” she rants. “Leave the island once and for all. I don’t feel like I’ll ever reach my full potential with those two. I’m sick of being their trophy you know.”
I just listen. My main concern is her getting off on the right turn from the many roundabouts she’s speeding around.
Slowing down abruptly, brakes screeching, Aurora points to a few older women walking down the street.
“See that,” she says disgusted, “hair shorn, overweight, waddling down the street in their moo-moos. Typical. Is that what I have to look forward to?”
The scorching heat does predispose women of a certain age to cut their hair short and walk in ways that allow for the least rubbing of body parts, also explains the loose, airy clothing.
“Not necessarily,” I say, knowing that it’s futile to argue with Aurora in her present state-of-mind.
“I feel like I could make more of an impact in the European Union as a whole,” she continues, “maybe in France or Germany. What do you think doll?”
Slowed down by traffic, Aurora maneuvers her way down a switchback road. The evening sky is bleeding pastels beyond the turrets of a ruby red castle, St. Agatha’s tower, in the distance.
“I don’t know Aurora,” I say. “I think you’re in a good situation. You ought to be happier.”
Across the sea, Gozo’s cliffs rise out of the Mediterranean. The ferry is slowly approaching, making its way into port.
“I feel like I need to get away,” she mumbles. “It’s this constant gnawing feeling, but deep down I know I really can’t.”
Not knowing what to say and at a loss for ways to cheer her up, I reach over and kiss her cheek.
Once we board the ferry and park the car, we make our way up on deck. Several people recognize Aurora and greet her.
“Oh no, I hope they don’t come over,” Aurora whispers as a couple make a beeline for her. But the older man and woman approach her and engage in work-related conversation.
Leaning over the port rail, I admire the perfectly round silver face of the moon, forming like a hole punched into the dimming sky.
The boat steers past the middle island, Comino, a lone oversized rock overrun with brambles, home to a lonely medieval tower surrounded by the turquoise waters of the blue lagoon.
The crystal waters are fascinating even by night. A bottomless shimmering pit of glittering nightlight, blotted by shadows of boats anchored in the various bays and coves. The scene suggests a mythological connection, this part of the passage always brings to mind Odysseus ensnared by the nymph Calypso as her love slave, the splashing of the boat through the waters emulates the song of mermaids.
I find myself thinking about Andras, his dimpled smile and piercing eyes and his mouthwatering smell when I fell into his arms in Trastevere, his mouth on mine, his taste when he kissed me. I could snuggle into that broad chest forever. I wonder what he must think of me intoxicated on the riverbank. Considering he replaced Half-naked-fawn-eyes with Half-naked-fawn-eyes two with mind-blowing rapidity, he probably isn’t thinking of me at all.
Aurora is still conversing with the old couple. I’m surprised at how jovial and professional she sounds considering her mood earlier. She has always been good at pulling herself together and keeping a solid façade. Being her constant companion, I am probably the only one who catches glimpses of her inner unease. She joins me just as the ferryboat enters Mgarr harbor.
“Let’s get out of here quickly before they return,” she says.
Aurora speeds out of Mgarr, stopping only at a red traffic light adjacent to The Gleneagles Bar, an old sailors’ bar overlooking the harbor. The doors are open, and the amber light from light bulbs encased in the finely wrought bamboo fish-catching baskets, spills out. It is a yellow and white tiled place, smelly with acrid urine covered by pungent bleach. A few huge swordfish with gills flared and menacing facial expressions and some old sailor paintings are pinned to the tacky walls. Outside, a rowdy crowd of natives is sitting on benches and small round stools, drinking cheap wine and eating peanuts.
“This place never changes,” she muses. “It’s as if the island is stuck in time.” Then, “We should stop somewhere and get some wine, she never has any liquor in the house.”
I sit back in my seat as red, blue and green enclosed wood balconies, withered stone farmhouse walls covered in crawling purple bougainvillea and vivid green vines, old heavy wooden doors, arches, fig trees, windmills, rubble walls sagging under heavy prickly pear, streetlights, and lichen-infested gray churches, whizz past us.
Aurora parks the car just outside St. George’s Square.
The piazza is lit and crowded with tables outside bars, the band club and pizza joints. We trudge through the narrow passages between the tables carrying our bags. The chatty groups inspect us as we walk through.
“Look, it’s Aurora,” someone calls out. “Aurora, you came back to visit your Zia Marie!”
Everyone knows everyone and everybody’s business on Gozo, still no one notices me. All everybody sees is Aurora.
Aurora stops to chat and the general conversation in the piazza turns from chatter about local politics and band clubs and migrant landings from Africa by sea, to a discussion of gorgeous Aurora visiting her Zia Marie. Most tables turn their focus on Aurora. She draws attention to me a couple of times but I dodge conversation since I don’t want to be inquisitioned about the fact that I won’t be visiting my parents. Finally, Aurora walks into a bar for a bottle of wine and comes out with a heavy case.
“I guess it’s time
to head to the house,” she says.
Charity Street is gloomy and silent; the thick stonewalls impenetrable to the lively piazza hubbub, cobblestone clanking under our feet, the flickering lights of the candle-lit niches up on the corner walls casting lapping shadows on the ground.
Zia Marie’s house is fastened, dark and sleeping. Aurora knocks on the door with the palm of her hand. We wait but get no answer.
“She must be sleeping,” says Aurora knocking louder, her thumping echoing down the quiet alley.
“Stop that, it’s close to midnight and we’re about to wake the whole street,” I say making my way to the shuttered bay window. “I bet she still keeps her spare key in the same place.”
Sure enough, the door key is behind the wood shutters, in the same place it’s always been, wedged in a small space in the windowsill.
“Nothing every changes does it?” says Aurora stealing a menacing glance at the building next door, the childhood house she shared with her father, that Zia Marie is currently renting out to one of the piazza bar owners as storage space.
The house smells clean and is dark inside apart for a candle burning in front of the statue of our Lady of Lourdes on a small table. I caress the wall for the light switch.
“She’s probably upstairs sleeping,” whispers Aurora.
I nod. “Let’s have something to eat, I’m famished,” I say, setting down the bags by the staircase and heading for the kitchen.
The whole place is like a picture frozen in time from my childhood; orderly, immaculately clean, homey and comforting, just like I always remember it.
The rooms are small, dark and cozy with thick stonewalls and archways and niches with shelves for books, mementos and memories.
The house is built around a pretty walled courtyard, curtained with waves of white wax flower, visible from most rooms.
Everything in the dwelling is old, every piece tells a story. Zia Marie has the things she holds dear all over the place: framed childhood photos of Aurora and me and other members of the family, as well as tiny shrines for pictures and statues of various saints and the Madonna.
The floors are an elaborate rust, yellow, brown and green flowery tile design. Dark wooden beams cross the ceilings. Two steps lead up to the dining area where Zia Marie has her polished mahogany table for family gatherings, and the glass cabinet where she keeps all her nice china, silverware and crystal.
The kitchen is a small room, down five steps right off the dining area, with a large window that overlooks her beautifully kept courtyard where pots bursting with plants and flowers surround an old well.
The fridge, as always, is packed with food.
Aurora pulls out a plate of orange and red, peeled prickly pears, and a bowl of deep purple pomegranate seeds surrounded by their tasty water-laden pulp.
I inspect a dish of bragioli: beef rolls stuffed with bacon, cheese, turkey, hardboiled egg, onion, garlic, parsley and oregano slathered in marinara sauce; and the contents of a soup tureen, widow’s soup: a delicious, traditional vegetable soup made with cauliflower, potatoes, carrots and podded beans, with whole unbeaten eggs and cheeselets added when the soup is almost ready.
“This stuff is so delicious and nutritious that it binds your soul to your body,” I remember Zia Marie declaring every time we would sit to eat her freshly prepared soup.
Aurora opens a bottle of wine, eats some fruit and watches with disapproving eyes as I warm and scarf down a large plate of deliciousness.
“Food is not your friend you know,” she says, but I ignore her as I thoroughly enjoy my food.
“Let’s clean up and go to bed,” she says when I’m done.
We plod upstairs to our old shared bedroom. Passing Zia Marie’s room, I notice the door ajar and decide to peek in on her. Further cracking open the door, I realize that the room is empty. Her bed is neatly made and my old aunt is nowhere to be seen.
“Aurora,” I call out. “She’s not in here.”
“What do you mean?” says Aurora entering the room. “Where could she be?”
“I have no idea,” I say, feeling worried.
“Let’s call her,” says Aurora dialing Zia Marie’s number on her cell.
But the phone we bought her last Christmas rings in the room.
“She left her phone behind,” says Aurora walking over to the nightstand where the cell phone lays buzzing.
“It’s the middle of the night,” I say, anxiety welling in my chest. “Where the heck could she be?”
“Oh, don’t stress,” says Aurora. “We’ve been here for less than an hour, she’ll turn up. Let’s go unpack.”
“She probably didn’t believe we were really coming,” I reassure myself.
I go around the house, turning on all the lights in the empty rooms. Zia Marie hasn’t changed a thing, everything is clean and neat and all items are still in their original place. I even take the narrow spiral staircase to the roof and check the tiny room where Zia Marie does her laundry. The washing machine, her clothes pegs container and tubs are still in their set pristine places. Flooded with feeling of nostalgia, I sob uncontrollably.
“Are you crying doll? What’s wrong with you?” Aurora calls up the staircase. “Get down from there.”
Making my way down the stairs, I feel like a little girl again.
“Come on silly,” says Aurora. “I want to hang some stuff up, it will save me time from ironing them tomorrow.”
“I’m worried about her Aurora,” I say.
“I’m sure she’ll turn up soon. Remember how Zia Marie always used to leave the house in the middle of the night to help me find my dad when we were little? She’s probably out there helping someone in need. That’s what the lady does,” says Aurora.
Aurora can be flippant and comes across as callous, but deep down I know she’s right. I follow her to our old bedroom.
“Oh how this brings back memories!” Aurora is standing in a space within the old walls at the back of the room we used as a closet. “Oh my gosh, these are my old pajamas! I can’t believe she left everything where it was.”
“I noticed that about the whole house,” I say.
“Remember the night my dad died?” says Aurora, bouncing on her bed like a little girl. “Wasn’t that awful?”
“Yes,” I say, wondering why she’s bringing up that dreadful night now that I’m worried sick. “You never talk about that night.”
Aurora has an impish look on her pretty face.
“I remember every detail of that night you know,” she says, her voice cracking.
“No you don’t!” I say with indignation. I feel like she’s trying to scare me, and this is not the appropriate time. “The police psychologist even hypnotized you, and you couldn’t remember a thing.”
Aurora laughs. “That lady psychologist was an idiot,” she chortles. “I remember the whole thing like it was yesterday. She asked me to imagine that each of my fingers was a friend at a sleepover and the middle finger on my right hand couldn’t sleep. She asked me to keep all my fingers flat on the table and raise the middle finger of my right hand. Isn’t it funny that it was the middle finger that couldn’t sleep?” She rolls on the bed laughing.
“Are you kidding me right now?” I ask, incredulous that she’s making light of the night her father died.
“No I’m not,” she says, “and I’m going to run downstairs for the rest of that bottle of wine I opened.”
She runs out of the room and rushes downstairs and is back with the wine and two glasses before I know it.
“Finish your story,” I insist as she pours out the wine. This is the first time Aurora is opening up about that night.
“Okay,” she says. “My job was to concentrate and focus on the friend that couldn’t sleep and as the finger got heavier I was supposed to get sleepy while the finger friend dropped so that we all fell asleep. I kept myself awake although my eyelids got heavy and my middle finger eventually dropped to the table and I remember her asking me, �
��Are all your friends asleep? Are all the friends asleep?’ I kept mumbling, ‘Yes, yes, they’re all sleeping’ and she kept asking, ‘What happened in the house? What did you see?’ I kept forcing myself to snap out of the sleepiness and I kept saying, ‘I didn’t see anything. Nothing happened. I didn’t see anything.’”
“Are you telling me that you messed with the investigation into the cause of your father’s death?” I feel shocked to the core.
“No silly,” she says. “I found him like I said, dead as a door knob. I just didn’t tell about everything. Drink your wine, it’s good.”
“What does that mean?” I press on as I sip the merlot.
“Oh well,” she says sighing heavily. “Do you remember what those girls used to say about my dad in school? They used to taunt that he was crazy and always drunk, and they used to say I’d grow up and be crazy just like him. I couldn’t tell the whole story. I was eleven years old Graziella! I didn’t have anybody to talk to. Those girls used to taunt me incessantly. I couldn’t tell the police I had a secret friend in the basement. I didn’t want to give them more reason to pick on me.”
I feel the walls of the room close in on me. I gasp for breath.
“What do you mean?” I say, my voice hushed. “What secret friend in the basement?”
“My dad used to be gone most of the time and when he was in the house he was always drunk and angry. I remember being so scared.” She pauses and I notice her hand is trembling as she sips her drink. “I used to hide around the house to make sure I was out of the way. He used to freak out about everything. He’d go gorilla mode on me about the smallest thing. I think the very sight of me upset him when he was drunk. I probably reminded him of my mother.”
“I’m so sorry Aurora,” I whisper, feeling genuinely bad for her. I remember hearing her father yelling and banging through the walls.
“One day, I discovered an opening under the carpet in the kitchen,” she continues. “It was a wooden hatch door in the floor that led to a basement. I think it was a bomb shelter or something of the sort. I’d climb down there to avoid him every time I heard him at the front door. He never even missed me. I’d stay down there till I’d hear him snore. I loved being down there even though it was damp and cold and dark.”