Andras: Beyond Good and Evil

by S L Zammit

  “Weren’t you scared?” I ask her.

  “No,” she says emphatically. “It was my safe place. I’m not sure how to explain the feeling, but in that dark, cold place I found warmth and safety.”

  “So what about this friend you mentioned?” I ask.

  Being her closest friend, closer than a sibling, I’m shocked she never shared her story with me up to this moment.

  “Once, while I was down there, I heard a frightful sound, rustling and moaning in the distance. I was terrified at first, but the noise continued until it became constant, and I decided to look into it. I followed the sound into the darkness to the end of the cellar where I discovered a tunnel. I cleared up the opening that was blocked with rubble and junk, and crawled through.”

  “That’s insane,” I say softly.

  “I know,” says Aurora. “I was a little girl, not conscious of the danger, and didn’t feel threatened. It sounded like someone was in trouble and I was curious.”

  “So what did you do about it?” I ask.

  “I crawled quite a ways and came up to an opening,” she says, “a dark crypt, where I saw a bundled up figure cowering in the shadows, crying softly.”

  “Weren’t you afraid?” I ask incredulous.

  “No, not really,” she says. “It was a man bundled in a black cloak. He told me he was very sick and lost in the tunnels.”

  “What tunnels?” I ask indignantly, since I like to believe I know the islands and their history like the back of my hand. “I had no idea there were tunnels.”

  “There’s a system of medieval tunnels beneath the city,” she says softly. “Most of them are closed in and most people are not aware of them. They were probably built by the Knights of St. John as hiding places for the locals during the raids by the Turkish pirates. They also provided secret exits for the beleaguered knights defending the walled citadel.”

  “Hm,” is all I can come up with.

  “Anyway,” she continues, “there was something about him. I remember he had the most beautiful eyes and kindest voice. I liked him instantly. So I decided to help him.”

  “Didn’t you consider asking an adult for help?” I ask without thinking.

  Aurora snickers. “Which adult?” Her tone is sarcastic. “I helped him move into the space directly beneath the house. I loved being around him. I would bring him food and whiskey from the kitchen. He’d talk to me and tell me stories.”

  “Are you sure?” I say. “Could this be a figment of your imagination? Who was he?”

  “Yes, Graziella, he was real,” she says, sounding irate. “He eventually got healthier with my help and was a great comfort to me. He assured me that my life would improve greatly and I would forget about all the horrible stuff I was going through. I’d move on. And he was right because I did. He was the most authentic thing in my life at the time. Especially after the Sunday St. George’s church was robbed. Do you remember that day?”

  I remember that bitterly cold and gloomy Monday morning many years ago. The mugging of the old sacristan at St. George’s Basilica, that left him in a coma, made the front pages of all the papers, and was discussed at length for days on end on local television and radio programs.

  The crime was unnerving to every single person on the island of Gozo, a virtually crime-free bucolic haven. People by custom felt safe and were comfortable leaving their front doors unlocked. The old sacristan had dedicated his life to the care of the parish church, and had faced a coldblooded end in the very house of God. On street corners, horrified huddles whispered about the smashed tabernacle and defaced holy wafers drenched in wine.

  I remember the nuns at St. Therese Catholic School, which I attended, being greatly distressed. A mass was held first thing in the morning in honor of the martyr. Mother Superior had lectured us in length about the depravity of mankind, and the satanic grip on and demonic deeds of nonbelievers.

  “It was my dad,” whispers Aurora. “No one ever caught the perpetrator of that crime, but I know it was my dad who did it!”

  “How do you know he did it?” I ask, deeply disturbed by this information.

  “I was hidden in the house when he came back home that Sunday afternoon,” she says quietly. “He didn’t know I was there. I spied on him as he emptied all the coins out of his pockets and coat lining. He also stole a candlestick from the church, and an old gold case etched with weird words and numbers. I remember reading in the paper that part of the tabernacle and a candleholder were missing, and his return to the house coincided with the timing of the crime.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell anyone until now?” I say.

  “I did,” she says. “I remember going to the basement and talking to my friend. I remember telling him everything I saw and he told me not to worry and he’d think of a way to help me. The next day he told me to hide the stuff my father had stolen. He was sure that dad would try to sell it and get caught. He said he would dispose of it for me.”

  “I hid the stolen stuff in my backpack,” continues Aurora, “but when my father realized his loot was missing, he went ballistic. He tore apart the whole house. I went into hiding for most of the day. When I finally came out I found him dead, just like I told the police. I never made it to the basement that night.”

  “What happened to your friend and the stolen stuff?” I ask.

  “I remember it was raining heavily when I came over here looking for help,” she says. “I brought my backpack with the stolen church items in it here because I knew something was very wrong and I didn’t want the police to find it. I never mentioned my friend because I knew he wouldn’t do anything to hurt anyone and didn’t want to land him in trouble. When all the commotion was over, I crept back into the house with the loot and went to the basement to find him, but he was nowhere to be found. I kept going back there for weeks but I never saw him again. Eventually I forgot about the whole thing.”

  “I can’t believe you never told Zia Marie,” I say.

  “It’s not as easy as it sounds,” says Aurora. “It’s not like I was deliberately keeping some big dark secret. For the longest time, I was simply relieved that the nightmarish part of my existence was over. Things got so much better for me. I just wanted to move on from that awful part of my life. These horrible events I had been through weren’t going to change anything or help anyone if I disclosed them. The only thing these experiences do, is emphasize my traumatized childhood.”

  She laughs and I realize her face looks calmer, more relaxed, relieved from the burden of her secret. But hardly has she finished her story that I hear a rising sound that sends chills down my spine; a rising crescendo of moaning and howling outside the walls of the house sounding like someone pleading to be let in, the noise swirling in the courtyard.

  Instinctively moving towards Aurora, I’m startled by the sudden banging of the wood shutters.

  “It’s just a strong gust of wind,” Aurora assures me winking. “Weather reports have been forecasting for the past week that a cyclone is to pass very close to Malta missing us by a few kilometers. I hope it doesn’t hit us head on.”

  We don’t hear the front door opening over the moaning wind. Zia Marie darts into the room brandishing a rolling pin in one hand, ready to take on the intruder.

  Aurora and I rush towards her and circle her in an embrace.

  “You girls almost gave me a heart attack,” she says, looking greatly relieved. “The front door was unlocked. I thought someone had broken in.”

  “I told you we were coming,” I remind her.

  “Why were you out so late anyway?” says Aurora. “It’s one o’clock in the morning!”

  “You did mention you were coming Graziella,” says Zia Marie winking at me, “but I’ve been stood up so many times before by both of you, I wasn’t really expecting you. This is such a nice surprise. I was at the church.”

  “See, I was right,” says Aurora.

  “But how come so late?” I ask her.

  “Oh, it’s somethi
ng about very rare concurring stellar constellations bringing to light some demon star: Serpens the serpent, Scorpius the scorpion, and Ophiuchus the snake-holder, bring all the deranged flocking to the Megalithic temples. My fellowship is holding a seven-night prayer vigil to offset the diabolic influence caused by satanic black masses being held during this period.”

  The Neolithic temples in Malta and Gozo, some of which date back five-thousand-eight-hundred-years are claimed to be the oldest freestanding structures in the world. The temples of Ggantija (meaning giant’s tower), in Xaghra Gozo, are massive structures built in the round curved shape of a full-figured goddess, covering 10,000 square feet. Legend has it that a giant woman nursing a baby built the temples in one day. An image of the gigantic stone structures looming in the shadows, partly bathed in starlight, teeming with crazed, chanting Satanists, comes to mind.

  “That’s just too creepy,” I say.

  Aurora, in a fit of laughter teases, “The prince of darkness is no match for you.”

  Zia Marie does not usually appreciate Aurora making light of church matters, but she laughs.

  “We’d better close all the windows, turn off the lights in the house and turn in,” she says. “It is very late.”

  2

  Early in the morning, I walk with Zia Marie to the fish market right off St. George’s Square, where the local fishermen lay out their catch in wooden trays on makeshift stalls while yelling out their wares. Around the square and along the alleys, shutters fly open as shop owners set up for the day.

  Zia Marie is making a Lampuki pie for us to take back to Malta: a delicious traditional pie made with mint, capers, potatoes, eggplant, black olives and chunks of fresh dorado (lampuki) in a buttery puff pastry crust.

  “There’s absolutely no need for that,” Aurora says, her aversion to food clearly visible on her face.

  It’s Saturday morning and Aurora is sleeping in. She wants to be well rested for her party in Paceville tonight. Zia Marie and I opt, as is our custom on Saturdays since I was young, to spend the morning shopping at the market followed by preparing and cooking, amongst other items, the delicious pie. This is probably the best plan, as the sweltering heat of the long summer days does not allow for much outdoor activity.

  Zia Marie is also shopping for fish soup (Aljotta) ingredients, which is a tasty broth with a mixture of fresh fish pieces, rice, basil and marjoram, onion, tomatoes, garlic and a tinge of lemon.

  Since I usually prepare lunch when we visit, I scan the stands for my favorite fish, scorpion fish or Scorfano in Italian, meaning ugly: a bright red, spiny fish that tastes very much like lobster when grilled with a spritz of lemon, a drizzle of olive oil, salt, hot pepper and parsley.

  The market is packed with early, local and foreign shoppers, making haste to avoid the impending heat, trying to avoid the puddles of smelly fish water while crowding around the fresh fish stalls.

  Aurora is still sleeping when we return home. Zia Marie and I gut and clean the fish and start preparing the dishes.

  “You’re so good at this,” she says smiling. “I was a good instructor.”

  “It’s always easier when you’re around,” I tell her. “Aurora never eats. She actually gets seriously mad when I cook a meal. It’s too much trouble to cook for just myself.”

  “You’ll soon find someone special,” she teases, “then you’ll have a whole family to cook for.”

  An image of the marquis followed by a procession of half-naked-fawn-eyed women comes to mind.

  Andras never called me after Trastevere, not that I expected him to, but I was secretly hoping he would.

  “I don’t know about that,” I say. “No one special seems to be particularly interested in me and not many people of my generation want to settle down.”

  “Nonsense,” she says. “You just haven’t come across the right guy yet and he’ll want to settle down with you if he loves you. Don’t compromise with your feelings for anyone. It’s not worth it. Things happen when and if they have to. How about Aurora? Does she have someone special yet?”

  “She’s too busy and occupied by her work,” I say, mentally going through the faces of the numerous men Aurora’s cavorted with in the past months. “It’s hard for her.”

  Zia Marie also manages to concoct a tasty dish of cannoli with ricotta cream filling.

  Aurora avoids the kitchen all morning. She emerges from the bedroom to make a cup of coffee and watch some TV and returns to bed when Zia Marie and I, after cooking the various dishes and cleaning up, decide to take a well-deserved siesta in the afternoon.

  “You need to take some food with you, I don’t like how skinny you both look,” she mumbles.

  Aurora shakes me out of my slumber at five PM.

  “Time to get ready sleepy head,” she teases. “You have to do something with that wild hair of yours, it’s a mess. The party we’re going to tonight promises to be epic.”

  Zia Marie gets emotional as we drive her to her prayer meeting. “Don’t wait so long before visiting me again,” she says, her eyes wet. “You’re my girls, I miss you every minute. Did you remember to take all the food Graziella?”

  “Of course she did,” says Aurora sounding extra salty. “We’re going to have to make a stop at the apartment and unload all this stuff, the car smells like a fish market.”

  The parking lot is packed full and busloads of people are being dropped off in front of the praying site. Hoards of older men and women are congregating outside the church.

  “They’re serious about this stuff aren’t they,” quips Aurora. “Bet the nursing homes are empty, seems like all the residents spilled out right here.”

  I’m about to tell Aurora to zip it but can’t take my eyes off a familiar figure stepping out of one of the buses and shuffling across the parking lot towards the church. The severe gray bun and black boxy clothes, the back curvature and shaking head; yes it’s definitely Rosina, Andras’ old housekeeper!

  Emerging from the car, Zia Marie is saying her teary goodbyes. We watch as she ascends the wide stairway to the church. Involuntarily sinking into the car seat, I observe as she catches up to Rosina.

  The old ladies greet each other and slowly continue up the steps arm in arm. Once at the top, Zia Marie turns around to wave goodbye but I slide so low in my seat she can barely see me.

  “What’s wrong with you?” says Aurora looking over to where I’m cowering in the leg space of the car.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I say. “That’s the marquis’ housekeeper, Rosina.”

  “So?” says Aurora, turning out of the parking lot. “What do you care?”

  “She’s cranky, mean and very critical of Andras’ lifestyle,” I say. “I don’t think she likes me very much either. I don’t want her worrying Zia Marie with nonsense.”

  “When am I going to meet this marquis of yours?” laughs Aurora. “He sounds like a bag of fun. The Great Dane has a huge crush on him. Andras this and Andras that, it’s incessant.”

  Never, I think to myself. I’d never let you meet him. I know what happens to men when they meet Aurora. They lose the ability to see any other woman but Aurora. Then I feel terribly guilty.

  “You’re bound to meet him soon enough,” I say, trying not to sound miserable. “I got the interview through you and Judge Montfort after all.”

  Aurora drives faster than ever to Mgarr. On the boat she’s chatty and excited and wants to talk to people. She goes into the cafeteria and hangs out with a crowd of people she recognizes.

  Opting for the deck, away from Aurora’s chatter and the commotion inside, I can’t help thinking about Andras. The thought of him giving old Rosina time off for the purpose of being alone with Half-naked-fawn-eyes two makes me queasy.

  But the more I think about it, the more plausible the scenario seems. Feeling utterly ridiculous for harboring romantic ideas about my new employer, I contemplate whether I should even bother showing up at the palazzo on Monday.

  Being in full-t
hrottle-party-mode, Aurora doesn’t realize how pensive I am. Her voice drones on as she drives but I have no idea what she’s talking about. My head is constantly conjuring images of Andras and the lady from Rome.

  When we get to the apartment, she decides to change her outfit, while I transport all the food into the kitchen. Going through the clothes in her packed closet, she finally emerges from the bedroom in very high heels and a skimpy backless dress that shows a mile and a half of toned leg. I feel an involuntary pang of envy.

  “You should change into the Versace dress you bought in Rome,” she urges. “You look way too conservative.”

  Dreading yet another evening in the invisible sidekick dimension, I willingly change into the scarlet dress that only partly covers my body in meager asymmetric shreds of fabric.

  “You look perfect,” Aurora sounds happy as she dramatizes the makeup around my eyes and teases my hair. I have to admit, the end result is quite stunning.

  It is past midnight when we head to Paceville - a chaotic city of lights, thunderous techno beats, laser beams, funk music, house, jazz, electro and trance riffs - west of St. Julian’s, a short ride from Tower Road. Dozens of nightclubs, lounges, jazz clubs, restaurants, pubs, beach lidos, bars, gentlemen’s clubs and hotels packed between Spinola and St. George’s Bay, a span of a few kilometers.

  Spinola bay is lined with lampposts and chock-a-block with cars, awash with the night-lights from restaurants and apartment buildings that are reflected on the oil-still Mediterranean beneath the colorful fishing and other small motor boats moored close to shore.

  The streets are teeming with British, Italian, Russian and Ukrainian, Swedish, Tunisian, Libyan, Turkish and Lebanese tourists. A circus of mammals looking for a buzz. There are police cars and taxicabs everywhere.

  The party is in full gear when we arrive. Fire roaring from torches, Van Buuren and Garrix blasting, the sea turned into a kaleidoscope of orange, violet, indigo and green with laser beams. Stunning girls dressed in skimpy colorful costumes, suspended on swings from the night sky, perform erotic acrobatic numbers in mid-air.