Andras: Beyond Good and Evil

by S L Zammit

  “Nothing works,” he says, “but you can try. If anything, it’s comforting that you’re here trying to make me feel better. The kitchen is downstairs towards the back of the house to the right. Rosina keeps it very well stocked, I’m sure you’ll find anything you need. Please make yourself at home, get yourself some breakfast.”

  Surprisingly, my stomach turns at the mention of food.

  “Can I prepare something for you?” I ask him.

  “No dear girl,” he says subdued. “I hope your herbal infusion is effective, just put a good dose of star anise in whatever you make. I like the taste of it.”

  I slip off the bed and feel around in the dark for my dress.

  “You can take a t-shirt from my closet,” he says, voice fading. “It’s down the corridor towards the bathroom. Just keep all the lights in this room turned off.”

  Sensing the pain he’s in and assuming he just wants to be left alone, I tiptoe towards the corridor and make my way along the wood paneling until I come to a sliding door in the wall. Slipping into the closet, I slide the door behind me and hunt for the light switch.

  The dim illumination reveals a highly organized walk-in closet; a tidy array of pressed designer shirts, suits and ties ordered by color, shelves upon shelves of sweaters, t-shirts and jeans. One of the sides is a wall-to-wall cubby of beautiful shined shoes.

  Everything in the room is immaculate, an obsessive-compulsive’s dream. Rosina being way too old, I wonder who keeps the whole place so spotless and organized. The room feels just like Andras, and although I’ve been invited in, I feel like an intruder.

  At the back of the closet is a section packed full of silk bathrobes. The word he used last night: molting, comes to mind. His skin feels so soft and smooth; I can’t imagine what he meant.

  Making my way back to the t-shirts and catching a glimpse of myself in a full-length mirror, I gasp. Being someone who normally finds only faults with my appearance, I can’t believe how good I look in the closet mirror. My skin is glowing. It’s literally luminous. Touching the skin on my face with my fingertips, I can’t believe how smooth it feels.

  My face is wiped clean of all makeup but looks more radiant than ever. Compelled to inspect my face, moving closer to the mirror, I become conscious that my features seem slightly different. In the smallest almost unnoticeable ways, things only I could possibly observe: my eyes larger, my lips and cheeks fuller, slight enhancements leading to a dramatic overall improvement. My face in the closet mirror bears an uncanny and striking resemblance to the beautiful portrait on parchment of Isabella I had seen in the library on the day of my interview.

  The humid climate usually wreaks havoc on my hair and I was expecting to look a frizzy mess especially after all that tumbling in Andras’ bed last night, but my hair is shiny and smoother than it’s ever been. It is lush and wavy, framing my face just like Isabella’s was depicted in the picture Andras keeps on his desk.

  Pervaded by a heady rush of exhilaration and feeling like a rose in bloom, I think about how jealous Aurora will be when she sees me and when she finds out about Andras and me.

  Instantly shocked and ashamed by my ridiculous thoughts, I move back a few paces and inspect my whole body. There is no doubt about it; I seem taller, leaner, more toned. Even my breasts look perkier. This is so weird!

  Suspecting that the mirror is somehow rigged for vanity purposes like the ones in some department stores, I grab a plain t-shirt and rush to the bathroom in search of another mirror.

  I switch on the light in the corridor. The bathroom is covered in white marble from floor to ceiling, a replica of an ancient Roman bathhouse.

  The area where Andras was sitting last night is a large rectangular bath, closer in size and appearance to a small swimming pool sunk in the ground, tiled with an intricate silver mosaic design, now void of water and surrounded with columns. There is no mirror in the room, and no sink. I wonder where the man shaves.

  Tiptoeing back into the bedroom, I hear Andras’ soft sleepy breaths and make my way out of the room.

  The house seems less threatening without Rosina. I find myself feeling right at home just as Andras had requested, humming along the corridors and hoping the caustic old lady never returns.

  Making my way to the back of the house, I find the kitchen. While kept in the original gothic style of the palazzo, expressed in the pointed arch mullion cabinets, the room has a very modern feel. The beautiful dark cabinetry contrasts against ghost-white quartz countertops streaked with black and blue.

  The cabinets are very well stocked, just as Andras had promised, and obsessively organized to the extent that hunting for utensils and Rosina’s herbs turns out to be a surprisingly simple task. Knowing my way around a kitchen also helps.

  Choosing peppermint, ginger, passion flower and chamomile from the assortment of dried herbs in one of the pantry cupboards, I boil water in a kettle on the stove top and grind the herbs with a pestle in a ceramic mortar I find in one of the drawers.

  Remembering that Andras has requested I add a good dose of star anise to the infusion, I make my way back to the pantry.

  The man wasn’t kidding about liking the taste of it. Rosina has a whole cabinet separate from her other herbs stocked with the whole star-shaped, brown fruit in one compartment, broken pieces in another and separated seeds in a third.

  Although liquorish has never been a flavor I particularly care for, the strong, sweet smell emanating from the cabinet makes my mouth water. A sudden craving makes me take a spoonful of the brown seeds, then another.

  Stunned by my own actions, I stand frozen as the potent spice strikes my taste buds and rushes through my body. For an electrifying instant I feel aware of every particle in my being, every square inch of skin, every speck making up the lashes on my eyes, the water in my eyeballs, the hair on my head and brows, the nails on my toes and fingers, the spaces between my digits, the muscle fibers causing the contractions of my heart and the blood pumping through my veins and arteries, the spaces where oxygen diffuses through my nostrils and lungs. A wave of stark awareness overwhelms me.

  Startled by a softness brushing against my calves and ankles, disrupting the sensational feeling, I look down at the marquis’ black cat purring and rubbing against my legs.

  “Hey kitty, kitty,” I say running my finger along the cat’s back.

  Cat cranes its long neck and makes eye contact, bright yellow feline eyes staring deep into me. The kettle whistles and I rush over to turn the stove off.

  Cat follows, its short silky fur brushing against my leg, and remains attached purring and meowing while I mix and crush the herbs with star anise and seep them in boiling water.

  “Are you hungry kitty cat?” I say, stroking behind its ears.

  There’s no cat food in the pantry. Opening the fridge, I’m surprised to find it mostly empty apart from some suspicious-looking, thawed meat and milk at the bottom of a carton. Turning my back, I proceed to empty the contents of the milk carton into a bowl, oblivious of the fact that Cat has sprung into the open refrigerator.

  Hearing a thud behind me, I spin around and discover, to my dismay, that Cat has dug out a bloody piece of thawed meat and is dragging it across the kitchen floor.

  “Stop kitty cat,” I plead after the cat, my voice frenzied.

  But Cat growls at me fangs bared, and bloody carcass in mouth, bolts out of the room leaving a trail of bright red drops on the cream marble floor.

  Horrified, I chase the cat hoping to retrieve the meat before the mess gets out of hand.

  The crimson polka dots lead to the library door, left ajar, and I’m hoping the meat doesn’t land on one of the marquis’ priceless antiques.

  Unaware of the house rules, I feel responsible for the damage the cat’s marauding actions might cause. An ominous image of a sad-looking Half-naked-fawn-eyes and Rosina’s goading facial expression flashes in front of my eyes.

  Cutting through tiny specks suspended in the filtered light beams,
I hunt for the cat among the endless shelves of books, and under Andras’ mahogany desk and chair.

  Searching under and behind the upholstered chaise lounge, I’m relieved that there are no bloodstains on the large Persian carpets covering most of the library floor, at least none that I can see, but Cat is nowhere to be found. I even look behind the wooden winged creatures holding up the second floor.

  “Kitty cat, kitty cat where are you?” I call softly, crawling on all fours, looking on all sides and underneath every piece of furniture.

  Satisfied that Cat is not on the ground level of the library, I make my way to the spiral wooden staircase at the far end of the room, and climb to the upper floor of the library.

  The horseshoe balcony wraps around a huge, antique, black crystal and wrought-iron chandelier, suspended by a chain from the apex of the vaulted ceiling. Enthralled by the elaborate design etched into the ceiling and the beauty of the light fixture, I notice that the suspending cables are swaying gently.

  My eyes lock into the intense luminescence of mischief regarding me. Cat is perched on one of the bifurcating iron limbs of the candelabrum, remnants of the carcass between its paws, eyes following me.

  Horrified, I observe as blood drips from the meat, one perfectly formed red sphere after another, falling through the suspended motes of dust onto the floor below.

  “Naughty cat,” I whisper, and wondering how I didn’t see the blood on the floor downstairs, fly down the staircase two steps at a time.

  The chandelier hangs directly above Andras’ desk, and luckily, the area where the cat sits dripping blood is to the left, just missing the table heaped with papers.

  I get some paper towels and kneel by the desk to wipe the floor, but surprisingly the paper towels come out mostly clean.

  As I go on all fours, determined to thoroughly clean the cat’s mess, I realize that the blood falls directly on and is seeping into a fine gap in the floor. Flattening out the paper towels, I slide and jam them into the gap hoping to absorb the blood drops.

  Cramming the wipes into the slit, I use both hands to gently swipe side to side and up and down.

  I’m flabbergasted by the realization that my frantic movements have made the crack in the ground slightly wider. I hear a faint snapping sound, like the clicking sound made by a retractable pen, and a small slab of marble slides down and to one side revealing a compartment containing what looks like a case or a book.

  Carefully extracting the heavy object from its dark hiding place, I realize that it’s an old manuscript covered in dust, indicating that it hasn’t been touched for a very long time.

  The cover has absorbed a few very conspicuous bloodstains. On removing the dust, the image on the jacket stands out: a chaotic design that looks like a sea of stars in outer space, but upon closer inspection I discern two overlapping triangles pointing in different directions, one up and one down, forming a single star.

  Flipping open the book, I realize that it’s written in a foreign language, perhaps Greek or Aramaic. Remembering the similarity in the script between what I’m holding and another book I had previously come across in the library, I move toward the bookshelf where I had formerly come across the old version of the Bible.

  The similarity becomes obvious when comparing the two; the same script in black calligraphy, embellished with red rubrics on the same type of parchment. Each page is divided in two columns adorned with illuminating gold flourishes and deep red annotations in the margins.

  Elated, I imagine how pleased Andras will be with my find, I can’t wait to see the look on his handsome face when he inspects the book. Should make him feel a little better.

  Remembering the blood on the cover, I decide to hold off showing it to him just yet. My plan is to take the tome to Profs’ antique shop in Valletta in hopes he can restore the damage.

  Looking up at the chandelier, with a thankful look for the cat’s help in making me find this artifact despite its shenanigans, I see that it has disappeared.

  The room suddenly fills with the clamor of church bells indicating that I had promised Andras the herbal infusion over an hour ago. Going down on all fours near the desk, I manage to secure the aperture in the marble flooring by sliding my finger down the wall of the opening and feeling for the triggering switch I had activated earlier. The hole in the floor closes the same way it had opened.

  Hiding the book behind a shelf in the library, I rush to the kitchen for Andras’ drink, and dabbing up little drops of blood along the way, make my way up to the bedroom.

  3

  Cracking open the bedroom door just a little, I make out Andras’ hulking frame in the shadows propped up on the pillows in bed. Although I can’t discern his features, I instantly sense his sullen mood.

  Moving towards his side of the bed with the freshly prepared tisane, “That took me a while,” I say apologetically.

  “Don’t worry,” he says in a whisper, his tone depressed. “Will you stick around this week?” he almost pleads, cradling the mug in both hands. “The heaviness in my temples is unbearable. I need rest but I can’t get any sleep. Every time I’m about to nod off, the clamor of the bells awakens me.”

  “Of course,” I respond straightaway. “I just need to go to the apartment and get my things.”

  “Thank you dear girl,” he says, brushing my jaw line affectionately with the back of his hand. “If you need a change of clothes in the meantime, you can help yourself from the bedroom next door. Haifa still has some things in there.”

  I grimace at the sound of Half-naked-fawn-eyes’ name rolling off his tongue. The way he says her name sounds like rustling tree leaves.

  “Thanks,” I mutter.

  “I doubt I’ll be able to get any sleep but knowing I have you here to take care of things is reassuring. This is really good by the way,” he continues, sipping the drink.

  “Just let me know what I can do to help,” I say.

  “Sit next to me,” he says, patting the mattress by his side.

  I climb onto the bed, close enough to be shrouded by his divine smell. He laces his fingers with mine.

  “The first thing we have to do, is resolve this bell problem,” his speech is piqued. “I need you to hunt down the monsignor and extend a peace token. I keep quite a bit of cash in the library, in that cabinet by my desk. Give him whatever it takes to make him stop this madness.”

  “Do you know where he lives?” I ask, wondering how on earth I’m going to go about approaching a man of God with money and a mandate to desist the clamorous marketing of his venue.

  “He’s always around that church of his. His rooms are at the back of the church,” says Andras stroking my hand. Then he snickers, “Don’t worry, he’ll find you. Sniffs out money like a financial predator that one. I’m sure he is looking forward to a monetary compromise.”

  “Of course, I’ll try,” I say unconvinced.

  “The maid comes on Tuesday, cleans and also does some grocery shopping, she knows her way around the house and knows not to disturb me when I’m indisposed. Other than that, I don’t wish to receive anybody,” he says.

  I nod.

  “You can take my car whenever you need, it’s in the garage at the back of the house, I keep the keys inside it,” says Andras stroking my thigh. “Feel free to use anything in the house. Just keep the lights in this room turned off. And stay away from the older unfurnished parts of the house. I have to admit, I haven’t been good at keeping the whole place maintained and I wouldn’t want you to get injured.”

  “I should be as good as new in a few days,” he says reassuringly. “I just need the room as dark and quiet as possible.”

  Feeling bad for him, I snuggle closer to his body and nestle my head on his shoulder but feeling him stiffen, I move away embarrassed.

  He sighs a heavy sigh. “I enjoyed you so much last night,” he says, “but I cannot do it.”

  “Do what?” I ask, incredulous.

  “Get into a soppy romantic relationshi
p,” he says sounding callous. “I’m not the type.”

  Feeling like I just got slapped in the face, I instinctively curl up smaller in my spot. He notices and immediately moves close to me, embracing me, cradling me in his arms.

  “I’m so sorry sweet girl,” he says softly. “Please don’t be sad. I feel so wretched right now. I feel drained mentally. Being intimate with you is so uplifting and completely beautiful. Sexual intimacy has always been my favorite creature comfort.” He laughs, and then says, “But I need to be transparent about what I can and cannot give.”

  He pauses and squeezes my hand in his. “As I’ve said before, basic human emotions are not my forte. I’ve never been able to stay attached to any one woman. There will always be other people I enjoy and will continue to enjoy. It’s in my nature to feel and be my real self. I wouldn’t want to mislead you or hurt you in any way. And considering your age and lack of experience, I worry that this evolution in our rapport might damage our professional relationship. I still believe you’re the perfect candidate for the job I offered you and I wish to be able to work with you on a professional level.”

  To be completely honest, the disparity between Andras and my ideal type of man couldn’t be greater. I’ve always yearned for a dependable, loving, trustworthy companion, someone solid I can build a family and a future with.

  This over-the-top, hunk-of-a-man is the very opposite of who I realistically see myself with in the long term. Everything about Andras is a touch excessive: the magnificent house and rumors of his wealth together with his irresistible looks and personality. Everything considered, I feel highly unqualified to be his partner.

  But although the voice of reason is begging me to save myself and take off, I can’t heed its caution. Being with him is intoxicating. The draw I feel towards him is so ferociously intense that I physically crave the need for closeness. My mind is telling me one thing but my body compels me to do the opposite. A logical long-term plan is beyond me at the moment.

  Zia Marie would be so disappointed in me. This is so not how she brought me up. I immediately banish the image of Zia Marie from my head.