Andras: Beyond Good and Evil

by S L Zammit

  “We can still work together,” I hear myself plead. “I promise I’ll redouble my efforts to find Isabella’s jewelry box for you.”

  Despite my utter disappointment, I’m not ready to walk away, not now that I’m so physically close to him, heart racing in my chest.

  I assure myself that I’ll be just fine with however many other women he gets involved with, I won’t feel hurt one bit.

  Here and now, I just want him to kiss me like he did last night and hold me in his arms and press his body against mine. I want to feel him soar with pleasure inside me. I want to wrap myself around him and feel that exquisite sensation of belonging with him even just one more time.

  “I’m so tired of being judged,” he says, sounding weary. “The jury has been out on me for eternity. To be completely honest, I’m glad Rosina took off. I much prefer how you take care of me.”

  “I’ve been wondering why you keep Rosina around,” I say. “She seems to be very judgmental and grumpy.”

  “She’s been with me a long time,” he says, “and although I constantly criticize her ways, I do have a certain respect for her piety and unwavering faith. I guess I keep her around as a point of reference. Looking at her reminds me of the distance I’ve strayed. I guess her presence prevents me from getting lost altogether.”

  His face is touching mine and I feel his smile. Reaching over, I outline his mouth with my index finger and then press my lips on his.

  “You’re so yummy,” he says. “I really like you and it scares me to like anyone.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “The way I like someone is different,” he says. “I don’t understand complicated emotions. I know and take what I like with correlative compensation, but people come and go.”

  “You don’t like to be attached,” I say.

  “It’s not about attachment,” he sounds adamant. “You’ll understand in time. I’m flesh and blood, but I’m not like you or anything you’ve ever known. I have to fully disclose myself before I engage. You’re right here because it’s your course; our encounter was not by chance. Things will become clearer to you and you’ll be able to make your own decisions.”

  I lie silent next to him wondering whether in fact he is as attracted to me as I am to him.

  Aurora is right about the situation. I picture her waving around the black credit card and advising me to take what I can while it’s available.

  I just love how he brings these things up from cold in such an absolute manner! Instead of feeling offended as maybe I should, I find his candor endearing, comical even.

  The anthropologist in me is captivated.

  He’s a womanizer and an elitist to boot. Check. Quite straightforward, I had figured out both characteristics myself.

  What would Aurora do right now? For so long I’ve been judging her casual relationships with men and now that I’m in this situation I feel that I completely understand her. Aurora butterflies away from one ecstatic experience towards the next, ravenous like a junkie in her quest for transcendent bliss. I’m compelled to persevere and explore the present situation a little further; there is something here I feel compelled to salvage.

  Feeling as wanton as I imagine Aurora would be, any notion of Zia Marie fully obliterated from my thoughts, I slip off the shirt I’m wearing and straddle his body.

  Raising his hands to my cheeks and lightly sweeping his fingers down my chin and neck, over my breasts and stomach, “You’re perfect,” he says. “You’re so beautiful and I know it goes beyond your face and your skin and your body. You are beautiful inside too. But I can’t give you what you seek. I need you to know that.”

  “You talk too much,” I say as my skin slides against his naked body.

  Chapter 9

  Senses Acute

  Andras must be mistaken about the owner of these clothes. Wool skirts that remind me of the uniforms at St. Therese School, bringing back to mind the old nun we used to refer to as ‘the vulture’ in particular, shapeless button-up linen shirts with long stiff necks buttoning all the way up the throat and a few old-fashioned cardigans.

  There is no way Half-naked-fawn-eyes would be caught dead in any of this. I’m pretty sure Princess Haifa is not the type who leaves the house in chastity clothing from the Victorian era and tan wooden clogs.

  Nonetheless, I have a task to do and need to act quickly before the monsignor leaves the church for his siesta, before the crazy clanking starts for the evening mass.

  Andras is now fast asleep and I would hate to see him awake and anguished.

  The woolen skirt hardly fits. It feels prickly and irritating against my hips. Having no alternative other than my red cutout dress and stiletto pumps, I tuck in the shirt to shield my skin from the discomfort.

  With the clogs squashing my toes, I put on a sweater to complete the ugly, uncomfortable outfit. I can’t help giggling when I see my frumpy reflection in the mirror.

  Hoping that Andras doesn’t wake up and decide to leave his room at this instant, I rush down to the library. Wondering why on earth Andras keeps so much money lying around, I stuff a few thousand euros in my bag, which I think would suffice, and quickly leave the palazzo.

  The scratchy outfit I have on is even more uncomfortable in the oppressive heat outside. I find myself gasping for breath as I briskly make my way towards St. Paul’s.

  Strangely, the streets smell of decay, garbage rotting under the blazing sun. My mouth fills with an unusual metallic taste. Determined to complete the task at hand, I brace myself and walk through the steamy mirage caused by the hot air.

  The cathedral’s symmetrical façade, at the end of the rectangular square, rising between its two higher bell towers, with one of its wooden side doors open, has the appearance of a pious yet winking face.

  Stepping into the dark church, onto the large floor marble slabs beneath which nobles and clergymen were entombed centuries ago, I’m relieved to find that it is cooler inside.

  The murmur of prayer from the small side chapels diffuses into the cross-shaped aisles, spiraling up the vaulted nave, filling the church like the hum of bees: supplications for love and prosperity, health and longevity, to counteract the vicious stragglers: revenge, possession and avarice.

  I make my way across the central area of the cathedral that is mostly void of people, apart from a few women waiting in the sidelines for confession.

  The mumbling gradually becomes comprehensible. I conjure up the many dreadful sins over the past hundreds of years spilled within the walls of this cathedral; sins of death, lust, envy and wrath. Why, one woman hates her husband so much she dreams of killing him as he sleeps, choking him with the pillow; another loves her sister’s husband or at least that’s how she justifies the fact that she seduced him out of jealousy and spite; this one just aborted her fetus because the father just wasn’t good enough and she wasn’t about to blow her chances; the other robbed her old aunt as she slept and then hovered over her wondering if she should finish things off.

  Perturbed by the revelations that now sound like whispers in my ear, I rush past the confessionals, taking in the rather stale air. Fixing my eyes on a battered Jesus dangling from a crucifix, I envision the body contorting in pain as blood seeps out of his open wounds in scarlet rivulets, but suddenly realize that it is me who is perspiring profusely.

  Since the priest is not around, I’m about to walk towards the main door and leave the church, when in a flash, “In here,” says a gruff voice as a strong hand pulls me into a room obscured by hanging drapes.

  The hand is large and hairy like an animal’s paw, gripping my wrist tightly close to the bag I’m carrying, most likely the intention was of grabbing my bag and not my arm.

  My eyes lock into dirty-gray ones: weary, and adorned with under-eye bags, atop a bulbous nose and grim mouth. Despite the thick beard, his mouth is conspicuous: a wide slit with rounded lips, matching his nose. A face I wouldn’t want to encounter in a confessional. A heavily bearded, unfriendly face hi
ding his anxious concerns: Bother, who is this one now? Whatever happened to the other one? At least the other one knew what she had to do. Am I expected to get involved with this amateur? This one should be tied to her mother’s apron strings.

  But although I can clearly hear his voice in my head, his mouth does not move. He just stares at me, scowling-bear of a face, beard draping over his white collar, the edge of his black cassock swaying around his ankles. And as I stand there, at the receiving end of his disdain, I sense his clawing need for worldly things, filthy lucre, with a total disregard of moral righteousness. Shuddering, I steady myself against the wall.

  “What’s your business here girl?” he finally asks, cold and laconic, revealing a noteworthy snaggletooth.

  “The marquis is ill Father,” I say clearing my throat, wanting very badly to be anywhere but here. “He needs rest.”

  “And what does that have anything to do with us?” he says, his imperial tone implicating the cathedral and everything within it including the altar, the pulpits, the organ, the subterranean graveyard and butchered Jesus dangling on the cross.

  “Well Father,” I say, “he hasn’t been able to sleep.”

  He just stares with an obtuse expression.

  Clearing my throat, “The marquis would like to make a contribution to this beautiful cathedral,” I say. And emboldened by the gleam in his eyes, “In exchange, he would like to have a few days of silence. The sound of the bells aggravates his condition.”

  “Ha,” the bear claps his paws, startling me, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Is that right? And tell me girl, just how much is the marquis willing to pay to suspend church service?”

  “That is not what we’re asking for Monsignor,” I gasp, horrified. “It’s just the sound of the bells that disturbs him. He hasn’t been able to rest.”

  “Hmm,” he says, eyeing me like a predator as he grabs the bag from my hand. “So how much do you have in there?”

  Shocked, I watch as paws rummage inside the bag.

  “Nah,” he sputters. “This buys him a week. Next week the bell ringing resumes.”

  Mumbling, “Not a modicum of decency,” he walks away, carrying the moneybag with him, and is swallowed into the darkness of the cathedral.

  2

  My body slides down the door and onto the floor like melting butter as I shut the infernal heat out with my backside. Sitting there for a while, downbeat, unable to move, I relish the chilly serenity of the palazzo as my tension ebbs. Mulling over the day’s weird events, I wonder what these sudden extreme sensual experiences mean. What’s happening to me? So bizarre!

  It is stone still inside. Andras must be sleeping.

  Stripping off the layers of stuffy clothing, I gather my belongings, and fetching the antique book from the library, make my way to the back of the house.

  Andras said to use his car. Little does he know I’m notorious for my ding-dent-and-scrape driving. I turn on the garage lights with apprehension and discover, to my horror, that it’s much worse than I expected.

  What sits in his garage is a thoroughbred: carbon black and shiny, an aggressive, expensive-looking macho toy.

  At the back of the car, I finger the emblem in the center of the trunk, eagle wings, and down to the right side the word Vanquish.

  I’ve never been anywhere near a car like this, let alone driven one.

  Sitting in the driver’s seat, I study the complicated dashboard and try to figure out how to adjust the seat. The engine growls beneath me as I turn the engine on.

  The garage door opens and the machine slides out, fluid and smooth. My whole body stiff with tension, I cautiously drive the jumbo jet through the alleyways of Mdina, praying that I don’t hit anything on the way.

  Looking over at my cell phone ringing in the passenger seat, I notice that I have several text messages from Aurora who’s calling me right now.

  Parking the car on the side of a street outside the city walls, “Hey,” I breathe into the phone, realizing that I had been holding my breath.

  “Finally,” whispers Aurora, sounding relieved. “I’ve been calling and calling hoping you’d pick up. Can you come get me? I need to get out of here.”

  “Where are you?” I ask.

  “Do you remember the guy I was talking to last night?” she whispers urgently. “I’m at his place but I need to leave. I’ll text you the address. Please hurry.”

  “Are you all right?” I ask worried.

  “I’m fine,” she says. “Text me when you get here.”

  Navigating through the light Sunday traffic, the drive gradually becomes enjoyable as I ease into the seat, feet relaxing on the pedals and breathing easily. I increase the pressure on the accelerator as I notice the looks of admiration directed at the car.

  It doesn’t take long to get to the address. I text Aurora as I approach the building, I’m driving an Aston Martin.

  Drive into the garage, she texts back.

  Heels clopping on concrete, Aurora emerges from the stairwell at the back of the garage as soon as she hears me drive in. Flashing the lights playfully at her, I catch a fleeting expression on her face: a glimpse of a face evocative of events long past.

  I’m walking down Charity Street and see him from a distance. Aurora’s father Tony is pacing around in front of a creepy old house all the kids know to steer clear of. Lisa lived there. I remember Lisa perfectly well: she never spoke so I have no memory of her voice, but I do remember her face. She would sit in class and chew her long hair, strand after strand like it was spaghetti. One day, Lisa coughs up a big ball of hair in class and drops dead as soon as they take her home. Tony is pacing and mumbling in front of Lisa’s house as I approach. As I come upon the front door, it opens, and Aurora emerges from the house, a look of endless despair on her face. She avoids me by pulling her father away.

  “Let’s get out of here,” says Aurora opening the door on the passenger side, sliding into the seat, shifting my things onto her lap.

  I’ve been around Aurora for the better part of my life, I believe I know her intimately, but lately I have been wondering how well I really know her.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “I slept with a charmer and woke up next to a nuisance,” she sighs and exaggerates a shudder. “He left to get food. I wanted to be gone by the time he comes back. Nice ride by the way.”

  Aurora is studying my face.

  “Looks like I don’t have to ask what happened last night,” she says giggling.

  I feel embarrassment creeping up my face.

  “Good for you,” she continues. “I was afraid you were the equivalent of a eunuch.”

  Aurora is inspecting the antique book on her lap.

  “I found that in the library at the palazzo,” I inform her. “It was hidden in a secret compartment in the floor.”

  “Looks very old,” she says fingering the cover and turning the pages. Aurora stops at a particular page and examines it closely.

  Craning my neck, I see that she’s inspecting a sheet containing a repeating series of symbols that remind me of Egyptian hieroglyphics forming a complex illustration that looks like planets and comets.

  “Interesting,” she says squinting her eyes.

  “That page reminds me of the ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead. Other pages are almost identical to the pages in an antique Bible I found in the library. I was about to take it to Profs in Valletta and have it restored before I show it to Andras,” I say. “Do you think that’s all right to do considering the confidentiality agreement? I feel responsible for the stained cover and would like to take the opportunity to get the expert repair the worn binding; it’s in a bad state.”

  Aurora flips the book pages, closes the cover and shrugs. “This looks like an expensive antique to me and I’m sure he’d want to restore it.”

  “Would you like to join me?” I ask her.

  “Sure,” she says, then grimaces, “but I need to go home and wash off last night first.”

/>   “I don’t want to shower,” I admit on impulse. “I love Andras’ smell all over me.”

  “You’re so silly,” she says laughing. “Be careful doll. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Nobody’s going to hurt anybody,” I assure her. “We’ve already agreed to keep everything casual.”

  Aurora just stares at me, the look on her face skeptical.

  Chapter 10

  A Headless Statue and a Lover Scorned

  1

  Perched atop a cabinet, Cat awaits me in the dark. Sweeping across its immobile body, the headlights cast a long graceful sphinxlike shadow with overly pointed ears and an elongated neck as I carefully pull into the garage. Motionless and attentive, eyes aglow as I step out of the car, turn on the garage lights, and carefully inspect the vehicle for any damage caused however slight.

  Thankfully there’s none, unloading my suitcase with a week’s provision of personal necessities, I make my way into the palazzo. The house is cold and quiet, the air around me like a heavy transparent curtain that hasn’t stirred since I left this morning.

  Leaping ahead of me, Cat leads the way, weaving around my feet as I tread, almost tripping me as I start climbing the stairs. Shifting from side to side to regain my balance and setting down my bags, I plop down on a step laughing, “I appreciate your feline welcome but you almost tripped me!”

  Cat leaps onto my lap and stands forelegs on my shoulders purring while staring deep into my eyes.

  “Hello kitty cat,” I say jovially. “Did you miss me? What is it, are you hungry?”

  Cat springs off my knees and bounds off, strutting gracefully, then stops and beckons me with one direct look.

  Compelled to follow the creature and aware of its penchant for disappearing, I rush down the hallway in pursuit, through shadowy rooms and down two flights of narrow steps into a basement.

  Rushing toward the shadow of the cat as it ebbs at the far end of the space, I come upon a tightly wound spiral staircase resembling a brown calico snail shell from where I stand.