Andras: Beyond Good and Evil

by S L Zammit

  His handsome face is now ever so close to mine, his perfect jawline and cute pointy chin, I fixate on his beautiful mouth and notice the dimple forming on his left cheek.

  My feelings of panic and uncertainty abate as he strokes my skin and looks deep into my eyes, I can’t help but sink in the sea of sparkling sapphire. I find myself slightly slipping from consciousness as a subtle feeling of ease pervades my senses but I can still see Andras by my side holding my hand.

  “I’m going to make your body more comfortable,” he says softly.

  Through my peripheral vision, I see him moving towards the nightstand where I notice a large glass carafe filled with a brown substance. I discern the strong, sweet licorice smell of star anise. I feel him lifting the sheet off my body and distantly experience the exposure of my skin to the cold air of the room.

  Dipping his fingers in the carafe and gently raising my arm off the bed, I feel his fingers over my wrist, forearm and elbow. He works his way to my other arm, and then gently strokes my shoulders, neck and chest. His touch is soft and comforting. I feel him caressing my toes and feet, heels, ankles and calves, and then my thighs and stomach. His hands feel like butterfly wings on my hips, across my stomach and in my navel and the passages of my groin, down the small of my back and over my buttocks, in my armpits and over my ears and face, until my body feels smooth and soothed and he proceeds to wrap every inch of me in silk bandaging. I’m wrapped in silk cloth like a cocoon or an Egyptian mummy. Now I feel strangely calm about the whole thing and feel like an observer: an etheric body hovering about my physical self, no longer constrained by my form.

  Andras sits by my side. “Your consciousness is moving into an astral plane. Tell me what you see,” he coaxes. “Find that place beyond the physical, past what you feel here and now within your flesh. Go past all the sadness and suffering and loss.”

  Sinking deep into his eyes, beyond the glimmering beauty that reminds me of a bottomless blue lagoon, and the glowing warmth of the feelings I have for him, I come to a dark arid place, the sensation of which makes me shudder.

  “Rise beyond that place,” he says softly. “Leave it behind. Soar over it, there is nothing in that arid space.”

  Following the sound of his voice, I see the outer border of the grim space and float beyond it to a warm honey glow like a ray of sunshine in the distance.

  “Yes, that’s it,” he says and I sense excitement in his voice.

  Moving closer to the warmth of the yellow light, ecstasy pervades my being and I rush closer until I’m bathed with the light.

  “Can I come with you?” he pleads from a distance.

  “Yes of course,” I say joyfully.

  I feel him move closer to me and consciousness escapes me.

  Chapter 13

  St. Therese Catholic School

  Jan 25th 2001

  It is stone gray and cold outside. My upper lip is dry, cracked and stings as I pass my tongue over it. The crisp air filters through my flimsy brown sweater biting my skin. Aurora is chewing her sweater sleeve. The cuff of her jersey looks damp and ragged.

  “Stop Aurora,” I whisper, pulling her arm away from her mouth. “Sister Inez doesn’t like that!”

  Sister Inez holds vigil over the playground from the far corner with her beady eyes, her countenance austere, her gaunt shoulders hunched beneath the arthritic weight of her years and the woolen habit. We call her ‘the vulture’.

  I am playing tag with Aurora. She is eleven and I am nine years old. Boys play on one side of the playground and girls on the other. None of the children dare cross the invisible line under the vulture’s watch.

  I roll up Aurora’s sleeve, hiding the threadbare cuff, hoping to save her from the vulture’s easily provoked ire.

  “Thank you Graziella,” she whispers rasping.

  Aurora has the sniffles. Her dark blue eyes swim in tears and her nose is swollen and red around the corners. Aurora’s eyes remind me of the deep parts of the sea where the water looks so dark it’s almost black.

  Ringing the bell, Sister Inez halts all manner of play on the yard and the children quickly form orderly rows marching toward the eating area. Aurora and I rush to where our lunch bags and boxes hang on wooden pegs nailed to the sidewall of the yard. We huddle together at the bench as I open my lunch bag.

  Zia Marie has made me one of her delicious three layered sandwiches. Parma ham, cheddar cheese and lettuce on one side of freshly baked bread, and corned beef, a hardboiled egg and tomato on the other, sandwiched between two thick slices of fresh Maltese sourdough.

  Zia Marie’s sandwiches are so large, the corners of my mouth and my chapped lips sting and burn as I open wide to take a bite. She has also packed me a thick slice of her moist almond cake with marzipan, tightly wrapped in foil, and my favorite peach nectar juice.

  Aurora sniffles and purses her lips. She has a peculiar, small mouth but her lips, today even redder than usual, are plump like a strawberry. I’ve often overheard adults comment about her extraordinary beauty and cruelly joke that her father Tony had surely not contributed to her good looks in any way.

  Aurora’s lunch box is still fastened.

  “Eat your lunch Aurora,” I urge. “The faster we finish, the sooner we can go back to play.”

  Aurora doesn’t move. She sits still, her hands joined in her lap, gazing transfixed into the open space ahead. Putting down my sandwich, I reach for Aurora’s box, opening it as she reaches out to grab it from me.

  “He forgot again,” she whispers, her voice bleak, as I stare, appalled, at the half-eaten, stale sandwich from days before and the empty bottle of fruit juice. The lunch box smells filthy with stale food.

  Glancing toward Sister Inez, her back momentarily turned towards us, I place half of my enormous sandwich in front of Aurora.

  “I’m not hungry,” she mutters sounding sad.

  I know she’s lying. Smiling at her fondly and pointing at the cake and the bottle of peach nectar juice in my bag, I urge her to eat.

  Aurora hungrily scarfs down the sandwich, then reaches over, puts her arm around me and kisses my cheek. Aurora is smelly, like a rabbit, and her nose is wet and slimy against my skin, but I love her nonetheless.

  “Girls,” yells Sister Inez, her voice guttural, “no touching!”

  We quickly move apart. Stealing a glance at Aurora, I notice that she’s stifling laughter and under the table her small hand squeezes mine.

  The recess bell goes off too soon and we have to line up and go back to class. We are last in line as the younger kids move into the school building while the older girls go outside for their lunch break.

  Parting ways at the wooden steps as the older girls rush past us, I momentarily lose sight of Aurora but catch a glimpse of her through bobbing heads as she waves goodbye and smiles. I blow her a kiss.

  Hurrying down the musty corridor to the classroom for my favorite period, history, I realize that I’m holding Aurora’s lunch bag in my hand and I bet she’s carrying mine. With a few minutes to spare before class starts, I turn around, and running back down the steps, head towards Aurora’s classroom.

  I’m almost there and all I have to do is switch bags and get back to class. Just as I’m about to turn the corner, I spot Aurora at the far end of the corridor.

  Two of the bigger girls are talking to her. One is the head-girl of the school, a heavy teenage redhead and her friend, a tall and skinny brunette who also happens to be the hall monitor.

  These girls live in the big, beautiful houses with countryside and sea views. Their parents’ names are emblazoned front and center in bold, gold letters on the ‘Our Dear Generous Benefactors’ wall. If Sister Inez liked anybody, it would be these two. I see them around the halls all the time telling people to go back to class where they belong and taking down names for demerits, so I decide not to approach the trio but watch from my spot until the older girls leave.

  Then I see the taller girl shove Aurora.

  “You’re
a snot-faced booger-eater,” taunts the redhead, “and you’re so smelly!” Her voice is soft and cruel but perfectly audible from where I stand.

  “Where’s your mommy?” asks the skinny one. “Tell us where your mommy is!” she demands in a harsh whisper.

  I hear Aurora whimper but can’t see her face.

  “She ran away and left you,” jeers the redhead, “because she couldn’t stand you.”

  I am so scared, stuck in my spot, trying to remember the girls’ names. All I know is that they’re way older than me and from where I stand both of them look terrifying; one is big and red, the other looks like a mean beanpole.

  Where is the vulture when she is most needed?

  “Your dad is always drunk,” says tall and skinny grinning wide, her lips thin, teeth sharp, her eyes cunning.

  “Yes he is,” confirms redhead nodding. “He drinks whiskey for breakfast, whiskey for lunch and whiskey for dinner.”

  “Your mother left and your father is a drunk. A crazy drunk too,” the beanpole informs matter-of-factly, wicked eyes gleaming. “Mommy says he’s always getting kicked out of places for causing trouble.”

  I look around desperate to spot the vulture or any of the other kids but the corridor is deserted.

  “I bet you’ll be just like your daddy when you grow up,” says fat-red in a sugary-sweet voice poking Aurora’s chest with her finger, “drunk and crazy and smelly.”

  I see Aurora from behind, cowering and vehemently shaking her head. I whimper.

  The redhead turns her head swiftly in my direction and spots me cowering in the corner. Beanpole eyes me, pupils pointed like a T-Rex. Aurora looks sad and helpless, her eyes rimmed red and full of tears.

  Red is on top of me in two big paces, breathing foul breaths in my face.

  “And what are you doing here?” she yells. The freckles on her cheeks are more conspicuous than ever as she leans into me, pushing her nose against mine, looking straight into my face with her greedy eyes. “Why aren’t you in your classroom where you’re supposed to be?”

  I stand transfixed, too scared to speak.

  “She’s the other one,” interjects beanpole, grabbing Aurora and shoving her towards me, “financial-aid, charity-case little turds, both of them. This one’s great-aunt had to take her in because her parents are too poor to bring her up and they keep having kids too.”

  Picturing my mother and the unremitting look of total exhaustion on her face, caring for our large family, I have to admit that it’s true. I have been living with Zia Marie since mother brought the latest baby home: the boy my father had long been hoping for.

  My father works on an oilrig off the coast of Libya. He sends money home every month and spends six weeks with us every eighteen months. There are six children now; all living in very close quarters and mother is extremely busy with the new baby. Since I’m the eldest, it was decided that I go under the care of Zia Marie.

  I got the better deal. Zia Marie is a simple and pious, unassuming woman. Happiness, cleanliness, and a love of cooking marvelous food being her main virtues and, more importantly, she is dedicated to me.

  Moreover, despite what these nasty girls seem to be so convinced of, my siblings and I always have plenty of everything. We always have good, warm food to eat, nice clothes to wear and toys to play with. I never felt lacking in any way, so I feel the need to defend my situation.

  Aurora cowers against me but I am frozen; my legs stuck to the carpet, my mind numb. I try to move but my body is immobile.

  In the distance, the older kids are playing in the yard, laughing and screaming and chatting. Closer down the hall, behind shut doors, I hear the soft distant voices of teachers giving their lessons. I so badly want to be in a warm classroom sitting at my desk, away from this horrid corridor, but I can’t budge.

  Then I feel it, a warm, wet, prickly stream, trickling down my left leg. My pleated uniform skirt and underwear wet, clammy, clinging to my skin. I look down horrified as the flow of urine makes its way down to the floor and forms a pungent puddle, and then seeps into the carpet and spreads out in a damp, dark circle further and further outward.

  The two big girls notice and the hallway fills with their cruel giggling. Then, apparently satisfied with their deed, they lose interest in us and walk away down the hallway tittering and snickering.

  Aurora puts her small clammy hand in mine as my eyes follow the jagged edges of the rapidly expanding circle until the gray circumference of the puddle meets the worn, round tip of a very familiar black orthopedic shoe.

  Trembling as I raise my head, my eyes lock into the hard, cold stare of the vulture. I hear her snort.

  “Graziella and Aurora,” she says our names sternly and emphatically. “What are you doing?”

  Overcome by waves of nausea, I feel the tears well up in my eyes, but I still can’t utter a word.

  “You’d better explain this!” she yells pointing at the damp circle of urine on the carpet.

  I open and shut my mouth but my voice fails me.

  “You are both in so much trouble,” the vulture enunciates, coming between Aurora and me. “Defiling school property! Graziella, your Zia Marie is going to be so disappointed in you and you Aurora, this misbehavior, after all we’ve done for you.”

  I feel her sharp, bony fingers as they dig into my shoulder before she drags us both down the hall and shoves us into her office.

  “Wait in there,” she says shutting the door. “I need to call Mother Superior to deal with this.”

  The vulture’s office has a moldy smell and is as dark and ascetic as she is. Standing in the center of the room, the sparse furniture looms over me like wooden shadow beasts. I have to admit I’ve never felt more scared in my life.

  Aurora sniffles and huddles close to me. She squeezes my hand in hers.

  “I’m used to this,” she whispers, her voice hoarse.

  I look at her small face: nose reddened by the cold weather, strawberry pout firm and determined, dark blue eyes a raging sea at storm.

  “Those girls are right about my mother and father you know,” she says. “You are lucky to have Zia Marie. She’s a sweet lady and she really cares about you.” Aurora’s voice sounds distant.

  “There are these big cockroaches in the house,” she continues, “an army of them, almost as big as my hand, crawling all over the place.”

  She lets go of my hand and stretches out her fingers. “They come out in the evening and just stare at me with their beady eyes, whipping their antennae. Sometimes they crawl all over him. But he doesn’t care. He’s often passed out drunk. At night I’m too scared to sleep,” she says, her voice is a raspy monotone. “I lie in bed and wonder why everything around me is so awful, but deep down I know things will change. They have to.”

  The look on Aurora’s face is downright scary.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t help you out there,” I whisper. “I was so scared, I couldn’t move.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” says Aurora walking away from me towards the vulture’s desk. I watch horrified as Aurora opens and closes drawers in the bureau.

  “What are you doing Aurora?” I whisper shocked. “We’re already in so much trouble as is and Mother Superior will be here any moment.”

  Aurora ignores me and continues her search, rummaging through the drawers and the cabinet against the wall.

  “She keeps the donation envelopes in here somewhere,” she mumbles. “I know. I’ve seen her putting them away. Envelopes stuffed with cash.”

  “You’re crazy,” I whisper frantically.

  “Watch the door,” she says coldly, stuffing the money under her pinafore dress. “Just concentrate on not wetting the carpet again.”

  The vacant eyes of Saint Sebastian, Saint Jude, Saint Therese and the Virgin Mary stare at me from atop the vulture’s shelves as Aurora skims money from each of the envelopes, neatly placing the pile back when she’s done.

  Aurora calmly walks back towards me and slipping her
small hand in mine, lowers her eyes to the ground, as the voices in the hallway get closer.

  PART THREE

  AURORA

  Chapter 14

  The Man in the Tunnel

  1

  Jan 1st 2000

  The tunnel opens into a damp, mossy crypt. She covers her nose and mouth with her hand to block out the overpowering mustiness. The moaning is amplified in the enclosed space.

  “Who goes there?” says the voice, tremulous and pained. “Can you hear me?”

  “It’s me,” says Aurora, shivering as the cold penetrates beneath her clothes and stings her skin. “It’s so chilly down here. Of course I can hear your caterwauling. You’re causing quite a disturbance!”

  “Who are you? Why are you here?” asks the voice through grinding teeth.

  “I’m Aurora,” says the girl indignantly, “and this is my hiding place. What are you doing here?”

  “A feisty little girl,” says the man managing a chuckle through his moans. “And what’s a feisty little girl hiding from?”

  “Answer my question first,” demands Aurora.

  “I really don’t know little girl,” says the voice. “I’ve been spending time pondering and trying to recollect who I am or who I used to be. Now that I have a vague idea, I’m still not sure about what I’m doing here. I’m surprised you can see and hear me. Where am I anyway?”

  “You’re under my house on Charity Street in Victoria on the island of Gozo silly. I can hear you all right! But it’s so dark in here,” says Aurora, “I can’t see a thing.”

  “I can see just fine, I can see in near darkness like a cat. You don’t need to see me,” says the voice sadly. “I’m all dusty and covered in maggots. A little girl would be scared. Move this way so I can have a better look at you.”

  “I’m not a little girl,” says Aurora, moving towards the voice, standing tall and puffing her chest. “I’m ten. How old are you?”

  “I’m as old as time itself,” he says with a desolate expression. “So tell me Aurora, why does a big girl like you need a hiding place?”