Andras: Beyond Good and Evil

by S L Zammit

  “What I was hoping to do is take it to the university laboratory and get the pages carbon dated,” he says.

  Aurora’s heart sinks. “Have you shown it to anyone?” she asks, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

  “Unfortunately, the one colleague I was hoping to consult is out on vacation at the moment,” he says. “He will be back in a few days.”

  Relief diffusing through her system, Aurora opens the cover.

  “The first thing that caught my interest was the different writing styles used throughout the book,” says the professor, taking the book from Aurora and leafing through the pages. “The documentation at the beginning of the manuscript is pictographic, resembling the hieroglyphs used in ancient Egypt. The writer used symbols to express words and sounds. The style of writing evolves throughout the piece, progressing to a linear, alphabetic script. I believe that the entire book is written by hand and treated by an expert. The end result is truly amazing. But the different materials the pages are made of, support my idea that the book was written throughout the ages and then bound together. If you observe closely, the pages towards the front of the book look and feel more like fine parchment than paper, this changes throughout the volume. I believe that carbon dating of the pages will reveal that the account in this book spans over thousands of years.”

  Aurora moves closer towards the professor, but by the way he’s cowering over the book, crowding the space, limiting her contact, she perceives he’s become strangely protective of the thing.

  His possessive gestures spark a flood of memory in her mind. She remembers how the man hiding in the tunnels beneath the house on Charity Street had asked for something belonging to her father and, since father didn’t have any belongings, she had planned to give the man the stolen gold box. Vivid in her head is the feeling of possessiveness that had overcome her once she held the box to inspect it.

  Although desperately miserable in her situation, Aurora remembers putting off giving the box up several times, until finally she had definitely decided against it. She feels her body turn cold as she remembers how badly she had wanted to keep the box for herself.

  She remembers minimizing the misery of her situation in her head and convincing herself that all she needed in life was the shiny gold box.

  She had cut open a neat slit in her mattress, buried the gold box in the foam stuffing, carefully sewn the slit back up and turned the mattress around.

  On many occasions, throughout the years, Aurora had resolved to come clean to Zia Marie, tell her the whole story and return the box to the church, but every time she had held back. Every time she came close to returning the box, she had felt overwhelmed by possessiveness and anxiety, which invariably caused her to put it off. Many years passed, and the memory of her father faded. It became too late to matter, and she had kept the gold box hidden.

  “Were you able to decipher any of the symbols or words?” she asks gently, moving away from him.

  “That’s exactly what I’ve been working on,” says Profs, finally relaxing in his chair. “What I’m discovering is extremely interesting. The writing style in the book progresses from pictographic and pictophonetic where the writer uses graphics to express words and sounds, to alphabetic, the first pages being Phoenician and the end of the tome is written in old Aramaic. I accessed documents translating cuneiform script, ancient hieroglyphs and archaic script. From what I’ve been able to decipher so far, I can tell that the book reads like a diary. A first hand account of someone referring to themselves as a watcher of human armies, entrusted with tasks and missions of enormous importance and magnitude. A primordial warrior, describing himself as being loved, trusted and righteous but also as having ‘wings of blood’. He is part of the universal equation of balance and his purpose is to keep humanity in check.”

  The professor leafs through the first few pages of the book, and stopping on a page, points at a line of pictograms. “I’ve cross referenced some of these symbols and from what I can decipher, the protagonist of the narrative was assigned a lockbox containing the wishes of his master and the book is an account of his deeds; chronological events of awesome scope and magnitude in which he plays a determining part. The lockbox is described as a glimpse into the mind of the master. At first my interpretation wasn’t making much sense,” the Profs says, tremulous with excitement, “but then I remembered how Graziella had described the book as being similar to an ‘old Bible’ and that helped direct my attention.”

  Being aware of the professor’s history and misadventures with the church, Aurora tries very hard not to roll her eyes. It figures that with his background, he would interpret the book as being somehow related to religion. People truly only see what they wish to see.

  “Throughout the book there are references to floods and plagues and fires. And as I read along, the story resonated with something I had studied thoroughly before,” the professor’s excited voice rambles on. “Parts of the book reminded me of a paper I had written many years ago. A group of seminarians had come together with the sole purpose of compiling details regarding the incidents when mankind had provoked God’s wrath as chronicled in the Bible.”

  Wondering how this has anything to do with the book, Aurora emits an exasperated sigh that she immediately masks as an amazed gasp. Seeming satisfied with her reaction, the professor continues his rant.

  “I started noticing a correlation with events in the Old Testament: Genesis, Exodus, Numbers. For instance, in Genesis, the extermination of all the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah coincides with writings in the book. In Exodus, the destruction of all the firstborn in Egypt, from the first born of Pharaoh, heir to his throne, to the first born of the prisoner in the dungeon, and the first born of all the livestock, this being the tenth plague. Previous to this, the waters were turned into blood, the country was afflicted during consequent periods with frogs, lice, swarms of flies, diseased livestock, boils, thunderstorms of hail and fire, locusts, and darkness lasting three days. In the Bible it is written that an angel of blood passed over the people of Egypt at night and all the firstborn perished. All ten plagues are described in the book from first hand experience as being under the direction of the author.”

  Profs pauses, searches Aurora’s face, and pleased with her seemingly rapt expression he continues, “There are accounts in the book that align with several passages in the book of Numbers. The cities of Makkedan, Gezet, Jericho, Hebron and Eglon were destroyed. The slaughter of the Canaanites, Perizzites and the Ammonites, twenty cities in the Book of Judges and in the Book of Samuel, where the vile sons of Eli were slaughtered including the thousands of Israelite soldiers following them, and the men of Bethshemesh who looked upon the ark of the covenant. I haven’t had the time to draw all the parallels, but events in the book resonate with writings in Samuel, in Chronicles, in Psalms, in Acts, in Wisdom, and in Machabees. When Hezekiah was King of Judah, this being was sent to kill Nicanor’s Army, all of King Sennacherib’s men. It says in the Bible, that in the morning, almost two hundred thousand men were dead. Moving towards the last sections of the manuscript, the events coincide with the crusades and follow events involving the Knights of St. John.”

  Aurora watches the professor’s face patiently and studies his mouth as it moves and the words tumble out. Unobtrusively glancing at her watch, she realizes that she is running out of time but doesn’t interrupt him.

  “Of course the parallels to the Bible need to be ascertained by someone more versed in the matter,” says the Profs. “I was hoping to discuss the book with the Professors of Theology.”

  “Another curious thing about the book are certain patterns I’ve noticed in the handwriting,” he drones on. “Certain characteristics are replicated throughout the work. I would like to have the writing analyzed.”

  Graziella’s erudite professor has come to the conclusion that the book was written by God’s exterminator. She stifles laughter.

  “What you’ve found out about the book so far is e
xtremely interesting,” says Aurora cautiously. “I’m sure our client will be very pleased to hear that it’s probably worth much more than he suspected. But at this point, seeing that the damage on the cover has been restored, I’d like to return the book to its owner and point out all the very important points you made and see how he wishes to proceed.”

  Standing up and moving towards the book, she lifts it from the table, but the professor’s hand closes around her wrist.

  Looking him straight in the face, she observes small beads of perspiration gathering on his forehead and a frenzied look in his eyes.

  “I need to get back to court,” she continues coolly. “Seeing that I’m working late, I’d like to take the book with me.”

  “Since it was Graziella who brought the book to me and asked for the restoration, I’d like to hang on to it until I speak to her,” he says, rising from his seat still clasping her wrist.

  Having heard and seen enough to conclude that the professor isn’t about to give the book up easily, Aurora smiles at him sweetly and lets go of the precious book.

  “That’s a good idea,” she says. “It’s probably safer in your care anyway since I have to get back to the courthouse.”

  The old professor gently places the heavy tome back on the table, and standing between her and the book, blocks her passage to it.

  Studying his face, she notices that he looks more relaxed now that she seems to have relinquished it for the time being.

  Scanning her surroundings from where she stands, Aurora notices that the large bay window overlooking the ancient stepped street is barricaded with wrought iron. She dismisses the door completely since contact with it is bound to activate the jangling doorbell. From the corner of her eye, she sees an inconspicuous small window, almost level with the street, cracked open for fresh air. It is a small opening, only slightly bigger than a doggie door, but the fact that there is some sort of ingress into the room relieves her mounting anxiety.

  “It was nice of you to meet with me and thanks for all your work,” she says to the Profs as he walks her to the door.

  2

  ‘What a botch up,’ Aurora thinks as she walks away, ‘such bad judgment on my part. Graziella should never have removed that book from the palazzo without the marquis’ permission, and I shouldn’t have let her part with it. That thing must be priceless. And who knows where and how the marquis acquired it. The Montforts are going to be so mad if this situation gets out of hand.’

  Aurora shudders at the thought of the legal headaches that would ensue if Profs’ discussions with the other experts he’s proposing to consult with, reveal to the powers that be, that the book is some important relic that has to be given up. Or worse still if the item was stolen or acquired illegally.

  Graziella had described how she found the book hidden in a compartment in the floor of the library. She recalls a notorious case involving an old painting belonging to one of Joe Montfort’s friends that had turned out to be stolen and the harrowing legal ordeal that ensued.

  The fifty-page confidentiality agreement that the office had drafted to protect the marquis comes to mind and the thoughts in her head spiral.

  Joe and Esmie Montfort had expressed their staunch loyalty to Andras on various occasions. Recently, they had consulted Aurora about a place for the marquis’ housekeeper Rosina since Andras had wanted her away from the palazzo for a while. And they had pressed the matter until Aurora arranged a meeting with Zia Marie and organized Rosina’s stay in Gozo. Andras Valletta’s every whim seems to be the Montforts’ top priority.

  That glint she saw in the professor’s eye gives her the shudders, the look of a man who after a lifetime of mediocrity has finally come across something worth making a splash about.

  She doesn’t see a favorable outcome in this matter for either Graziella or herself. After all, she was the one who had recommended her friend for the job at the palazzo. And she was present when Graziella handed Profs the book. She remembers being all caught up in a funk about the night before with some idiot.

  “Idiots,” she almost yells. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

  “We’re going to get fired,” she shouts as she climbs the steps to the courthouse, causing quite a few stares from onlookers, “that’s what we’re going to get. Both fired. No more trips, no more lavish dinners with people who matter and no more limitless expense accounts and designer clothes. I’ll be shoved back into poverty and I couldn’t stand that misery!”

  Right after work, Aurora heads to the gym, but the seven-mile run at nine miles per hour does nothing for her. She mounts the Stairmaster and starts climbing Kilimanjaro at nauseating speed, but her head buzzes like a furious beehive, and no amount of raging against the gym equipment calms her down. She is distraught to such an extent that she totally ignores the cute bodybuilder with the Adonis body who she normally flirts with.

  Arriving at the apartment, she tries calling Graziella again. Twice, three times, there is no answer. Too anxious to eat and way too distracted to watch a movie, she decides to turn in early.

  But midnight finds her still wide-awake, tossing and turning in bed. And finally she can’t take the feeling of complete helplessness anymore. The looming thought of losing everything because of that beige old man and his piles of junk, rolls into a ball of fury. There is only one thing that needs to be done, and that is to retrieve the book immediately, and put an end to this menacing situation.

  The urgency of the matter and lack of time at her disposal weigh upon her, and although it is against her nature to act hastily and without a well-laid plan, she realizes that action needs to be taken straightaway.

  The image of that small open window, level with the street, consumes her mind. The idea that she could easily slip through it, into the antique shop, had dawned upon her the moment she saw it.

  Considering the awkward position of the aperture from within the shop, it is doubtful that the window is opened and shut regularly. The old buildings of Valletta are known for their poor ventilation and most likely the window is still open onto the deserted night street. If the window were shut, she would have at least done her best to halt the impending disaster. Anything rather than lying helpless, awaiting her fate.

  The fact that the professor and his spinster sister live in the house adjacent to the shop doesn’t deter her. Both are advanced in age and probably sound asleep by now. If she hears any movement in the adjoining rooms, her plan is to slip out immediately.

  The whole incident could easily be disguised as a robbery, and with all the immigrants and riff-raff on the streets, it wouldn’t be hard for the police to fall to that conclusion. All she is sure of is that she has to try something tonight, and the sooner the better since she can’t see herself falling asleep.

  Slipping out of bed, she makes her way to the closet and puts on her black jogging pants and a black tee.

  ‘If someone happens to be around the shop, I’ll just jog around Valletta,’ she thinks. ‘It’s beautiful this time of night’.

  She rummages around for the ski mask she bought for her trip to the Swiss Alps with the Montforts last Christmas. No more trips to the Alps, no more Montforts, she shudders. Although she complains to Graziella about them all the time, Aurora can’t imagine a life without the Montforts.

  She would have to find a regular job with a regular law firm or worst still, work at the Public Defender’s office. The horror! She hunts around the apartment for gloves and a flashlight.

  Determined to resolve the situation before dawn, she drives to Valletta through the sparse traffic on the motorway, carefully projecting a course of action in her head.

  Parking as close to the city gate as possible, she ties her hair back into a knot and pulls the ski cap over her head covering her hair, leaving her face exposed.

  Locking her car, she jogs towards Triton Fountain. The small square is deserted at night apart from a few parked buses.

  Once through the gates, she moves silently under the archw
ays, along the closed storefronts. Completely devoid of office workers and shoppers, the deserted streets of Valletta are a stark contrast to the bustling city by day.

  Spotting two men, laughing, fiddling around on their cellphones under a lamppost in front of a shuttered shopping arcade, her heart tightens in her chest.

  She notices their clothing from a distance. One is wearing baggy jeans and a light blue t-shirt, and the other khaki shorts and a colorful printed shirt. Keeping to the shadows of the old buildings, jogging closer before they notice her, her face down, she realizes that they are speaking Arabic and from their complexions she deduces that they are probably Libyan.

  Aurora inconspicuously crosses the street and the men, caught up in conversation ignore her, jogging along, neither one of them can tell if it’s a man or a woman running down the road.

  Finally arriving at St. Ursula Street and descending the ancient worn steps, the gravity of what she’s about to do starts sinking in. But relieved that all the shops and houses are shuttered and dark, she silences her thoughts and makes her way to the antique shop.

  The street slants downward, past the barricaded door and bay window. The room beyond is pitch black, her surroundings dead silent.

  Although the small window is still wedged open, she realizes that it is much higher and smaller than she had imagined.

  Aurora slips on her gloves, pulls down the ski mask covering her face, and placing one leg between the iron barricades of the larger window, hoists herself towards the small aperture. Clinging onto a stone waterspout above the window, she pulls herself up, landing both feet on the edge of the windowsill.

  Crouching down, she positions herself in the small opening in a manner that allows her to enter the opening legs first. Moving her arms to the sides of the window, she supports her weight first with one arm, then the other, as she jimmies the window open wide. The frame makes a dull creaking sound, but pausing and listening attentively, she finds her surroundings still shrouded in sleeping silence.