"Of course," Damien answered, chuckling.
"How interesting," she huffed, indicating it was anything other than interesting. Under her smoky breath she added, "Fat women and limestone. That's what gets Brian off."
Damien gave me a significant look. A light was gleaming in his eyes, a light that outshone any wrinkles to make him appear downright youthful. He craned his neck back to tease Cosmina, saying, "If you think that is interesting, you'll love Għar Dalam. I'll take you there en route to Ħaġar Qim."
"Great," Cosmina pouted dully.
Half an hour later we pulled up to the entrance of a huge cave hollowed out of the living limestone bedrock of the island.
"Are you kidding me?" Cosmina blurted, staring out the window in horror. I bit my tongue rather than remark about her choice of expression—a real rarity, to be sure. "You want to take us in there?"
"It's quite interesting," Damien explained. "It's nearly one hundred and fifty meters deep and loaded with fossil remains of elephants, deers, bears, and foxes: all animals that haven't been on Malta for 10,000 years. They found two molars from a Neanderthal as well, but they think those washed in later."
"Is it damp?"
"Yes."
"Are there bats?"
"Yes."
"I'll wait in the car, thank you," Cosmina declared. She crossed her arms under her breasts and heaved a great sigh.
Damien, nearly laughing aloud, led me to the cave. Once we were safely out of earshot, he confided, "I enjoy teasing Cosmina. She brings me a lot of money, but she takes things far too seriously. Life is a gift from God and meant to be enjoyed."
We did not spend much time in Għar Dalam (pronounced ar dàlam), though I always found animal fossils to be fascinating. We agreed that teasing Cosmina was one thing—the cave was on the way to the temple anyway—but unduly dragging our feet would simply be mean-spirited. Likewise we hurried through the Copper Age temple, Ħaġar Qim (pronounced hadzar eem). It was a magnificent archeological site but, when removed of in-depth analysis, evoked none of the mystique of other famous sites, such as Giza or Easter Island.
"Just a pile of rocks," Cosmina sniffed.
"Stonehenge is just a pile of rocks," I pointed out.
"And I don't want to go there, either," she retorted with all the subtlety of Gianni the Gondolier. "Is it time for lunch yet?"
Before returning to Valletta, Damien pulled his Mercedes up to a large structure overlooking the sea. The setting was magnificent, with the brilliant harbor behind pulsing with life. Lazing beyond were countless small fishing dhows, each sporting a painted eye on the prow—an ancient superstition, still very much alive today, designed to ward off evil. The house itself was sprawling and blockish, rearing high with three stories of well-built, well-cut solid stone. The bottom floor was unusually devoid of windows, though the upper stories were pierced by many. The sockets marched across the facade empty, lifeless. Indeed, the entire structure was empty and lifeless. Centuries old, it had outlived its makers and, apparently, everyone else. Nothing grew around its base, which rose stone on stone from the road, bone on bone. It was surprising to find such an impressive structure on such a magnificent overlook sitting unclaimed.
"Of all the haunted houses I've heard of, this is the most unnerving to me," Damien explained. "Interestingly enough, I don't actually know the ghost story itself."
"What does that mean?" I asked, intrigued.
"A little history is necessary..." Damien teased, nodding to the back seat. He smoothly ignored the strangled gurgling that emanated from there. "A little history about World War II. Being the perfect crossroads, Malta has always been in the thick of things. World War II was no exception, and easily the most frightening of all. In short, Malta—a British colony—was crucial to the war in the Mediterranean and North Africa. Hitler showed no mercy. It's been estimated that our little island was one of the most intensely bombed areas in the entire Second World War. The people were hit so hard, in fact, that afterwards King George VI did something never before done in history: he awarded the entire civilian population of the island the George Cross.
"We earned it," he added ruefully. "Hitler ordered more than three thousand air raids on our little island. In the first six months of 1942 there was only one day without air raids. They averaged three major attacks a day, nighttime being no exception. They hit us with every kind of bomb you can think of. The Luftwaffe dropped sea mines into the harbor and used delayed-action bombs over the city. So many bombs...
"The worst were the cracker-bombs, which exploded a hundred meters in the air to shower the city with thousands of pieces of shrapnel. Because of those brutal cracker-bombs, as well as random strafing runs from fighters shooting any sign of movement on the ground, everybody was forced underground. Buildings were systematically reduced to rubble, and soon there was a severe shortage of shelter. People built whatever they could from the debris, moved into caves, even dug into the cliffs. Many thousands were wounded, and thousands more killed. The children suffered the worst, of course.
"And in the middle of all this hell," Damien narrated with a wide gesture, "was this house right here. Big and solid, it survived the Crusades, survived the Turks."
He glanced up to the thick stone exterior.
"Empty," he said. "It remained empty. Even when typhoid epidemics raged through the Blitz survivors because they were packed into underground rooms like sardines in a can, nobody stayed here."
"Why not?" Cosmina asked, finally interested, cigarette burning alone.
"Nobody knows exactly why," he explained. "In the beginning this building was an obvious choice for safety. Most of the men were off fighting in the war, so it was mostly women and children hiding within. But something else hid within, something more terrible than even the Luftwaffe.
"It happened in the middle of one January night, when the dark flashed brighter than any thunderstorm from firebombs and explosions. Air raid sirens screamed everywhere in the dark. Yet, for some reason, everybody fled not into the building, but out of it: old men, mothers, children. Now what could possibly frighten a mother so badly that she would send her children out into the shrapnel-filled streets during a night raid? It would take far, far more than a poltergeist rapping on walls and throwing stones for me to abandon my boys to the Nazis. Yet that is exactly what the men and women did—men and women who earned the King's Medal for undaunted bravery in the face of unparalleled danger and privation. Think about that. What of this world could so terrify them? Nothing of this world."
A chill prickled the back of my neck. Damien was one hell of a storyteller!
"Nobody knows what they saw," Damien continued. "Nobody would talk about it. But this house, empty for decades before the war, has remained empty for decades after the war. And so it will remain forever. The Maltese do not forget their history."
A moment of silence engulfed us. Three pairs of eyes hesitantly flirted with the forbidden house, as if too shy to make contact. It loomed above, drab and heavy, lifeless.
"Finally we're talking about ghosts!" Cosmina suddenly blurted, no doubt with more exasperation than she intended—certainly more volume. She was getting impatient to get down to business. She set up this meeting and wanted to see it get done. The fact that Damien may be using this time to size me up had obviously not occurred to her. Cosmina was used to being wined and dined by tour owners and operators all across the Mediterranean. Having someone else be the focus—a boring-ass bookworm, no less—was more than she could bear.
Soon enough we were having lunch at a modern restaurant, relaxing on a balcony overlooking yet another yacht-filled harbor, sipping sparkling water and enjoying a sun perfectly softened by an ivy-filled latticework.
"I know tours," Damien explained at long last. "I know how to make them and I know how to sell them. A good businessman finds the right pairing of two things that need each other. But tours are not about supply and demand, they are about anticipating someone's desires. Allow me to give you
an example you might find interesting."
"More interesting than fat ladies and rocks?" Cosmina asked.
"Oh yes," Damien said. "Tuna."
"Tuna?"
"Tuna," he repeated. "I had an extremely high-ranking Russian coming and was tasked with providing him and his entourage entertainment. Please understand that when I say high-ranking, I'm talking about a man of incredible resources—and he wanted something nobody else could boast."
"Tuna?"
"Tuna," he repeated with a pearly smile. "Malta is a world leader in tuna farming. A couple kilometers offshore you may have seen large rings on the surface. Those are floating cages. The cages are fifty meters in diameter and ninety meters deep. That may sound large, but I assure you it's not as large as you think. Atlantic bluefin tuna are caught in the wild up to 600 kilograms and fattened up in the cages. They are simply huge.
"I rented a yacht and cruised him out to a cage. We could see them circling in the cage, an entire school of three meter tuna swirling below like a flashing, silver whirlpool. They are predatory fish with rows of serrated fins: very large, very intimidating. They swam deep, but the water is so clear you feel like you can reach out and touch them. There were about a thousand of them in there. I told him to jump in for a swim."
"Did he?" Cosmina curiously asked.
"Would you?" he asked, eyes flashing.
"Hell no."
"Nor I," Damien admitted with a laugh. "I don't think he wanted to, either, but he'd die before looking a coward. Took him plenty of vodka before he had the courage to jump in. But he did."
After hearing that story, I felt even less worthy to be in the company of Damien. What I could offer this man who lived outside the box was beyond my understanding. I was thrilled to have been given so much of his time—the personal tour of the island was incredible—but I felt utterly unworthy of it all. Being the horrible poker player that I am, I said as much.
"Damien," I said, "I'm really not sure I have anything to offer you for all your time."
"First of all," Damien said smoothly, "It is my pleasure to share my homeland—of which I am immensely proud—with someone who appreciates it. One of the greatest aspects of my people is not our science, however, but our spirituality. St. Paul himself converted the Maltese to Christianity when on his way to Rome and eventual martyrdom, which is well known. I want to show something that is commonly overlooked, but part of everyday life here: our ghosts. What gave me the idea was the house I showed you, and a story my father told me when I was young.
"My father told me of a friend of his who, back during the building boom of the sixties, wanted to sell an old house that had been uninhabited for many years because it was haunted. He didn't own the house himself, to be precise—he was a priest—but it was under his care. He was no businessman, but he knew that the run on property—any property, no questions asked—wouldn't last forever. So when a local contractor offered him £4,000 for the house, the priest gratefully said yes. He thought he'd get far less for it. In fact, he thought he would get so much less for it that he felt guilty over failing to mention it was haunted. He called up the contractor and admitted the house was worth less than paid because of this. The contractor agreed and asked for £1,000 to be refunded. The priest agreed, no doubt figuring £1,000 was a small price to pay for his soul."
Damien leaned back and smiled before finishing his tale.
"The contractor was glad the priest had come clean. He already had a buyer lined up, an Englishman who already agreed to pay £6,000 for the property. The contractor called up the buyer and told him the house came with a ghost and the price would have to be adjusted accordingly. Thus the Englishman paid £7,000."
I chuckled good-naturedly.
"True story!" Damien was quick to clarify. "You see, I understand how British people feel about ghosts. They love them, and are very proud of all their abandoned castles and haunted ruins. I know American business very well, but I don't know American people. You see, in Malta we are saturated with history and forget nothing. Our ghost stories, how we share them and how they affect us, are dependent upon this. We have this in common with the English. But America is so young and always looking for the next new thing.
"I've thought about this for years but never got past the idea stage. Then Cosmina mentioned you wrote a book for American tourists about an Old West ghost town, with an aim at providing them their own walking tour. I thought you could share with me some of your experiences with hauntings and history with Americans."
"Wow," I said. "That's a pretty flattering view, Damien."
Regardless of my feelings of inadequacy, we talked for the better part of an hour. It was an amazing experience, a perfect cap to a surprising day. Nothing of tangible value was exchanged, but that did not mean it was a waste of time. We both learned something. He had a greater understanding of what would be expected of his product, should he choose to create it, and I gained some worldliness. Previously, on land, I had only mild experience in doing business with foreign professionals—not that I could call this business, and not that I could call my previous Australian investors particularly foreign. Still, I had never before had such interaction in a place where business was conducted over tea and sealed with a handshake.
Yes, one lunch with Damien was enough for me to feel I had become a networking guru—not just feel, oh no, I knew. For now I had worked intimately with a European—not just a European, oh no, African too! A good businessman finds the right pairing of two things that need each other, Damien said. The time was ripe to apply this mantra to my situation on Wind Surf.
My auctions were relegated to the main lounge during afternoons only. Who in their right mind would skip seeing Venice in favor of a cruise ship art auction? Nobody. I had to pair the droves of art-starved guests with my art supply. And now I had the negotiating chops to do so. Now I was ready to mediate—nay, demand!—a new auction arrangement with Francois. I was ready to handle him. Oh, how I pitied the poor, poor man. I was going to mop the floor with him and his delicate French sensibilities.
I don't actually recall the meeting. After Francois' verbal slap-down, I don't even clearly recall what I had proposed. All words exchanged buzzed in my memory like the teacher's voice in a Charlie Brown cartoon. Francois crushed me—that much I know—with the utmost calm. The only thing I distinctly remember was a single, too-black hair curling around his eye. I desperately wanted him to push it back into place, or brush it aside, or something. Anything. But no such trifle would ruffle Francois' feathers. He just locked eyes with me and completely dismantled whatever obviously stupid idea I had proposed.
After the excruciating failure I stumbled back to my cabin, intent on crawling into my graffitied bunk and crying into the Moo Sisters. But then a thought occurred to me. Impulsively I spun on my heel and returned to the hotel director's office. He was still in the same place. The stray hair was not.
"What is it, Brian?" he asked, sighing. He obviously considered the matter closed. A hotel director's word was law onboard, after all. But by pure, blind, dumb luck I happened to say the right thing.
"Bar sales suck."
Francois stared at me, though his pinched face opened in mild surprise.
"I beg your pardon?" he said.
"Surely you've noticed that guests are not filling the main lounge every night. It's because of the band."
Francois continued staring at me, only now with his hands folded neatly upon the desk. He was giving me the full posture of disapproval. Quietly he said, "I happen to like the band. They did not come cheap. Did I not make it clear that I will not vacate the lounge for your art auctions during the evening when the band plays?"
"You did," I agreed hurriedly. "But I'm not thinking about the main lounge. I'm thinking about the ship's bar. People need options. Let's give them an evening activity that is something different. I will teach guests how to appreciate art—bring beauty into their lives! And maybe even sell some in the process."
Yes, I was blatantly quoting Francois from earlier.
"One thing's for sure," I continued. "If you give me one evening per cruise—just one!—I'll fill the back bar with people."
"The Compass Rose?" Francois scoffed. "That's absurd. It's far too small for an art auction."
"Let me try," I pressed. "We'll offer art-themed drink specials, like a Picasso-tini, and I'll display all the Picassos I have for sale. I will dress the bar with only the best works, only high end stuff. Less is more. I can't sell art that's locked in a closet and you can't sell drinks to people not in a bar."
His pinched face frowned again.
"I just don't think it will work," he finally said. "But I do recognize that you're trying. Because you're showing initiative in helping shore excursions, I will give you one chance. Just one."
2
The Compass Rose was a great little bar overlooking the delicate wake left behind the Surf as the wind tugged her across the sea. The small room was dominated by a tall bar trimmed with lacquered tiles of blue and white. The navy blue carpet echoed the theme with a sparse diamond pattern. The entire back wall was comprised of folding glass doors that could open to double the floorspace. For the Compass Rose was less a room and more an open deck, with glittering stars above and grainy teak below. With my best art in an arc of easels radiating outward from the bar, everything felt intimate, classy. At least I hoped so, because Francois told me it had to be. He was in attendance.
Things did not begin well. The only assistant I could find onboard was Yoyo, and he proved to be more of a liability to me than he ever was to his mentor, Ardin. At his best, he knocked easels over: squealing like a girl as thousand-dollar artwork smacked flat on its face. At his worst he offered to take photographs of the artwork for people to buy, rather than the artwork itself. Adding to my discomfiture was that Francois spent the entire time closely watching the effeminate photographer rather than watching me strut my stuff. Not that I had much stuff to strut. I barely sold anything before Francois got bored and left.
High Seas Drifter (Cruise Confidential 4) Page 9