“This building houses the offices of the Prime Minister. It is one of the buildings Cassar designed, but it was remodeled later by another Maltese architect, Andrea Belli. Cassar believed that as this was a fortified city, the buildings in it should reflect that—dignified, with no embellishments like columns and carvings. Belli added the more ornate, baroque details-Mr. Galea said that Belli ‘tarted it up’—but the design of the building is still Cassar’s.”
As informative as this all was, I found myself working hard to suppress a smile. Anthony sounded as if he was making a well-rehearsed speech, a school presentation perhaps, every word chosen carefully for its effect, and memorized. His mother had said that Martin Galea had been a major influence on Anthony, and I could almost hear Galea’s inflection, slightly tinged with pomposity, in Anthony’s speech. Galea had shown Anthony around Valletta, I was quite sure, and I could almost imagine the two of them, Anthony hanging on every word, Galea basking in the young man’s admiration. I hoped, for Sophia’s sake, that a love of architecture and an affectation of speech were the only things about Galea that Anthony, immature in many ways it seemed to me, chose to emulate.
Anthony appeared to be looking to me for some comment, so in as serious a tone as I could muster, I told him that the building was handsome, tarted up or not, and he seemed pleased. After I had had a few minutes to admire it at some length, Anthony turned to retrace his steps.
“Let’s take her to the Gardens,” Sophia said. “They’re beautiful.”
Anthony did not wish us to be deterred from the Cassar tour. “Later,” he said.
But Sophia insisted. I could see she had a stubborn streak beneath the shyness. And she was right. The Gardens, the Upper Barrakka Gardens to be precise, were in themselves quite lovely, filled as they are with trees, shrubs, flowers, and sculpture. What made them special, however, was a spectacular view of Malta’s famed Grand Harbour, surrounded by defensive walls, guarded at the entrance by what Sophia told me was the seventeenth-century Fort Ricasoli and further along Fort Saint Angelo. The vantage point from the Gardens gave me an appreciation for the choice of site so long ago, a fortified city surrounded on three sides by water, with a huge natural harbor for shipping and for protection as well.
Continuing on with the tour, we doubled back and turned up a street that ran parallel to the main street where Anthony pointed out another building, the General Post Office, also a Cassar design, of course. As I stepped back to admire a particular feature of the building that Anthony was pointing out, I inadvertently stepped on someone’s toe. I turned to apologize profusely, and found myself face-to-face with the strange fellow from the Air Malta flight the day before—he of the khaki safari gear, my Great White Hunter.
He did not appear to recognize me, which was fine with me, and after suitable expressions of regret on my part, and forgiveness on his, we parted company and the Cassar/Farrugia tour continued on. From the Post Office we went back to the main street via a little road called Melita Street. Republic Street, as the main street was called, was clearly the main shopping thoroughfare of the city, filled with shops and boutiques tucked into the fronts of some very old buildings, and we turned right, or away from the city gate, onto it.
A block or so further on, Anthony stopped to point out the National Museum of Archaeology. “Built by Cassar,” he said. Then added in a more boyish aside, “It’s now filled with pots and fat ladies.”
Sophia glared at him, and he put an arm around her waist and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “Soph is studying really early history, not Cassar’s architecture,” he said. “She’s interested in archaeology and spends a lot of time here. The fat ladies are statues that have been found in ancient sites around the island.”
“I’m interested in archaeology too, Sophia,” I said, “so you must tell me something about that later.”‘ She blushed but nodded and we moved on. Coming up the street behind us I saw the Great White Hunter again. I think he saw me too, but he gave no indication. In fact, he ducked rather quickly into the doorway of a shop.
A few yards further on we came upon a large church. Like the other Cassar projects, this one was of a very severe design, almost ponderous, but it had a certain solemnity to it I could appreciate. There was a little market set up in front of the church, and Sophia and I hesitated for a moment, both of us no doubt feeling the urge to shop, but Anthony, ignoring it, pressed on to the steps of the church. “This is one of Cassar’s greatest projects, St. John’s Co-Cathedral,” he said. “It is not the first church in the city, but it is the largest and the most impressive. It’s called a co-cathedral,” he said with some pride, “because Malta, unlike most other countries, has two official Cathedrals. Unfortunately, the inside has been completely redone in the baroque style and is not Cassar’s work,” he said severely.
“Can we look inside anyway?” I asked. As charmed as I might be by Anthony’s obvious enthusiasm for the accomplishments of his illustrious forebear, I wanted to see more of Valletta than this. “It would prove an interesting comparison, I’m sure, and would help to emphasize the finer points of Cassar’s work,” I ventured.
He looked somewhat mollified. “Okay, let’s go in,” he said. Sophia gave me a sunny smile that indicated she could see through my subterfuge but was quite prepared to go along with it.
The interior of the cathedral bears no resemblance to the austerity of the exterior whatsoever. It is in fact staggering in its ornamentation, almost every surface, every inch of the place, covered with arabesque carvings and gilt. The high altar is marble, silver, and lapis lazuli, the vaulted ceiling is covered in paintings, and the floor is emblazoned with elaborate marble tombstones. Both sides of the cathedral are lined with chapels; I counted eight or nine of them, linked by narrow little corridors.
As I wandered about, I saw in front of one of the prettiest chapels which was enclosed with a silver gate, the man in the safari suit. He did not hear me approach, intent as he was on inspecting the interior of the chapel through the gate.
Not wishing to engage him in conversation again, I made to quietly move on past him, but the toe of my shoe caught in a raised stone in the floor and I stumbled. He turned quickly around and saw me. I assumed that he would think me a complete klutz what with my first stepping on his toe, and now stumbling around behind him, so I tried a wan smile. He tried to look as if he had not noticed me, a studied nonchalance I found amusing, and we both moved on. Obviously he was no more eager to talk to me than I was to him.
When I’d finished my quick tour of the cathedral, resolving to return when I’d have more time, I found Anthony and Sophia sitting in a pew near the back of the church, and we left together. We moved a little further along the main street and came to a pleasant square filled with tables and umbrellas and presided over by a large statue of Queen Victoria. On one side of this square was another large impressive building of a rather stolid nature that I was beginning to recognize. “Cassar?” I asked, pointing.
Anthony beamed. “You recognized it! It’s the House of Representatives,” he added.
I noticed Sophia looking longingly at a tray of sweets at one of the cafes on the square. “Can I treat to coffee and a sweet?” I asked. “In appreciation of a great tour?”
“We’ll come back here,” Anthony said. “There’s one more building I want to show you,”‘ he said, gesturing further down the street. “The Mediterranean Conference Centre.”