That morning, however, a black cloud had descended upon me. The dreary rain outside mirrored the inner workings of my psyche. The fog that swirled around the yard had somehow worked its way into my body. I felt as if my eyes and ears and all my inner workings were clogged with cotton wool. I could not get out of bed.
Marissa and Joseph, who had reappeared as suddenly as he’d left, arrived late morning. I heard them come in and call out for me, but I could not summon the energy to reply.
They came looking for me, and soon their two heads poked around the bedroom door. I waved at them in a languid fashion, extending my hand only inches beyond the edge of the duvet, which was pulled up to my nose, to do so. Apparently they did not like what they saw. I heard, but could not understand, their whispered consultation in the hall outside the bedroom and as they descended the stairs.
Soon I heard footsteps on the stairs once again and Marissa came into the room with a tray.
“Sit up, please,” she said in a tone of voice I assumed she normally reserved for Anthony at his recalcitrant best. I did what I was told. She was younger than I, but the tone apparently works for both children and people of all ages in a state of shock.
“Drink this,” she ordered. I shook my head. “I’ve talked to the doctor, and if you don’t drink this and eat something, he’s coming over.” I decided I was not in the mood to meet a Maltese doctor, however lovely and competent he might be, so I drank it down. It was tea, very hot, with lemon and enough sugar to supply the day shift at a candy factory. I had visions of it drilling its way through my teeth. But it worked. I felt better almost immediately. Then there was toast and jam and a little cheese.
“Good!” Marissa said. “Now you can have a bit of a rest until it’s time to get dressed. Anthony and Sophia will be here to pick you up about two.”
“Pick me up for what?” I managed to say.
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. You promised to help Dr. Stanhope with her play. Sophia is counting on you,” she said severely.
I had completely forgotten, to be sure, and I didn’t want to leave my bed. Somewhere in my battered psyche I knew that everyone had decided it would be good therapy for me to do this, but I didn’t feel like it a bit. I knew I couldn’t let Sophia down, though. I had come to feel real affection for her. I also understood that fussing over me was good therapy for Marissa, who looked dreadful, puffy-eyed and exhausted, so I suppose we struck an unspoken bargain of sorts. I agreed to go.
It was a very damp day, so of course the car wouldn’t start. Anthony was not to be deterred this time. He made me sit in the driver’s seat, and then he and his father pushed the car down the incline of the driveway. It started just as I steered around the corner at the bottom. Anthony was pleased with the result. I did not feel my relationship with the car was improving over time.
We, Anthony, Sophia, and I, made our way to the University. I tried to memorize the route for future reference, but I was having difficulty concentrating on anything. Anthony, acting on his mother’s instructions, no doubt, dropped us right at the door and told us he’d be back for us about six.
Many of the students had already gathered when we arrived, and Sophia was pulled into the crowd immediately. I sought out Dr. Stanhope and reported for duty.
“Right,” she said. “You’ll be wanting a briefing. The play we are putting on is a history of Malta from Paleolithic times to the present. It’s done as a series of vignettes. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to a son et lumiere, sound and light show?”
“Sure,” I said. “The Forum in Rome, Athens, the Pyramids of Giza, Karnak on the Nile—I kind of collect them. They are held after dark and use music and dialogue along with lighting to tell the history of a place—they light up particular areas of an historic site where an important event took place.”
“Exactly. Well, this is a little like that, except that we actually light the girls as they speak. They represent the people from different eras, all the nations that have come and gone in Malta, with commentary on historic events. We did it this way because our budget for elaborate sets is just about nil, and there are only fifteen girls in the class participating. Not exactly a cast of thousands.
“For our original production, the students designed and made their own costumes to illustrate various time periods, and we even got the boys in the school involved making props. In shop class they made the kind of implements that were used to build the temples, for example. Everyone pitched in to make the backdrop. The students painted scenes from Maltese history on huge sheets of paper. The first one was a picture of Hagar Qim, the second the ramparts of Valletta, the third the Grand Harbour. You get the idea. The assistant principal came up with a fast way to change the sets.”
“It sounds very ambitious,” I said.
“Well, it is. The students worked very hard. But I think they needed a bit of a stretch, and frankly their knowledge of their own history was appalling, just appalling. I made them do all the research and write the script. Originally I tried to get them to do it from the point of view of the women of each era, but it was too difficult for them. Too much under the thumb of the men around here, if you ask me. Then I hit upon the idea of telling the history from the point of view of the Great Goddess, sort of like having the spirit of Malta speak, and it’s worked out really well.
“Your young friend Sophia is proving to be quite a good little writer, by the way. Wrote her own part, and several others. Anyway, we put it on about a month ago here in the auditorium. Huge success, I must say. Standing ovation. The girls were thrilled.”
“So you’ve extended its run, I take it?”
“Extended… Ah, yes, show business talk, I surmise. Yes, for one performance only. After the show here, some muckety-muck in the Prime Minister’s office, Mr. Camilleri I think he said his name was, asked for an appointment with me. His card made him out to be the Prime Minister’s chief public relations officer.
“Told me the PM was entertaining some foreign dignitaries and he thought the play would be just the thing. Well, I have to admit it was all pretty flattering. I asked the students what they thought, and they were just blown away by the whole idea.
“Camilleri had some ideas to jazz it up a bit, of course. You know these PR types. Anyway, at some point a week or so ago, he hit upon the idea of putting it on at the site, Hagar Qim or Mnajdra. That’s why you saw us there a couple of days ago. We were location scouting—is that the term? We’ve decided Mnajdra is the place. We’ll put chairs—there’ll be about twenty-five people—about where you and I were sitting the other day, facing the temple entrance; we’ll use the ruins as a backdrop; and we’ll light certain portions of it to illustrate the history. The inside of the temple will be, in effect, our backstage.
“Our fallback, of course, the rain location, is here in the auditorium. We’ll keep the sets at the ready. But it would be quite a lark to do it at the site, don’t you think?”
“I think it sounds terrific. What can I do?” I asked.
“We need a sort of stage manager. You know, get everyone to the right place at the right time, in the right costume. That sort of thing. The vice principal had that role, but I think I told you he broke his leg waterskiing. Why anyone would want to roar across the top of the water on a couple of sticks is beyond me. He was practicing for a jumping competition. At his age! I would have credited him with more intelligence. But there you have it. Boy stuff. Way too much testosterone!