It did sound rather ridiculous. “Not really, I guess,” I said lamely.
Just then, almost as if to spare me further embarrassment, the phone rang. It was Alex, checking up on me. I told him about the most recent developments, and I could hear the concern in his voice. “I hope you aren’t investigating the murders, Lara. Leave that stuff to the police,” he said severely.
“I know. There’s a policeman right here, as a matter of fact. So don’t worry, Alex.” I was about to say good-bye, when I thought of something else.
“If you can, do some of your wonderful research and find out what a Mintoff man is. It’s been bothering me ever since I heard it.”
“I know the answer to that one already,” Alex replied. “I visited Malta a few times when I was in the merchant marine, you know. It was a stop on a route from Southampton to Piraeus via Malta, Cyprus, and, in the old days, Beirut. The Grand Harbour was one of our ports of call. Splendid place, although there was always the Gut, of course.”
“What in heaven’s name is the Gut?”
“Let’s start with your first question.” He laughed. “Mintoff would be Dom Mintoff, head of the Labour Party, and the Prime Minister of Malta for many years. Became PM in the mid-fifties, if I recall. A Mintoff man, I presume, would be a supporter. Mintoff was a charismatic and some would say quixotic leader. One day you’d be his friend, the next his bitter enemy. After the War, Mintoff originally wanted Malta to integrate with Great Britain, to have representation in the House of Commons and so on. He held a referendum of sorts on the subject, and the majority of Maltese voted in favor of integration, but the British were cool to the idea. Mintoff went off the British and started pushing the cause of independence. Malta achieved nationhood in 1964,I believe. One thing you’ll find out if you get into a political discussion, which frankly I wouldn’t advise, is that politics is a very heated subject in Malta. People are avid— perhaps rabid is a better word—supporters of a particular political party. They hold their political loyalties for their whole lives.”
“That would explain why the Hedgehog—don’t ask, Alex!—thought Giovanni was a traitor for changing political parties!”
“I have no idea who Giovanni is, nor do I believe I have ever heard a hedgehog speak, but the substance of what you are saying is true. Politics in Malta has divided whole communities and has resulted in violence from time to time. But I’ve talked your ear off, and should get off the line.”
“Not so fast, Alex. What’s the Gut?”
“The Gut is a backstreet in Valletta. It was originally the only place the Knights were allowed to fight duels. Did you notice several of the steep streets in Valletta are made up of tiny steps? That’s the only way Knights in full armor could navigate a steep hill, by swinging their legs out to the side and up. The steps are just the right height for a Knight in armor. Later the street became the place to find sleazy bars. Notorious place. You could get yourself into a lot of trouble. I imagine it’s been cleaned up since I was there,” he replied.
“Alex! This is a whole new side to you I’d never have guessed.” I laughed.
“You lead a sheltered life, my dear. Be careful, please,” he said and rang off.
I told Rob about my conversation with Alex, particularly the part about politics. Rob was very quiet while I spoke, perhaps because the conversation about his injuries had depressed him in some way. I took his silence to be my advantage, and started plotting our next moves.
“This makes me think we should go and have a chat with this Giovanni fellow, the childhood chum of Martin Galea. Maybe the killing was politically motivated. Surely it can’t be difficult to locate a Cabinet Minister. Maybe he was to be one of the mystery guests at the social event here. It makes sense, with the two of them having been friends in childhood. And I know Galea was not above using his connections. Maybe he asked Galizia to set it up.”
“I doubt Galizia has anything to do with it, and I imagine that it may be easy to locate a Cabinet Minister, but not so easy to get in to see him,” Rob replied. I detected, or perhaps imagined—in retrospect I’m not sure—something patronizing in his reply, and it irritated me. I resolved to do a little investigating of my own, without him.
Perhaps as he’d mentioned, I don’t have the face for deception, because he said, in a supercilious tone, “You’d do well to remember the words of George Bernard Shaw: ‘Hell is full of amateurs.” Man and Superman, I think. Actually he said musical amateurs, but you get the general idea.“
My, my, I thought, a literate cop. First Umberto Eco, and now George Bernard Shaw. It might actually be possible to have a civilized conversation with this man. But not tonight. “And you might do well to remember,” I shot back, “the Chinese proverb that says something to the effect that a man should take care not to anger a woman, because he has to sleep sometime, with his eyes closed.”
“Sleep? You who sleeps in a huge bed with a down duvet! You think I sleep on that nasty cot? It’s… it’s—what do you call those temples you’re always going on about?—Neolithic, that’s what it is. No, way older than that. Pre-Neolithic,” he sputtered.
“Paleolithic?” I smiled sweetly. “Tough!” I went up to my room and shut the door—I like to think I didn’t slam it, just closed it firmly—and resolutely thought about Lucas. Kind, sweet, and hardly ever argumentative Lucas. Not that Lucas was perfect or anything. He had his faults, like everybody. He was still, after a relationship of two years, a bit of a cipher to me, a part of him always held back. There were so many things about him I still didn’t know. Like his politics, for example, since that had been a topic of conversation that evening. I knew Lucas had ties of some kind with a radical underground group that fought for the rights of the native peoples of Mexico, but how radical and how involved, I didn’t know. I didn’t ask either, because I knew he wouldn’t tell me. But compared to someone like the Mountie, Lucas was a prince.
That night I dreamed the Mountie and I were taking part in a round dance. We were in a large group of people, several of whom I knew: Marilyn Galea, Anna Stanhope and her Victor, Sophia and the Farrugias, Vincent Tabone. Even the Hedgehog was there. We were dancing in a large circle in front of Mnajdra. It was night, but we were lit by a spotlight.
From time to time the steps of the dance would fling Rob and me into the middle of the circle, where we’d smile and whirl, the picture of friendship. But then the music would change, the pattern would move on, and we’d be separated by the circle once more.
As bright and noisy as the dance was, I knew there was menace there, a terrible darkness oozing around the stones, swirling about the feet of the dancers, insinuating itself in our souls. In the dream I knew it to be Ahriman, ancient Persian god of the underworld, the embodiment of pure evil.
I could not stop the dance.
ELEVEN
Have you forgotten what it is to be a Knight? What has become of the vows you took, the sacrifices you promised, the valor you espoused? Look at you, bickering, brawling, whoring, duelling, drinking, your minds and bodies bloated with dishonor. You disgust Me! Soon, displaced and discredited, you will be driven from My islands, as you so richly deserve.
The storage shed at Mnajdra was broken into during the night. Anna Stanhope, Victor, and I were called to the site the next morning. Mario Camilleri and his assistant Esther met us there, along with a rather officious policeman who did not appear to have Tabone’s sensitivity or sense of humor.
The shed, one of those temporary aluminum structures, a somewhat larger than usual version of a garden shed, had been spray painted in swirls of a rather nasty green. There was also some hastily scrawled text. “Rude expressions,” the policeman replied to my query. There was no translation forthcoming.