“Hope not. We have all kinds of security in place, of course. Almost as much as when President Bush and Gorbachev were meeting out in the Grand Harbour.”
“I was wondering about the school performance at Mnajdra,” I said. “Strange things happening at the site.”
“You mean that incident with the storage shed? Probably irate parents, you know.”
“But don’t you think it’s a bit strange that all these things are happening when world leaders are arriving here? I mean, two people murdered, nasty things going on at the site of a performance for these very important people?”
“Hard to see the connection. But we have someone in there.”
“In there? At Mnajdra? Do you mean undercover?”
He didn’t answer, so I assumed that was a yes. “Who is it?” I asked.
“If I told you that, and if we did have someone undercover there, which I’m not saying we do, then the person wouldn’t exactly be undercover, now would they?” It was clear he wasn’t going to say. We parted company, and I headed back to the house.
I wasn’t sure I’d actually go through with the plan to crash the party at Palazzo Galizia, which was indeed for that same evening at an address on Villegaignon Street in Mdina. This would take more nerve, to say nothing of lack of social graces, than I would normally be capable of. It was Rob Luczka who decided it for me in a rather backhanded way. I told him about my visit to Galizia’s office and showed him the invitation. I was thinking that if I could persuade Rob to go with me, I might just risk it. But when I showed him the invitation, his response was, I suppose, predictable.
“How’d you manage that?” he asked.
“I was at his office and told him I was a friend of Martin Galea’s and…” My voice trailed off. For some reason, although I’d lied my way through the hallowed halls of the External Relations Ministry, I couldn’t bring myself to lie to Rob. My face, as usual apparently, did me in.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” he exploded. “You nicked it, didn’t you?” I nodded.
“I’m a policeman. I don’t crash parties, and I don’t mix with people who steal things either!” He stomped off in a huff.
I, equally annoyed, developed a fallback position. When Marissa brought Sophia’s costume back, beautifully mended, washed, and wrapped in tissue, I asked her if she would do me an immense favor and allow her son to be my chauffeur for the evening. I told her I’d been invited to a party in Mdina but didn’t want to drive myself, and it would be too late for the bus. She agreed. We arranged for Anthony to meet me at the house and drive me to Mnajdra for the dress rehearsal— he’d planned to be there for the rehearsal anyway—and then to drive me on from there.
There was no indication on the invitation of how to dress. I expect that’s because old families, or those who aspire to look that way, know the code. I’d brought one good outfit, just in case Galea had wanted me to help him with his party, either to help host, or even just to pass the canapes. It consisted of long silk pants that flared out at the bottom—I believe they may be called palazzo pants, which seemed appropriate enough for a party at the Palazzo Galizia—and a black silk embroidered top I’d picked up in my travels. The invitation said nine p.m., but I did not plan to arrive before ten when with any luck the party would be in full swing. When one is crashing a party, it seemed to me, it would not be a good idea to be the first guest. That would also allow enough time to get through the dress rehearsal, and for Anthony to drive Sophia home before going on to Mdina.
Rob was nowhere to be seen when Anthony picked me up and we headed off for Mnajdra, which suited me just fine. My face, no doubt, would have given me away.
The rehearsal was a fiasco. The best one could say about it was that if the old adage about a poor rehearsal meaning a great performance was true, then the next night would be a stupendous success. The girls seemed nervous, perhaps because the phalanx of police and army had doubled since the previous evening, and it was all a bit overwhelming for them. They forgot their lines, I got the costumes jumbled up, the music didn’t sound quite right, some of the lights didn’t work, and Victor Deva clucked and fussed all evening in a rather irritating way. The girls were quite down by the end of it all.
Anna Stanhope called them all together just before they went home. She repeated the adage about poor rehearsals and good performances, which brought little smiles to the girls’ faces, and then she said, “You are all citizens of a very tiny republic with an immense and sweeping history, and you are heirs to this heritage. The story you will tell to these world leaders tomorrow night is one of which you can be very proud. It tells of people who, although they have been conquered many times, have never been truly defeated, and have never lost their distinctive character despite attempts by many nations to stamp that out.
“You and your ancestors have endured times as dark as any nation could, whether that was the Great Siege of Malta by the Turks, or the second Great Siege so recently, when your parents and grandparents held on against tremendous odds, bombed day and night, food supplies dwindling, while the world watched and despaired for you. Many thought you would not survive it, but survive it you did. Many thought you were too small for nationhood, but you have proven them wrong. These are the stories you will tell tomorrow, and you will make your parents and your country proud.”
A hush had fallen over the site. Even the police and soldiers were paying rapt attention. She put her hand up in what seemed to be a gesture of blessing. “May the power of the Great Goddess be with you tomorrow, the wisdom of Inanna of Sumer in whose temple writing was invented; the power of Isis, whose name means ‘the throne’ and who provided the foundation for kingship in Egypt; and the strength of Anath who wading through blood, confronted and defeated Mot, the God of Death. But most of all we ask the blessing of the Great Goddess of Malta, who inspired your ancestors to build these temples right here where we stand, as a reflection of her strength and power.”
She lowered her hand and said simply, “See you tomorrow.” The girls left, standing taller perhaps, than they ever had before.
“You are a wonderful teacher,” I told her, wanting to voice my admiration but not being sure how.
“It is something I love to do,” she said simply. “Now let’s get to work,” she said, resuming her normal tone.
Sophia and Anthony helped me sort out the costumes, Victor and his cousin Francesco packed up what equipment they could and covered the rest, Alonso as usual did the heavy work, lifting the boxes and stacking them in the storage shed. Mario and Esther saw to it that a guard was posted on the shed all night. I changed into my party duds in the shed, and then we headed for Mdina.
Technically I knew that Anthony was supposed to drive Sophia home first, but I said nothing. I expect they didn’t have much time alone together, what with Sophia’s father’s coolness toward Anthony. It was fine with me. I could be trusted to keep my mouth shut.
I showed them the invitation and they were clearly impressed. “Minister Galizia is a very important person,” Anthony said, quite unnecessarily. “And rich. I’ll take you to the Main Gate of Mdina,” he went on. “Only residents with permits are allowed to drive in the city. It’s not really designed for cars, as you’ll see. But you’ll have no trouble finding the house. Villegaignon Street is the main street. Lots of beautiful old houses. It’s where the oldest Maltese families live. It runs off the square inside the Main Gate, and it’s not too far to walk. Then I’ll drive Sophia home… slowly.” He grinned. “What time would you like me to pick you up?”
“What time would be good for you?” I smiled back. I was happy to see him cheerful again. He’d been a very subdued young man after Galea’s death, and was obviously very worried about his father, or the man he knew as his father, I should say. Being with his Sophia was obviously good for him. Sophia, I recalled, meant wisdom, and somehow she provided Anthony with the calm center he needed.