The VIP tent, one of its tent poles broken, slumped sadly, canvas drooping like a ghostly sailing ship becalmed. The light standard lay where it had fallen, its lamp shattered, jagged pieces of glass fragments caught by the late afternoon sun. I could see where Anna Stanhope had fallen, and the memory of that night flooded back very painfully, the horror and senselessness of it almost choking me.
I thought about Anna as I had seen her that morning, lying in her hospital bed, pale, ill, and with her emotional pain perhaps worse than her injuries. A nurse let me into the room, whispering that Anna was to be flown back to England by air ambulance the next day, to complete her recovery there.
I had thought she was sleeping, she lay so still, her eyes closed, but she began to speak after a few moments, without looking at me.
“I should have known, shouldn’t I,” she said softly. It was a statement, not a question. “I should have known that a man like him would never be attracted to a woman like me. The signs were all there, of course, had I not been so busy behaving like a silly schoolgirl.”
“I don’t know how you could know,” I said, “I didn’t guess.”
“When I make a mistake, I make a big one,” she said and laughed a little. “Never been one to do anything by halves.” She paused for a moment.
“Do you know what the topper is, though?” she asked, opening her eyes and turning to look at me. “Biggest blunder of my life, and can you believe this? Look at this!” she demanded, waving a piece of paper in front of me. “They’re giving me a medal for it!” I looked at the paper. It was, indeed, a letter from Prime Minister Abela telling her he was recommending her for a medal of some kind.
“I suppose it will have a heart on it,” Anna went on. “Do you have to be dead to get a Purple Heart?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Oh well, either that or some other medal with a heart on it, I’ll wager. Appropriate enough.”
“Of course it’s appropriate,” I said, taking the conversational high road. “You saved those people’s lives, you know. They’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”
She was silent for a few minutes. “Time to retire,” she said. “Get myself a nice little cottage in the country. Devon, Cornwall, something like that. Nice long walks by the sea, a pint at the local pub, long evenings with a good book. I expect they’ll let me retire a little early, don’t you? Being a hero and all.” She smiled slightly.
“I don’t think you should make a decision like that right now,” I said. “Wait until you’re feeling better.” She nodded. The nurse came and signaled it was time for me to go.
As I reached the door, I heard her voice, very soft, behind me. “Dead, is he? They haven’t told me.”
“Yes,” I said. She closed her eyes and I left her there. I thought about how Sidjian had flattered and charmed his way into her heart, and despised him, not her, for all of it.
I came to Mnajdra just before I left, I think, to try to get my emotional bearings once again. I sat on the ground, leaning against one of the ancient stones of the Great Goddess’s temple, and thought of the friends, old and new, that I’d lost: Martin Galea, for all his faults, a remarkable man. He had always shunned the banal and striven for, and given us, the beautiful, a creative flame, intense and passionate, snuffed out too soon. Anna Stanhope, in whom, if she chose to retire as she said she would, the world had lost what it could ill afford: a wonderful, inspiring teacher. And Marilyn Galea, a woman who might well have died without ever having really lived. I wanted to avenge them all.
But revenge in whatever form, justice or retaliation, does not bring the victims back. Tabone had said, “Afin najgarrabx il-hazin ma jafx it-tajjeb—he who has had no experience of evil cannot know the worth of what is good,” and I tried to concentrate on that. As the sun went down and turned the walls of Mnajdra to gold, I thought about the builders of these ancient temple walls, now forgotten as individuals, but with a legacy that had extended through centuries and spoke for them still. I felt better thinking this, and I thought that perhaps Martin Galea’s buildings spoke for him, just as Anna Stanhope’s students, inspired by her teachings, would continue to speak for her.
I did not know what, or who, would speak for Marilyn Galea.
ANATH
SIXTEEN
Gone. All of them, gone. Free at last.
It was a few days before Rob and I were able to head for home. Tabone drove us to the airport to say good-bye, and as we left, handed us each a copy of the Times of Malta.
“cabinet minister questioned in assassination scare,” the immensely satisfying headline trumpeted. Even if the link to Galea’s murder could not be made, and something told me it wouldn’t be, at least the man I thought might be responsible would pay. Perhaps too, I thought, the Hedgehog would yet have his day in court.
Rob’s girlfriend Barbara and his daughter Jennifer met our flight from Paris. Jennifer was an attractive girl but with a rather sullen expression that I thought might be in danger of becoming permanent. Barbara, on the other hand, was bright and perky, young, of course, and presumably athletic, dressed as she was in a white tracksuit and shoes, her blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. They offered to drive me home, and although I thought them quite sincere in wanting to do it, I insisted on taking a taxi, happy to sit in silence in the darkness of the backseat as the familiar sights sped by.
I was so glad to turn the key on my Utile Victorian cottage that I almost wept. I could see the lights on at Alex’s house next door, but decided to take some time for myself. I knew he’d be watching out for me and would be over in the morning to see how I was doing, but in the meantime I needed some time to think.
There was a huge pile of mail on the kitchen counter, sorted by Alex into little piles—“Junk,” one said; “Read at Leisure,” another said; “Bills” was the terse message on the largest; and finally “Read Now.” Life was coming back to normal.
There were really only two items in the “Read Now‘’ pile, one postmarked Belize, the second a postmark and stamp I hadn’t seen before.
I poured myself a glass of wine, threw a log or two on the fire, and sat down to read. First, I turned to the letter from Lucas. It had occurred to me that isolated as he was at the archaeological site in Belize, he might know nothing of my adventures, and I looked forward to a letter devoid of any sad references to the last few weeks. But if I thought the letter would put the world right for me, it was not to be.
Dear Lara,
This is a very difficult letter for me to write, and it may be equally difficult for you to read.
I have spent a lot of time thinking about the future, about what I need to do, and about us. You have always respected my wish not to discuss my ties with one of the underground groups agitating for change in my country, but I think you have always known how important these ties are, how critical I consider the cause.
I have been persuaded that now is the time to move forward to the public stage, to begin a political push for change, rather than a clandestine one. In a way it is because of you that I make this decision. Your optimism and faith that justice will always prevail have made me dare to hope that I can change the inequities that exist in Mexican society, that if other people truly understand the situation, they too will support change.
This is, I believe, a very positive decision, except for one thing, and that is that I do not believe I can continue our relationship and do what must be done. I cannot see these two aspects of my life—my relationship with you, and my aspirations for my country—as compatible, in part because our lives, our cultures are so very different, but also because I do not, as you know, believe in doing anything by halves. To attempt to do both would deny both of us the relationship we need and deserve, neither would it serve my cause and my people well. Given that I must choose, I believe I must take the path that benefits my society, rather than the one I might personally prefer.