MISSUS MCLEENTAK, it read, held by a rather nice-looking young man in jeans and a Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt Presumably the age of mass media and production has brought us more than the comfort of seeing T-shirts advertising the same establishment anywhere in the world, but at that very moment I could not think what.
Actually the reason I almost missed it was that I was absolutely mesmerized by the appearance and antics of one of my fellow passengers on the Air Malta flight from Paris. He was dressed safari-style, whether because he thought Malta was the kind of place that required that sort of attire or as a matter of affectation, I couldn’t know. In any event, he was wearing cowboy boots, khaki pants, one of those matching khaki short-sleeved shirts with an excess of pockets, and a wide-brimmed hat of the bush ranger variety, one side snapped up, that one associates with the Australian outback or the Serengeti. This one sported a leopard print band, and dipped over a pockmarked face, a bulbous nose, and florid complexion that indicated its owner should probably swear off the booze from time to time.
This fellow, whom I’d named for my own amusement GWH for Great White Hunter, had begun his performance even before the plane got off the ground in Paris. While everyone else was attempting to get seated, he was up and waving bills in assorted currencies in the direction of the cabin attendants. It seemed he wanted them to put the bottle of champagne— Dom, he called it—he’d brought on board in the refrigerator and to serve it to him at his seat. He was sitting with a lovely lady, he said in a stage whisper that could be heard halfway to Nairobi, and wanted to impress her.
The well-trained cabin crew, who had the good taste to regard the proffered money and the champagne as they would a basket of scorpions, explained to him that one was not supposed to bring one’s own liquor for consumption on the aircraft. GWH apparently felt the rules did not apply to him. Finally the head cabin steward, realizing that GWH would be very disruptive to the comfort of the other passengers if they did not comply, agreed to take care of the champagne.
The “lovely lady” in question was an attractive middle-aged woman who appeared never to have met GWH, and was, I suspect, no more thrilled than I would be by this intimacy forced upon her by Fate in the form of the Air Malta computer.
In fact, she looked as if this flight was to be the longest three hours of her life. The aircraft was small, and had been overbooked, so it was absolutely full, even after some passengers volunteered, lured by the offer of cash and accommodation, to wait for a later plane. I myself had been tempted by the thought of a few hours in Paris and a nice afternoon nap after an all-night flight, but had decided to forge on.
In any event, I was seated across the aisle and back one row from the lovely lady and the GWH, and could tell that about thirty minutes into the flight, she was becoming desperate. At this point, in what I took to be a splendid gesture of Christian charity, a gentleman seated behind me, a priest in black robes and a cross on a long chain around his neck, told the cabin attendants that he would be pleased to change seats with her. The message was discreetly delivered and accepted with genuine gratitude, I’m sure, and the priest took his seat beside GWH.
I could see only the side of the priest’s head, and thought rather uncharitable thoughts, considering his kindness, about his hairdresser. There was no part in his hair. Instead it hugged his skull, emanating in all directions from a tiny bald spot on the top of his head, perched like a polar ice cap on some small planet. At the front it looked from this angle as if his hair stopped just above his eyebrows, giving very much the impression of a man with a bowl on his head.
I was very tired from the overnight flight, and after reading the Paris papers for a few minutes and realizing that I had made the right decision to press on to Malta—there were reports of labor unrest and the chance of wildcat strikes possibly affecting the airport, and there had been bomb threats in the Metro—I fell asleep and did not waken until the “tables and chair backs in the upright position” announcement as we began our descent into Malta.
I peered past my seatmate by the window, straining to get a view of the island. Alex had told me that Malta is shaped like a fish—Alex knows the most amazing things—and that where I was going, Galea’s house, was, if one assumed the top of the fish was to the north, just below the gill area. Not a particularly inviting location description and certainly not one I would expect to hear from the Maltese National Tourism Organization, but definitely descriptive. All I saw from the plane was a rocky and rather desolate island. It was raining, as Alex had predicted.
I did not see GWH and the priest exiting the aircraft, but they soon joined the rest of us at the baggage carousel. The priest had a duffel bag only, but the GWH had three large suitcases and a golf bag filled with clubs. There was the usual routine to get out of the airport, a red zone and a green zone, depending on whether or not you had anything to declare, and I headed for the green zone several steps behind the priest and GWH.
GWH was looking a little the worse for wear. He had had too much champagne, I suppose, and his khaki pants had slipped down below his paunch, so that he was now walking on the back hem of his trousers. He stumbled slightly, and the priest, who by this time surely deserved multitudes of credits in the hereafter, went to assist him. Both were stopped in the spot check in the green zone, but after sharing a joke with the priest, probably at the expense of GWH, the customs officers waved the priest through. GWH did not fare as well, and as I went through the outer door, I wondered if they would notice the metal detector amongst his golf clubs. It was the last I thought I would see of either of them.
It took me a few seconds to realize that Missus Mcleentak meant me, since I really hadn’t expected to be met at the airport. I approached the young man and introduced myself.
“I’m Lara McClintoch,” I said. “Are you looking for me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the nice young man said. “I’m Anthony Farrugia. My mother and father look after Mr. Galea’s house for him. Mother thought it would be nice if I were to come and meet you.”
“That is very thoughtful of you and your mother,” I said. “Where to?”
He took my bag and led me out to a parking area and a very old car. An acid-yellow car, a British Ford of some kind, I think, conservatively twenty years old, and maybe closer to thirty. It looked well cared for, however, and Anthony’s pride in it was evident.
“Nice car,” I said and he beamed.
He loaded my luggage in the trunk and we got into the car. Alex’s notes had warned me they drive on the left in Malta, so I was prepared for mat. Not for what came next, however. Anthony put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb, then accelerated until the gears were screaming. Just when the smell of burning rubber or oil permeated the car, he pushed in the clutch, pulled it into neutral, put in the clutch again, and whipped it into third. He noticed me watching him.
“No second gear.” He grinned. “Have to go like a bomb in first, then ease it into third.”
“I see,” I said.
At the exit of the airport, we roared around a corner in third gear, and I could hear my suitcase flying about in the trunk.
“Not good to slow down,” he said. “It stalls.”
“I see,” I said again. Just then we went around another corner at breakneck speed, and with a thud the window beside me slid down into the door frame.
“Rats,” he said. “It does that sometimes.”
I tried to roll the window back up, but the handle spun uselessly in my hand.