“That’s wonderful,” I said, thinking there might be a side to Martin Galea I hadn’t known. We headed downstairs, where Marissa showed me the dinner she had prepared for me. It looked good—a stew of some kind of meat with onions and tomatoes, and a large very crusty-looking loaf of bread.
She showed me where the telephone was, and put their phone number beside it. “It sometimes works, it sometimes doesn’t,” Anthony said from behind us. “Can I take Missus Mcleentak out to look around Valletta after Mass tomorrow, Mum?”
“If she’d like to go?” she said, looking at me.
“That would be just great, Anthony,” I said. “What time should I expect you? In fact, what time is it now? I’m still on Toronto time, I think.”
“It’s four-thirty,” Anthony said. “I’ll come and get you about one tomorrow?”
“Done,” I said.
Joseph joined us in the kitchen. “Now, missus,” he said, “you lock up the place after we leave. And don’t you go walking around in the fog. There’s a very big drop at the back of the yard here. We wouldn’t want to lose you before my boy here can even show you around.” He gave his son an affectionate pat and smiled at me. They were really nice people.
I walked them to their car, the three Farrugias and the two workmen, and waved as they left. They disappeared into the fog very quickly, then I heard the engine reverse and they came back up the driveway. Anthony leapt out and handed me the car keys with a grin and a wave. Then they were off a second time. I regarded the keys with unease.
The house did not seem all that welcoming now that they were gone. With so little furniture and none of the carpets placed, my footsteps made an unpleasant hollow sound as I walked about. There were also not many lights. The kitchen lights worked, but the ceiling lights in the main room were still wires hanging from the ceiling. There was one lamp, a desk lamp that had been plugged in and left on the floor, there being no desk to put it on. I had a feeling it was going to be a long evening.
It would still be late morning Toronto time, and I’d promised to check in when I arrived. I put through the call, and was glad to hear Sarah’s crisp voice.
“I’m here,” I said. “It’s quite the place. How are things there?”
“I’m having a special day,” she replied. “You know how it was freezing rain when you left? Well, this morning it’s even colder. I had my car washed yesterday, and this morning the car doors were frozen shut, not just the locks, the door frames as well. Luckily I caught Alex at home, and he came in early and opened the shop. Please don’t tell me it’s eighty degrees in the shade where you are!”
“It’s closer to sixty-five degrees, and it’s raining and foggy, and I can’t see twenty feet outside the window. The place is empty and there is hardly any light. Feel better?”
“Much.” She laughed. “Misery loves company. Will you be okay there by yourself?”
“Oh, sure. It’s just a little creepy, that’s all. Any word from Dave?”
“He’s having a tough time figuring out how to get the stuff there. Yesterday there was a strike in Italy. He says that’s pretty normal. Now one of the public service unions in France is calling for a one-day strike that will virtually shut the country down for twenty-four hours. But he says not to worry, not yet anyway.”
“That’s encouraging. Be sure and tell me when to start worrying then.”
“Oh, we will.” She laughed. “Alex says to tell you he checked your house this morning because it’s so cold. Everything is fine. No burst pipes or anything.”
“Tell him thanks for me. We’ll stay in touch until we get this job done.”
I felt better talking to her, and realized I was hungry. I warmed up the stew as instructed by Marissa. It was close enough to dinnertime here. It was really very good. Fenek, I decided, meant rabbit. Rabbit stew. The bread was exceptional. It had a very crusty exterior, but the interior would almost melt in your mouth. I had to stop myself from eating the whole loaf, it was that good. There was a pleasant enough bottle of wine, local at that, to wash it all down. Soon I was feeling very mellow.
Dinner took up all of thirty minutes of the evening. It’s amazing how slowly time goes by when you really just want to go to sleep but won’t let yourself. I’m a firm believer that the way to get over jet lag is to adjust your activities to local time right away even if you have missed a whole night’s sleep on the way over. I told myself I couldn’t go to bed before ten, or maybe nine-thirty. And it was now only six-thirty.
I went upstairs and unpacked my suitcase. There were hangers in the closet, and the bathroom was fully equipped. There was even a nice, new, white terry bathrobe. Just like a fancy hotel. I had a shower in the white-tiled walk-in shower, and then with a towel around my wet hair and the bathrobe on, I eyed the bed. It looked very good—soft, down duvet, lots of pillows. I succumbed to the temptation.
A noise woke me sometime later. It was very dark, and it took me a few seconds to remember where I was. I could not identify the noise that had wakened me, but I could tell the wind had come up in the night. My eyes adjusted to the light a little, and I got up and made my way to the window. I did not turn on the bedside light. The house had a goldfish bowl feel to me, with no curtains or shutters, and I would have felt exposed by the light.
I stood at the window. I found the door to the upstairs deck was unlocked. That didn’t make me feel good, but I stepped out onto the deck. It was a little chilly, but the fog was lifting, the wind whipping it in drifts across the yard.
As I peered into the darkness, I suddenly saw, or thought I did, at the far end of the yard, the figure of a man, standing very still. He was dressed in dark clothes, his head appeared to be hooded. I shrank back from the railing, my heart pounding. As quietly as possible, I backed into the house and closed and locked the door behind me. Then I went from room to room checking the doors to the balcony. All except mine had been locked. In the dark I made my way down the staircase and checked all the doors on the main floor. They too were locked. From the windows at the back of the house, I peered out into the yard again. I could see no one. The mist lifted, and the moon came out. There was no one there.
“It’s your imagination, Lara, jet lag,” I said out loud, my voice echoing in the empty room. “Go back to bed.”
I didn’t think I’d go back to sleep, but I did. I dreamed about a man in dark robes, beckoning me toward the edge of the abyss at the back of the yard.
THREE
Temples of stone, huge and round. Megaliths, tons of rock carved with the most primitive of tools, moved without the wheel. What fervor, what piety drives you, the temple builders? It is I. Life, death, rebirth. Built in My image, below ground first, then above, stretched above the sea. Offerings, animal sacrifice, the acrid smell of burning herbs. Then suddenly, silence once again. Where have you gone, you worshipped Me best?
“Why is he sitting like that?” I asked.
“Who?” Sophia replied.
“The bus driver. Why is he sitting way over to the left, on the edge of the seat, and reaching back over to the steering wheel?”
“Because Jesus is driving the bus, not him,” she said.
Alex had told me that Malta is a devoutly Catholic country, but I had no idea of the extent of it. Part of me, the cynical part, wanted to laugh out loud. Another side of me ached for the simple faith the statement and the act implied.
I was wedged in a seat designed for two between Anthony and Sophia, his utterly charming and sweet girlfriend, on a bus headed for Valletta, the capital city.