02 _ Maltese Goddess, The (22 page)

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.

“I’ll be back here by eleven-thirty. I don’t think we’d get away with much more than that, do you, Soph? I’ll wait until you get here.”

“Eleven-thirty it is.” They pointed out Mdina in the distance. It was beautiful, high on a hilltop, the rooftops and domes lit up against the night. Soon we arrived at the Gate, a baroque archway, and Anthony dropped me off with very explicit instructions as to where he would be, and equally precise directions to the Palazzo Galizia.

I crossed through the Main Gate and found myself in the town. It was quite extraordinary really, a perfect little medieval city, glowing in yellow stone. While the rooftops were lit, at street level, once you moved away from the plaza, the light was dim. The ground floors of the houses were quite austere, except for very elaborate doorways, complete with coats of arms, beautifully carved. Some of the buildings had no doorways or windows on the main street. I could only assume the doors were on a tiny side street. It was also surprisingly quiet.

I could see why cars were restricted. All of the streets were narrow, some very much so. I could stand in the middle of some of them and almost touch both sides with my outstretched arms. There were few sidewalks. The streets were also angled quite sharply: no straight grid pattern here. The houses seemed to hang, or perhaps hover, over the streets, sometimes literally. Several had windows on second and third floors, ornately carved, that overhung the narrow street below, like Romeo and Juliet balconies.

I was left with an impression of hidden secrets, a certain brooding quality, a watchfulness almost. But perhaps it was just the normal reticence of those with money and power who wish to protect it.

The Palazzo Galizia was impressive, although the house did not yield up its secrets easily. The entrance was not particularly imposing certainly, dark green double doors which in my opinion could have used a lick of paint, topped by a semicircular transom window. There were two bronze door knockers shaped like dolphins, one on each door, but before I could knock the door was opened by a staff person in full regalia. I found myself in a rather austere foyer with what appeared to be a small chapel off to one side. The chapel, complete with burning votive candles, spoke to a piety that for some reason I’d assumed would be lacking in a politician, although this may say more about my opinion of politicians than of Galizia’s religious convictions.

I presented my invitation. The doorman looked mildly puzzled, for reasons that would soon be apparent to me, but he tried to hide it, well trained as he obviously was, and he excused himself to consult with another man stationed at the foot of a marble staircase directly opposite the door. I stood there attempting to look nonchalant as he did so, debating whether, should entry be refused, I would try righteous indignation or simply slink away quietly. I was leaning toward the latter when, apparently satisfied, he beckoned me toward the stairs.

It was not until I was on the landing of the staircase that I began to see the palazzo for the sumptuous abode that it was. The dominant feature of the staircase, which could be seen only if one were permitted to ascend, was an amazing three-tiered chandelier, clear glass shot with pink, Murano I assumed. Through a window on the landing, I could see that the house was built in a square around a central courtyard. We turned right at the top of the stairs, then right again, down a long hallway dominated by a series of portraits. The first of these looked very old, maybe late seventeenth or early eighteenth century, I thought, although paintings are not my area of specialty. The oldest, darkened with age, portrayed elaborately dressed men in aristocratic poses. Two of these men were posed in front of landscapes that did not look Maltese, which meant, if I remembered my fine arts courses of many years ago, that these men owned lands in foreign countries. Portraits of women and children, all looking very prosperous as well, rounded out the collection.

As we walked along the hallway, the portraits became progressively more modern, culminating in an oil painting of Galizia and another of a woman with the kind of horsey look I’ve come to associate with some branches of the English aristocracy. I assumed this was Mrs. Galizia, the British wife. I had the impression that Galizia, subconsciously or otherwise, was trying to imply a distinguished family history very much at odds with the upbringing I’d glimpsed in my visit to Mellieha, and his little speech in the newspaper article about knowing what it was to grow up poor.

The deeper one penetrated into the palazzo, the more elaborate it became. At the far end of the hallway we turned right again and entered the library, a real library, I might add. None of that awful wallpaper that is supposed to fool you into thinking there are rows of books for our friend Giovanni Galizia. Walls of books, most of them leather bound, dominated the room. And lest anyone think that Galizia had bought his books by the yard, never to crack a spine, in one corner was a charming little scene, a worn and comfortable-looking leather chair with a reading lamp, still on, behind it, and a book open on a side table, reading glasses resting on the open page, as if the owner had reluctantly torn himself away from his reading to greet his guests. It was all so studied that I began to wonder if Galizia had hired himself an image consultant.

Two large archways led out of the library. Through the first I could see, as we passed by, the dining room, the table elaborately set for a late supper. Here any notion of decorative restraint had been tossed aside. The ceiling was painted a dark blue with silver stars, the walls mustard-yellow, stenciled with feathered patterns in gold with streaks of blue. There seemed to be more gilt almost than St. John’s Co-Cathedral, and the wall opposite the archway featured a
trompe l’oeil
fresco that gave the impression of a view through a window to a garden that would have done Versailles proud.

There were high back chairs, the velvet fabric worn sufficiently to erase any traces of new money, lots of gleaming crystal and silver and decorative pieces, elaborate candlesticks and the like. I tried not to gawk; people invited to parties in a palazzo, after all, should be more sophisticated than that. But my acquisitive shopkeeper’s heart was aflutter at several things I saw. I caught myself eyeing these treasures wondering which, if any, had belonged to the Knights.

Martin Galea, the master of the clean line, an airiness of space, and the deceptively simple detail, would choke if he saw this decor, almost claustrophobic in its sumptuousness, I thought, and perhaps he had been there. I wondered if the master of Palazzo Galizia had seen Martin’s new house with its restrained Mediterranean elegance. Comparing their homes, it was hard to imagine the two of them as friends.

The second archway led to an antechamber off the dining room where my arrival was announced. It did not take me long to realize why the doorman had seemed perplexed. There wasn’t another woman in the room.

The air was filled with cigar smoke, and about twenty men were drinking either sherry, expensive no doubt, or champagne, a celebration of some kind. I got the impression, I have no idea why, that a deal of some kind had been concluded. I recognized Galizia and one other person, a member of the opposition party whose photo I had also seen in the newspaper. It was quite the group. Several of those talking to the minister were military types, high ranking, obviously, with so much braid and so many medals I was surprised they could stand. All turned to stare at me, and they did not appear glad to see me.

“Did I come on the wrong night?” I said brightly, with a bravado I did not feel. In fact, I think I would have made a run for it, had my feet not felt rooted to the floor and my exit not been blocked by the staff person who’d led me there.

Galizia came forward. He was not a large man, but he was built like a fighter, barrel-chested and light on his feet. He was not particularly good-looking, but he radiated assurance, a kind of oily smoothness that I could not help but feel masked other less attractive qualities, like cunning, and, if the Hedgehog’s story was true, ambition and opportunism. What I noticed most about him were his eyes, expressionless, almost opaque. If eyes are indeed the windows of the soul, then either Galizia didn’t have one, or he’d crafted for himself an extraordinarily effective mask. He did not extend his hand, nor did he offer me a drink.

“I believe you were at my office today. A journalist of some kind,” he said. His voice was virtually without inflection too, the counterpart of his eyes. It was difficult to tell from his tone his true feelings, although I assumed a contempt for journalists. “My secretary told me you wanted to interview me about someone called Martin Galea. I can assure you I don’t know this person.”

“How about Marcus Galea?” I asked. For some reason my terror, for terrified I was, was translating into a sort of stubborn aggressiveness that surprised even me. I was here now, I remember thinking, and before they throw me out I might as well find out whatever I can.

“Not him either,” he replied. “And now I believe you have overstayed your welcome.” The words were not said in a threatening tone, but the threat, I knew, was there. He pulled a tassled cord in the doorway, and two very large men appeared. I was hustled out of the room and into a back staircase, then down what seemed to be a couple of floors. For a moment or two I had the irrational feeling that they were going to lock me in a horrible dungeon in the basement—it was that kind of house—but instead I was pushed rather roughly out onto the street. Not out the front door either, but onto a narrow, ill-lit alleyway. I wanted to say something soign6 like “I’ve been thrown out of better places than this,”‘ but they were very large men, and the truth is, I was really quite frightened.

I was also completely turned around. I wasn’t sure which way would take me back to Villegaignon Street and thence to the Main Gate where I had determined I would stay in a well-lit area waiting for Anthony’s return. I knew he’d wait for me, and it really was a small town, so I decided it didn’t much matter which way I went. Eventually, I was reasonably sure, I’d get my bearings and find my way back.

I picked a direction and started to walk. I had a sense of being followed, and I picked up the pace. When I was a block or two from the Palazzo, I heard a car skid, and headlights flashed against a wall at the end of the street. I remember thinking, and this was the last rational thought I had for some time, that Maltese drivers really were the worst. Then I heard the car accelerate, turning down the street at top speed, and I realized that this was something much more sinister than bad driving. I froze, like an animal paralyzed by headlights, as the car came straight at me. Behind me I heard footsteps coming fast, but still I couldn’t move. Just as I was about to be hit, someone grabbed me from behind and hurled me against the wall. I heard a thump, someone said, “Run!” I heard someone gasp and fall, and I looked over my shoulder to see a man lying motionless on the street.

It was Rob. He just lay there, on his back, eyes closed. Unconscious, or even, I feared, dead. I was having a great deal of trouble thinking clearly. I kept trying to tell myself this wasn’t happening, that events like this only happened in bad dreams or worse movies. Finally, however, a sound penetrated the fog in my brain. It was the car, the same one, I could tell, and it was turning somewhere. It was coming back, and even though in these narrow streets it might take a while to turn, I had very little time to escape.

There were three doors on the street. I tried the first. It was locked. I tried a second across the little street, then ran a few yards to another, a strange little door that was down a couple of steps from the street. Miraculously it opened. But Rob was still lying unconscious on the street, and if they came back, he would almost certainly be killed.

As I watched a tiny pulse beat in his temple, I knew that I was not going to let anyone hurt him anymore. I put my arms under his armpits and dragged him the few yards to the door, pulled him down the steps and across the threshold, closed the door, and tried unsuccessfully to latch it. He was unbelievably heavy, and I’ve wondered since how I managed it, but I guess you do what you have to do. It was dark inside, and I had no idea where I was.

The dim streetlight shining through a grated window above the door was not too helpful, but eventually my eyes adjusted to the light, enough to see that I was in what I took to be a small chapel. I had heard the car sweep by, then stop near the end of the street and two doors slam. They were coming back to look for us. They began banging on the doors on the street and trying to open them. Ours, I knew, would open.

I dragged Rob again, this time for cover behind a large stone structure with a marble figure, arms across the chest in the position of death, laid out on top of it, and a skull and cross-bones carved elaborately on each side. This was not really a chapel, I realized, but a crypt, the stone structure the tomb of some important personage. But now was not the time to get squeamish, I knew, so I gave Rob once last heave and pulled him behind it. He had the longest legs, and I had real difficulty getting us both wedged in where we wouldn’t be seen.