Page 36 of Never Tear Us Apart
Silent it is not. Troops march double-quick to the shouted orders of their sergeant. Servicemen come and go, and some local people, too. Some look like support staff – cooks and cleaners – and a few seem like regular residents. One elegantly dressed woman, wearing an air of resignation with as much style as her deep, wine-red lipstick, looks as if she is living cheek by jowl with the army as best she can. Yet it’s also somehow true that everything inside the walls of the citadel is a little more still, a little more serene – as if it has its own invisible defences against time.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I say, looking around me at the honey-coloured buildings.
‘Yes,’ Sal says. ‘Little ever changes in the Silent City, except the people who pass through here. No car or horses allowed you know, that’s how it got its name.’
He leads the way across a small, square courtyard, enclosed on three sides by an external, ornate stone staircase, and through a low, arched entrance, closed off with a wrought-iron gate. On the other side, I find myself confronted with a beautiful domed church.
‘Michelangelo designed the dome of St Peter’s Basilica, you know,’ Sal tells me as I gaze upwards. ‘It made rather an impression on the Knights of St John. Our little islandis graced with a good many such marvels. In the miracle church of Mosta, we have –had– the third largest unsupported dome in the world.
‘Had?’ I ask.
‘Back in April, the Nazi bombers had one left over, so they dropped it on their way home. I suppose the Mosta dome must have made a pretty target. And mass was in full swing.’
I gasp. ‘Were many people killed?’ I ask him as we walk up the church steps and into the blessed cool of the interior. At once, my eyes are drawn up to the ornate gilded mouldings and frescoes that line the magnificent dome.
‘That’s the miracle,’ Sal tells me softly. ‘The bomb fell through the dome and into the middle of the congregation – but did not detonate.’
‘That’s so lucky.’ There’s something about being in church that makes me whisper my reply.
‘Or it was divine intervention.’ He tilts his head as he crosses himself and bows to the altar. Not knowing exactly what to do, I nod my head at the statue of Jesus on the crucifix, like we are casual acquaintances – which I suppose we are.
Sal takes a seat on a pew at the back of the church, and I sit beside him.
‘Should we pray?’ I ask him.
‘Always,’ he says.
‘I mean now?’ I ask. ‘Are there rules? Do we have to pray to be in here?’
He turns in his seat to look at me. ‘You’re not Catholic?’ he asks.
‘I’m not anything,’ I tell him. ‘I think my dad was raised Catholic, but he never went to church as far as I know. And my mum was very much more of a . . .’ An image of my mumflashes: she has flowers in her hair, singing under the full moon to welcome in the solstice. ‘A pagan, I guess.’
‘Ah.’ He nods. ‘Well, I pray all the time. No need to be in a church to speak to God. Naturally, I have many questions for him.’
‘And the cruelty of this war? The fact that in the future, there will be another war and then another and another? None of that shakes your faith at all?’
‘Shakes it? No, why would it?’ Sal frowns. ‘I’ve spent my life trying to understand the fabric of the universe. Not to disprove God, but to be a little closer to him. What has happened to you and me – and maybe more, who knows? – it’s all part of His great mystery.’
‘I suppose I don’t really get why any of it has to be mysterious,’ I say. ‘Why make life into a crossword puzzle?’
Sal looks as if he is about to answer me when we are interrupted by the sound of clicking, striding footsteps. At first, I think the dark-suited figure that is walking towards us is a priest; then I see a man of around forty in an exquisitely tailored suit. Somehow, this gentleman has escaped the ragged fate of the rest of the island, which must mean that he is important or rich – or both. There is something about him that is curiously familiar.
‘Signor Conte.’ Sal stands up and offers his hand with a slight bow of his head. ‘A pleasant surprise.’
The nobleman – if that’s what he really is – is just a shade taller than me, with a strong roman nose and a dimple in his chin.
‘Not such a surprise, my friend. My palazzo is only across the square.’ The count looks at me with polite enquiry, his dark eyes making a quick assessment.
‘May I introduce my cousin, Maia Borg?’ Sal says. ‘She has recently come from the other side of the island to staywith me, though I have little to offer her in the way of home comforts. Maia, may I introduce you to Count Nicoletti Landolina. His family are Italian nobility, from an ancient lineage, but have lived here almost since Mdina was built.’
‘Pleasure.’ The count takes my hand and shakes it firmly with both of his. ‘Please, call me Nicco. We do not stand on ceremony in Malta. The professor is quite right, I am an Italian at home in my beloved Malta. It hurts me to see our two nations so divided, when we ought to be as brothers. Delighted to meet you, Miss Borg. All this time, I was certain that the professor had no family, and yet here you are!’
‘Then please call me Maia,’ I ask him, hopefully deflecting his attention from Sal’s new-found family.
‘Maia – a beautiful name,’ he says. ‘But tell me, what brings you to the Silent City this afternoon?’
Sal and I look at one another. Neither of us has thought to prepare a reason.
