Page 37 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘History,’ I say. ‘I love history. And there’s something so magical about Mdina. It feels out of time, almost, as if you can step through the gates and the rest of the world, even the war, fades away. Sal thought a trip here would give me a little quiet, a chance to breathe.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Nicco nods, as if he has heard of my panic in the shelter. Perhaps he has. ‘But now, the day grows late. Will you not join me for dinner? I’d be so delighted to have some civilised company. The rations are so strict, but my cook really can make miracles. I even have a few bottles of good wine left. Please, agree, and I will have my driver return you to Valletta when it is safe.’
‘A most kind invitation, Count,’ Sal says. I expect him to turn it down, but he surprises me. ‘We would be delighted toaccept your hospitality. And I wonder if I might ask a further favour?’
‘Of course.’ The count smiles. ‘If it is within my power to gift.’
‘The manuscripts, the illuminations made by the monks long ago, the ones you let me see before? Are they safe?’
‘There is nowhere safer than here,’ the count says. ‘Hitler will not allow bombs to fall on Mdina. It’s here that he envisages Nazi headquarters on the island will be, you see. He does so like his grand buildings.’
‘I see.’ Sal nods. ‘May I show them to Maia? She is so interested in history, you see, and I remember that there were some lovely annotations and details. The cat’s paw prints, for example.’
‘Yes, so charming. Of course, let me find Father Patrice.’
At the mention of his name, a small, svelte gentleman with immaculately groomed silver hair appears as if from thin air.
‘Ah, there he is. Father, will you take my guests to the crypt and let them peruse our manuscripts, then perhaps guide them to my home when they are finished?’
‘It would be my honour, Count,’ the priest murmurs, deferential, before turning to us. ‘Please, follow me.’
Sal follows the priest as I glance over my shoulder at the retreating count. He opens one of the huge cathedral doors, letting a slash of bright afternoon light intrude into the interior. Our eyes meet, and that’s when I recognise him.
The count was the secretive figure with their face hidden that we met outside Elias’s den. I can see it in his bearing and the turn of his head. More than that, I know that he recognises me, too.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Father Patrice takes great pleasure in unlocking the ancient cabinets that hold the illuminated manuscripts, many of which date from the arrival of the Knights of St John on the island; few are from even earlier.
‘There is a particular book of hours? A book of prayer?’ Sal asks the priest. ‘With the elephant?’
‘Ah yes,’ Father Patrice smiles. ‘The elephant is always our visitors’ favourite.’
‘The elephant?’ I ask Sal.
The priest brings out a large heavy book, one that I imagine would have been designed to rest on a ledger, a page turned every day to reveal a new prayer, meditation or catechism. Sal and I stand each side of Father Patrice as he turns the heavy pages, showing glimpses of exquisitely inked and gilded illumination until he finds the page with the strangest looking animal on it I have ever seen.
‘That’s an elephant?’ I ask, looking at the grey lumpen creature that is sitting on its hind legs, like a begging dog. His very human face sports a wide grin that seems to understand he is somewhat ridiculous. What I can only guess is a trunk erupts from the top of his head and spouts a fountain of silver water.
‘You see, the artist had heard elephants described but had never seen one for himself. Rather sweet, if you think about it,’ Father Patrice says, smiling at us in turn.
‘Or the stuff of nightmares,’ I say, glancing at Sal.
‘Oh, and might we see the New Testament, the one that belonged to Caravaggio?’ Sal asks.
‘Ah.’ Father Patrice thinks for a moment. ‘I will ask. It’s annotated, you know, by the master’s own hand, and so is kept in another location. One moment.’
As soon as he is gone, Sal flips through the book a few more pages.
‘It was Brother Phillip who produced that elephant,’ he tells me as he finds the page he is looking for. ‘A most stubborn man. Certainly lacking in the humility that one would expect from a monk.’
‘Are you saying that . . . ?’
‘I was here when this book was being made,’ Sal confirms. ‘Not for long. Three days – enough to get to know Brother Phillip.’ He finds the page he wants, pressing down firmly to reveal the tightly bound margins. ‘And here is the evidence . . . Look, and tell me what you think.’
* * *
Nearly an hour later, I’m still thinking about what Sal showed me, as the count – or Nicco as I must learn to call him – gives us a tour around his beautiful palazzo. If Sal were to tell me we’ve stepped back in time now, I would believe him, for although the palazzo is rather frayed and dilapidated, it is dripping with old-world money and expensive taste.
