Like Bees to Honey. Caroline Smailes
City.
My heeled knee-length boots feel awkward, clumpy.
The roads and the pathways of my Capital, of Valletta, are uneven. I wobble over them; I am cautious, fearful of falling. Malta could never be smooth, perfect without blemish, there is too much history, there are too many marks, injuries, scars. Today, I am fearful of the cracks swallowing me.
I walk, gracelessly, slowly, as the Renaissance streets open up before me.
I.
~cl – ip.
~cl – op.
along the side of the road, pulling my suitcase behind me, watching my son lead the way.
Last time I walked these cobbles I was with Matt and with my five-year-old Christopher. The memory stings. I remember our walking through the City Gate and into Valletta. I remember the blistering warmth. I remember that Christopher was tired, the early morning journey and the high temperature were taking their toll. I remember Christopher was dragging behind us, no hand to hold, no comfort to be found. I remember Christopher asking me why the Opera House was broken. I remember ignoring his question, walking up again, then down again. I remember that it was busy, packed with tourists wearing as few clothes as possible, yet still dripping in sweat. I remember that Christopher moaned with each step. He wanted to go home. I remember that Matt did not complain, that Matt never complained.
I look up, I feel His spit on my skin. I look to the buildings. They embrace the past, leaning to me, crumbling, neglected. The details speak of disregard, of bombardment.
I turn right, I.
~cl – ip.
~cl – op.
past the broken down Opera House, up again.
‘It was bombed,’ I tell Christopher.
‘I know, Nanna told me.’
He says.
I turn, left, down again. The course is familiar, instinctive, unchanged. I have walked this route before, alone, with others, with my sisters, with my mother, with my father, with cousins, with Matt, with Christopher.
All streets slope down to the harbour.
It is morning, spitting, cold and busy. Tourists still visit in February.
I bump my suitcase down each of the stone steps, making my way down the slant of the steep street. The roads are narrow, the buildings tower, built to provide shelter from the overpowering heat of the summer. Today they would say that it rains lightly, I would say that my Lord spits, but the narrow streets of my home offer protection, of sorts.
I am wet, cold in my bones, shiver shiver, shiver shiver.
I reach my mother’s green front door.
~seven
Malta’s top 5: About Malta
* 2. Language
Spoken by over 360,000 people on and off the Mediterranean islands of Malta and Gozo. Malti is the national language. It is a Semitic language, filled with borrowings from Italian, Arabic and English, written with a Latin script. The co-official languages of the islands are English and Maltese, making Malta an ideal holiday destination for English-speaking tourists.
I stand on the bumpy pavement facing my mother’s front door. I am very still, I am a statue, I think about holding my breath. I think of a childhood that was filled with laughter, with noise, with warmth.
I listen, the sounds are unfamiliar. Doors slamming, footsteps, muffled radio, rain.
I think of my sisters, Maria and Sandra, and of how we would play il-passju.
~hopscotch.
We would draw onto the pavement and curse the slope. The slope would ruin, make the game almost impossible, but still we would play. I look to the pavement, searching for chalk lines, for remnants of my past.
I think of noli.
~hide and seek.
I think of bo
~marbles.
I long for this home, for my mother’s house, behind a green front door in Valletta.
I knock.
~kn – o – ck.
~kn – o – ck.
on the green front door.
I long to see marble, rich embellishments, beautiful paintings, elaborate chandeliers. I know what I expect to see.
No one answers.
I knock.
~kn – o – ck.
~kn – o – ck.
again, louder.
No one answers.
My eyes begin to focus, to notice. I look up to the balconies, there are two. The house towers, leans forward, slightly. The wooden balconies look as though they will crumble with a gust of wind. I look to the façade, discoloured, flaking plaster, cracks. I look to the green front door, weathered, drained of colour. There is a rusted padlock, a tarnished chain, to keep those in.
I need to be inside.
It is Christopher’s idea.
Of course he has been near to me the whole time. I was not really focusing on him; he was probably behind me, in front of me, over me. I do not really know.
‘Don’t worry, Mama, I know how to get in.’
He tells me.
‘You do?’ I ask.
‘Of course, through a cracked window in the basement. Nanna told me. Tilly broke the window.’
He says.
‘Tilly?’