Читать книгу Like Bees to Honey - Caroline Smailes, Darren Craske - Страница 14

~eight

Malta’s top 5: About Malta

* 4. Transport

For those who do not wish to risk hiring a car and driving around Malta, the buses on the island are easily recognised by their bright yellow bodies and orange stripe. They are a cheap and convenient mode of transport, offering a slow but scenic ride. Most journeys begin at the bus terminal in the capital city Valletta.

I have been back in Malta for one day, I think. It feels longer. Already time has little importance, is being blurred, lost.

I am sitting at my mother’s kitchen table. My mother has opened her cupboards and is balancing on her tiptoes, stretching in, moving around tins, jars, pasta, vegetables, flour. She has her back to me. Her dress has risen to the fold in the back of her knee. I look to see the perfectly formed muscles on her stretched calves. She always loved dancing with my father. My mother talks into the wood of the cupboards, ignoring my responses to her food-related questions.

She wants me to eat more, she wants to prepare something additional, extra, indulgent for me, but I am full to my throat. I refuse, over and over. She does not listen.

My fingers are trailing the rim of the empty crystal fruit bowl.

‘L-aqwa li ejt lura id-dar, dak biss li jgodd.’

~you came back home, that is all that matters.

My mother breaks my thoughts.

‘I’m too late,’ I reply.

‘Listen, when you left I told you naqta’ qalbi.’

~I cut my heart, I lost hope.

‘I remember,’ I say.

‘But you came home to Malta and now again I have hope.’

‘I have no hope. I’m lost Mama.’

I sob.

‘No, qalbi, no. There is always hope.’

~my heart.

‘I’m here; I’ve abandoned my husband, my daughter. I don’t know what to do next. Please will you help me?’ I ask.

‘Search the island Nina, find yourself. And then we will talk.’

My mother tells me.

‘Come with me, guide me, please,’ I say.

‘I cannot. I will only leave this home one more time.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I say.

‘You will.’

She speaks the words softly and then moves to me. My mother places her cold hands onto my shoulders and looks into my eyes, then over my face.

I shiver.

‘U qalbi.’

~and my heart.

She says.

‘Inti garwiena mingajr lipstick.’

~you are naked without lipstick.

She tells me and then pulls me into her scent.

‘Have you seen your bedroom?’

My mother asks.

‘Not yet,’ I say, into the material of her house clothes.

The wooden banister is smooth under my fingers. My great-grandfather had carved it, a wedding present for my grandfather, my mother’s father. My mother and I would polish it every day. It shone, it gleamed, it was proud and glorious. My fingertips tease the surface as I walk the marble steps of my mother’s grand sweeping staircase.

My bedroom door is open, welcoming; the morning light, my Lord’s smile, shines in through the window’s net covering. I stand in the doorway and my eyes flick around the room, as I hold my breath from fear that I will exhale and puff the image away. It all feels so fragile, delicate, temporary.

Everything is as it had once been. My summer clothes hang in the open wardrobe, all pressed and blemish free. My bookcases are crowded with childhood books, Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl, with bootleg cassettes bought from Valletta’s Sunday morning market, with frilly favours from family weddings and baptisms, with statues of Cinderella, so many statues of Cinderella. I dare not step into my room. Instead, I look at my walls, at the framed photographs of my cousins, my sisters, my grandparents, of me. And then I look at my bed, my Rosary lies across my pillow, a crucifix is nailed to the wall above; a photograph of my parents is framed, is perched on my bedside cabinet, is making my stomach churn.

I step back, I close my bedroom door, I walk down the marble steps and I drag my suitcase from the wall near to the wooden coat stand and into my mother’s parlour.

I am dressing, clothes spilling from my open suitcase and onto the floor, next to my mother’s chair.

I hear banging, glass smashing. I run half-dressed, my white cotton dress unbuttoned, into my mother’s kitchen. I am full of fear.

My mother is at the sink, safe, facing the doorway, water is dripping from her hands and to her sandalled feet.

there appears to be a swirling.

~s – wir.

~s – wir.

whirling see-through ghost swishing around the room. She is grey, rotating the kitchen at top speed.

‘Mama?’ I shriek.

My mother smiles, calm, then raises her eyebrows, a frown.

‘It is just Tilly. She is our resent-filled ares.’

~ghost, usually the protector of a house but may become bitter.

My mother says the words in a loud, a stern voice.

‘Mama, why is she here?’ I ask.

‘She is healing.’

My mother says.

Tilly stops spinning, flipping on the spot, instead.

‘You’re a lucky cow.’

She says to me; then she drifts, floats, spins out the kitchen, out through me.

‘Mama?’ My voice is high pitched.

‘It is just Tilly. You will get used to her, qalbi.’

~my heart.

I return to my mother’s parlour, buttoning my dress with trembling fingers.

Today I wear layers, a white cotton dress, a shawl, a cardigan, to unpeel. I am an onion. I discard my knee-length boots. I find flip-flops next to my mother’s chair, perhaps they once belonged to one of my sisters. My mother has told me that it is hot outside, unexpectedly for February; my mother tells me that my Lord is happy.

I frown.

‘Will you move your suitcase to your bedroom, qalbi?’

~my heart.

My mother asks.

‘Maybe later,’ I say, I lie.

Christopher walks in from the kitchen.

‘Will you come with me today?’ I ask my son.

‘No, I can’t. Go find yourself, Mama.’

He tells me.

I know that he has been talking to my mother.

‘But what will you do?’ I ask.

‘I’m meeting Geordie.’

He tells me.

‘Why is he in Malta?’ I ask.

‘He’s waiting, like me.’

He tells me.

‘What will you do today?’ I ask.

‘We will share beer with Jesus, of course.’

Christopher says and then laughs, ha ha ha.

I think, you are too young to be drinking beer. I think, Jesus should know better.

Christopher runs out through the door, laughing and shouting over his shoulder.

‘Mama you worry too much. Age does not matter in my world.’

I smile.

I am leaving my mother’s house.

I open the green front door and stand on the step.

The door closes behind me, I hear a key turning.

and a.

~cl – unk.

as the barrel revolves.

I am forced out onto the cobbles.

I look, the chain and padlock are connected, have reappeared.

I flip, I flop up the slope.

~fl – ip.

~fl – op.

~fl – ip.

~fl – op.

hurrying to catch a yellow Maltese bus.

The sun beats down. I walk in shadows, in shade. I look to the floor and I concentrate on the sounds that flip and flop behind me. My feet offer rhythm. I smile. I focus on my musical feet and alter my flip-flopping to create patterns that are flowing, melodic, light. I offer small leaps; I twirl as I flip, as I flop.

I must look ridiculous, but in this moment I do not care. I feel different, already, today. I do not know if this is good or if this is bad.

I feel lighter. I feel that I could float, or fly, or hover.

I want to fly.

I leave the protection of the city walls and the buildings that lean inwards, that shelter. I walk out through the City Gate. The sun beats down, bubbling my blood. I sweat.

I am at the bus terminal. The pavement is curved with kiosks in varied sizes, in different colours, each selling drinks, snacks, newspapers, cigarettes, magazines, souvenirs. The kiosks mark a line, a curved line, for where the buses will stop, where people must wait, must buy.

I pick up a bottle of water from the smallest blue kiosk. A little girl stands on an overturned plastic crate, behind the counter. The kiosk smells of stale alcohol, the girl is alone. She looks to be the same age as Molly, small, innocent, unaccompanied. I look around for an adult, for her parent.

‘Fejn hu il-enitur tiegek?’ I ask.

~where is your parent?

The child does not speak. She holds out her palm, with her almost black eyes drilling into my face. I stare at her palm. There are no lines marking the skin, it is smooth, clean.

I fumble, I place a single euro into her hand. The child does not speak, she does not smile, she does not retract her hand, she does not remove her eyes from my face. I turn, I walk. I feel her stare following me as I flip-flop away, to the bus.

I climb the metal steps, one, two, three, of the first bus that I reach.

The white roof, the yellow paint, the orange stripe, they comfort.

As the bus pulls out onto the road, I look to the kiosk. The child has gone. A bearded man wears a pink sun visor. He tips the pink plastic peak to me and then, inside my head, I hear his gravelly laugh, ha ha ha.

The bus is not busy. I am glad.

I rest the side of my head onto the cool window and I move with the bus. We bounce, we swerve, we dip, we jolt. I press my face, harder, onto the glass. It cools me.

I think, I am invisible.

I close my eyes and I breathe the dust, in and out, in and out.

I listen to the quiet prayers that the bus driver mutters.

He is blessing my soul.

I wonder if he is too late.

The creaky bus is fast.

I watch from the window.

The bus takes me through Birkirkara, slowing to a crawl past the house where my grandmother was born. I look to the balcony, to the room where she entered the world. I see her. She waves.

The bus picks up speed.

The bus hurries past familiar houses, past shops, past families walking the crooked pavements. They are blurred. The buildings vary in size, in purpose; they are known, almost untouched, unaltered during the missed years.

I smile.

The bus stops. Its final destination.