Page 27 of Never Tear Us Apart

Chapter Twenty-Five

As we emerge from the profound dark of the catacombs, the glare of the bright afternoon light makes my eyes sting.

I raise my hand to shield my gaze as I squint at the spot where we exited.

It’s different to the place we went in. Long, brittle golden grass stands hard against the grey mausoleums like bright spectres.

Somewhere hidden in the scant traces of shade, insects chirp and drone, oblivious to the havoc of men.

For now, the sky is empty, peaceful and still.

I wonder about the sky in the time when I am supposed to be – where I am .

Has the sun risen there? I wonder if Kathryn is worried, waiting for me to wake up.

Or perhaps hours here are just a few seconds there.

That sense of foreboding that has been following me since we arrived at the catacombs intensifies, vibrating like the beat of a drum.

I’m overcome with the strongest sensation that I might never return to that world, as difficult and as painful as the thought is. Guilt and fear swarms over me.

‘You tremble.’ Sal frowns, putting a calming, paternal arm around me.

Something about him is inherently trustworthy, and not just his stories of time travel or his kindness.

There is something more, something obvious.

My subconscious has created the Maltese father I always wanted, the one I so badly want right now.

Turning into his arms, I rest my forehead on his shoulder and allow a few tears to fall, just between the span of one breath and the next.

‘There, there, Maia,’ Sal says gently. ‘All is well. All will be well. We will find the solution to all our troubles.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I straighten up, wiping my eyes with the edge of my thumb. ‘I’m not like this. I don’t usually fall to pieces. Well, not recently, anyway. Thank you, Sal.’

‘There is no need to thank me,’ Sal says. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you are the only other person in all the stars and galaxies who knows what I know. You are my proof of sanity.’

‘Well, that’s a first,’ I say with a watery smile. ‘Even so, you are kind.’

‘What is kind, except deciding not to be cruel?’ Sal says. ‘Kindness is easy – it should be natural.’

‘What now?’ I ask as we walk out onto the dusty road.

‘There will be a bus in an hour, perhaps two,’ Sal says, checking his pocket-watch. ‘We will be back in time for the evening raid.’

‘Wouldn’t want to miss it,’ I say. ‘An hour or two of waiting?’

‘Yes, not long! I expect there is no waiting in your time,’ Sal says. ‘I expect all is perfectly on time, and you may travel anywhere and everywhere you want at the drop of a hat . . .’

‘Not exactly . . .’

‘But here, petrol is rationed, and buses are few and far between. We must make adjustments and accept our lot. And when I say we, I mean you.’

The Silent City of Mdina looms ahead, a citadel set within a deep, now empty moat. The grand gateway stands proud before us.

‘It’s so beautiful,’ I say, looking up at the golden stonework. A lion bares his teeth at me. At the foot of the gate, two British soldiers stand guard. ‘It feels like the knights might be just about to thunder over the bridge on their horses.’

‘Perhaps they are,’ Sal says. ‘Time is a wide river, with all her currents flowing as one. I have been in the citadel in the time of the knights . . .’ A thought occurs to him. ‘I will show you the Silent City and, with it, more evidence – you will see I am telling you the truth.’

‘I get the impression it’s not open to the public,’ I say, following Sal as he approaches the soldiers with an added spring to his step.

‘Nonsense – a Tommy is always a friend to Salvatore Borg.’ As we reach the soldiers he peers at the young men, his face lighting up. ‘Ah, Private Wilson, we meet again!’

‘Prof!’ An achingly young man of about nineteen or so grins happily at Sal. ‘We never got to finish our match! And I was winning.’

‘Well, when the good doctor instructs a man to leave, he leaves, if he knows what’s good for him.’

Sal and Private Wilson chuckle, and I wonder if they are talking about the terrifying doctor I met yesterday. Was it really only yesterday? I’ve lost all sense of what is up and what is down.

‘It was good luck for me,’ Sal tells him, warmly shaking his hand. ‘You are a master of chess, Eddie.’

‘The prof here came and visited me when I was all beat up after the harbour took a pounding,’ Eddie tells his mate, who nods and grins.

‘And the book I gave you? Have you finished it yet?’ Sal asks.

‘Nearly,’ Eddie says proudly. ‘Never thought I’d read a book, Prof, but it’s proper good. Takes my mind off missing home and Ma.’

‘A good book will do that,’ Sal assures him. ‘Eddie, it is very hot. May I take my cousin to sit in the cathedral a moment while we wait for the bus?’ He indicates me, standing just behind him.

‘Don’t see why not,’ Eddie says. ‘Tell you what – I’ll give you a shout when the bus comes, and my mate Bill here can keep it from leaving until you’re on board – how does that sound?’

‘It sounds marvellous.’ Sal claps Eddie on the back, and the young man beams. Sal leads me under the grand stone archway and into the Silent City.

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 island is 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 mum flashes: 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 stay with 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.

‘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 to accept 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.