Chapter 12
Rosalie
‘It’s the Mediterranean fleet,’ Rosalie’s excitable new English friend, Charlotte Salter, said, squeezing her arm. ‘British Navy. Based at Fort St Angelo.’
Enchanted by her first sight of the dancing lights in the harbour, Rosalie soaked it in. Here was a world she could never have imagined.
‘Can it be real?’ she whispered, as she stood on the deck looking at the island ahead of her.
‘Exciting, isn’t it?’
‘More than that. It’s breathtaking. And look …’ Rosalie pointed at the bastions and turrets of the fort. ‘They’re glowing in the moonlight.’
‘Wait till you see the sun rising over the battlements of Fort St Elmo. From the water you’ll see them turn red, scarlet even, so much so you’d think they were on fire, and the sky! Honestly. Shocking pink. We can go out on a dghaisa if you like, and I’ll show you.’
‘A dghaisa?’
‘One of the brightly coloured little boats. A man stands at the prow and rows. It’s great.’
Rosalie smiled at her new friend and all at once her remaining doubts faded, and she had the answer to the question she’d been asking herself.
This was the right thing to do and she couldn’t wait a moment longer to begin her new life.
She had not foreseen a place as enchanting as this, and here she no longer had to endure her parents’ stifling conventionality and rules.
It was late by the time the ship finally dropped anchor, which meant they had to sleep on board overnight.
First thing the next morning, fizzing with excitement and newly acquired freedom, Rosalie climbed down after Charlotte and got into one of the high-ended dghaisa vessels bobbing in the water.
It was a colourful gondola-like thing, with painted eyes on either side.
A water taxi, she realised as they joined the six other passengers already stowed inside it along with their luggage.
Jammed up against a large British woman complaining about the smell of fish, Rosalie turned to face Valletta, and the marvellous sight of massive walls, ramparts and bastions, rising like golden cliffs from the ocean.
The standing oarsman set off and had soon propelled them across to the dock where they disembarked right next to what he said were the Custom House steps.
The place was buzzing with the clanging and clattering of frantic activity.
Animals everywhere, dogs barking, horses stamping their hooves and snorting, and donkeys standing stock-still but for their ears flicking insects away.
Rosalie could smell fish, coal, oranges, and cats – dozens of cats lining up where the fishing catches were being brought in.
Dazzled by the heat, the noise and the colour, Rosalie hardly knew where to look.
Mooring men were tying ropes to bollards, stevedores were unloading cargo, and porters were rushing to carry their luggage.
She heard growly voiced fishermen, customs guards issuing orders, and thin, eagle-eyed, barefoot children begging and trying to scavenge food.
She wished she had something to give them, but she had nothing and had to turn away.
‘Phew,’ she said. ‘I thought it would be quiet.’
Charlotte laughed. ‘Fat chance. Where are you staying?’
Rosalie evaded the question. The fact that she hadn’t secured a job yet, nor anywhere to stay, would probably make her sound reckless; all she had was a newspaper cutting tucked safely in her handbag, and she knew the words off by heart.
EXPERIENCED FOREIGN ACTS WANTED
CABARET DANCERS, SINGERS, AND
ACROBATS.
IN THE FLOURISHING HEART
OF VALLETTA, MALTA.
CONTACT: GIANNI CURMI AT THE EVENING STAR,
STRAIT STREET, MALTA.
EXCELLENT REMUNERATION
She’d spotted the advertisement in a paper one of the customers had left behind at Johnny’s Bar and had cut it out for future reference.
The written words had quickly settled in her mind and even before she knew she was going to come to Malta the name of the place had called to her.
Valletta sounded exotic, and she felt that fate had planned for the newspaper to be carelessly abandoned for her to find.
Of course, that had been before everything went terribly wrong at home.
She could still see her parents’ shocked faces in her mind as clearly as if she were there again.
The broken expression in her father’s eyes, her mother’s bitter, accusing fury.
A wave of homesickness hit her as she remembered tiptoeing into her father’s study in the dead of night to retrieve her identity card, steal some francs and pick up travel documents from his unlocked desk.
She’d used some of the money to pay for a false identity card so that in Malta she’d be able to use a different name and that had taken an extra day.
She’d contacted her sister Claudette to ask for help, but her sister had refused, said she should stay and resolve things with their parents.
But she couldn’t do that. So she had been forced to relieve her mother of more valuable jewellery, ‘that she never wore anyway,’ she whispered.
Then she’d sold some of it to buy a ticket at the beautiful Gare de Lyon.
In her hurry to escape before the true extent of the brewing scandal was likely to be unleashed, Rosalie had had neither time to write to Gianni Curmi in Valletta, nor to wait for his reply.
Instead, she’d done what she needed to do and with fear in her heart, she’d boarded the train before she was banished or worse.
Now she was here, she had to find a way to make it work.
‘I have the address in my bag,’ she said to Charlotte. ‘I’ll get a taxi.’
‘If you’re sure. When Archie’s chauffeur arrives, I’m sure he’d be happy to take you wherever you need to go.’
Archie Lambden was Charlotte’s fine, upstanding fiancé and there was no way Rosalie was going to admit her situation to anybody, least of all to someone like him. ‘Thank you, but I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll probably see you around then?’
She smiled at Charlotte. Her new friend was pale with red hair rather like her own and an almost transparent complexion. Rosalie wondered how she would fare in the relentless heat of Malta, although this wasn’t Charlotte’s first visit so she must have found a way.
‘Absolutely,’ Charlotte was saying. ‘I’ll be having a beach party or maybe a dinner soon. You must come. You have my address so drop by and I’ll tell you when it’s going to be?’
Rosalie nodded. ‘Look, there’s a man with a horse-driven cab just over there.’ She gave Charlotte a peck on the cheek then picked up her case and made a dash for it.
Having left the Grand Harbour, the driver, who spoke heavily accented English, told her they would be heading downtown. She nodded; glad she had spent a little time brushing up her reasonably good schoolgirl English with Johnny’s English waiter in return for a little petting.
When the driver pulled up, he said, ‘Here you are then. This is The Gut.’
She frowned. ‘But …?’
‘Strait Street. We call it The Gut.’
When she climbed down and saw a long sunless, cobbled alley, she felt the ache of disappointment. In contrast to the harbour, the buildings were eerily silent, with no sign of life and all shutters firmly closed.
‘Umm. Do you know where The Evening Star club is?’ she asked him.
‘About halfway down. Won’t be open now.’
Her heart sank and she felt a sudden flash of homesickness for sizzling Paris.
‘There’s a good café around the corner in Old Bakery Street.’
‘You know a lot about Valletta, do you?’
‘Everything. Any time you want a guided tour just knock on the door and leave a message with my wife.’
He dug in his pocket and passed her a card.
‘So, I’ll take you there, shall I? Old Bakery Street? You can get a bite to eat and hop along to The Evening Star later.’
She got back in the cab and a few moments later he had halted.
She paid him and her mouth watered at the aroma of hot sugary pastry as she pushed open the glass door of the café.
It was warm and cosy. The owner – a short, fat, middle-aged man sporting a wide curling moustache and ferocious eyebrows with spiky silver hairs flying off in different directions – gave her a broad smile.
‘Welcome. Welcome,’ he said and twirled his moustache.
She thanked him, her spirits lifting.
‘So, an espresso or a kafe fit-tazza?’ he asked, wiping his hands on his large striped apron. ‘Coffee in a glass, best with a sweet ricotta-filled kannol or a hot pastizz.’
She ordered the coffee and a pastizz, though she had no idea what it was, and he told her to take a seat and he’d bring it over to her.
She sat at a window table and glanced out at the people passing by the tall houses on the other side of the street, wondering what her next move ought to be.
A few moments later, the man came across with a tray. ‘Here’s your pastizz and your coffee,’ he said as he laid the tray down.
She glanced down at the little half-moon-shaped puff pastry pie on her plate. ‘What does it taste of?’
‘Kind of cheesy, but you can have it filled with curried peas if you like. Very popular around here.’
‘It smells delicious.’
‘Not English, are you?’
‘No. French. In fact, I wonder if you might know where to find a room to stay. I’m hoping to become a performer here.’
He grinned. ‘You saw one of my son-in-law’s adverts? Married to my daughter Karmena he is.’
‘I certainly saw an advert.’
‘Always on the lookout for foreign artistes he is. Tell him you met me. Karmena has a lodgin’ ’ouse in St Joseph Street. The British called it that when they arrived, but we always call it the street of the French. She’ll rent you a bed.’ He frowned. ‘A bit rough for a lady though.’
‘Why is it the street of the French?’
‘On account of being near the French Curtain on the waterfront. A fort.’
‘Well, thank you for your help.’
‘Any time. My name is Nikola, but everyone calls me Kola.’
He told her the price and she felt in her bag for her purse, paid, finished her delicious pastizz, drank her coffee, and got up to leave. The British pound was the currency used on the island and thank goodness she had changed some of her francs while still in Paris.
‘Oh,’ she called to him. ‘How do I find St Joseph Street?’
‘Easy. Go to the bottom of Old Bakery Street, turn right, then second left. Strada San Giuseppe is at the very end of Strait Street. It’s only 400 metres long and runs parallel between Fountain Street and Republic Street. See you around,’ he said, and gave her a wave.
She followed his directions but when she arrived in the street of the French her heart sank.
She had expected something akin to the perhaps shabby but nevertheless elegant streets she was accustomed to seeing in Paris.
This dingy row of tenement buildings, six floors high, with washing hanging from wooden balconies, half-dressed barefoot children running wild, and a repulsive smell of stale cooking mixed with the stink of lavatories was the last thing she’d hoped for.
She heard a shout and leapt out of the way of a man whose mule was pulling a cart at speed, piled high with cans of paraffin just in time.
She wondered if this was the sort of place Irène had lived in back in Paris.
If it was, Irène deserved a medal for being as well turned-out as she was.
Rosalie sighed deeply. She missed her friend.
But there was no point thinking of Paris.
Not now, not ever. And yet this place! She glanced up at the tenements again and, filled with nostalgia, pressed a hand to her heart.
It was so different from her home. What had she been thinking?
As usual she’d made an impulsive snap decision without giving any thought to the consequences, and it was now too late for regrets.