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Jesus: Nina, I am Jesus.
The voice existed, without a body, there was no physical presence.
I did not move.
He spoke, again, with the same gravel-filled harshness.
Jesus: Nina, I am Jesus.
‘Stop it. Stop it,’ I shouted the words.
I held my hands to cover my ears. His voice, inside of my head, stayed at the same volume, constant, continuous, on a loop. We were talking through tin cans, connected by nothing.
Jesus: Nina, I am Jesus. You blame your Lord.
‘Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.’
Jesus: Nina, I am Jesus. I sent him back to help you. I thought he could help you.
‘Shut up!’
My knees crumbled, I fell to the steps. With my palms clutching my ears, I bowed, forwards, backwards, rocking, sobbing.
The voice was silent, minutes passed by, silence, more silence.
I waited, I lowered my hands to the step; I steadied myself as I stood.
Jesus: Go to Malta, my Nina. I am Jesus. Bring Cadbury’s chocolate with you.
Matt,
I dreamed of you last night, the ‘of you’ was in a feeling, in the sensation that it evoked.
In my dream, I was sitting at Manchester airport. I was sitting on the floor, next to that backpack of yours that you loved so much, when we were students. A shabbily dressed lady staggered over to me. She was carrying a basket of handmade lace.
She spoke to me, ‘X’temp hazin! X’temp hazin!’
I couldn’t understand her words. She spoke in my tongue. She thought that I would understand. She thought that something within me would make me understand. I tried. I tried to pick out the words, but I could not.
She spoke again, in English. ‘What awful weather! What awful weather!’ I smiled at her. She laid her sunblessed finger onto my head. She spoke in whispered tones, ‘Gara in.cident. There’s been an accident. Gara in.cident.’
I woke from my dream sobbing. You do not come to me in the night, instead you send me old women with tongues that, with darkness, I can no longer understand. They speak words that I have, that I know, that I knew, once. And all the time I am longing. I am aching. I feel that I am dying inside to out. There is no life. There is no breath. There is nothing without you in my life.
I wish that I could tell you, that I could send this, leave this, that you would begin to understand. My love for you grows, it is deep rooted within me and even if I try to deny it, if I ignore or block it, it still grows. My love matures, stronger with each neglectful day. I am truly lovesick.
But Matt, I am leaving you; tomorrow I am flying home to Malta.
Nina x
êamsa (#ulink_aa1c6777-17a2-5993-80e0-9de90ef73fb9)
~five
Christopher Robinson, born 20 December 1991.
Christopher Robinson, killed 5 February 2002.
Ten years old.
The plane is taxiing, gradually, searching to meet the metal stairs.
‘You look sad, Mama.’
Christopher breaks my thoughts.
‘I’m just thinking, Cic
io,’ I say.
‘About when I passed over?’
‘Yes, about when you died.’ I whisper the words.
‘I can hear you, even when you don’t speak.’
He tells me.
Speaking to my dead son helps me, to remember.
The fifth of February. It was an insignificant day, the date meant nothing. I dwell on this, sometimes. I think about how life can change, can fall, crumble with ease.
I made the wrong decision, a mistake, a split second error in judgement.
The weight of consequence is beyond measure.
I do not work, I never have. I like it that way. I love to be at home, making a home. I cook, I clean, I wait for the end of the school day.
It was the same then.
I would wait for the end of the school day, for my Cic
io. It was how I wanted it to be. I was happy, deeply happy, pretending to be happy. We had enough money; Matt was working his way up the company. He was clever, a genius.
He still is.
Christopher was ten; he was keen to be independent, to help. He loved food, the combining of ingredients. He would watch me cook, his questions were intelligent. I would describe food, cuisine, Maltese traditions to him. He would eat up my words, my snippets of language, my customs.
I would tell him about my special place in Malta. I would tell Christopher how I used to go to a café with my mother, after school. I would describe how my mother and I would sit near to the window, how we would talk and look down onto the bay of Mellie
a. I would tell Christopher about the food that we would eat, always the same food. I would talk to Christopher about that time, I would try to describe ftira bi
-
ejt.
~Maltese flat bread seasoned with salt, with peppers, with tomatoes, with capers, with olives, with olive oil.
His eyes would light, his taste buds tang. I longed for him to savour. He never did.
I gave him words without flavour, without texture.
Sometimes, in life, we put off, we think that there will be a tomorrow.
We are told that we will blossom and then wither.
I guess that I gave my son the skeleton, the remains of a culture. I spoke an outline of a country that he was drawn to, that he needed to understand. I offered him words without images that he could attach to. I lacked commitment; I feared the joining of him to his roots, my roots. I barely spoke with my mother tongue, not until after Christopher’s death, not really.
We lived close to the primary school. Christopher pestered to walk home with a friend. He would have to cross one main road, but they knew where to look, how to look left and then right and then left again. They were sensible boys, I gave in. They had managed the walk home for six, maybe even seven weeks.
School finished at 3.20 p.m.
On 5 February 2002, Christopher’s friend James was ill. His mother had called in the afternoon, just to let me know that Christopher would be making the walk home, alone.
I began to worry.
I decided that I would wait for him, on the home side of the main road; that I would almost pretend to be shocked to see him.
It was a simple plan.
I got to the main road at 3:20 p.m. I stood down slightly, out of sight, almost, as if I had come up from the village and was making my way home. Christopher had not seen me. He was standing at the opposite side of the main road, waiting to cross.
I called his name, shouted out Cic
io.
He looked at me, a huge grin on his face.
And, then, he stepped out onto the main road.
He was killed on impact.
There was nothing that I could do.
But that is not the complete story of our relationship, not really. Christopher knows that my recall lacks context, depth, texture. That is the story that I have formed, developed to convince people to offer sympathy, to empathise. There is a truth, blocked, hidden where only the spirits can see. There was another side to our mother and son relationship.
Sitta (#ulink_81412bd4-39a2-57c6-b861-7f54ef933da0)
~six
Malta’s top 5: About Valletta
* 1. The Knights of St John
Valletta is indebted to the Order of the Knights of St John, who originally designed the city as a sanctuary to tend to wounded soldiers during the defence of Malta against the Ottoman Empire in the sixteenth century. Before this, the order was situated in a little watchtower, named St Elmo, the only construction on Mount Sceberras, which lies between two harbours. The valiant conqueror of the Great Siege, Grand Master La Valette, understood that for his order to uphold its grip on Malta they would have to build sufficient fortifications. A plan was devised for the fortified city which was given the name Valletta, in honour of La Valette.
The air steward’s voice is monotone, floating over the bustle of the tourists.
‘Please stay seated until the aircraft is stationary.’
They do not, of course.
within the minute the click.
~cl – ick.
~cl – ick.
~cl – ick – ing.
of metal is heard.
People stand, push into the aisle, pull coats and bags down from the overhead lockers.
The stairs are being attached. The door opens.
I squeeze into the queue in the aisle, clutching my handbag and my shawl to my chest. Christopher follows, pinching in behind me, invading my personal space, again. We do not move.
I am impatient.
I want to be off the plane, I need to be in the open space, breathing in the dust of Malta. I want to scream. I want to tell the tourists to move out of my way.
We begin to move.
We take small steps, we shuffle; I do not let other passengers step in front of me. I avoid eye contact. I ignore the pregnant woman, I ignore the goodbye from the air steward; I walk down the metal steps.
the heels of my boots clip clap.
~cl – ip.
~cl – ap.
~cl – ip.
~cl – ap.
but there is no blast of heat, no warmth from my Lord’s smile, not today.
the heavens are spitting, spatting.
