Like Bees to Honey. Caroline Smailes

– ip.

       ~fl – op.

       ~fl – ip.

       ~fl – op.

      As people enter the great domed church in Mosta, the Rotunda, they can be heard to gasp. There is beauty, there is magnitude, there is scale, there is decadence.

      

      Within the Rotunda of St Marija Assunta there are blue walls, frescos, statues, gold, ornate exhibits of worship, of united faith. The church speaks of wealth, of generous donations made to please, to compete with other villages. All is lavish, a magnitude of curves, with intricate details into each arch, into every nook.

      

      I enter the Rotunda and stop.

      

      I make no gasp.

      ‘Support the church, support our cause.’

      

      He rattles a wooden box. His accent is broken, clearly spoken English with a Maltese twang. The <th> sound is more of a <t>. I smile, I have the same. I have tried so hard to pronounce the digraph <th>. I think of Matt, of how he would tease me and giggle as I tried to sound English, to act English.

      

      I never could, not really, of course, because I am not, I am not English.

      

      I turn to face him, the man rattling the wooden box.

      

      ‘Jiena Maltija,’ I say.

      

      ~I am Maltese.

      

      The man with the box does not respond.

      

      He is not too close, arm’s length perhaps, but I can still smell stale beer. The smell is strong, covering him. I think that it is pouring from him, with his sweat.

      

      I fumble in my handbag, in my purse for a euro.

      

      I miss the Maltese Lira. The euro puzzles me.

      

      I place a euro into the slot on the top of the wooden box. I hear it drop onto the other coins. The man does not thank me. Instead, he rattles his wooden box and he chants his mantra.

      

      ‘Support the church, support our cause.’

      Minutes have passed, I have not moved. I am still standing at the mouth of the church. I am clutching my handbag tight to my chest.

      

      I have been here before, of course, but today I am a tourist. I have lost what it is to be Maltese.

      My eyes they flick, they flack, left, right, forward, upward, downward.

      

      my eyes, they.

      

       ~fl – ick.

       ~fl – ack.

       ~fl – ick.

       ~fl – ack.

      rapidly, until they find a point of focus.

      

      There is a highly decorative marble baptism font, close to the door, on my left. The font is covered now, no longer used. That font reeks of death, not of birth, not of celebration. Infant mortality was high; baptisms were made within a few hours of birth, once upon a time. The death of a child was almost expected.

      

      My eyes rest on the covered font, a sign of progression.

      

      I think of Christopher, of his body, broken and bloody, in the road.

      My bones feel weak, they will buckle and bend; I need to sit.

      

      There are wooden chairs, in front of me. They form rows for the congregation, for those who have faith. The hardbacked, not cushioned, chairs face the intricate altar. They are not there for comfort, or to offer rest, they are for those who believe, for those who have no doubt.