Like Bees to Honey

I can no longer pretend to be perfect.

I smile.

I sweep my hair around to my left shoulder, twist it smaller, tighter, twirling down the hair until it pulls at my roots. My hair is thick, too thick, neither straight nor curly, just thick. My hair has character, I am told. As I grip the twist in my hair, my neck is exposed, hoping for a breeze to swirl over. I long for a cool gush of breath, the blowing of my Lord’s breath onto, into my being.

The midday sun is peaking, uncharacteristically hot for February. I wonder if my Lord is happy with me. I wonder if this is another test, endurance of sorts. Sweat trickles from beneath my thick hair, down my neck, slowly, down my spine.

I refuse to move from the step. I stay. I take His torture.

My eyes are searching, for Christopher, for Matt, for Molly.

I am an adult, I remind myself.

I need to gain control, I remind myself.

My right hand attempts to shade my eyes from the burning sun. I am scanning the beeping cars, the hustle, the queues of traffic, the lines of buses. I am searching faces. I am squinting into eyes. I am searching for people who are no longer there, here, not really. I do not want to go into the church, alone.

I wonder if Christopher can hear me.

I shout to him, inside my head.

I shout to Jesus too.

Christopher does not appear.

Jesus does not appear.

The dust is rising, circulating.

I am lost within the moment. My Lord’s emotions are controlling me, His blood is the bubbling sun, the dust is in His swirling breath.

I have no choice.

Life is not full of choices, not in the way that we are taught, that we believe. We are being controlled, guided, influenced. There is no free will.

I grab my shawl; my cardigan is shoved between the straps of my handbag. I snatch my almost empty bottle of water. I stand, push my toes until they rub into the bar of the flip-flops. They are pink flip-flops. I think of Molly. I sweep the shawl round to cover my naked shoulders, a church entry requirement.

I turn, I flip-flop.

~fl – ip.

~fl – op.

~fl – ip.

~fl – op.

up to the Rotunda.

I stop, in the doorway, in the shaded, the cool. I look into the vast, the beautiful space within the church. Rays of sunlight shine down through the dome, into the centre, bringing illumination, bringing focus. I look to the empty wooden chairs that are lined, facing the intricate altar. I think to the congregation.

The Rotunda of St Marija Assunta in Mosta stands tall and proud. It is a church where an incontestable miracle occurred. The ninth of April 1942 is a date etched within Maltese roots. It is a date that has been passed down through generations. The air bombardments of World War II were destroying the island of Malta. My people feared for their lives, yet as a nation they did not wait helplessly for death. The people of Malta pulled together, united in prayer; they trusted in their God.

On that very day in April, it is said that around three hundred of my people were praying in the Rotunda of St Marija Assunta, Mosta, as a German bomb penetrated through the huge dome, falling into the heart of the congregation.

It is believed that a miracle happened. They say that the impossible occurred.

It is said that that Axis bomb bounced to the floor and failed to explode, that no one was injured.

When I was a child, my mother would tell me that the bomb not exploding was God’s answer to our people’s prayers for protection. She told me that God had rewarded their united faith. She told me that the bomb not exploding was evidence of God’s existence and that belief in His being was beyond doubt, beyond question. The bomb was faith.

I think that a renewed conviction connected those people, those who had seen that miracle, who had had their prayers answered. Their world, their island was crumbling to ruin, but their God had shown them that He was trying, that He was there and that they would be rewarded, eventually. There could be no questioning of faith, of God, not after the bomb that failed to explode.

I understand that.

Their reward, I guess, came in the renewed sense of community, of belonging, from a faith that was beyond question.

I do not have that faith. I do not have a miracle to pass through generations.

I am standing in the doorway, away from the sun that bubbles my blood.

‘I doubt you,’ I say.

‘Are you listening?’ I ask.

‘I don’t believe, I doubt,’ I say.

Then I hear that voice.

Jesus: Then answer this. Who do you talk to, my Nina?

He says and I hear, but I do not speak.

instead, I flip-flop forward.

~fl – 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 sound is more of a . I smile, I have the same. I have tried so hard to pronounce the digraph . 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.

I cannot allow myself to sit there, not on the congregation chairs, not there.

My eyes search for a place to rest.

I want to see the bomb, but my legs will not work, they are crumpling.

I.

~sp – in,

~sp – in,

~sp – in.

slowly, spiralling on the spot.

I go around and around and around, searching for a place to sit.

I drop my handbag, it makes no sound.

I fall to my knees, to the marble floor.

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