The next night we arrived in Malta beneath a starless sky. The water in the bay was still and black. Valletta rose before us like a mountain, stitched with lights, as grand as a castle. The gondolas plied silently back and forth around the steamer, each with a tall, slender lantern at the stern. There was a great silence, an ineffable peace. Even the gondoliers rowed quietly. Everything was gentle and orderly – a blend of Italian mystery and British policing.
We disembarked, and the count, the countess and I, along with Don Nicazio and Carmen, went to the Clarence Hotel in Royal Street, opposite the famous Church of St John. Captain Rytmel had his lodgings with the other British officers. Our first three days in Malta were spent visiting the many historic places: the Palace of the Grand Masters, the palaces known as ‘Inns of Residence’, which belonged to the various nationalities of the Order of the Knights of St John, the broad white streets with their tall Renaissance-style houses, as well as Città-Vecchia, Bingemma, Buskett and the Isle of Calypso, so full of charm according to Homer, but, in reality, a large, wave-washed rock full of dark caves. From the first day, Rytmel and a few officers came to dine each evening at the Clarence Hotel. The countess always took her meals in her rooms. The source of all the noise and nuisance at the table was Carmen, who had lost no time in allowing herself to be pursued by Monsieur Perny, a young Frenchman, witty and nimble, blond and passionate, who, as he himself said, ‘travelled out of sheer boredom’.
Carmen avoided Rytmel. It was as if they had agreed, by mutual consent, to keep a discreet distance from each other.Rytmel, on the other hand, invariably joined our excursions into the countryside, to the fortifications and the bay, and he came with us to the theatre every night. The flowing golden tresses of a girl who was always to be seen in the front row of the stalls, had immediately captivated the count. She had a fair complexion and Maltese eyes, the genteel manners of an English ‘Miss’, the swaying gait of an Andalusian, and was, in fact, the effulgent Mademoiselle Rize, an out-of-work dancer. Otherwise, the count would not be separated from Rytmel.
There in Malta, I was less aware of the countess and Captain Rytmel’s comings and goings. Caught up in the company of British officers, with sea excursions, trips to the countryside, suppers and card games, I often did not see the countess for a day or even two. I realised, though, that she was entirely ruled by her passion for him. And Rytmel, it seemed to me, was also hopelessly in love.
I do not intend to explain why I decided to take no closer interest in that situation. I am sure you will understand clearly enough my motives for not knowing, not seeing, not noticing, for opting for the most complete discretion.
Shortly after our arrival in Malta, we had become acquainted with Lord Grenley, who was wintering there in the hope of shaking off his ‘blue devils’. He had sailed from England in his magnificent yacht, The Romantic, which we would see tacking across the bay each day with the sun glinting on its polished copper fittings and elegant white hull. Lord Grenley kept close company with the count. He was also a good friend of Rytmel’s.
The paths of Carmen and the countess rarely crossed, other than at the theatre where Carmen would shoot impertinent glances at the countess, who remained utterly and proudly impervious. Carmen had no contact with ‘the ladies’ and was thus deprived of opportunities to vent her spleen on the countess – by meaningful looks and bitterly ironic remarks – as she had on the seven metres of the ship’s deck, and now had to take her revenge at the dining table of the Clarence Hotel, making all kinds of veiled remarks and caustic comments aimed at Captain Rytmel. Her current tactic was to set Monsieur Perny against the officer, egging him on to oppose all Rytmel’s ideas and opinions, although I could not tell whether this was in the perverse hope of provoking a duel or merely for the pleasure of seeing him contradicted at every turn.
One day, the conversation was of India. Rytmel was talking about how England had transformed the country. A roar of laughter interrupted him. It was Perny.
‘Did you laugh?’ asked Rytmel, colouring slightly.
‘Did I laugh?’ replied Perny, ‘Monsieur, I’m positively splitting my sides, I’m in paroxysms. Just how exactly has England transformed India? By transforming poetry, imagination, sunlight, into something plain, trivial and covered in coal dust? I have been to India, gentlemen. Do you know what those English transformers have done? They have translated the mysterious poem that was India into the mercantile prose of The Morning Post. They pile up sacks of peppercorns outside temples; they treat the noble Indian race, the mother of idealism, like Irish dogs; they have steamboats plying the divine Ganges at three shillings a head; they force the temple dancers to drink pale ale and teach them to play cricket; they clear the sacred forest to build gas-lit squares; and, above all, gentlemen, they dethrone ancient, mysterious rulers, who are almost as delicate as ivory, and replace them with side-whiskered old reprobates, riddled with debt, red-faced from drinking too much brown ale, and who, instead of being packed off to Botany Bay in irons, have been appointed governors of India! And who is it who does all this? An island made in equal parts of ice and roast beef, inhabited by beer-bellied pirates in high starched collars!’
Smiling, Captain Rytmel arose, walked over to me and said, ‘After supper, will you kindly ask that crackpot comedian to nominate a place, a time and his chosen weapon.’
Then he calmly resumed his seat. As dessert was served, I took Perny to one side and conveyed my friend’s words to him.
Perny laughed, said that he had a high regard for the English, that he appreciated their services to India, that Carmen had put him up to contradicting Rytmel, whom he thought a fine gentleman and of whom he begged his most humble pardon. His place was everywhere, he added, his time was always, and his weapon was whatever Captain Rytmel might choose.
‘But given that explanation,’ I said, ‘there’s no need for weapons.’
‘Ah, I forgot,’ said the Frenchman. ‘There is still one little thing: I consider Captain Rytmel’s hairstyle to be deeply offensive to my character and to the dignity of France. Now that does require reparation.’
The seconds were nominated that night. It was arranged that the duel would not take place in Malta. Rytmel was an officer, and armed duels in military barracks carried the most severe penalties. Since they were on a British island, however, they could not avoid fighting on British soil. It was agreed, therefore, that the duel would take place at sea, a ‘cannon-shot’ from the coast. Lord Grenley gave them the loan of his yacht, and we set out in the early morning with a stiff breeze and in bright sunshine. It all happened very quickly. We dropped anchor five miles from Malta, the British flag was lowered and the crew furled the sails; since the two adversaries were of equal rank, one was despatched to the stern and the other to the prow. The sun was to starboard. It was seven o’clock in the morning and wisps of white cloud still lingered in the sky. Lord Grenley gave the signal, the two adversaries fired. Perny dropped his pistol and fell to his knees. He had been gravely wounded, with his collarbone broken. He was laid down in a cabin that had been made ready. The British flag was raised once more and we sailed back to Malta, by which time it was late afternoon.
I immediately went to Don Nicazio’s rooms. Carmen was there alone.
‘Do you know what you’ve done?’ I asked her. ‘Perny has been wounded.’
‘Nothing that can’t be healed. I’ll look after him myself. Now what really is serious, is what’s going on in this hotel. I don’t know exactly what, but I have my suspicions. Tell the count to keep an eye on the countess!’
I shrugged my shoulders, smiled, and went straight to the countess’s rooms. There I found the count, Rytmel and Lord Grenley. Perny had been declared out of danger. Rytmel was relieved.
We talked blithely. We arranged to visit the island of Gozo, eight kilometres from Malta. Lord Grenley had suggested making the excursion the following day and was again offering his yacht for the purpose. The count was shilly-shallying, saying that, in his current nervous state, the sea would only upset him.
‘It’s that confounded Rize woman!’ he told me in a low voice. ‘I’ve promised her an outing to Bingemma tomorrow.’
‘So?’
‘You go with the countess. Grenley is going and Rytmel too. You really must do me this favour. Mademoiselle Rize is very demanding, but then, poor thing, she has Maltese blood!’
Later, when I was returning to my room, a figure approached me in the corridor and took me by the hand.
‘Listen,’ a voice breathed.
It was Carmen.
‘If you are a man of honour, take care tomorrow on the trip to Gozo.’
And she vanished.