Andras: Beyond Good and Evil Read online

  Andras

  Beyond Good and Evil

  S L Zammit

  Copyright © 2016 S L Zammit

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1533698228

  ISBN 13: 9781533698223

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016909657

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  For my mother and father with love.

  Table of Contents

  Part One What Happened Before

  Chapter 1 Her Historic Murders Retold Mdina, Malta (1568-1639)

  Chapter 2 The Dame visits the Palazzo

  Chapter 3 A little girl goes down a Tunnel Victoria Gozo, Malta

  Chapter 4 A robbery in a Church

  Part Two GRAZIELLA: Her Perspective

  Chapter 5 The Interview

  Chapter 6 A shopping spree in Rome

  Chapter 7 A short visit to Gozo

  Chapter 8 The First Time is a Possession

  Chapter 9 Senses Acute

  Chapter 10 A Headless Statue and a Lover Scorned

  Chapter 11 The Stranger in the Mirror

  Chapter 12 Cocooned

  Chapter 13 St. Therese Catholic School

  Part Three AURORA

  Chapter 14 The Man in the Tunnel

  Chapter 15 The Woman in Red

  Chapter 16 The Old Professor and the Boo

  Chapter 17 Raven Eyes

  Chapter 18 The Arid

  Chapter 19 Confessions of a Lover Scorned

  Chapter 20 Quartier Pigalle

  Chapter 21 Club Débauche

  Chapter 22 The Grigorian

  Chapter 23 Isabella’s Gold Box

  Part Four GRAZIELLA: A life Revisited

  Chapter 24 It all comes Tumbling Down

  Part Five AURORA: Enfin

  Chapter 25 Status Exhausted

  Chapter 26 The Seven Virtues

  PART ONE

  What Happened Before

  Chapter 1

  Her Historic Murders Retold Mdina, Malta (1568-1639)

  1

  July 31st 1568

  The shrill screams of the maid cut through the still night. She must have found her, he thinks. Isabella’s butchered body sprawled across the bed, her white nightgown torn and bloodied, her ebony hair matt and reddened, a look of terror and misbelief forever frozen on her beautiful face.

  Stefano runs out of the palazzo, onto Inguanez Street, and hidden by the shadows finds his way out of Mdina’s alleyways to a familiar spot just outside Greeks’ Gate. He hears the hounds bark and realizes he doesn’t have much time.

  Sure enough urgent shouts sound in the distance, “Catch the Florentine! Don’t let him get away”, followed by rapid stomping of boots on cobblestone.

  Tremulous, he waits in the shadows. From his hiding spot, Stefano scans the deserted area around him, the gold jewelry box held firm in both hands, but he doesn’t see anybody.

  “Is that you Stefano?” the voice whispers in the dark startling him.

  “Yes master,” Stefano answers.

  “Do you have what we agreed upon?” the man asks stepping out of the shadows, his gaze piercing deep into Stefano’s eyes.

  The man is tall and broad and cloaked in black.

  “Yes, yes master,” says Stefano, his voice quivering.

  “Follow me then,” says the master as he walks away.

  Stefano Bonaccorsi follows the hooded figure into the night.

  2

  Night of Carnevale, 1639

  The clock strikes eleven and the young housekeeper reluctantly opens the doors of the palazzo to a giggling group of men and women wearing varied elaborate costumes and feathered guises.

  “Come in, the master bids you welcome,” she whispers into the dark night. “Hurry in, before you’re seen.”

  Courtesans, court jesters, pirates, queens, demons, friars and ghouls spill into the hallway from the shadows of the alley, faces masked, identities hidden.

  Cloaks and fur coats are tossed at her, displaying more skin than she is used to, more flesh than should be exposed in even the most private of moments.

  From beneath the pile of clothes, she observes the smooth hands and delicate calves and ankles, and recognizes the distinct scents of imported powder. Despite the bizarre masks and exotic costumes, she can still identify some of the characters. Her head fills with a list of names: De Cassis, De La Valle, Messanieri.

  It is the night of Carnevale, the last night prior to the onset of the forty-day Lenten period devoted to fasting, abstinence and penitence.

  The town crier’s shrill voice, broadcasting throughout the main city thoroughfare, reverberates through her mind, “As of this year 1639, by decree of the Grandmaster Fra Giovanni Carlo Lascris, all representations of the devil are hereby banned. The ban includes women wearing masks or attending carnival balls. Violators will be publicly flogged.”

  But this assembly is immune from punishment. Edicts are meant to regulate commoners, not aristocrats. So she puts down the coats and calmly leads the gathering to the main ballroom, ablaze with chandeliers loaded with candles.

  “The marquis will join you soon,” she announces, backing out of the room.

  One of the men grabs her from behind, thrusting her so close that she feels through his costume and the pudginess of his middle all the way to his growling stomach. But she knows it is not food this crowd is hungry for. She disentangles herself from his grip and slips out of the room.

  The party’s excited laughter echoes along the candlelit hallway where the luxurious mural glimmers in the flickering light. For the umpteenth time, her eyes skim over the figures depicted as she walks along the corridor: turbaned Turks crawl up bastion walls entwined with surreal creatures, as if each warrior’s soul has materialized outside his actual body but sticks to him like a shadow, looking more fierce and hell-bent than the combatant himself.

  Below the walls, other warriors form an undulating dancing procession of human and nonhuman morphing into each other, ready to take the place of the combatants that are being pushed off by the besieged as soon as they stick their head over the ramparts.

  Rumor has it that the cost of the mural would have fed a family of ten for ten years; this extravagance hinders her appreciation of the magnificent artwork.

  She has been working at the house since her twelfth year, a position she’s lucky to have inherited from her mother and her grandmother before her, a means to help provide for her otherwise destitute family. Although the moral filth and depravity of this household is probably worse than any other, it is considered an excellent opportunity for a common girl to work for an aristocrat like the master, until a husband is found for her and she’s married off.

  At the top of the stairs, the girl lights a candle and walks down to her room, a tiny closet of a bedroom right next to the old cook’s compartment, the only other woman in the household, the closest she has to a mother and friend since hers left to join the rest of their family on the smaller island of Gozo.

  She can hear the old woman snoring gently in her sleep through the joining partition of the rooms as she carefully fastens the door behind her, double locking it and securing the latch on top.

  The old woman usually recites her Hail Marys with her, mumbling in the dark until the girl falls asleep. Today is one of the few days the cook is asleep prior to her arrival.

  Putting out the tongue of fire from the candle between her thumb and forefinger and changing into her nightclothes, the girl slips under the covers.

  Lying awake in the dark, motionless in her cot, the throbbing sound of the revelries emanating from the main floor permeate the thick stone wall, accompanying her pulsating he
art as she tries to sleep. The sounds of harp and piano, laughter and shouting, hour after hour, prevent her from falling asleep.

  The cook’s admonition not to be scared of the dark comes to the forefront of her mind; there are worst things than the dark and bad things don’t need the dark to happen. Drunkenness does however lead people to evil and the best thing to do is to lock the doors and go to sleep when the nobles are upstairs drinking.

  Moonlight filters through the window forming shapes against the walls and causing depths in the shadows of the room, shapes like monsters of the night coming to get her, and the Hail Marys aren’t helping.

  Wishing she hadn’t put out her light however feeble, she reminds herself of the rules. The rules are the rules, and all light has to be put out in the servant chambers at night.

  The rhythmic strokes of the percussion instruments from the bacchanal and her pulsating heartbeats reach a crescendo just as the moon gets engulfed in a thick cloud. At that very instance, the monsters on the wall make a lunge at her. Leaping out of bed, the girl runs out into the corridor screaming.

  Suddenly conscious of her shrieks resounding along the passageway, she stops, hardly breathing. For a long while she just stands still and listens. The revelries in the ballroom continue unabated.

  Satisfied that she hasn’t been heard, the girl feels her way with the palms of her hands along the cold damp stone of the walls. There is an oil lamp in the kitchen she can fetch. A small transgression of the rules would go unnoticed and she feels sure that the comfort of the lamp’s tiny flickering flame will, as of old, sooth her nerves and lull her to sleep.

  The girl tiptoes up the staircase, stopping every few steps to ensure that she is alone. The blare of the celebration looms closer but seems contained in the one room, confined within the ballroom.

  Finally satisfied that she won’t be seen or heard, the girl lets out a sigh of relief and slips down the main hallway of the palazzo towards the kitchen.

  “There you are,” the man startles her as he steps out of the shadows outside the doors of the library. She recognizes him as the one who had grabbed her earlier.

  He is stout, face round and red, speech slurred. His hand caresses the roundness of his own belly and as he speaks the fat pad below his chin wobbles like a wineskin full of fluid. She follows the motion of his hand as it moves away from his middle and grabs her arm hard and rough. He has a fat man’s padded hand but a tight painful grip.

  Jolted towards him, nausea wells in her chest and she screams. The man swings at her face with his free hand and her mouth fills with the taste of metal, blood flows from her nose and the corners of her lips and consciousness escapes her.

  With surprising agility for a man of his girth, he swings open the heavy door to the library and drags her into the dark room, closing the door behind him.

  The ripping of her nightgown and savage grabbing at her flesh seems like an out-of-body experience; as if it’s all happening to someone else.

  She sees her neck and breasts and arms and legs exposed in the darkness of the room and the fat man pulling down his trousers. Stiffening and thrusting as he mauls her, his fat hand clutching her most private parts, grappling and grabbing her curvaceous young body.

  Her body rolled over, shoved, pinned to the ground and violated. Finally she hears his groan of relief followed by the desperate sound of a captured animal, her own harrowing cry.

  And as he pummels at her head to subdue her efforts to get free, the library door opens and three figures enter the room. Relieved that her ordeal is over, she moans for help.

  But their cheering and amusement at the messy spectacle indicate that her torment is far from over as the three approach her. The names De Mornay, De Salle, De Charlemagne, come to mind.

  She feels herself ripping from the inside out as her body is tossed and shoved around like meat. The men morph into wolves, savaging her body apart. She feels herself torn, pummeled, bludgeoned, split apart.

  Her arms and legs ripped from her torso. Her abdomen, pelvis and thorax separated, her breasts from her chest, her head from her neck, her eyes and lips and nose and ears, all in pieces around the room.

  “Come away from there my child,” it’s the cook’s kindly voice, soothing and warm. “Follow me.”

  The girl drifts away from the horrors being inflicted upon her splayed body by the wolf pack. She floats up and away from her mangled body and follows the voice, light and joyous as she soars.

  And as she drifts towards the high arching ceiling of the library, the master enters the room and yells his disgust at his guests for soiling his hand woven carpets.

  The library is a gruesome mess and he orders the immediate suspension of the festivities so the party can start cleaning and covering up this mishap.

  One of his brazen guests blurts out that this is just another nameless girl joining his infamous collection sealed in the dungeon walls. For truth be told, there is no bigger monster than the marquis amongst the dregs of the city’s cesspools.

  The mood in the room rapidly changes to one of laborious camaraderie. For those who are not required to do it ever, cleaning up can be fun, and there is nothing like a horrendous event to bring people together.

  The room fills with laughter, and after the nameless girl is scrubbed off the floors, the revelries continue in a different room.

  Chapter 2

  The Dame visits the Palazzo

  February 2000

  The driver navigates the car through the narrow alleyways, his neck craned as he maneuvers his passage through the uneven lanes.

  “These streets were made for horse-drawn carts not cars,” he mumbles as he extends his arm out of the window to fold in the side mirror. “The street narrows here madam, I can’t go much farther!”

  From the back seat, Dame Esmeralda Montfort makes eye contact with her driver through the rear view mirror, her gray eyes imperial and steely.

  “Are you sure this is as far as you can go?” she asks, her voice impatient as she looks down at her new Italian pumps.

  The driver takes the car a few yards farther and stops. His eyes meet his boss’ eyes through the mirror. The dame had insisted on driving around in a full-sized, presidential town car against his suggestion to use one of the smaller cars.

  “Yes madam,” he says meekly. “If I go any farther we’ll get stuck. We shouldn’t be driving inside the city walls anyway.”

  Esmie sighs, opens the passenger door a few inches, “Well I can’t get out right here, can I?”

  The driver reluctantly pilots the vehicle farther until the passenger door can open into a perpendicular alleyway.

  “Wait for me in the square,” she instructs as she emerges from the vehicle into the crisp night air.

  The moonlit streets are silent and deserted. As soon as her chauffeur skillfully backs out of the narrow alleyway, she proceeds slowly toward the palazzo. Stepping carefully on the uneven cobblestone, avoiding every crack and dip in the pavement, she goes over the rehearsed lines in her head.

  “Our interests have been historically aligned, our alliance predetermined,” she whispers. “Now more than ever we have to unify, conjoin forces.”

  The palazzo in Mdina had been one of the few ancient castles that could be claimed from the Order’s list by a descendent of the noble family that had originally built it in the ancient capital. The marquis was among those who came forward. Although his lineage had been the easiest to ascertain, he has proven the most difficult to recruit and engage.

  Looking up at the building’s looming façade, Dame Esmie shudders. Despite having been the most ancient and luxurious on the Order’s list, the building itself an architectural masterpiece, boasting an eclectic collection of unique art pieces, including murals covering the corridor walls and ceiling on the first floor by Caravaggio in 1608 and later extended by Pietro da Cortona in the 1630s, the place had always given Esmie a strange presentiment.

  Recalling previous encounters with the marquis, Esmie
’s foreboding is subdued beneath a soft gurgling of girlish excitement and an embarrassing surge of warmth.

  Esmie had subtly volunteered to speak to the marquis. Her husband Joe was supposed to meet him and talk about the Order, but she had insisted he had had too much to drink. Thankfully, convincing him had been quite easy since he was enjoying the company of friends.

  She had felt drawn to the marquis the moment she set eyes on him and found herself looking forward to their encounters. She found him charming and appealing and felt excited at the prospect of seeing him again.

  She yearned to include him in her inner social circle for quite some time, but he had always managed to circumvent her attempts. Now that the Order has shown interest in him, she feels certain he will be enticed by the prospect of joining such a dignified group, and jumps at the opportunity to relay the message.

  Quickly composing herself, she ascends the front steps and momentarily pauses in front of the majestic doors of the palazzo.

  The door swings open before she knocks. She has always likened old Rosina to a goblin, the goblin at the front door, prompt to answer before one has the opportunity to knock. Esmie smiles, and without waiting to be invited in, quickly steps into the foyer.

  She instinctively strokes her arms, the old castle is always unbearably cold, another reason she never liked the house.

  “So, where is he Rosina dear?” she asks the housekeeper.

  The old woman regards Esmie, eyes brimming with rapt admiration. She takes two respectful steps backwards.

  “I’m so sorry madam,” says Rosina, voice subdued, looking thoroughly embarrassed. “He has company.”

  “You said on the phone he just arrived,” says Esmie impatiently. “How can he possibly have company so soon?”

  “I know madam,” apologizes the old woman. “He brought her with him. I had no idea.”

  Dame Esmie towers over the decrepit housekeeper, exasperation welling in her chest. ‘Come now,’ Rosina had said. ‘It’s the best time to talk to him.’ And she had just left an enjoyable party with close friends to drive across the island at the behest of the old crone.