She considered waking him, then decided against it. With a sigh, she walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. They had hours until the meeting with Dr. Clarkson. Paul could sleep.
At the Internet café, Gabe ordered an espresso from the barista, a pretty redhead with heavy black eye shadow. He carried the hot drink back to his workstation and almost spilled it when he saw the screen — an IM from durmdvclass="underline" “Contact successful. Transmission confirmed as secure. A is OK. Cleared Malta immigration/customs hours ago. Expects update/advice from us soon. What 2 send?”
Gusts of cool Mediterranean air swept through St. Julian’s. Paul and Ava strolled past a bewildering variety of bars and nightclubs catering to the lively mix of tourists, natives, and hustlers. Moving with the crowd, Ava enjoyed a fleeting sensation of anonymity. Near the St. Rita Steps, leading from Baystreet to St. George’s Road, they located the Two Gods. The peculiar tavern’s exterior was bedecked with carved and painted Egyptian figures, colors and edges softened by years of weathering. Paul could tell Ava loved it already.
Inside, the comfortable smells of pipe tobacco and old mahogany welcomed them. Timeworn wooden stools, benches, and tables were distributed throughout the pub. Regular customers watched soccer on the ancient television. A stocky, middle-aged bartender introduced himself as O’Hagan and asked what they’d like to drink. His accent sounded Irish.
“I’m not sure,” Paul said. “What do you recommend?”
“We’ve some good Maltese brews. Have you tried Blue Label or Hopleaf?”
“Both sound good.”
“Or Lacto, a nice milk stout?”
Ava tried to hide her reaction, but the words milk stout turned her stomach. She was embarrassed to appear so narrow-minded. Grinning at her discomfort, the bartender asked, “What’s your usual drink?”
“Stella Artois,” Paul said. “Do you serve that?”
“Of course. Two euros for a draft.”
They accepted and took their mugs to a quiet table. Paul sipped his beer.
Ava sat back. “I like this old place. The decor is interesting, and for once the bartender didn’t check my ID. It must be these new clothes. I look more mature.”
Tactfully, Paul refrained from mentioning that Malta’s drinking age was sixteen.
She glanced up. Local TV was reporting on the Italian election. Anti-immigration marches had sparked riots in Sicily. Angry men shouted slogans at the camera, expressions of intense personal hatred masquerading as public activism. Ava shuddered.
“What’s wrong?” Paul asked.
“Those guys really give me the creeps.”
He scanned the bar. “Where?”
“No. On TV. The Italian right-wingers.”
He twisted until he saw the screen.
“Who? Berlusconi?”
“No. The Gruppo Garibaldi.”
His expression implied that additional details would be appreciated.
“Nationalists. Extremists. Reactionaries who make Berlusconi look like Bertrand Russell.”
“Wow. Are they popular?”
“Somewhat. Thanks to all the recent scandals and instability, extremists will probably win a few seats in parliament.”
He shook his head. “Unbelievable. You’d think the Italians would’ve learned from Mussolini.”
“They did, mostly, but just like the disgusting skinheads and neo-Nazis back in the States, some idiots never learn.”
Twenty minutes later a sharply dressed man walked through the door. His attire and manner seemed out of place in the smoky tavern, but he wore a broad smile. Paul guessed it was Laurence Clarkson. Ava jumped from her seat to greet him, shook his hand enthusiastically, and introduced Paul.
“Bonswa!” said Clarkson.
Paul replied, “Hey, nice to meet you. I like this place. Do you, um, come here often?”
Clarkson laughed. “Oh, heavens no, but most taverns in this town are too loud for civilized discourse. Plus, it seemed highly appropriate, given that you came from Alexandria.”
Grinning, Clarkson paused, waiting for him to get the joke.
Paul didn’t. In desperation, he turned to Ava. She rescued him.
“Of course! Don’t you remember? The ship St. Paul took from Malta to Syracuse was Alexandrian. It was named the Two Gods.
“Oh. Okay,” said Paul. “I get it now. Good one.”
Clarkson elaborated: “The referenced gods were surely Egyptian: Osiris and Re. It’s said that the bas of Osiris and Re met in Mendes and united. You’re familiar with the stela of Ramesses IV, in Abydos?”
Ava nodded. Paul suppressed a yawn.
“The inscription establishes that the two gods ‘speak with one mouth.’ Furthermore, a relief in Nofretari’s tomb reads, ‘Re has come to rest in Osiris and Osiris has come to rest in Re.’”
Ava contributed, “And throughout the Egyptian Book of the Dead, Osiris and Re appear united. In passages, their names seem interchangeable.”
“Exactly!”
Before they could continue, Paul spoke up, “Speaking of gods, we have some important business with the Catholic Church. Can you tell us who’s in charge here?”
“Archbishop Cremona heads the archdiocese, but he’s busy in Rome. Aren’t these exciting times? All Malta is breathless with anticipation, wondering who’ll be the next pope. In Cremona’s absence, Bishop Garagallo has authority. I’ve met him. He’s quite nice. Why do you need to see him, if you don’t mind my asking?
“Oh, just general ecumenical questions. Nothing interesting.”
Clarkson seemed puzzled. Then he smiled.
“Yes. I suspect Bishop Garagallo is extremely knowledgeable about matters such as scheduling Catholic weddings and satisfying Maltese marriage requirements.” Clarkson turned to Paul and extended his hand. “I congratulate you, sir. In addition to her obvious beauty, your betrothed is an exceptional scholar, blessed with an intellect of the first rank.”
“Wait, I think you misunderstood—”
Ava interrupted. “Paul, he knows already. We might as well admit it.”
“Huh? Oh! Okay. Yeah. You’re a tough man to fool, Professor. You saw right through our story.”
Clarkson shook Paul’s hand vigorously. “Call me Laurence. And there’s no need for concern. Your secret is safe with me.”
For some hours, Ava and Laurence discussed recent developments in archaeology and philology. The two academics covered a ragbag of topics, often finishing each other’s sentences. Eventually Clarkson announced his departure. He rose, toasted their health, and finished his drink. Then he said, “I envy you two. Malta is a beautiful, romantic island. Just the place for young lovers.”
He hugged Ava, gave her his mobile number, and begged her to call if she needed anything. Then he said, “Ha pjacir!” (enjoy yourselves), and bade the couple a good night.
“So, when’s the wedding?” Paul asked.
Ava grimaced. “Obviously, he shouldn’t know why we’re here. So, I decided to perpetuate his misconception. Why disabuse him of a perfectly plausible explanation? It’s easier than making up something.”
Paul considered it. “Okay, that was smart. Of course,” he reflected, “if we’re on the front page of tomorrow’s paper, it was all for naught.”
“True, but I’m confident the media here won’t be taken in by those lies.”
“Hey, I’ll drink to that,” said Paul, finishing his beer. He rose from the table. “Want another?”