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“Italian tourists,” I say in explanation. “Not that all Italian tourists behave like that, but still. They weren’t Maltese.”
“Everyone here has been so very nice,” she says kindly.
“Yes.”
We look at each other some more.
Another float goes by, and she turns to look at it. This one is some sort of political satire that only someone who lived here would comprehend, and it’s occasioning some loud laughter. “I don’t get it,” she says softly.
“Political in-joke,” I say, and shrug. The last thing I want to discuss with this woman is politics. Another group—this time loud Maltese teenagers—pushes past us and the nunnas, and the girl steps into the street. I look down to make sure her feet are secure, and see scrapes on her knees. They’re barely bleeding, but I hate it that she’s hurt. “Your poor knees,” I say. “We should look after them. There’s a pharmacy nearby; it might still be open.”
“Oh, no.” She demurs. “I’m not hurt. It’s just a scratch.”
“All the same, I insist.” I walk her to the pharmacy, but it has just closed. I bang on the door and shout Mr. Borg’s name, but he doesn’t answer. “Ah. So, really closed.”
She shrugs gracefully, with a little smile. “It is Carnival, after all. I’m fine.”
“A glass of wine to take your mind off?” I suggest. She looks doubtful. “Just one. And then if you want to go, I’ll put you in a taxi back to your hotel, or drive you myself, if you prefer.”
“It’s not that far,” she says. “I could walk.”
“A woman walking alone during Carnival? No.” I hold out my hand to her, and hold my breath.
She takes my hand, and I start breathing again.
As the parade is winding down, I walk her to the bus lot, which is also the taxi stand. But there are already lines, and she’s in for a good half-hour wait if not longer. “This is ridiculous,” I tell her. “My car is over here. And you’re entirely safe with me. Everyone knows me, everyone knows Uncle Leo and my Omma and my Nunna and my brother-in-law and my brothers and my sister, and if I mess you about, which I wouldn’t anyway, I can’t hide.”
She smiles again, and I have to catch my breath because she’s so pretty. “All right, then. I will allow you to drive me to the Plenty Hotel in—”
“In Xaghra, of course.” I am ridiculously pleased that she’s chosen one of the small local hostelries, as opposed to the luxury tourist hotels. “They’re very nice there, and the views are excellent.”
“So is the breakfast.”
We are walking to my car. I open the door for her. It’s a short drive to Xaghra, and we chat briefly about her job teaching English grammar at a small university in Virginia, and my Blockchain company. She has never been outside the States before, she says. She says Gozo is beautiful. Her home is beautiful as well, but in a very different way. I ask if her knees are paining her; she shakes her head.
All the same, I help her out of my car and walk her in, and at the front desk I have a quick word with Andre, the clerk, who went to school with my youngest brother Peter. Andre finds us some packets of wound cleaner and some plasters, and I’m so desperate to touch Maren that I ask if I can help her clean her scrapes.
She sits on the bench near the fountain and lets me do it. She thanks me when I’m done, and only then do I realize that she was probably planning to bathe, and I’ve just wasted the plasters.
Oh well.
“Will we see you tomorrow on the tour?” she asks shyly.
I make a reckless decision. “Yes.”
I think my life just changed.
