Short Story from and about Gozo: "Lorraine's Return"

Some time last year, I entered a short story into a competition organised by Showtime, a cultural supplement of the Times of Malta. The winner was announced in the first week of December; sadly it was not me... First place went to Katryna Storace, whose story "The Androgynous Aphrodite" will be published in a future edition of Showtime.

Since my story was mentioned among 10 "runner-ups" of sorts (see clip) I was content enough. I'd have expected for it to be totally lost among the many entries they surely must have received.

Well, nobody asked me if they may publish it (nope, I hadn't expect that either!), and I have nothing to report in my blog today, so I thought I might as well publish it here, thus affording it a tiny, exclusive audience!

So here it is:

Lorraine’s Return
(c) 2005 Sabine Cassar-Alpert

Lorraine opened her eyes tentatively as she felt the last rays of the autumn sun on her face. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she realised the taxi had already crossed the first third of Channel Bridge. “I must have dozed off”, the young woman thought, and stared in wonder at the tower of Comino, which they were passing just then. A moment later the enormous steel construction of the bridge came into focus, leaving the ancient watchtower to fade into the background.

“What a monster”, she meant to think but probably had spoken out loud, because the driver eyed her in his rear-view mirror with a peculiar mixture of hostility, defensive hurt, and curiosity all rolled into one.

“That tower’s over four hundred years old ta, Miss,” he said, perhaps a tad more grumpily than he had meant to, “to call it a monster is outrageous!”

Lorraine held his gaze in the mirror and retorted wryly, “I’m talking about the bridge, not the tower!” She shook her head but could not help being awed at the sight of the huge bridge, which could easily compete with San Francisco’s Golden Gate. They had not even stopped at putting in an exit from the bridge to Comino! The tiny island between Malta and Gozo had been car-free in the days when Gozo was home for her.

“Ah!” And both, his voice and face took on a more amiable hue when he continued, “Ghandek ragun. I guess you’re right. Doesn’t do much to enhance the landscape, hux? Imma, you know what? For me it don’t matter if it’s nice or ugly. Most important thing is, I can cross over any time, day or night!”

Lorraine left his last remark without reply and hung after her own thoughts, careful not to voice them aloud again. The concept of ferry queuing – or worse, cancelled trips because of rough seas – was totally foreign to her. She tried to remember what little experiences she had had of the ferry between the two islands. Her family had whisked her away to England when she was only seven; she could just about recall one outing with her school class to Malta in grade one, when they had been herded through several museums, not quite old enough to appreciate their country’s treasures. And then, of course, the last crossing, heading for the airport. The minibus they had hired for the occasion was jam-packed with suitcases, trunks and bags, and Lorraine herself had carried her school satchel, and a heavy heart. That had been fifteen years ago, almost exactly to the day.

Lorraine could not stifle a sigh at the thought of those days. The summer of 2006 had been a catastrophe in terms of tourism, which had been Gozo’s main money spinner until then. The frantic counter-measures taken by the authorities in the run-up to the elections had been the proverbial too little too late, with disastrous consequences. Needless to say, she had been much too young to be aware of the negative ripple effects on the economy as a whole. What was of significance to her at the time, were the less crowded beaches and, more importantly, the fact that her dad was more available – which certainly was good, rather than bad! Towards the end of that summer, however, her secure little world had collapsed like one of those card houses she used to build with her dad. Her parents had explained carefully that she was to leave her school, her friends, and her home behind: They were moving to England where her father was getting a well-paid job.

Her daydream almost succeeded in luring her back into her earlier doze, but just then Our Lady of Lourdes Chapel came into view, causing Lorraine’s heart to take up a faster pace. This was very close to home! Hardly noticing the exit marked “Mgarr Marina” and ignoring the handful of sparkling yachts mooring just visibly below, Lorraine’s eyes where riveted to the end of the bridge, which adjoined the road leading up to Xewkija, her home town. As they continued their journey on solid ground, Lorraine held her breath in expectance of the moment the church dome of her native village would come into view, but was to be disappointed bitterly: where once open fields had allowed a glimpse of the magnificent dome on approaching the village, these had now given way to an endless row of terraced houses, leaving her to guess where the village of Ghajnsielem finished and Xewkija started.

After clearing away the lump that had formed in her throat, Lorraine asked the driver, “Would you mind passing through the centre of Xewkija?”

“Mela le, no problem. – You got connections there?” Visibly relieved that the long silence was finally broken again, he gave her an encouraging nod in the mirror.

“I lived there once, a long time ago.”

“Ah.” He eyed her with renewed interest. “Where about?”

“Soil Street, do you know where that is? There used to be a grocer’s right next door to our house, on the corner…” She wrinkled her forehead in concentration. “Can’t remember its name though.”

“Haqq id-dinja! Don’t tell me you’re the daughter of Ganni ta’ ballija? Um… Lorraine, hux?”
“Yes, that’s me alright.” She gave him a puzzled look. “I’m so sorry, but I don’t seem to remember you… How do you know my family?”

“Know them…” For the first time he laughed openly, which lent a surprisingly handsome quality to his face. “Ganni’s mother and my grandmother were sisters! I’m Giovann, we used to play together at the centru, you really don’t remember?”

Now it was Lorraine’s face that lit up. “That’s crazy! But… I guess some things never change – in Gozo everyone’s related to one another! So… we’re second cousins then… well, I’m sure pleased to meet you, Giovann!”

She felt more comfortable in her backseat now, and when a moment later her former family home came into view, Giovann slowed the car down to a crawl so she could take her time examining the neighbourhood. It still looked quite the same as when she had last seen it. Only the street looked deserted, lifeless, and where in former times the neighbours had competed for precious parking lots, now hardly a car seamed the flawless tarmac of the road.

“It’s almost unchanged, and at the same time different,” Lorraine observed. “Aren’t there any people around?” Suddenly she remembered vividly Guza and Karmni, the spinster sisters from next door, always sitting on stools in front of their house and scrutinising each passer-by with aplomb. Jonathan from further down the road had forever been washing and polishing his ancient but precious Ford Escort, and there had been a constant coming and going at the little corner shop next to her home. Now the whole place was deserted and reminded her of a film city that had long since served its purpose.

“You guys weren’t the only ones who left Gozo, although the real exodus happened about eight years ago,” Giovann explained. Shaking his head, he added, “Just when the bridge was finished, how’s that for irony!”

Giovann steered the car back to the main road and they resumed their trip to Xlendi, where Lorraine was going to stay. Rita, her best friend during her all too brief schooldays in Xewkija, had arranged a small flat on the seafront for her. After they had lost contact about a year after Lorraine had moved to England, they found each other again with a little help by the internet, in a chat room that was mostly frequented by Gozitans. It had been on Rita’s insistence that Lorraine had finally decided to spend her vacation in Gozo. Lorraine felt excited and apprehensive at the same time, but now that she finally approached her destination, she was just glad that she had come.

As they left Xewkija, Giovann asked, “Are you in a hurry? I’d like to show you something. It won’t take more than ten minutes,” he added pleadingly.
Lorraine knew that Rita was expecting her at the flat, but she didn’t have the heart to disappoint her newly re-discovered relative, and so she agreed. Giovann took a left turn and headed for Sannat. Again Lorraine was dismayed at the sight of missing fields that had been replaced by dwellings.

“If it’s true that so many people left the island, then who are all these houses for?”

Giovann explained how the construction industry had been the one trade to survive a little longer than all of the others. Cut-throat pricing had made building cheap, and banks had facilitated the dream of your own home further by granting loans at low interest rates. One disastrous side-effect was the further decline of tourists – the whole island had become one huge construction site. In the end, the only survivors had been the houses. Apart from high-quality roads, membership in the European Union had given Gozitans excellent education – and the possibility to work abroad. Giving green light to building the bridge had been the government’s last desperate attempt to attract Gozitan workers to employment in Malta. It failed.

As their ride took them into Sannat, Giovann turned left again, in direction of the Ta’ Cenc cliffs.
“Are you going to show me the golf course?” Lorraine asked. She knew that years ago there had been a heated debate whether to have one at Ta’ Cenc or not.

“Golf course my foot!” Giovann replied with a smirk. “What you are about to see has probably been the biggest victory for the greens in Gozo’s history!”

Curiosity made Lorraine search the horizon for anything extraordinary, while the taxi inched its way forward on the potholed ground. This was the only road she had seen so far that had been bypassed by the craze of having ultra-smooth tarmac everywhere. And when it did come into view, it caused her to open her mouth and not shut it again. Like a fish on dry land, she seemed to be gasping for air, but what she was really lacking, were words. Where once the unique rocky terrain had given view to the open sea far below and all the way to the horizon, there was now a vast field of evenly spaced, huge white wind-turbines. So gleaming white, they almost hurt the eye. There was hardly any breeze, and their propellers were turning at a slow-motion pace.
“… And there I was thinking the bridge was a monster! This is…” An appropriate attribute evaded her. ‘Hideous’ sprang to mind but did not do it justice. The rough beauty of the area was destroyed in its entirety.

Giovann killed the engine and opened his door. “Ejja, let’s have a closer look!” he invited her. Together they walked a short distance, accompanied by a constant, eerie hum in the air. About fifteen metres from the nearest turbine an electric fence stopped them in their tracks. For a while they just stood quietly, and stared at the eyesore; then Lorraine broke the silence.
“Let’s leave,” she rubbed her forehead, “I think I’ve got a headache coming up. It’s been a long journey – and Rita is probably starting to worry about me.”

“I don’t think the headache is from your trip, ta! It’s the turbines. And they don’t only give you a headache. People have moved away because of stomach trouble. And migraines. There used to be a hotel not far from here, but it had to close down because of these things… You should hear them when it’s windy – it drives you nuts! All the neighbouring villages get their share of noise and vibrations!”

They turned away from the fence and made their way back to the car. As Giovann opened the door for her, he told her about how birds continuously flew innocently into the turbines’ turning blades and into their death. Taking in everything she had heard this afternoon, a cold chill came over her all of a sudden.

“How could they do such a thing and get away with it?” Lorraine shouted angrily. Then, still shivering, she looked around and slowly became aware of Rita sitting next to her with a concerned look in her face.

“Who did what?” Rita inquired.

“What?” Lorraine searched her friend’s face, wondering what she was on about. Their beach mats were in the shade now, as the sun had vanished behind the rocks. Hastily she pulled a sweatshirt over her swimsuit. Then she started shaking with laughter. “What’s the date today?” She asked breathlessly.

“Today’s the first of October, and it’s your eighteenth birthday, silly woman!” Rita rolled her eyes.

“I just had the most peculiar dream ever!” Lorraine rolled around onto her belly, gazing into the distance while she tried to recall the dream’s details.

“Well, we’d better get going, because at seven Giovann is going to pick us up for dinner!” Furrowing her brow she added, “And on the way home you’d better tell me all about that dream of yours!”

Giovann… Oh yes, they’d better hurry. He had promised to take them to the best restaurant in Malta; they were going to take the ferry at 8.15 pm. It was going to be one of the highlights of her vacation this year. Giovann… She had been coming to Gozo every single summer since she’d moved to England, but ever since she had met Giovann last summer, Lorraine was toying with the idea that she actually might stay for good one day. Gozo was certainly not the worst place to live in.

Oh, and of course, Giovann was not related to Lorraine outside her weird dream!