Issue 22 - July 2012 (PDF) - Chipping Norton Times

THE­LAST­FEW­HOURS­OF­ENZO­THE­BOATMAN
A­Short­Story­by­Nicholas­John­-­Part­­1­
The cat sat high on the window ledge and surveyed the
morning as it came to Wied Zurrieq. The heat of the day
rose early, the men preparing their boats before breakfast,
working on the brightly-painted, wooden vessels, tinkering
with motors and wielding paintbrushes, until the
punishing glare of the Mediterranean sun forced them
into the cafes for coffee and breadcakes.
The cat licked its paws lazily, ignoring the gentle
movement of the dirty curtains, as what breeze there was
stirred in the morning air. The sounds of activity from the
harbour grew steadily louder and Enzo struggled with
sleep beneath a thin, cotton sheet, as the day kicked its
way into his consciousness. The cat stretched and jumped
from the window ledge, down onto the bed.
"Go away, get out of here!" Enzo feebly kicked out,
but the cat was skilled in avoiding his clumsy lunges. After
all, it practised every morning. It yawned and emitted a
half meow, half squawk, its call for breakfast. Enzo
groaned, a low rumble that began deep in his chest and
finally escaped through cracked lips. His head hurt and his
mouth was drier than the Maltese summer; the effect of
last night's wine. Opening his eyes, he cursed at the light
angling into the room through the gap in the curtains. It
was a conspiracy to bedevil him. The penetrating blue of
the sky showed no fleck, nor promise, of white cloud.
He flung an ineffectual arm at the cat, who easily
avoided the flailing limb and resumed an impatient
mewing. Enzo swore; the damn animal must have got in
through the open window. Same as every morning. It was
all a conspiracy he thought again, a plot: his two-room flat,
on the third-floor of a tenement building in the Luba
district of the town, situated high above the harbour, had
no shutters to keep out the bright, harsh, morning sun or
the unwelcome attentions of his persistent early visitor.
How it made it to his tiny, third-floor flat was a mystery to
Enzo, but make it, it did, in search of breakfast. If he
stopped letting the cat feast on the remains of whatever
was in the noisily whirring fridge, then it would soon find
itself another source of nourishment. It was a scavenger
this cat, all cats! But, in truth, he was glad of the company;
it made waking alone in this cramped, uncomfortable
hovel just about bearable.
He pushed himself upright in bed and rubbed a leathery,
cracked hand across his forehead. The wine. He should
stop drinking quite so much wine.
* * * * *
The white-washed houses tumbled down towards
the Plaza, the cobbled streets dropping through the
terraces, twisting and turning till they met at the main
square. The Plaza Maskala was the centre of Zurrieq, a
large, concrete expanse, unattractive in design and
unappealing in appearance. A few scattered palm trees
afforded some shade from the sun and, on the steps of the
18
Church De Santa Rosa, the beggars were already vying for
the best positions.
The boatmen gathered this, and every morning, in
the cafes and bars that lined the square, smoking and
drinking thick, black coffee. Their colourful boats were tied
up in rows alongside the long quay in the harbour,
awaiting the morning trade - awaiting the first coaches as
they arrived, winding down the steep main road into
town, sunlight glinting on metal and glass. A steady
stream, mainly from Valletta, drawing up in the town
square, disgorging lines of camera-hugging tourists and
visitors. The boatmen would quickly extinguish their
cigarettes, stubbed onto stone - their sharply-coloured
shirts suddenly busy alongside sharply-coloured boats,
smiles of welcome on their lips. And the Mediterranean
sun climbed ever higher.
* * * * *
Frankie and Jazz had, it's fair to say, overdone
things the night before. It was no surprise that they'd
missed joining the Intersun excursion to the Blue Grotto,
when it'd left from outside the Hotel Splendide in the
capital at eight-thirty sharp. Frankie didn't give a toss
about caves and would rather have slept off her hangover,
but Jazz was keen to see the Grotto, so they'd eventually
arrived in Zurrieq with spirits dampened by what had been
a hot and bumpy ride - not inside an air-conditioned coach
with toilet facilities, but in a local bus that had first seen
use on the island in the seventies. Even in the relative cool
of the morning, it's red, plastic seats burned to the touch
and had stuck to their naked legs.
The bus pulled to a stop alongside a line of tourist
coaches parked in the Plaza. A few white-shirted drivers
stood in the shade of the palms, smoking and talking.
Stray dogs ran loose in the square, and elderly ladies,
dressed in black, ascended the steep steps up to the
Church. It wasn't a scene to fill Frankie with enthusiasm.
"Jesus! I could've still been in bed, Jazz! Let's
forget the sodding caves and get a drink. What a dump,
there isn't even a beach here -"
Jazz laughed, pulled her friend by the arm and
they clattered down the steps of the bus.
* * * * *
Enzo belched and drained his cup. He'd been late
getting out of the house, slowed by his pounding head,
and he'd missed the first coaches: they were already
parked up in the square. Just one coffee, that was all, but
it had cleared his mind, thankfully. He threw some coins
onto the counter and followed a couple of boys out of the
little bar. They were dropping crumbs from the sweet,
fruited breadcakes they were biting into, and he felt