‘Boil ’em in a bucket on a primus stove.’
Rosalie was shocked by the lack of basic facilities. ‘No single rooms?’
The woman shook her head.
‘Anywhere on this street?’
The woman shrugged. ‘Most lodgin’ ’ouses just for sailors, seven or eight beds each room. They get drunk, need somewhere to sleep.’
‘So where should I go?’
‘You got work?’
‘I’m a dancer.’
‘But you got a job yet? Yes or no?’
Rosalie shook her head.
‘The Evening Star gives performers places to stay. Start there.’
‘It’s closed.’
‘At one o’clock. My husband Gianni is there to do accounts. He runs the place for bigwigs. Hires too. Tell him Karmena sent you.’
Rosalie glanced at her wristwatch. It was still only eleven in the morning. ‘What should I do until then?’
‘Leave your case here. Go for a walk. Valletta, beautiful city.’
Rosalie hesitated and the woman chuckled. ‘I take care. Now you go.’
Rosalie left her case with Karmena and headed off through the cobbled Valletta alleys where thin dogs slunk along the walls and fat cats eyed them haughtily. Plenty of mice, she thought, maybe rats too. Yes. Definitely rats. She listened to the hum and rumble of the city and soon understood all the streets were straight, some very narrow indeed, and very steep, whereas the main city streets were much wider. Turning down one of them, she passed peeling doorways the colour of port, and roads that rose and fell with giddying flights of steps everywhere. She loved the rows of wooden balconies on the sandstone townhouses – she later learnt they were calledgallariji– reaching out over the street and painted in dozens of different colours.
A dark-eyed child ran up to her from one of the narrow alleys. ‘I take you somewhere, lady.’
Rosalie shook her head.
‘English?’
‘No, French.’
‘Better,’ the boy nodded.
‘You don’t like the English?’
‘My mother works for English. My father, he does not like.’
‘What does your mother do?’
The little boy shrugged. ‘Take you somewhere,’ he said again. ‘Gardens. Nice view.’
As they walked, he chattered while she was gradually getting her bearings, which was not as hard as she’d thought it might be because all the streets were part of the same grid layout.
‘Upper Barrakka Gardens,’ the boy proudly said as they arrived.
After she gave him a coin he grinned then darted off.
The boy had been right. The view of the Grand Harbour was stunning. The air was drenched with the scent of geraniums, roses and jasmine and a breeze carried the salty spray rising from the glittering jewel-like Mediterranean Sea below – lovely after the heady mix of urine, sweating horses, street vendors, and exhaust fumes in the city.
