As she neared the city, she grew more uneasy. The harbour was as hectic as ever, but she spotted Mr Macmillan immediately. A tall, pale, lean man of about thirty-five, he was dressed in a cream linen suit with a white shirt and blue tie. He wore a light panama hat, plus round, thin-framed black spectacles and was shading his eyes from the glare and blinking in what Riva thought must be surprise. She recalled how she had felt about the bustle and noise when she’d first arrived and hurried forward to greet him.
After she introduced herself, trying to look more in control than she felt, he shook her hand vigorously and they walked to the car where he hauled in his tan-coloured leather case.
‘N … nice motor,’ he said, and she noted the very slight stammer in his voice.
‘Addison’s.’
‘And have you been driving long?’
‘Not long,’ she said breezily, hoping not to reveal how tense she was feeling, not so much because of the driving now, but because this man had come to evaluate Addison’s work, her work too, and would be with them for a fortnight.
Together with Addison she had spent hours going through the endless brass-handled drawers of three floor-to-ceiling mahogany chests in which he kept his writing.
‘I had them made especially,’ he’d said. ‘The chests.’
She’d sorted through his journals and poetry, line drawings too, and had been overwhelmed by how moving hiswords often were, especially when they concerned his late wife. She’d frequently felt tears forming and was protective about the work, hoping this Macmillan man wasn’t going to pull it all apart. The trouble was there was far too much material for one memoir, and they needed the publisher’s help.
On the journey back along the bumpy country roads they exchanged a few words about London and the economic situation. She recited a list of the invaders and settlers Malta had endured, Phoenician, Arabic, Italian, French and British, soon arriving at the point where the umbrella pines on either side over the road pointed the way to Mdina. ‘Here we are, Mr Macmillan,’ she said a few minutes later as they drove through the massive entrance gate into the ancient city.
‘Oh, please c … call me Gerard. Gerry actually, if you don’t mind.’
She parked and after they got out, Gerard looked around him. ‘Well, I’m stunned. I had no idea it would be so beautiful. I knew it would be impressive but this …’
Gerry, as he kept on insisting she call him, turned out to be a mild-mannered man with an unexpected grin which lit up his light blue eyes. He was polite and diplomatic and as the hours went by, he gently steered Addison in the direction in which he wanted the book to go.
‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘we need to settle on the story.’
‘Story,’ Addison stiffly replied. ‘This is my life, not a novel.’
‘All the same, your readers will want a story. We wanta story too and I suppose it’s which story you choose to tell that’s the tricky question.’
Addison huffed and puffed. ‘Not sure I’m with you, old man.’
‘Well, for example, is it a love story?’
Addison muttered something Riva didn’t quite hear but felt sure he must have been cursing.
‘Or is it a story about finding one’s feet as an artist. Or is it more about the shows you’ve mounted all over the world?’
Addison looked uncertain and after Gerry had gone for a walk to give them time alone to talk, Addison asked her what she thought.
‘Truth?’
‘Truth.’
‘I think the most affecting story is the love story. People will want to know how you found the love of your life, how you lost her, and how you survived to become the most generous, kind-hearted man I have ever known.’
‘Oh my dear,’ he said, and she could see he had tears in his eyes.
And thus it was decided, although Addison didn’t give in for another two days, during which time he persuaded Riva to show Gerry the island of Malta.
But before going further afield she led him around the city of Mdina.
‘Its medieval name wasNotabile: the noble city,’ she said as he contemplated the silent streets. ‘Mdina’s noble families who live in these palaces are descendants of the Norman, Sicilian and Spanish overlords who built it.’
‘It’s extraordinary,’ he said. ‘Timeless.’
‘It’s not all beauty. There are dungeons beneath at least one of the palaces.’
