02 _ Maltese Goddess, The Read Online Free PDF Page A

cowering in the dark of caves. Troglodyte! Will you move into the light?
    I was in such a dazed state when I arrived in Malta, the previous day a blur of activity that got me to the Paris flight just in the nick of time, then to the Air Malta flight by the same narrow margin, mat I almost missed the hand-lettered sign with the interesting phonetic treatment of my name.
    MISSUS MCLEENTAK, it read, held by a rather nice-looking young man in jeans and a Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt Presumably the age of mass media and production has brought us more than the comfort of seeing T-shirts advertising the same establishment anywhere in the world, but at that very moment I could not think what.
    Actually the reason I almost missed it was that I was absolutely mesmerized by the appearance and antics of one of my fellow passengers on the Air Malta flight from Paris. He was dressed safari-style, whether because he thought Malta was the kind of place that required that sort of attire or as a matter of affectation, I couldn’t know. In any event, he was wearing cowboy boots, khaki pants, one of those matching khaki short-sleeved shirts with an excess of pockets, and a wide-brimmed hat of the bush ranger variety, one side snapped up, that one associates with the Australian outback or the Serengeti. This one sported a leopard print band, and dipped over a pockmarked face, a bulbous nose, and florid complexion that indicated its owner should probably swear off the booze from time to time.
    This fellow, whom I’d named for my own amusement GWH for Great White Hunter, had begun his performance even before the plane got off the ground in Paris. While everyone else was attempting to get seated, he was up and waving bills in assorted currencies in the direction of the cabin attendants. It seemed he wanted them to put the bottle of champagne— Dom, he called it—he’d brought on board in the refrigerator and to serve it to him at his seat. He was sitting with a lovely lady, he said in a stage whisper that could be heard halfway to Nairobi, and wanted to impress her.
    The well-trained cabin crew, who had the good taste to regard the proffered money and the champagne as they would a basket of scorpions, explained to him that one was not supposed to bring one’s own liquor for consumption on the aircraft. GWH apparently felt the rules did not apply to him. Finally the head cabin steward, realizing that GWH would be very disruptive to the comfort of the other passengers if they did not comply, agreed to take care of the champagne.
    The “lovely lady” in question was an attractive middle-aged woman who appeared never to have met GWH, and was, I suspect, no more thrilled than I would be by this intimacy forced upon her by Fate in the form of the Air Malta computer.
    In fact, she looked as if this flight was to be the longest three hours of her life. The aircraft was small, and had been overbooked, so it was absolutely full, even after some passengers volunteered, lured by the offer of cash and accommodation, to wait for a later plane. I myself had been tempted by the thought of a few hours in Paris and a nice afternoon nap after an all-night flight, but had decided to forge on.
    In any event, I was seated across the aisle and back one row from the lovely lady and the GWH, and could tell that about thirty minutes into the flight, she was becoming desperate. At this point, in what I took to be a splendid gesture of Christian charity, a gentleman seated behind me, a priest in black robes and a cross on a long chain around his neck, told the cabin attendants that he would be pleased to change seats with her. The message was discreetly delivered and accepted with genuine gratitude, I’m sure, and the priest took his seat beside GWH.
    I could see only the side of the priest’s head, and thought rather uncharitable thoughts, considering his kindness, about his hairdresser. There was no part in his hair. Instead it hugged his skull, emanating in all