text: “He is such an idiot”, said Dennis, my brother. It was the summer holidays, so he was living with us again. I preferred it when he was staying in London with Nan and Grandad. “Mind your language,” said Dad. I could tell that he wasn’t totally in control anymore. Dennis was almost as tall as Dad now. “But he can’t bring the stupid Airfix kit with him to the beach. He’s going to make a mess of things, he’ll lose pieces and get paint on everything,” said Dennis, “and it’s too bloody hot to mess around with plastics and glue on a day like this”. “I told you to mind your language,” said Dad without conviction. “He’s an idiot.” It was mum’s turn, “Dennis! Mind your language”. +++ It seemed that Mum and Dad were on my side, but when I tried to sneak the scale model of a Supermarine Spitfire into the beach bag, I was intercepted. “Luca, you’re not taking your model airplane with you to the beach,” said Mum, carefully placing the model, the small tins of enamel paint, the glue and brushes on the side-table. “Why not?” The world suddenly seemed very unjust. “Because we’re going to the beach”. Her argument was lost on me, so I complained loudly and emphatically, but there was no shifting her. I was corralled out of the apartment down the stairs and out onto the forecourt of our block of flats on Birkirkara Road. Dad seemed in a foul mood. “Just stop complaining and get in the front seat. You’re sitting on your brother’s lap”. The back seat was crammed with beach stuff, Dennis’s fishing rod, mum and my little sister, Alice. I wouldn’t have to sit on the hot plastic seat cover, but on the other hand the seating arrangement meant that my head would be pressed up against the windscreen all the way to Armier Bay. In the blazing hot morning sun. “Did we bring the football?” I asked. It was like a cauldron outside. The world seemed bleached by the sun. Dust everywhere, the stray dogs were languishing in the shade of the carob trees. The construction workers had abandoned the building site next to our apartment building, so the earthmover was stranded like a dinosaur amidst blocks of stone, piles of concrete and sand. The donkey was neighing in the hut over by the Mintoff estate. The cicadas sounded like an army of buzz saws. The beach seemed like a good idea because there was nobody around to play football with up on the dirt and stone pitch. We crammed inside the Ford Cortina. I traced some spittle across the dashboard, and watched it evaporate in the heat. It left behind a white smear, which Dad rubbed away with a handkerchief. I could tell he was upset. “Do you think it has enough water?” said Mum, looking over her shoulder in the direction of the donkey as we drove off across the gravel. “Stop fidgeting!” said Dennis, surreptitiously driving a knuckle into my ribs, which only made me squirm more. “Luca! Stop it! I’m driving”, said Dad irritably. “and open the window, let the air in”. Hot air blasted against my face, and I had to squint because the sun was so bright. Mum and Dad were wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses, and looked they like movie stars, Dennis was wearing blue-tinted glasses and looked like a slightly sickly version of a pop star. Mum’s glasses were polarized, which meant that she could see me under water. At what age were you allowed to wear sunglasses? It was a mystery. “Damn!” Dad’s bad mood seemed to thicken. I noticed that he was always irritable in the morning. He smoked a lot, but he always seemed to cheer up when he was with Uncle Gareth or when sitting in the armchair watching the cricket on TV, or when he had a pint of cold beer in his hand. “Damn, Boris is following us!”. This was very exciting news. I craned my neck so that I could look out the back window of the car. Yes, indeed Boris, the black and white mongrel, was bounding along the edge of the road, chasing the car. We were already half a mile from home, and the dog was keeping up with us. “For God’s sake stop Bert!” It was Mum, she was upset. “The dog will die of heat”. “I’m not stopping. It knows its way back home”. Dad stepped on the gas, we sped through a roundabout, and I lost sight of the dog behind one of the ancient stone walls that lined the coast road that run up past Bugibba. “What are those strange white patches in the rocks over there,” said my brother. I couldn’t believe how ignorant he was, even though he was eight years older than me. Everybody knew about the ancient salt pans, swimming-pool sized carvings in the rock in which seawater was trapped, evaporated, and salt was harvested “Roman salt pans,” I said, “the salt really hurts your feet if you walk on them, especially in the hot sun”. I was feeling quite superior, all of a sudden and didn’t care that he’d seen Charlie George playing for Arsenal, or that he liked the Kinks, or that he’d smoked a cigarette in front of Mum. “Dennis is going to go red in the sun,” I piped up cheerfully. It was like this every time he came to visit us in Malta. His skin was a horrible pale color. He’d go lobster red, peel like a damaged vegetable, go freckly and brown, then he’d leave for England again and send us cryptic postcards that would upset Mum. When we got to Armier Bay, an old peasant man dressed in black directed us to park near the old wharf, which was a long distance from the beach, even though the parking lot was nearly empty. Uncle Gareth’s car was parked nearer the beach, and though he was dad’s boss, this seemed unjust. “What language do the Maltese speak?” asked Dennis. “English”, said Dad. “No, I mean what language do the speak when they are with their own kind?” said Dennis. Neither Mum nor Dad seemed quite sure. Today was Saturday. There would be a few Maltese on the beach, but mainly it would be the Service families, Brits, plus some hapless tourists. The Maltese used the beach on Sundays. Uncle Gareth had set up the tent already. He was there with Aunty Pamela and their twin sons, Peter and Paul, who were back from University. Dad said they were Socialists and Welsh nationalists, which made them sound very dangerous and just a bit dirty. “Burning English people’s holiday homes when they’re not around,” he told me, “and they speak in Welsh”. “Why?” “They want independence from the United Kingdom”. That sounded entirely unreasonable, even unnatural. The Union Jack was the best flag in the world. The twins both had long dark hair and beards, which I imagined made the heat unbearable. They were in the water, hairy-chests, standing in the shallows, talking, and I could tell they weren’t very good swimmers. I imagined that they were plotting the overthrow of the monarchy, right there and then, and decided that I should keep an eye on them. “Ow. Ow. It’s so hot”. I jumped from one foot to the other on the dirt of the parking lot. Dennis threw a pair of flip flops at my head. “Make sure you put lots of suntan lotion on” said Mum to Dennis, “I don’t want you getting burnt”. It was, however, a foregone conclusion that he’d get toasted. I was already “as brown as a berry”, according to Mum. “Carry this bag,” Dad gave me a heavy canvas bag full of beach paraphernalia. It smelt of warm rubber, wet towels, and of freshly made Cornish pasties, which I spotted in a Tupperware container, tucked beneath some swim fins. This was encouraging. “Well, I’ll be damned” said Dad, staring off into the distance. “You have got to be kidding me”, said Dennis, sounding like an American gangster. “That poor dog,” said Mum. Boris the dog was hurtling down the rough road toward the parking lot. The dog had run all the way to Armier Bay from Sliema. Dad reckoned it was five miles or more and mopped the perspiration from his balding head with his hankie. I was not at all surprised. “Maltese Pointers have a tremendous sense of direction,” I explained to my brother as the black and white mass of muscle barreled into Mum, knocking her against the car. Alice started crying. “Too hot, too hot”. In all the excitement, Mum had put her down on the ground without shoes on her chubby little feet. I grabbed Alice’s jellies and threw them at her head. Dad walloped me on the back of the head. “You stupid boy”. “What about Dennis? He threw flip flops at me?” We trudged toward the beach, the dog jumped about like a kangaroo. Patty was there with Eddy. Patty, who was Gareth and Pamela’s daughter, had false eyelashes and wore a bikini. She was bronze brown all over, and had a long, flat tummy which looked nice to touch. Eddy was Maltese and was the best swimmer in the world. Eddy always spoke in English. Patty and Eddy were going to get married. Dennis seemed upset by Eddy’s presence but perked up a bit - a lot - when he spotted Jenny. Jenny was Patty’s friend from England. She was pale, like Dennis, and was wearing an orange frilled bikini, which looked like it might slip off at any moment owing to the smooth roundness of her body. I’d long since fallen in love with her but Dennis had first dibs, being a teenager and a smoker and all that. I left them to it and went down to the water, which lapped warmly over my toes, and made my feet slip and slide on my flip flops. “I’m going for a swim,” I declared. Nobody was paying attention. Aunty Pamela held Alice while Dad poured water into mum’s hands and the dog went berserk lapping at the paltry offering. Dennis was already lying on a towel next to Jenny. Patty and Eddy went off to the lido to get ice drinks. Peter and Paul were plotting a revolution in the surf. Uncle Gareth looked like he’d fallen asleep in a deck chair, his enormous stomach was a massive shining orb that radiated heat. Nobody was paying attention to me. “I’m going for a swim” I said, this time a bit louder. The yellow sand, the turquoise water, darker green out where the seaweed patch grew. I could see small silver fish flipping around in the shallows. I would put a bit of bread in an empty Fanta bottle later, and catch one or two, and pour them into Alice’s swimsuit, but for now, there was nothing for it but to take off for an epic swim in the open ocean. Out to where the swordfish thrashed around in the deep dark blue water. There was a gray haze on the horizon. Mount Etna was erupting according to Dad. I sometimes found floating pumice stones in the ocean. Africa and the Sahara lay in the other direction, accounting for the heat and dust, according to Dad. Malta was just a barren rock in the blue sea, burning under the sun, according to Dad. I’d swim later, before lunch, when I could race Eddy or snorkel over the weed-bed or catch an Octopus or find a treasure. I needed witnesses. I went back up to the family encampment, digging my feet under the sand where it was cooler. “Look Dennis, look Jenny!” I said. I placed the football on a small pile of sand, backed up a few paces, and when I was sure that they were watching, I ran at the ball. I would kick the ball a mile or more and they would witness the most astounding feat of skill and strength, “Bobby Charlton!” I shouted. My toe collided with the sharp and heavy rock that was concealed in the pile of sand. The ball bobbled along the beach a few yards, and I collapsed in agony. When I looked at my big toe, it was like it belonged to someone else, ragged flesh, torn nail, blood oozed then gushed. Jenny was watching, so I tried not to cry, but within seconds I was surrounded by a group of adults, blotting out the sun. They evaluated me like a wounded animal. I whimpered like a wounded animal. Jenny looked horrified. Dad carried me back to the car. I could smell beer and tobacco smoke on his breath. Mum pulled Boris the dog with one hand, carried Alice in the other. Loose strands of blonde hair stuck to Mum’s sweaty forehead and neck. “But we’ve only just arrived. Can’t I just stay here and come back later with Uncle Gareth?” said Dennis, pleading his case. He was lugging a ton of beach stuff, including his unused fishing rod and the un-eaten Cornish pasties, and he looked very sore. “How are we going to get this all back into the car, including the dog?” asked Mum. “Please Dad, I’ll get a lift”, insisted Dennis. He probably wanted to hang out with Jenny. The hairy-chested Welsh twins were still arguing in the shallows, uninterested in my plight. It’s like that in revolutions... the fate of the individual gets lost in the bigger picture. It was so damned hot. The old peasant was sitting on a concrete wall, smoking a cigarette, wearing a black woolen jacket. He stared at me, blankly, but smiled at Mum. He was missing several teeth. “Do you think I can have a Pepsi?” I said. We were walking past the Lido. I could see iced bottles of soda pop glistening with moisture on the counter in the shadowy interior, near the foosball table. “Will everyone please stop their bitching and moaning!” said Dad, more irritated than usual, and that was saying something. “He’s a complete idiot,” said Dennis, firing a vicious look at me. Neither Mum nor Dad reprimanded him for his language. I made a mental note of this. Justice is a dish best served cold, according to Dad.