The Storm Before the Calm: Chapter 18

Right there and then I had to call him up, 24 hours after that fateful encounter, in front of the bank teller. I felt like Oliver Twist again.

 

He was monotone but cordial. No problem to prepare a new cheque and collect it that very same day, if I went to Malta, or otherwise I’d have to wait a couple more days.  I wasn’t quite sure what to do at that moment in time, as we had viewings lined up for right after the bank, so we agreed that I’ll call him back.

 

The viewings themselves felt like a sad attempt at a quick relationship rebound. Nothing was close to stirring us, and the element of compromise would have been too much. The agents we met promised to look into more listings and get back to us as soon as possible.

 

It was well after 10am when I decided to make a dash for Malta and try to make it back to the bank before closing time. A quick call and we agreed to meet at Ċirkewwa so that I could hop back on the same ferry. I had to suck it up; it was the quickest way to clear this mess and start afresh once and for all. The trip there was the longest half-hour of my life.

 

For once, he was the one waiting, not I. That was a relief as literally every second counted. There was barely any eye contact but still a level of cordialness. I returned the invalid cheque, he gave me the new one, and that was the last time I ever saw him or spoke to him.

 

The return trip was agonising. I kept mapping out the different scenarios in my mind, each depending on how many seconds it took for the ferry to berth, for me to reach the car, to reach Victoria, etc. Why is it taking so long for the people to disembark? Come on. I sprinted down the stairs ahead of everyone, past the taxis, found the car, and away we went. 15 minutes to closing time.

 

Gozo is much better than Malta in terms of traffic, everyone knows that. But Fortunato Mizzi Street on a Saturday morning? Forget about it. We had barely entered Victoria when I decided it was better to complete the rest of the journey on foot. Move over, Usain Bolt.

 

The bank teller looked at me, dumbfounded. “Yes, I made it there and back. Here’s the cheque”, I sputtered, between gasps for air, dripping with sweat. Well, that’s my exercise for the month sorted.

 

One task down, one to go. To find a home.