Inspired by prose-master Lawrence Durrell and his scintillating accounts of Mediterranean island life, travel writer Ryan Murdock and his wife began their six-year sojourn in Malta with a dream of sun and sea and the discovery of a quirky, little-known culture to write about. The reality was less a trail in the imaginary footsteps of Durrell than a wild ride into the heart of dark corruption at the highest level.
Murdock has always combined acute observations with lyrical depictions of landscape, and the combination in this book is a powerful one. It’s a given that nothing is as we expect but from the outset, Malta seems a mistake: over-built, over-populated and hostile, for all the presumed fascination of its Roman, Sicilian and Arab history on the pirate routes between North Africa and Europe.
Yet there is still promise. They rent the Palazzo Marija once the summer home of an archbishop from Naples in Zejtun, a village where Baroque balconies dominate ancient alleyways and Christian shrines jostle for precedence over arched Islamic arcades leading to hidden houses. Three different churches lie within earshot of his study, their bells competing to drown each other out, the thrice-daily Angelus “like a fistful of coins” falling on stone. The newcomers’ neighbours seem disinterested, though small acts of spite are unsettling.
But this is a travel memoir that begins, in the very first sentence, with a murder. Daphne Caruana Galizia was an independent Maltese journalist killed by a car bomb. She had asked too many questions and published too much evidence of Government cronyism and criminality, from money-laundering, to energy company scams and the sale of EU citizenship to undesirables.
Yet nothing is done. It’s the way the island works, apparently. Village closes in around village, and family around family. The moral vacuum is explained by a local who does eventually become a friend as “amoral familism” which means that any action, legal or illegal, can be justifiable if it benefits one’s own family. It’s a credo that is embraced by the then-Prime Minister and a cabal of political and business leaders who very nearly get away with murder.
Murdock observes, increasingly horrified. He had read Daphne’s articles, had corresponded with her. He watches those who live expat lives in the sun, turning blind eyes to the reality, and the corrosive effect on the whole of the island. Where he wanted to write insightfully, persuasively, amusingly about a tiny country and its people, he cannot turn away from terrible truths. In the end he does not, though it's not the book he planned. It is, however, one of the most powerful and honest travel books of recent years.
In the end, the Murdocks can take no more. They have to leave. “The sea at night no longer had that peaceful feeling of Mediterranean harbor towns. It had a skulking quality that I associate with smugglers rather than commerce or leisure.”
The sad, poignant writing is beautiful, as good as you will find. “In the end, we just slipped away.” The falling cadences capture the twilight disappointments vast and small, and a simple hopelessness. In the slipping away are echoes of all the island's evasive cunning that may yet make full justice unattainable.