Thursday

A reader e-mailed me to say that he had enjoyed something I had written, that he had been ‘reading’ me for some two years and wondered if I would go out to lunch to talk about matters of mutual interest. After some deliberation over e-mail we set a date and we met at Mare Nostrum, at the Black Pearl, which has been doing well in the hands of entrepreneur Alex Bonello and his Russian wife Massha.

The reader and myself had much to talk about as we listened to each other’s earthly journey – both journeys with their share of trauma and happiness. We thrashed out life’s questions, which are forever on our mind, whether we admit to it or not, even if it never ceases to surprise me how so many never seem to examine their lives at all but skim on the surface of everything.

Like Job, the thinking person looks for answers, not only to the problem of pain but also for the reason for existing at all. It is difficult to believe that we are simply a result of the Big Bang. When I listen to a piece of music I particularly like, look at nature or the night sky I fail to believe that man’s existence was a mere coincidence.

The reader told me over lunch that he too, tends to believe in reincarnation which makes more sense than simply having one potluck of a life. How can you come to terms with life when you have been struck down with more than your fair share of disaster? Look at the Greek man who lost his wife and four children in the recent fires in Greece? Will his eternity be the same as that of someone who only suffered a disturbance or two in an otherwise pleasant and generally smooth life?

How come that you meet people who, you immediately find, are on the same wavelength as yourself while there are others who seem to live in a totally different reality? And, anyway, what exactly is the truth when it comes to our existence and our death?

I remember, years ago, copying a couple of quotations from Alfred North Whitehead of Principa Matematica fame, because they had struck me particularly, even if I can barely spell Principia. One of them is: ‘A clash of doctrines is not a disaster, it is an opportunity.’ And the other: ‘When I was a young man at the University of Cambridge,’ North Whitehead once told a group of his students, ‘I was taught science and mathematics by brilliant men…since the turn of the century I have lived to see everyone of the basic assumptions of both set aside…and all this in one life-span – the most fundamental assumptions of supposedly exact sciences set aside.’ He had left Cambridge University to go and live in America because a colleague of his had been dismissed because he had committed adultery. Imagine that happening now.

So, there are no keepers of the truth. We each of us seek it and lucky are those who think they have found it and are content with their findings.

The exchange of ideas with this cultured reader was eye-opening and so was lunch on the Black Pearl. It is worth a visit, especially if you have time to linger over lunch or dinner and to watch the armada of bobbing boats and take in a breath of Maltese air. This is one place where you can seek respite from the claustrophobia of the office. I have eaten there in the evenings, too, with friends and it takes on a totally different ambience at night.

This particular lunchtime was a combination of a most interesting encounter which left me with much food for thought. Such encounters are very rare.

And as everyone seems to assume that one of my serious pursuits is eating, Richard Zahra, who writes occasionally for First and whom I had never met, e-mailed to say that a new pasticceria had opened in Sliema and that the Sicilians who run it make some delicious eats including ice-cream, big and small cakes and arancini. Could he interview the pasticcere? So he did and the interview will appear next Sunday in First. Richard then proposed I should go down and have a look at this fairly new place.

So we arranged to meet and this was also an opportunity to finally say a proper hello to one another and not a virtual one.

This was last Wednesday. Maurizio the talented pasticcere was not there as he had to fly to Catania because of a death in the family and instead there was Signor Giardini taking care of the shop/cum workshop who made me taste the excellent rum babas, the pistacchio ice-cream made with proper pistacchios and other delicacies. He also told me how healthily the Sicilian peasant’s life had been in the years when he was young, as farmers and their families ate the fruits and vegetables they themselves grew and poultry from their farmyard. There was always plenty of exercise as everyone walked everywhere and they were always out in the fresh air.

Barter was the order of the day and money was hardly ever exchanged among the farming community. He spoke with nostalgia and told me how much saner life was in those days. He showed me round their state-of-the-art atelier with fridges set at different temperatures and stainless steel surfaces. This is much more than a pastry shop as the Antica Pasticceria Siciliana, as it is called, can also do outside catering for parties – whether small family affairs or bigger ones.

So this is one more tempting place which I shall have to try and keep out of my thoughts. It is in Sliema, a short walk away from home so it is not going to be easy to forget it. But perhaps if I walk there rather than go by car I shall be able to indulge now and then.

Most certainly the most important event recently was the Riccardo Muti concerts. I was lucky enough to get the opportunity to attend the concert version of Donizetti’s Don Pasquale at the Mediterranean Conference Centre. As you must know this was the subject of week-long seminars and what immediately struck me was how well prepared everyone was and how completely at ease. Muti’s interpretation consistently captured the fun of the piece. There was responsive and polished playing from the young orchestra.

The programme was also a libretto, so one could follow perfectly, if one was that wayinclined. I was struck, first of all by the generally refined production. No rough corners or passages or voices were evident. The orchestra, the choir, the singers were completely refined in their singing and playing. Every word was pronounced clearly, especially by the soloists and there was no slurring of notes, every note stood out from the next and the one before it. There was clarity in the singing and the playing. I could not detect any weak link in the cast. There was so little space for them in which to move too, almost huddled together, as they were, in one corner of the stage. But there was no other option and they managed to give us a brilliant performance.

Who didn’t love Ernesto’s Serenade, so delicately sung and the choir gently accompanying him? There was beautifully poised and shaded singing throughout, to our delight.

This really was a lesson to us all but particularly to those choirs, orchestras and singers who like to belt out their pieces at the top of their voice and turn otherwise promising events into a nightmare because of the noise. When are we going to learn, as a nation, to stop the general loudness?

I am greatly attached to the Top Ten hackneyed operas and love to watch sopranos taking half-an-hour to die and so on. But this excellent experience of Muti’s Don Pasquale has made me change my mind.

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I was sent a message by Sister Agnes that she needs some pots and pans for her refugees. Could you please ransack your cupboards and pantries and give her any surplus pots and pans that you may have. Otherwise please send her a cheque. As you all know the number of refugees all round is slowly growing so she is taking care of even more of them. She is at the Good Shepherd Convent, Idmejda Street, Balzan. Thank you very much.