The light of a red sun fills her face. The day had been long, the soared legs torment her, and also the boringness of one more day living according to the rule. Distractedly she looks at the hori-zon, while the wind blows her hair, covering her face. The 1001 lights of Slema frame the harbor, that giant mirror, so close, but in fact so distant.

St. Rocco’s BathsNEW SIEGE ROAD, VALLETTA, MALTA Paulo Cunha

paulomenesescunha@msn.com

Behind her, a wall which is in fact a city appears. The imposing and inaccessible Valletta. Behind the wall is her work day.The road leads her out of the city, as it did to many others. But to her right, between the ledge and the water plan a small stair appears, shaped to the curiosity of her feet.

She comes down slowly, step by step. Her left shoulder scratches the massive stone wall, at each step more solid, to hold the weight of the ground, the tunnels and the history. On the other side, a small room anchors her sight. Tree stone walls seem to float around a light point, and, at a corner, a woman waits, seated on a spartan desk. Behind her, two small doors pierce the wall.After sliding some coins through the desk, she squeezed through the inhuman door. Behind, a hallway of small and tight rooms awaited her. Sliding the white linen curtain, the small space gives her a bench hanging in the wall and a hanger. A diffuse light comes from over the bench. Over it, a soft robe rests, folded precisely. Under it, some wood and fabric flip flops lay, perfectly

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aligned with the robe. Submersed in this new atmosphere, she dressed the robe over her naked back and the wood caressed her feet.While she walked through the hallway, her feet clapped on the stone, muffled by some tiny strips of natural rubber.

She went down the sinuous spiral stairs, touching the humid stone with the tip of her fingers, just to find some other, low and delicate stairs. Crossing them a narrow and long patio gave her the light of the end of the day, filtered by a tree.She came into a new room decidedly, and hanged her robe. Pressing a button, a small rain fell over her, and the stone under her feet resisted the water.She crossed the opaque stone wall. A tank levitated over Slema and the water scintillated coor-dinated with the harbors water. She came down again, through some more low stone stairs, try-ing not to disturb the peaceful water.

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She swam until her arms asked for rest and sited in an edge carved into the stone, where she had the best view of the sunset. It wouldn't take long until she was having an empty conversa-tion with a random guy. "So where did you said you come from?" "I'm a british tourist" "Oh, how surprising..." She got out of the water in a jump, dressed the fluffy robe again and went down some more stairs. She was now under a garden, which had been inviting tree hours earlier. A man was lighting candles here and there, and a woman showed her a small door, carved on the rock.

She came in the small rocky cave, where the heat was fighting the surface of her skin. She sited in the simple wooden deck, opposite to another woman. The woman said nothing, and she also didn't. Soon after the woman got out. She closed her eyes and felt the heat purging the impuri-ties out of her body. Soon after she left too.She looked at the sky above her. It was already night. The woman who had indicated her the way offered her a glass of red wine. Gratefully she accepted. She followed to another set of re-petitive doors. From which of the doors people would get out with soft aromas: a fresh mint men, an annoying rose old woman, a Rosemarie boy. While she was crossing the doors to the lavender smelling room, she could feel the different temperatures emanated by the stones.

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The candle lights scintillating on the wall and reflected on the water companied her and warmed her soul, while she got in the tepid water. Her muscles were relaxing and adapting to the rocks where they were standing. She closed her eyes to the view over the illuminated Manoel island and once more started taking some life - changing decisions. The random british guy came back. Apparently he also likes lavender. It reminds him of his grandmother, who lives in France, he said. Curiously it also reminds her of her grandmother. She uses that light lavender perfume that her brother sends every Christmas. Kindly she left the room and crossed the hallway, to an-other room carved on the wall, lightened by candles. She laid down on a bed, after greeting the massager.She received a simple and short massage. The water and the glass of wine were the only luxu-ries she could afford. At the end of the hallway she found her door. "Way to sea" was in scripted in a centenary stone over it. She opened the door and felt the air from outside. At her front the garden, still not invit-ing.

She dived quickly into the tank stollen from the rock, full of cold water. The sleepiness provoked by the tepid water was gone.Getting back in she found the british guy (James by the way), sited in one of the chaise-longues turned to the sea. Silently they saw a cruise passing through and then started to talk.

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She doesn't remember how they started talking about uncle Dennis, maybe because he sends lavender to her grandmother. She doesn't see him for years now. She told him that uncle Dennis was a british official in Valletta, during the war, and met his wife on those baths, in other times and other waters. Last time he wrote the letter came from some coast city in the south of France.They left the chairs and went upstairs to a small auditorium, with a view to several water plans. They assisted a lecture about anthropology, and went to the bar to discuss the subject.

A nice jazz band was playing. It didn't toke too long drinking wine, with their feet on the water and watching the cruises passing for them to find out that uncle Dennis and grandpa Dennis were the same person (they hadn't tell the name). They were cousins. It's like that in Malta.After a long evening talking about the family they didn't met, they came back to the changing rooms, got out and said goodbye.He was catching the bus to the airport. She was meeting a friend at the Bridge Bar. Possibly, they never seen each other again.

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