Launched skywards above the three magnificent Tritons, twirling in the air under the boiling Maltese sun, thousands of droplets twist in a choreographed spiral slicing through the air. Day and night they entertain people with their flying around the imposing bronze Triton Fountain. The drop is a single speck but soaring with its siblings, the refraction of the rays of sunshine build a glimmering curtain that rises and falls in front of the entrance to Valletta.
The sound below snatches the attention of the drop. Another mechanical monster arrives. There is a call to back the truck to the same position where it stopped alongside the fountain yesterday. Voices yell about a drain. A long pipe descends into the foamy churn. It is a different type to that from which the drops were born into the watery clan, that filled the Tritons’ bowl.
From high above the platter, held aloft by the bronze Triton figures, the lone drop catches a glimpse of a woman hurrying behind the truck. The chugging engine shuts off. Across the plaza a growled threat discharges hate over the smiling crowd. She turns and pushes past the visitors taking photos of the water cascading over the Tritons. She quickens her pace in the silence. The pause between the tap and click of her shoes shortens as she races to escape the man’s shouts.
At its zenith, in the final moment before it cascades down with its sibling droplets to reform into a bubbling family below, the drop sees her face. It is scrunched in pain and fear. The drop’s liquid heart squeezes ready to burst in sympathy. The man in jeans and black jacket hustles towards the crowd. She weaves through the people. ‘Run faster’ the drop wants to scream over the crowd, who resume smiling, busy taking photos and pointing at the Tritons. Forgetting about her.
She frowns while dashing across the plaza, her steps resolute and swift. The drop yearns to bring her joy, just it does each day for the mesmerised visitors. The moment is swept away by the truck roaring to life but with a different, grinding sound. Dirty black drops spew into the air, passing the droplets that accelerate downwards to collide into a foamy mass. The machine bellows louder and faster.
Pulled by gravity to be smashed into the bubbly pool, the drop is consumed; submerged. The mechanical noise disappears, the vision of her is lost.
Again, the drop launches into the vast sky but in a different arc, liberated from the churned mass to once again float mid-air on the sunlight. The atmosphere shifts, altering the city’s rhythm. Desperate footsteps pound the pavers, interrupting the usual laughter and conversation. Twisting its watery form towards the commotion it again spots her. Her heartbeat resonates through the air, synchronising with the rhythmic dance of the cascading water. She is still pursued by the figure, the fear in her eyes sends a shiver across the drop’s taut liquid skin. The drop catches her eyes for moment they, widen with the glimmer of hope the watery display has given to so many others.
The machine pauses and restarts with a slow gurgle.
Tipped from facing the sky to peering at the platter held aloft by the Tritons. Plummeting closer to the ground, instead of being churned into a white foam the water is a calm and still blue. The drop tries to catch the breeze to reach out to offer the woman solace in a gentle touch. She alters course, heading straight for the fountain.
The drop accelerates towards her. With a desperate leap, she catapults herself over the fountain’s stone rim. The chasing figure runs through the crowd congregating around the stone rim. Turning and spinning like an excited dog he snarls and yaps searching for the woman.
She is embraced by the shower of droplets, swarming at the Tritons’ feet. The cool touch of water and human; the fretting drop intertwined with the scared woman, creates an instant of calmness.
She resurfaces, gasping for breath. The drop latches onto her while she nudges towards the edge. The machine’s grind stops. Voices shout and yell. A Triton that snarls down at the man, the pursuer is pushed away from the fountain. The machine’s grind restarts, evacuating the remainder of the liquid family. One by one the shimmering droplets fall into a small pool at the fountain’s base.
Two hands help her from the water, the drop clings to her. Peering below, the bowl beneath the Tritons appears through the shallow pools of remaining water.
Perched on her cheek, soaking in the sunlight, together having evaded their fate the drop is as one with her glistening smile, savouring the sweet taste of freedom.
Together in shared safety, they remain until she sweeps her hand over her face.
Author’s Note
This story was entered into a fast fiction writing competition. In my numerous visits to Malta I have seen the fountain in various states of disrepair and renovation. The magnificent Tritons’ Fountain appears in my book, The Maltese Web. The action happens around the fountain when the main character Marica Debono visits Valletta as she is attempting to unravel the web of secrets that is steadily threatening to trap her.
Read more about an iconic piece of architecture, its controversial place in Maltese history and its starring cameo in my book.
