Coming Out of the Closet of the Mind – a novella by H. P. Baxxter

Zack rang the doorbell with trembling fingers and sense of trepidation, which shouldn’t have been, for it was his own doorbell. Or rather, that of his childhood home, where his parents still lived, which he’d left nine months ago when he left Madliena for Amsterdam.

It had been a journey of self-discovery, and among the smoke-filled narrow canals and gaudy lights of the big cit—-

“Zack, my boy! Come in, son!”

His father, “dad” or “papà”, or “peupah”, depending on whether it was Auntie Margaret or iz-ziju Lonzu or his mates who were present, had lost none of the ebullience and joie de vivre which he spread daily on his rounds at Mater Dei. He was Malta’s top brain surgeon, “cutting dull brains with sharp knives”, as he liked to put it. His own mind was sharp, and his age (sixty this year) hadn’t dulled it one bit, and neither had it assuaged his thirst for knowledge, as shown by the copy of The Financial Vogue Lancet he was holding right now.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t meet you at the airport, but we had a rather complicated soft brain tissue meningo-transplant that took rather longer than planned. If I could just step outside to take your ba—-”

“Hello Mishteur Zammit —shorry! — I meant Doctor…”

“Zack didn’t tell he’d bring a friend along, but do come in! And you are?”

“Dad, this is Michiel, a friend from Amsterdam.”

Doctor – MISTER (FRCS) Zammit eyed Michiel from head to toe, all six feet five inches of him. He knew, from his vast knowledge, that the Dutch were the tallest people in Europe, but even by that yardstick….

Then his brain, which had gone into rapid diagnosis mode, gave off an alarm signal. Some neuron, somewhere, was observing something that wasn’t quite, you know, how could he put this?

Perhaps it was the subtle perfume, or the buffness of the chest, or the hair product, or the incredibly fashionable trousers. Whatever it was, he knew that Zack hadn’t just come to say hello.

Mr (FRCS) Zammit led the two youths into the sitting-room.

“Darling,” he called out, “Zack is here!”

His wife was British. He’d met her as a young medical student in Edinburgh, back in the 1970s. Dark days, brightened only by his darling Kate, who’d been by at his side through thick and thin, and had accompanied him when he came back to Malta in the early 90s.

She’d even taken on Maltese citizenship. They never discussed politics, but she’d hinted more than once at her support for AD. He didn’t mind that. He always thought of AD as a harmless little party. Unable to govern, perhaps, but harmless.

His train of thought was cut off abruptly by Zack.

“Det, ha nitkellem bil-Malti, ghax ma rridekx tghid xi haga li twegga’ lil Michiel. Jien ga—-pufta, dad, ghax jekk nghid “gay” jifhmini, u jien u hu se nizzewgu l-Olanda.”

“Ah, fl-ahhar ammettejtha Zack! Jien u l-mamà ilna nafu zmien u ghomor. Prosit! Nifirhilkom! My congratulations to you both!”

Michiel appeared visibly relieved. Zack had told him that his parents were practising Catholics, and that Malta was a conservative country, and his father voted for the conservative party over there.

Zak, on the other hand, appeared crestfallen.

“Xhiex, jigifieri mhix sorpriza ghalik?”

“Hux sorpriza, Zack, ibni. Jien indunajt li kont gay meta int stess lanqas biss kont taf. U jekk sibt xi hadd li jhobbok, u int thobbu, u se tizzewgu, nifrahlek.”

“Dad, hemm xi haga ohra li rrid nghidlek. Se nivvota Labour. Hadt id-decizjoni l-gurnata li ltqajt ma’ Michiel.”

“X’ghandu x’jaqsam? Allura gejt hawn biex tghidli se tivvota Labour, GHAX int gay?”

“Imma lilna l-gays jirrispettawna, Dad!”

“Zack, tkunx imbecilli! Mela niddeciedu min se jmexxi l-pajjiz skond ix-xewqat sesswali u sentimentali?”

Michiel understood none of the Maltese dialogue. But he could see that something was up.

“Mr Zammit, I undershtand that maybe for you Catholicsh marriage ish….”

“It’s got nothing to do with that, Michiel. Zack was telling me he’s decided to vote for the Labour Party because he’s gay.”

“So?”

“So they’ll screw up this country, that’s what, Michiel! See this article in The Financial Vogue Lancet? It’s about economic performance in the Eurozone. Malta has the second highest GDP growth. And Zack here wants to throw it all away on the basis of his sexual orientation.”

Mr Zammit, brain surgeon, liberal Catholic, and intellectual, was fuming now.

“Zhack, is this true? In Holland we have shecshual freedom and political freedom and ash we shay, the two never mixsh, like ashid and weed.”

“U ejja, you’re both so old-fashioned! Dad, I expected this from you, but not from you, Michiel! You are Dutch, and as a liberal you should support the liberal party.”

“But your father was telling me you are voting from shcrew country party.”

“Yes, I’m in! I’m out and proud!”

“Zack, ibni, inti in jew out?”

“Toqghodx titnejjek bija, Dad! Id-decizjoni tieghi li nivvota Lejber hija decizjoni responsabbli u matura!”

“Kont se nghidlek matura! Ghax ma tarax jien u ommok kemm ghaddejna minn tahwid minhabba l-Lejber! U issa jridu jghidulna li kollox intesa u li saru l-partit tal-brains u l-good sense? Iddahhaqnix, Zack!”

“In Holland we vote for the party that hash hishtory of freedom, good governance, and economic performansche, Zack.”

“U ijja f—-x Holland tieghek! I’m leaving you, Michiel. If you cannot accept that I am a Laburist, Dad, then I will leave this house too!”

“Aghmel li trid, Zack, imma tigix teqred ghandi meta taghlaq il-kumpanija li qed tahdem maghha. Hallewk tiehu sena paid leave ghax sejrin tajjeb. Meta jfallu, l-ewwel ma jkeccu lilek.”

“U ija, Dad, nibqa’ nghix Amsterdam u nsib xoghol hemm.”

“Dazgur, meta jnehhulek il-passaport Ewropew l-iktar.”

Zack just stood there and sulked.

“Imma ghidli, Zack, int se tivvota Labour bi sfida, jew ghax tahseb li huma l-ahjar ghazla? Ghax jekk trid tisfida, digà sfidajt bizzejjed b’dawk il-waxed eyebrows, il-highlights, il-gay parades u issa biz-zwieg gay, li qed tghidli mhux se jsir ghax tlaqt lill-boyfriend.”

“Ma nafx, Dad! Halluni! Halluni wahdi!”

And he stormed out of the house.

Mr Zammit and Michiel both sighed.

“Care for a beer, Michiel?”

“Oh yesh pleashe, I need it.”

“Any preference?”

“Heineken, of courshe!”