On the island of Malta, up the street from the British Hotel, there's a garden of statues called Barracca. It sits on the cliff overlooking the harbor. One of the American women hiked up there Sunday while the others were in church. She wanted to be alone. To think. To recover from the sting of Matty's words. It hadn't really been a quarrel, just a firm reminder.

She was the one who'd broken the rules. Matty had been sticking to the plan. But things were somewhat off balance. Askew. Regular customs and practices hadn't seemed to apply. Maybe it was the sun bleached island in the Mediterranean, the hot wind from Africa that moaned like the Santa Anna's for the first two days and nights, the ancient stone runes, temples of the goddess--Tarxien, Hagar Qim, and Mnajdra--or the rotund stone figures of ancient women. Maybe it was the archaeological focus of the group of women they traveled with, the three witches from L.A., corn-fed, healthy looking women, who shared meals and buses but otherwise kept to themselves, the voices of the Italian women that floated up through the balcony window from the sun bleached, stone streets in the mornings, or the cats that screamed at night like women, breeding and hunting in the narrow alleys below. She'd never seen the sun so bright, glistening on the harbor like gold lame--never missed diet soda and endless cups of coffee so much. Here images seemed backward, turned inside out, like a photo negative of possibilities, a picture where even the laws of nature had changed.

At sunrise she'd sat on the balcony and watched a pigeon roosting on the eaves, silhouetted against the blue and coral sky. She remembered the previous afternoon of sex in the primitive iron bed with squeaking springs. White sunlight had streamed through the windows. Sex had been slow, gentle and loving--without the desperation they felt in their limited time together back home. She'd lingered over Matty's triangle. Glistening black hairs as fine as silk. She'd pushed her tongue to dark salty regions, caverns of pleasure previously unexplored. Matty's fingers had left tingling trails of fire. Her was touch hypnotic. Enthralling.

When they dressed for dinner she'd impulsively pulled Matty to her and said, "Leave him."

After an uneasy silence, Matty spoke softly into her shoulder, "You know I can't do that."

"We'll manage somehow."

"You left your husband for a woman, and she left you . . . ." Matty's accusation had trailed off.

Their eyes met. The air in the room seemed heavy and still. The woman dropped her arms and backed away nodding. Of course, nothing here could change the certain realities. Not even Malta.

The woman heard Matty stirring in the room behind her. She realized the roosting pigeon was gone, and wondered why she hadn't heard its flapping wings. She watched the sun continue to rise over the ocean. Small fishing boats made their way through the mouth of the harbor, moving slowly from a safe haven to the open sea.

After awhile Matty said her name. The woman turned. Matty was dressed in her best black pants. A scarf covered her hair. "I'm going to church with the others. Are you sure you won't come?"

"I need some time alone."

Matty nodded.

The woman walked up the hill toward the garden. In front of the gate a black dog slept under a sign that said "No dogs allowed." She took a picture. The paths were lined with dry bushes and palm trees. A round fountain trickled at the center. She looked out across the open sea to the place where it met the misty sky, then turned back toward the Valetta. She could see the hotel. Their room on the third floor, where a towel was drying in the balcony window.

A noise startled her. Close. Shrill. Like a woman's cry. She turned frantically. Saw nothing. The sound came again. She looked down. Just off the dusty pathway, a gaunt, gray cat under a dry bush nursed two small kittens. The cat looked wild. Hungry. She saw then that the garden was full of cats. Maybe the same ones she'd heard hunting beneath her windows at night. She remembered the dog lying patiently by the gate.

"You left your husband for a woman, and she left you . . . ."

Here in this beautiful city, this place rich with history and romance, there lived hundreds of starving cats. The garden was alive with them, under bushes, beneath the statues of the muses.

As the American woman strolled back toward the hotel she thought about Matty and sighed. She had paid so much, come so far, only to find this hunger.