A Lizard In My Luggage (29 page)

In Mallorca life is a series of fiestas punctuated by short periods of work. However at Christmas this all changes and the fiesta enjoys an uninterrupted period in the limelight. From Christmas Eve until a full week after New Year, Mallorcans party and eat. In fact, Mallorca probably deserves an entry in the record books under 'Gluttony' for largest amount consumed per capita during a two week period. This is the time when relatives of every generation get together harmoniously under one roof for an extended period without dramas, recriminations, rivalries and the settling of old family scores over the carved turkey. Why is it that this can be achieved in Mallorca but not in England? The secret naturally lies in the stomach. For Christmas in Mallorca is about food, good wines, family and conversation. The word
regimen
, diet, is scorned and anyone vain enough to worry about their
bona figura
is given a cool reception.

  It is the day before Christmas Eve, and the sun, a smudge of hot butter in a pale blue sky, spreads its warmth across the valley, tickling the ears of the
burros
, warming the backs of the lazy feral cats and dousing the spire of the town church in primrose light. Snow, like sieved sugar, dusts the mountain tops and the plump and glossy green pines are peppered with dew. I rumble along, the back of the car laden with expectant and empty panniers, ready to gorge on Christmas wares. It's still early and I am keen to make the market before half the townsfolk descend on it in a frenzy. At the corner of the track Margalida Sampol appears. She is in her winter coat and her soft white hair has been cut and set.

  'I'm on my way to church,' she informs me. 'Have you time to pop by later?'

  'How about tomorrow morning?' I ask, my head jutting out of the car window.

  She mumbles to herself in Mallorcan and then nods. 'Tomorrow it is.'

  At that moment a car swerves round the corner and with his bumper almost kissing mine, Lorenç the wood man screeches to a halt.

  '
Uep!
' he yells from his window. This catchy little Mallorcan word usually denotes surprise of a happy kind. It might have been different if he'd bumped my car.

  'Are you trying to kill me?'

  His smile is as broad as a melon slice. 'Not today! I've got your wood in the back.'

  I soften. We are down to our last dozen logs so his arrival is as welcome as a good fairy at a christening.

  'Is Alan at home?'

  'You bet. He'll be thrilled to help you unload the truck.'

  Alan was still in his pyjamas when I left the house so Lorenç's arrival should buck up his ideas.

  'Will you be up in the
plaça
for New Year?'

  Lorenç opens his hands wide. '
Segur.
Where else would I be?'

  'We'll see you there. Until then
Bon Nadal!
'

  He comes over to the car and kisses me on the cheek. '
Molt bé!
You know how to say Happy Christmas in Mallorcan. Every day you learn a new word.'

  Margalida listens with her hands on her hips. 'She has a good teacher in me.'

  'I'm sure she does,' he grins.

  I start the engine and reverse to let Lorenç drive by. Time for my assignation with Teresa.

The market is already humming as I dart through the side entrance, past the fish hall and head for Teresa's stall. She sees me coming and beams.

  'Don't tell me you got up early today?
Déu meu!
She's here before nine o'clock!'

  'Very funny, Teresa. I'll have you know I've been up a while. Now then, what have you got for me?'

  She bustles around her stand, plucking small plastic bags off a row of metal hooks and hurling them at me. 'Fill them up!' she commands. 'Everything's fantastic today. I've even managed to get those
naps
you asked for.' She bends down behind the counter and emerges with a huge bag of parsnips.

  'You mean
xirivia
? I'll have you know that
nap
translates as turnip in English.'

  'Don't get smart with me!' she barks. 'They're all from beneath the soil aren't they?'

'If you say so,' I shrug, enjoying our banter.

  I plunge into the fruit and veg, smelling, kneading, prodding, casting aside the mediocre, and generally behaving in a way that would have me thrown out of any British supermarket. Teresa rolls her head back and laughs. 'Well look how you're becoming a
Mallorquína!
Good girl. I've trained you well.'

  Satisfied with my buys I pass the bags over to Teresa who weighs them all and rounds up the total. She stretches under the counter and pulls out two large bottles. 'My home-made cherry
licor
and
herbes
,' she winks. 'and here's a jar of sun-dried tomatoes.
Bon Nadal
.'

  I give her a big hug and to her surprise, place a wrapped package in her hands.

  '
Un regal
for Christmas,' I say. It's a little gift from London, a box of truffles and a candle holder.

  She flaps her arms about and protests vociferously. 'What do I want with
regals?
What do you think you're doing?'

  I gather my bags and head off for the square. Before I exit the building I take one look back at her stall. Seemingly unobserved, she is standing marvelling over the present. I feel my eyes water and tell myself to stop being a sentimental fool.

  Some minutes later I lurch in to Colmado La Luna. The shop has shelves that rise to the ceiling, each one tantalisingly filled with speciality jams, biscuits, wines, olives and pickles. At the very top, nearly brushing the ceiling, a collection of food tins and metal cartons sporting old fashioned labels from the fifties run the length of the wall, a nostalgic reminder of the shop's longevity. The glass cabinet which serves as a counter oozes the most heavenly cold meats and sausages, Mallorcan cheeses and freshly baked rolls. Carmen greets me with a frown.

  'What are you doing carrying all those bags? Where's the
burro?
'

  This is Carmen's and my long standing joke. We refer to men as donkeys whose primary purpose in life is to carry our bags.

  'He's at home.'

  She huffs. 'Typical man!'

  Xavier, who finishes serving a customer, gives a heavy sigh. 'Senyor Alano deserves a break. We men are always working. Here, give me those bags and I'll pop them by the
finca
later.'

  I remonstrate but it's no good. Carmen whisks them behind the counter with a stern countenance. I begin to order my Christmas treats, special
jamon
Serrano, chorizo and
lloms
, cured pork sausage, an assortment of cheeses, local wines, figs and dates, walnuts and cashews. Customers come and go but I'm on a roll.

  'Xavier, you'd better deliver her groceries by truck,' mocks Carmen, shaking her head in mirth.

  'Well, I have guests coming and I don't want to run out of anything,' I bluster.

  'You could feed the whole town!' she bellows.

  'Yes but Carmen my new kitchen has been fitted and I want to celebrate this momentous occasion!'

  She cackles and shakes her head. It's true. While I was away in London, Alan and Stefan worked like crazy with the builders to have the kitchen completed before my return. Alan knew how much it would mean to me to have a sparkling new kitchen in which to prepare my Christmas lunch. I was in a state of total amazement when I first saw it. Everything was how we'd sketched and designed it. We had a beautiful terracotta tiled floor, gleaming granite work surfaces and buttermilk wooden cupboards. The
pièce de résistance
, though, had to be the big oak table and accompanying eight chairs which I had been eyeing up at Castañer, the local furniture shop in town, for some time. Apparently they had taken pity on Alan when he visited and agreed that we could pay it off
poc a
poc
.

  When I've settled my bill and left a stack of bags for delivery, I wish her merry Christmas and head off for HiBit to deliver a small gift to Antonia and Albert. Antonia is sitting smoking at the till as I enter. The small shop is heaving with Christmas shoppers.

  'You're so kind! I haven't even had time to buy the turkey yet,' she howls. 'Work, work, work. It never stops!'

  Albert gives a cough from the back of the shop and swivels round in a chair to see me. 'Hey! How you doing?'

  'Fine. I see you're busy.'

  'The usual,' he says blithely, as he fiddles with a bundle of coloured wires. 'It pays the bills, though.'

  Antonia makes a face. 'Only just.'

  I bid them farewell and rush off to the car park. En route I collide with Tolo. 'Can you pop by the bank? I have a
regal fo
r you. It's a Banca March calendar and diary.'

  I accompany him up through the merry
plaça
with its spiky, leafless trees full of tiny white lights. Spanish Christmas carols blast from speakers placed outside the town hall and enormous festive costumed figures, known as
gegantes
, stand on either side of the entrance.

  Tolo dashes into the bank and I follow at a more leisurely pace behind him. The manager comes over to greet me and I nod at the small staff, all of whom I know on first name terms.

  'Here,' says Tolo, passing me a parcel across his desk. 'They are good quality, you know.'

  'I'm sure,' I nod and give him a kiss on both cheeks. 'Alan will be very grateful.'

  Back in the square, I see Gaspar waving from behind the windows of Café Paris. He jumps up and opens the door.

  'Running girl, come and have a coffee!'

  'I must get back home,' I say weakly.

  He beckons me inside and draws a chair back from the table.

  'A quick coffee won't delay you. I had a busy paper round this morning.
Ultima Hora
had a supplement so my bag was double the weight.'

  He orders me an espresso, and digs into a bag underneath the table.

  'Here. I've got some leftover newspapers. Take a copy of each.
Ultima Hora
,
Diario de Mallorca
,
Veu de Soller
,
Solleric
, Ma
jorca Daily Bulletin
...'

  'Gaspar, I can't carry all those!'

  'Of course you can. It's not very Mallorcan to turn down a free gift.'

  I finish my coffee, wave at José, the terminally cheerful and energetic owner behind the counter, and head off for the car. Gaspar is grinning from the window and waving. Now I mustn't get waylaid by anyone else or I'll never make it home.

  Alan opens the front door when he hears the tyres on the gravel in the courtyard. He comes down the front steps of the porch, ready to help carry in the bags.

  'No bags!' He looks confused. 'You've been gone hours and nothing to show for it except newspapers?'

  I pat him on the arm. 'Don't worry. Xavier, my knight in shining armour, is bringing all the bags up later.'

  Alan puts his arm round my shoulder. 'Using your charm again?'

  'I've had a lovely time, having a coffee with Gaspar and catching up with everyone. It's so nice not to have to rush.'

  'Good for you. Just think how manic you used to be in London.'

  'Don't remind me! By the way, where's Ollie?'

  'Where do you think? Playing football in the town. Pep and Angel picked him up after you'd left. They're doing some practice and then being treated to hot chocolate and cake with the coaches.'

  'It's all right for some!'

  We reach the
entrada
when there's tooting from the courtyard. Catalina and Ramon have arrived.

  'It's like Piccadilly Circus here,' sighs Alan, striding off to welcome them.

  'We've got your turkey,' bawls Catalina excitedly. 'He's in the back.'

  For a ghastly moment I imagine our monster turkey is still alive and strutting about on the back seat.

  'Is it dead?'

  Catalina marches into the
entrada
and the kitchen with some cakes she's made. 'You think we bring him alive? You mad? Ramon killed and plucked him this morning.'

  Thank heavens for that. A few moments later Alan and Ramon shuffle slowly into the house, carrying between them the most colossal turkey I have ever seen. They bend under the weight and Ramon is muttering in Mallorcan, no doubt a round of colourful expletives.

  They place it on my new oak kitchen table with a thump. I wince. Silence. We look at each other in alarm. I feel like I'm an accomplice to a murder. Where do we dump the body?

  'Well then. Shall we see if it will fit in the oven?' I say, a note of panic creeping into my voice.

  Ramon chortles. 'You might get his head in.'