A Lizard In My Luggage (30 page)

  We all grapple with the corpse, remove the innards of the oven and attempt to shove it inside. We try it head first, then bottoms up, side on and lastly squash its girth inside by leaning heavily against the oven door but it won't go. After some minutes we all tumble on the floor with the bird on top of us and yelp hysterically. Catalina is laughing so much I fear she might choke.

  'We kill another,' says Ramon.

  'What?' Alan wails. 'Now?'

  'No he is already dead but he is smaller. Ramon will get him from the car.'

  No bird's safe on the streets with these two turkey slayers on the loose. This time a more modest bird makes its appearance. It's still huge but with a push and a shove, it fits into the oven.

  '
Gràcies a déu!
' says Catalina. 'We'll bring the fat one to Maria's restaurant. My aunt has an enormous oven.

  She's already cooking our own turkey, so now she can cook two.'

  'What will you do with it all?' I'm already fretting.

  'Maria can make lots of
croquetes
with the left over meat.
No problema
.'

  Ramon and Catalina set off towards the car.

  'I made you some cakes.'

  'So I see. They smell wonderful. Thanks, Catalina.'

  'Yes and thanks for our turkey,' says Alan, who together with Ramon, is struggling to carry turkey number one back to the car. 'I'm sure it's going to be fantastic.'

  'Why not rear your own turkey chicks next year?' Ramon pipes up.

  'Maybe, Ramon,' says Alan doubtfully. 'I'll sleep on it.'

The walls of Margalida's sitting room are covered in paintings, all the work of her grandson who is a well established artist in Palma. It's obvious which are his early works given their youthful and flamboyant style and flourishes of bright paint. The later
œuvres
are sleek and thoughtfully conceived and far more contemporary. She places a glass of fresh orange juice in front of me on the lace topped coffee table and sighs.

  'We all buy so much at Christmas but I think back to the Civil War when we had nothing. You wouldn't believe what it was like.'

  It takes me some time to decipher her Mallorcan words. Like a fool, at first I think she's talking about a war in Seville.

  'Where were you?' I ask.

  'When? In the late thirties? I was parted from my husband. He was fighting in the war. It was terrible and so cold here. I ended up in Menorca. The people were starving and reduced to eating rats.'

  As a foreigner it's easy to forget the severity of Spain's civil war and the subsequent Franco Regime until the dictator's death in 1975. Memories run long and the hardships suffered in the Balearic Islands, as a consequence of the war and Franco's reign, are still mulled over by those old enough to remember.

  'Under Franco, we were banned from speaking Mallorcan,' she tells me. 'We had to learn Castilian Spanish in school and if you were caught speaking the local dialect, there were tough penalties.'

  'Well, they wouldn't have had a problem with me,' I jest, trying to lighten the mood. 'I can only manage
Bon
dia!
'

  She pats my hand. 'At least you're trying.'

  I finish my juice and wait while Margalida gets out her photo album. She likes to talk me through all the family ancestors, weddings and events, paying particular attention to her deceased husband.

  'God only gave us one child,' she says.

  'Well, Sílvia's a credit to you, and you've wonderful grandchildren.'

  'True, true,' she concedes.

  When we've trawled through the album I get up to go and give her my Christmas gift of a vase and chocolates.

  'But I haven't anything for you?' she gasps.

  'I don't want anything.'

  'Let me get you some oranges from the kitchen.'

  I give her a hug. 'Margalida, I have a field full of oranges and lemons.'

  She hesitates for a second then grabs my arm and leads me into the kitchen whereupon she fills me a bag of fruit.

  'Here,' she says defiantly. 'Your oranges are very poor. Take these. They're really sweet.'

  Defeated and laughing, I thank her and head up the track.

  I'm in sight of my house when Rafael appears in front of me, biting at an apple. 'Hey, what you got from Margalida? Oranges! So now you rob a poor old lady?'

  I narrow my eyes at him as he giggles inanely. 'I see you give my dog a Christmas present.'

  I feel a bit sheepish. It's true. The night before, Ollie and I entered Franco's cage with a fleecy blanket, a present for Christmas.

  'You don't mind?'

  He shrugs. 'Why? You silly enough to spend money on my dog. Is OK with me.'

  Phew. I invite him up for an early
copa de cava
and he promises to pop by later with Cristian. We have a busy evening ahead, preparing the fireplace for Santa Claus with Ollie, and then driving up to Catalina and Ramon's for their Christmas Eve celebration, hot chocolate and sweet pastries at midnight.

We enter the stone built terraced house in the centre of the village and squeeze into the cosy salon which is teeming with people, Catalina's mother, father, grandmother, three brothers, their wives and several aunts and uncles. Then there's all of Ramon's family. The doorbell rings constantly as neighbours and friends pop by full of cheer and talking ten to the dozen in Mallorcan. Without fanfare, family and friends each bring a contribution to the feast: cakes, cheese, Serrano ham, nuts, cava and wine. There is no petty haggling over who has paid for what, or contributed the most because Christmas here is one big melting pot of goodwill and we, the foreigners, at this most traditional of Mallorcan calorific feasts, are treated as part of the family.

  Catalina and Ramon enter the room with trays loaded with mugs of hot, thick
xocolata a la tassa
and plates groaning with
ensaïmadas,
the delicate spiral shaped buns beloved by Mallorcans,
robiols,
jam pastries, and
coques
dolces
, a cherry biscuit delight. Ollie tucks into his
ensaïmada
, his face covered in icing sugar, and allows Catalina's elderly relatives to kiss and pinch his face with murmurs of, '
Que guapo!
', which in Spanish means, How handsome! The front door opens yet again and Sarah and Jack, two Australian friends of Catalina's, who live locally, join the throng.

  Ollie pulls at my sleeve. 'Don't forget Father Christmas. We must get home to bed before he comes down the chimney.'

  'Leave Santa an
ensaïmada
and a carrot for Rudolph,' says Catalina, putting a spare pastry and a carrot in a bag and handing it to him. He nods gravely.

  There's a hush as the village church strikes twelve and then with cries of joy and laughter, everyone hugs and embraces their nearest neighbour. Never have I felt such a sense of belonging, of oneness with a community. I feel an excitement for Christmas I haven't felt since I was a small child. There's the sound of a pistol being fired in the village square: the Mallorcan festivities have officially begun.

The sun is shining in a fierce blue sky, and the mountains are clear of cloud. The patio doors are wide open and I sit outside with Pep and Juana, contemplating the view. Across the field, our local farmer is feeding his sleek black horse and at the bottom of the garden Inko sits in the hollow of our old olive tree, licking her paws. Ollie and Angel are happily kicking a new football around the lawn, one of Ollie's gifts from Father Christmas. Replete and mellow after staggering through a traditional British Christmas lunch, Juana and Pep continue to discuss the wonders of the Christmas pudding (courtesy of Fortnum & Mason) and the brandy butter (my own devilishly laced version). They have enjoyed the whole dining experience so much that they intend to include various dishes in their own traditional meal the following year to which we are invited. Juana is particularly taken with Christmas crackers and instructs me to bring her back a box from London.

  'You won't forget?' she asks.

  'Well, I've got a whole year to remember.'

  'I liked the smoked salmon,' she muses, 'but we always have pasta soup for the
primer plat
, the first dish. I think we will keep this tradition for next year.'

  'Juana, I don't know how you can even contemplate preparation of another Christmas lunch after what we've just eaten.'

  Pep laughs and shakes his head. 'She is always thinking of food.'

  Juana kicks him lightly under the table. Alan arrives from the kitchen bearing four glasses of brandy.

  'Good for the digestion,' he says cheerfully.

  I try to visualise how various friends are spending Christmas Day in London but don't believe that anything can better our own blissfully simple and tranquil affair.

  'I have something special for you,' says Pep to Alan, producing two missile-like
puros
from his pocket. 'These are especially for Christmas.'

  Juana and I share a wince. Alan cannot mask his delight.

  'How many of those do you smoke a day?' I quiz.

  'I don't know,' Pep drawls. 'It's of no consequence.'

  He sits back and admires the Tramuntanas, smoke coiling round his fingers.

  '
Quina vida!
What a wonderful life.'

The
plaça
is crowded with happy imbibers and the garishly decorated makeshift stage is besieged with local children while members of the oompah band take five minutes out to enjoy beers in the local bar. Standing in heavy knits and gloves under an enormous bony olive tree, its branches entwined with tiny fairy lights, we chat with a group of friends from the village while Catalina bustles about distributing little bunches of grapes to all and sundry.

  'Remember, you eat a grape for every strike of the clock, yes?'

  Ollie looks down anxiously at the big green grapes she has given him. 'But I don't like them.'