A Lizard In My Luggage (31 page)

  'Well, tonight you must try,' says Catalina, ruffling his hair. She walks off into the throng, self-appointed grape distributor, and is greeted rapturously by scores of locals and neighbours. Ramon drains a can of beer and chats with Alan and Catalina's parents, Paco and Marta. I spy Juana and Pep in the crowd and wave. Moments later they fight their way over to us holding a bottle of champagne and several glasses.

  'Here, let me pour you some drinks,' shouts Pep above the human din. He calls to Ollie. 'Can you see Angel? He's over by the stage.'

  Ollie rushes off in the direction of his friend. We toast each other and get ready for the eating of the grapes.

  The musicians now return to the stage, shooing the children down the steps and into the brightly lit square. Then, over the microphone, and with great gravitas, they commence their countdown to midnight in Mallorcan. The hands of the church clock creak forward and the chimes boom out above the village. All of us fall on our grapes, manically trying to guzzle them on each strike. There is hysterical laughter and confusion as grapes get squashed underfoot, old men choke on the pips and children, dribbling juice as they cram them in their mouths, cheat by secreting the odd grape or two in their coat pockets. At the last strike the music starts and everyone ambles around the square kissing neighbours and friends, topping up their glasses with cava and shouting '
Molts
d'anys
' which roughly translated from the Mallorcan, means long life. We espy some local craftsmen who worked on our house mingling in the square with their families. When they see us they come over to shake hands and we exchange kisses with their wives. Felipe, who runs the football ground, comes over to talk with us and is joined by Lorenç who is complaining about his back given how many log drops he's performed in the last few weeks.

  'I need a good massage,' he groans.

  'Well don't look at me,' retorts his wife.

  'Nor me,' I add, laughing.

  'So much for Christmas goodwill,' he laments, giving me a hearty push. I faintly hear Judas ringing from my handbag and trot off to a quieter corner and take the call. It's Ed.

  'Happy New Year!'

  I can tell by his voice that he's on good form

  'Ed, I was just going to ring you. We're up in the square. It's a bit rowdy.'

  'Sounds like you're in the middle of a brawl!'

  'How's your New Year going?'

  'Really well,' he blurts out. 'I'm with a whole load of friends from the BBC. I've just nipped out of the pub to give you a quick ring.'

  'You're a star...'

  'By the way,' he says coyly. 'I've just met a rather nice nurse.'

  'Really? And?' I sniff out a potential romance.

  'I'll tell you about it soon. Got to go.'

  Hm. That'll make an interesting call.

  I see our painter, Luis, pushing through the crowds towards me, his eyes as ever brimming with kindness and warmth. Tonight he is radiant and as we clink glasses he blurts out proudly that his wife is expecting a child. Happy news but more so given his story, for his young first wife died of leukaemia a few years back, leaving him with two small girls to raise alone. Martina, his second wife, a local teacher, stepped into the breach, lavishing the children with affection and gently helping him to rebuild his life. I give him a bear hug, and avoid his eyes since mine are pricked with tears. As the music blares and laughing couples dance around us, I pull at the corner of my eye, pretending to search out a rogue eyelash but he isn't fooled.

  'New year, new life,' he says softly, touching my arm.

It's New Year's Day and I'm running through the port under a blue and white marbled sky. To my left a restless sea lashes against the rocks and the small fishing boats touch and embrace as the waves unite them in brief moments of passion. The cafés are just beginning to open and the familiar smell of strong bleach assails my nostrils as I sprint by pristine doorsteps, freshly scrubbed by women preparing for a new round of guests. From behind, there's the familiar pop pop of Gaspar's
moto
followed by a wild tooting as he levels with me, exuberantly offering seasonal greetings and giving me the thumbs up. I give him a wave and watch as he disappears up a small road. As I pass a mountain of abandoned nets with their briny aroma of stale fish, I hear a resonant voice calling my name and there, pouncing out on the quay, with arms outstretched, is our local doctor, Senyor Vidal. He is portly with greying hair, a large handlebar moustache and eyes crinkled with mirth. He gives me a hug and shouts, '
Bona figura!
' and claps loudly, blowing kisses after me as I resume my run. I turn round and reciprocate the gesture and notice several locals shaking their heads and smiling. Doctor Vidal is a real character who is greatly respected in the local community and known for his eccentricities. I jog on, leaping over secured anchors and past the trawlers standing tall and impenetrable, their noses to the port, and onwards to the end of the harbour. As I loop back and head for home, a car toots and leaning out of the window and waving frantically is Tolo. I return the gesture and mouth '
Molts d'anys
'. I'm pleased to see that he's having a break from the bank.

  The light from the sky hits the masts of the yachts bobbing gently up and down along the side of the quay. Around them the rich blue sea glints and dances and in that split second, with the warmth of the sun on my back, I realise there's no other place I'd rather be.

The sun is dazzling as we finally draw to a halt at the old iron gate leading to Catalina and Ramon's
olivar
, their olive grove. It has been a challenging journey so far, with many a precarious bend on a narrow and precipitous mountain road which seemed to curl forever upward like a giant helter-skelter towards the infinite blue sky. Alan gives a genuine deep sigh of relief as we once again study Ramon's hand drawn map offering directions.

  'Looks as if we've finally arrived,' he says.

  I get out of the car and push back the gate. It gives a squeal of disapproval as it is wrenched open and pinioned against the wall. The air has become notably cooler and the view from up here, high in the hills, is spectacular. Running down from the mountains in all directions are a seemingly endless series of terraces, known in Mallorcan as
marjadas
, on which olive trees are cultivated. Each terrace is protected by a sturdy hand-constructed drystone wall, the
marge
, which serves to keep the soil level and in place. The double wall construction in which rubble is placed between the stones instead of cement assists with drainage, a godsend in rainy and tempestuous weather, stopping the soil from slipping away and becoming waterlogged. A glut of families in rural Mallorca are lucky enough to own an
olivar
where they spend many a weekend during the olive picking season producing enough oil for their own consumption.

  A moment later we drive down a bumpy track surrounded by woodland and find ourselves outside an old stone
porxo
, what might be described as a sort of mountain cabin. It has smoke billowing from a chimney and in the doorway, talking, are Ramon and Catalina. On the front porch their two daughters, Sofia and Carolina, play with dolls while Catalina's mother and father sit under a tree in the olive grove preparing vegetables. Ramon greets us at the car.

  'That was some journey!' Alan cries, stretching his arms in the air.

  'The road's a little narrow,' Ramon concedes.

  'A little?!' scoffs Alan as he turns to kiss Catalina. 'I need a drink.'

  Catalina slaps him on the arm. 'Don't worry. I've got some good Rioja for you.'

  'We're not late are we?' I ask.

  'You're the first. My brothers and the rest of the family are on their way.'

  We all exchange New Year's greetings and stroll off to the olive grove to meet Catalina's parents, Paco and Marta. Her father is cutting thick wedges of lemon and green
pebres
, the Mallorcan word for peppers, which will accompany the paella at lunch. Marta, sublime and smiling, puts down her knife, which she is using to cut garlic, and gets up to hug us one by one and to talk to Ollie. He shares a few words in Mallorcan and then rushes off to play with the girls on the porch. I notice that the dolls are abandoned immediately in favour of a running game.

  We follow Catalina over to the log fire that has been set up for the cooking of the paella on a strip of turf near our car. Inside the
porxo
, the cabin, there are two interlinked small rooms, one with bunk beds and the other with a chimney, sofa, table and sink. A few utilitarian wooden cupboards face the front door and old rugs are thrown over the cement finished floors. There are seldom cooking facilities in a
porxo
and no bathroom. It is akin to camping, and families enjoy the simplicity of preparing food
a fora
, outside, and tending to their olive groves. Ramon lights the fire while Catalina and her mother set about cooking. I have tried numerous versions of paella but, in my opinion, Catalina's own recipe takes some beating with its rich blend of succulent
marisç
, shellfish, rabbit and pork, vegetables and saffron rice.

  As soon as the cooking begins in earnest, Ollie and the girls come running over, keen to watch the fire spit and spark as the heavy black paella pan is placed aloft and its contents swirled about in hot olive oil. Soon the smell of peppers, onions and garlic rises on the breeze and we all inhale the sweet aroma hungrily.

  Paco ambles over to Alan with a bottle of Rioja. 'Here, let's all have a glass before the rest of the family arrive!'

  He is filling our glasses when we hear a toot from the track. From the car windows Catalina's brother, Stefan, and his wife Cristina are waving and in the back of the car, are some elderly relatives. Another car swiftly follows with her younger brother Marc and his family.

  Paco nudges Alan's arm. 'By the way, how was the turkey? I hear it was so big you had to cook it in the garden!'

  Ramon enjoys the joke. 'Yes, they only had to dine on one leg. They'll be eating the rest of the bird at Easter.'

  I give Ramon a shove. 'Next year we're going vegetarian.'

  'Oh you can't do that. I've already started to fatten you a turkey chick!'

  I give a mock groan. 'Can you put this one on a diet?'

  Paco laughs aloud and pats me on the back. 'Next year we'll save up to buy you a new cooker for Christmas.'

  There are explosions of mirth from all sides as Stefan and the rest of the family appear, quickly cottoning on to the joke.

  '
Molts D'anys!
' says Stefan giving me a hug. 'So why is my sister cooking paella? We thought you'd be bringing turkey
croquetas
for everyone!'

  More giggles and merriment. Somehow I think the turkey joke, like the Duracell bunny, will just keep on going…