A Lizard In My Luggage (41 page)

There's tooting at the front of the house and a young man with raven black hair emerges from the passenger seat of a dusty red car with a young toddler in his arms. Who on earth is this? I stand on the porch smiling inanely without the faintest clue who he is. To my relief the driver of the vehicle bustles out and I see that it is Rosa, the local curtain maker. She waves and ducks into the back of the car to retrieve something. Her companion strolls towards me, smothering the child with kisses and smiling broadly. He introduces himself as Rosa's son. He explains that he is here to assist her with hanging our curtains. Our curtains? Somewhere in my head a distant bell is ringing, a memory of an order placed some many months ago.

  '
Hola!
' wheezes Rosa, her ample bust rising and falling like the giant swell of a wave as she hauls two bulky bags on to the porch. 'I finish the curtains. You are pleased, yes? Have you met my son and Gabriela, my granddaughter?'

  'Yes, indeed. Well, what a surprise! It seems ages ago that you first came to measure our curtains.'

  She is offended and rears backwards like a defensive cobra ready to strike. '
Home!
Is only eight months!'

  I nod my head quickly and attempt to pacify her. Indeed, what is eight months between friends? In Mallorca everything takes time and soon the pain and irritation of not having what you want when you want it subsides into a form of apathy and then complete nonchalance. It is only when guests visit and comment innocently on a missing tile on the patio, a gaping hole under a rug, a mass of electric wires lying abandoned under a sofa or a leak under the sink that you hazily recall the time when you requested these things to be fixed. In London I would be snarling threats down the phone receiver of a hapless plumber or builder but in Mallorca I have learned the art of patience. There is a good chance that one day the errant ironmonger, electrician, phone engineer, or curtain maker will arrive quite out of the blue and when least expected, rekindling faith in the Mallorcan term
poc a poc
, little by little. All good things come to those who wait. So, Rosa, the curtain lady, follows me into the house while her son deposits little Gabriela on the floor of our
entrada
and bounds outside to the boiler room to find the stepladder. An hour later, thick cream linen curtains hang above the French doors in both kitchen and
entrada
and buttermilk cushions adorn the kitchen chairs. The introduction of textiles really does have a startling effect on the appearance of our
finca
and the unexpected pleasure I feel at having achieved this small step towards domestic rural bliss is immeasurable. The phone rings and I leave Rosa and her son scrabbling around on the kitchen floor playing with his toddler. It is Rachel.

  'I sent you a couple of press releases this morning. It's pretty urgent. Could you check them?'

  'Ah, of course. Sorry Rachel. I'm just having some curtains fitted so I'm a little distracted.'

  She strikes a cautious tone. 'Are you serious?'

  'Why ever not?'

  'Never mind. Look, I've got a stack of meetings today so if you could e-mail any corrections through later, that would be great. By the way, Michael Roselock's a dark horse. He's getting married tomorrow to guess who?'

  'Oh that's a tough call. Let me think...'

  'Did you know?' she asks.

  Gabriela has crawled over with a big grin on her face and is pulling at the laces on my docksiders. 'I had a small inkling. Just because I live in the sticks doesn't mean I'm out of the loop.'

  'You could have told me,' she sounds aggrieved.

  'It slipped my mind Rachel. You know what I'm like these days?'

  'I'll let you off this time. By the way, can you give George a call. He rang this morning but won't tell me what it's about.'

  Thinking of George makes me feel edgy. I have been stalling him. Avoiding his calls. Avoiding the big issue. Avoiding simply saying, NO. What am I afraid of? Finally severing the chord with London? Rachel's voice on the end of the line pulls me back to reality.

  'Well, must dash. Speak to you later.'

  I turn round and smile at Rosa. She and her son have been waiting patiently for me to end my call. Once again, Rosa's son is holding Gabriela and showering her with kisses because, in Mallorca, it is cool for men to show public affection for their children and most enjoy any excuse to parade their offspring especially on market days.

  'We go now,' says Rosa, much appeased now that the curtains are up and the senyora of the house is overcome with gratitude. 'But first I have something for you.'

  She disappears to her car and returns with a small, crimson silk cushion infused with local herbs. 'A little house warming gift,' she says without ceremony. The strong smell of rosemary and lavender pervades the sunny
entrada
, and as I stand there breathing it in, I am thankful that the little cushion bears not the slightest resemblance to a lizard.

Catalina walks into the kitchen from the back garden carrying a huge trug full of
faves
, broad beans, and a healthy pile of baby potatoes, their skins caked in rich red soil. She thumps the trug down by the sink and washes the mud from her hands.

  'It's very hot out there now,' she says, slightly short of breath. 'The Moro is still out there picking
faves
.'

  I rise from the kitchen table and fetch her some cold water from the fridge. 'Well, I hope he doesn't pick too many or we'll have beans coming out of our ears. I think you've picked more than enough there.'

  She nods. 'Yes, but he is worried the builders will accidentally drive over the vegetable patch with their machines.'

  'Well, they'd have to be blind to miss it.'

  We both laugh. Catalina, opens the back door to let in the fresh air and stalks out to talk to the builders. She returns with a look of excitement on her face.

  'My brother thinks the pool may be finished in June.'

  In truth, we haven't got the money for such an extravagance. Alan's preference had always been to buy a rotavator, a powered soil-tilling machine, which he felt was a much more practical purchase and one which wouldn't cost us dearly. However, I impressed on him that the dubious pleasure of using a rotavator under a scorching sun could never replace the delights of swimming in a cool pool so, begrudgingly, he acquiesced.

  'When they finish cementing the hole, we wait some weeks for it to dry and soon the men will tile it,' continues Catalina. 'Then we have big party to celebrate.'

  Once the pool is finished, the builders will down tools and leave for the summer and will not be returning until, at some stage in the future, we have funds enough to embark on phase two of our building work which might see patios and paths being laid in the gardens, the courtyard tiled and a front gate fitted. Until that time, we will be grateful for what we have: heating, running water and a roof over our heads.

  I leave Catalina ironing sheets in the kitchen and slip out to the pond by the courtyard. Peering into the dark water I spot the first of our baby frogs swimming in and out of the rocks. Somehow, observing the evolution of tadpole to fully formed frog in my own front yard has proven far more captivating than I ever recall it being so during my school biology days. I am concerned that our resident toad is not in evidence but comfort myself that he'll be back soon. There's the sound of heavy footsteps in the yard and Rafael appears in running shorts and a T-shirt. He strides over to me, a big smile on his face.

  'Ah, there you are! I have invitation.'

  I step forward to greet him and take the card he proffers.

  'My son Cristian has First Communion. You must come.'

  I am touched that he should include us at such a family event. 'We'd love to. When is it?'

  'Saturday. First there is church and then dinner. You meet all my family.'

  I promise that Alan and I will attend. 'Is the church easy to find?'

  '
Si, si,
everyone knows it. It's two minutes from town. Ask anyone.'

  I watch Rafael cheerfully jog up the track for his morning run while I walk back into the house. I have a pile of e-mails and work to do on my desk but am being seduced by a warm sun and a mountain view so mesmerising that I can hardly tear my eyes from it. It seems a criminal offence to be hunched up over my computer in the house when I could be gainfully employed sitting on a rock and contemplating life and the universe. Catalina beckons to me when I enter the kitchen but first, like the villain in a pantomime, she places a finger to her lips and steps out of the kitchen door, peering exaggeratedly this way and that in a thoroughly farcical manner.

  'What on earth are you doing?' I ask.

  'The Moro was just here. I just wanted to make sure he was back down in the field. We need to discuss his birthday party.'

  Alan's forthcoming birthday is a subject of much discussion amongst our local friends. Although still a month away, the restaurant, Cas Marroig, has been booked, the wine list scrutinised by Pep, connoisseur of all things, and the invitations to twenty friends have been sent. Catalina and I have already held surreptitious meetings with Pau, the maître d', checking out the private room, inspecting the veranda, and mulling over appropriate menus. The young, and much revered, chef has joined us at these clandestine think tanks and has already solemnly declared that the birthday cake should be on a gardening theme. Meanwhile, Alan suspects nothing and is cheerfully anticipating a quiet dinner
à deux o
n his birthday at Cas Marroig.

  'We must choose the menu soon,' hisses Catalina as if Alan may burst into the kitchen at any given moment. 'You think lamb is good or not?' she persists.

  I realise that my hesitancy about the main course is probably causing both Catalina and the maître d' sleepless nights so I decide that the situation must be resolved now.

  'Let's go for the lamb and start with the roast artichokes and Serrano dish as planned.'

  'And the fish course?'

  'Local catch of the day. Whatever Pau recommends.'

  'Good. Now we need to think about flowers and what to wear. I will need to go on a
règim
.'

  'A diet? Don't be silly! No sane Mallorcan would diet.'

  She shrugs. 'Well, maybe I have just one croissant in the morning for the next few weeks otherwise I cannot fit my dress.'

  The door flies open and in steps Alan holding a trug brimming with beans. He catches the expression on my face and blurts out quickly, 'A few beans for your mother, Catalina.'

  Offering beans to Catalina's mother is like carrying coals to Newcastle but Catalina has the good grace to hide her smirk and show gratitude. 'Well, my mother has all the family coming for dinner tomorrow night so she can make a very big bean soup. Would you like to join us?'

  The thought of yet more beans, having lived on them for the last two weeks, fills me with dread.

  '
Quina llàstima!
' What a shame, I exclaim. 'We have friends over tomorrow night.'

  '
No problema
,' says Catalina playfully, 'I'll make sure we keep some soup back for you and I'll bring it over on Thursday morning.'

  I narrow my eyes and give her a knowing look.

  'Unless of course,' she says with a wink in my direction, 'we cannot help ourselves and eat it all up.'

What does one wear to a First Holy Communion? It's all very well if you're the subject of the occasion because all you have to do is turn up in white. For young Spanish girls, with a penchant for dressing up, the First Holy Communion service is a dream ticket allowing them to live out their fairy-tale fantasies with white polyester Barbie frocks and frothy, voluminous Cinderella style ball gowns drowning in frilly lace. They wear big floppy white bows in their hair or tiaras and veils, and clip along to the church in shiny little white shoes and oversized lacy white tights which they are forever hoisting up because they sag woefully around the ankles. By contrast, Spanish boys have a more sober time of it when it comes to attire, many wearing black suits with white shirts although the
Saturday Night Fever
white, all-in-one is always an option for the rugged individualist and sailor suits for the nautical types are proving popular. As a guest you are expected to turn up in smart, but casual, attire.