Parrot in the Pepper Tree (10 page)

So, although there’s much to be said in favour of the
chumbo,
it’s not an obvious place for a telephone. I had imagined, perhaps foolishly, that we might be able to have the telephone in the house, but it was clearly not to be. ‘What you must do,’ said the engineer, ‘is build a construction — a sort of box — which can house the receiving apparatus.’

A telephone-box in the garden. Well, that did have a certain appeal and we set to discussing its construction the moment the engineer went off on his way. Ana was particularly keen. ‘If you are going to build a telephone receiving box out in the
chumbo,’
she suggested, ‘then why not combine it with something more useful — like, say, a dog kennel?’

‘Why not indeed? Could it be a domed dog kennel do you think?’ I had always wanted to build a dome.

‘Whatever shape you like, said Ana who was pleased to have a dog kennel of any stamp — with flying buttresses, if necessary.

So I started on the domed dog kennel. But of course after a certain height the bricks started to fall inwards, and — despite looking for inspiration in a book on Istanbul, with pictures of the great mosque of Aghia Sophia — I grew disheartened, and flattened it off. The final result looked rather like a fairy mushroom, or the bottom floor of a truncated pagoda.

Two weeks later a new Telefónica engineer turned up. He was an altogether different man, a keen pigeon fancier, and with a full battery on his tester, which endeared him to me right away.

‘What on earth is that?’ he asked as he arrived, looking at the dog-kennel thing.

‘That’s the construction for housing the telephone receiving apparatus,’ I said proudly.

‘Good God, man, you can’t have a telephone there!’ He looked at me in astonishment. ‘It’s right in the middle of the
chumbo!’

I told him about his predecessor with the fiat battery.

‘Well, according to my meter, you can put the thing right here where we’re talking, slap bang in your kitchen… yes, that’s as good a signal as you’ll need.’ And he pointed to the wooden beam above the window, the ideal place for a phone. He wandered around the place a bit more for good measure, in case he could find a better signal anywhere else. Luckily he couldn’t.

‘Those are beautiful
palomas
you’ve got up there,’ he said, looking at the pigeons on our roof.

‘They’re lovely, aren’t they?’ I boasted. ‘They’re fan-tails.’ And as if on cue they began flopping about on the roof.

‘I can see that,’ he said. ‘I like fan-tails, but they’re hopeless fliers, you know. I keep pigeons at home and I’ve got some wonderful fliers. I’ll bring you a few, if you like. Your telephone will start playing up in a week or so. I’ll bring the pigeons when I come and fix it.’

That night we celebrated the arrival of the new telephone by phoning my mother in England. Now, I’ve phoned my mother on countless occasions but rarely had I been so struck by the phenomenon of her voice appearing in my ear in another part of the world. It seemed incredible that I could chat to her while peering out of the doorway at our very own mountains and rivers. I could tell that she was similarly moved by the occasion. ‘Is that Chloë in the background? Good heavens, there’s Bonka!’ she exclaimed excitedly.

Next we rang Bernardo over on the other side of the valley. He had just installed one of these new contraptions too, so we rang to compare notes and offer mutual congratulations on our giant step into the future. La Cenicera, Bernardo and Isabel’s
cortijo,
is barely a kilometre away as the crow flies, and with the wind in the right direction you can shout across. Yet that night he might as well have been a mile underwater. We did our best for five minutes then plonked down the receiver, without having managed to glean even one word of Bernardo’s side of the conversation — if indeed it was Bernardo on the phone.

When Enrique the engineer turned up the following week to fix the phone, which had surpassed his prediction by packing up altogether, he came with a large cardboard box tucked under his arm. Inside were a couple of exquisite, white straight-tailed pigeons. We shut them in with our fan-tails for a week so they could get used to their new home, and then let them out. This was a revelation, for these
palomas
really knew how to fly. They launched together off the roof and soared out into the plains of shimmering air above the valley, far out over the river towards the hills beyond. Then, shining white against the deep blue sky and dark mountains, they raced each other back, winged up over the acacia and settled on the roof. Then off they set to do the whole thing again. It was exhilarating to watch them.

‘Our fan-tails don’t fly at all,’ said Ana. ‘They’re avian slobs. To think we might never have known what proper pigeon flight is!’

The Telefónica pigeons were inseparable and flew together farther and farther away, while the fan-tails ignored them completely, keeping up their cooing and flopping routine. After a time, though, it seemed the fliers were trying to encourage the slobs. The fan-tails would spend all day lined up on the edge of the roof in a long line — all of them who were not busy sitting on eggs in the coop below — and the flyers wandered calmly up and down behind them, pushing them off the roof and blocking them from landing again. A few of them did try some slightly more daring flights, even venturing over to the eucalyptus. As it happened, however, caution would have been a better option. The high-profile flights of the new pigeons attracted the attention of eagles, and one by one we started to lose the fan-tails. The Telefónica pigeons were too fast for the eagles, and too quick on the turn — but the poor fan-tails were easy prey.

One day, though, there was only one Telefónica pigeon; the eagles had finally managed to get his friend. The survivor was desolate, and pined for days, sitting miserably by himself and occasionally going for short, lonely flights, but with little spirit left. We didn’t mind losing the odd fan-tail; it kept the population under control, and I have to admit that it was pretty exciting to see the Bonelli’s eagles so close to the house. However, we were deeply saddened by the loss of the Telefónica pigeon. We felt we had lost something of beauty from our lives.

And then one morning I was out early, rowing up the oats and vetches in the river fields, when suddenly a whoosh of wings in the sky made me look up. There was a great gang of fan-tails with the Telefónica pigeon at their head, setting out on a long flight to the far end of the valley. At long last he had managed to persuade them, and now he had company to fly with.

Our visits from Enrique the engineer continued, but sadly he never managed to recreate with his tweaking of our phone system anything like the easy reach across the valley that the
palomas
had achieved. Bernardo still sounded as if he was talking from a deep sea trench.

One day, Bernardo and I were discussing this singular phenomenon, sitting on the stump of a fig tree by the spring, when Domingo chanced by on Bottom, his donkey.

‘You ought to get one of these wireless phones like we’ve got,’ said Bernardo, a little surprisingly.

‘Yes, you really should,’ I agreed, falling into line.

‘What use have I for such a thing?’ said Domingo, lurching to a stop. ‘I don’t know anyone to telephone, and even if I did, what would I say to them?’

We all considered this for a moment before Domingo added:

‘Anyway, I’m more interested in those new things, you know those things that go inside the computer..? Bernardo and I stared back at him blankly.

‘Disks?’ I volunteered.

‘No — modems,’ he replied. I hadn’t, at that time, the first idea what a modem was, and judging from Bernardo’s fixed smile neither had he. Without realising he was out on a limb here, Domingo treated us to a resumé of the joys of surfing the Internet, and the difficulty we were going to have getting wired in the Alpujarras. Antonia was keen, apparently, to exhibit some of their sculptures online, but it would take a new generation of mobile phones and a laptop to stand a chance of getting it working. Bernardo seemed to be agreeing, though his broad smile still wasn’t giving anything away.

‘With new technology it pays to wait,’ Domingo continued. ‘The quality and price always improve. Buy the first lot that come on the market and you’ll find it’s almost always crap.

‘Es verdad
— that’s true,’ we both mumbled.

Bottom twitched her ear to remove a fly, and looked at us thoughtfully, then, following an imperceptible command from Domingo, moved off at a trot. Bernardo and I stayed on the fig-stump for a bit in silence, and watched our neighbour disappearing down the road. We were neither of us in a hurry to resume the discussion about modems. I tried another tack.

‘Sometimes it’s better than others,’ I offered.

‘What is?’ asked Bernardo.

‘The telephone — sometimes it’s bad, sometimes it’s very bad?

‘And sometimes it doesn’t work at all,’ he concluded.

‘Yup, that’s right?

‘Somebody once told me why that is,’ said Bernardo. ‘Apparently the satellite has got a broken wing and now has to limp around in the sky like a three-legged dog.’

We sat a little bit longer, absorbing the full impact of this information until Bernardo noticed that the goats were getting dangerously close to his vegetables, and we brought our technological deliberations to a close.

In those first heady days our heads hummed with telephony and we were open to almost any idea of signals zinging their way across the stratosphere. It’s the only way that I can begin to explain why a secular-minded citizen, in sound mind and not under the influence of any drug, should wake up one morning convinced that he was hearing celestial music.

It happened within just a few weeks of installing the phone. On a morning almost indistinguishable from any other that dry, hot, cloudless summer, I woke to find the valley faintly ringing with a curious droning and humming sound. It certainly seemed unearthly, and had an awesome quality, as if the sound were emanating from the very rocks and hills. I woke Ana and asked if she thought it might be the Final Trumpet. I could tell she was unnerved by the way she listened intently for a while and then answered my question. Normally her first words are about tea.

‘Well, it doesn’t sound much like a trumpet to me. It’s more of a low drone,’ she concluded. I tried to argue that a celestial trumpet was hardly going to sound like the wind section of some seaside brass band but she seemed to have lost interest. Then the phone rang, unusually for such an early hour. It was someone blowing bubbles through a snorkel. We took it to be Bernardo ringing to see if we’d heard the noise too and if we knew anything about it. The whole valley it seemed was full of this sound, and as far as I knew, it was filling the whole world.

‘I think one of us ought to investigate,’ I said decisively, and pausing only to make myself decent (though in the circumstances nakedness might have been appropriate) I set out in search of the source of this phenomenon. First I walked down the track to the river and scoured the terraces and fields, then I crept down towards the riverbed and out through the tamarisk wood. Everywhere the sound was the same, neither louder nor softer. It came from the very bowels of the world and seemed as old as time. I was pondering on the music of the spheres, the ineffable humming and droning as the great balls of molten rock and gas hurtled their way through the cosmos, when I emerged from the shade of the eucalyptus grove and discovered that the noise was just a tiny bit louder. I was closer to the source. The golden oriole in the eucalyptus trilled out its fluty call, and then I saw them: two youngish couples, sitting cross-legged in a circle (if four people can be a circle) and blowing with intense concentration into didgeridoos.

One of the players caught a glimpse of me and looked up startled. The music stopped.

‘Good morning,’ I said as the group lowered the long wooden tubes from their mouths.

‘Hello, answered the tallest one, a man with the look of a rather dapper hippy, with neatly pressed clothes and clipped blond beard. ‘I hope you don’t mind us camping on your land…’

‘Not at all, please feel free. It’s not every day we wake to the sound of the didgeridoo? They moved round to make some room for me in the circle.

I learned that they were wandering didgeridoo teachers from Belgium who had come to ply their rather esoteric trade across Andalucia. This would hardly register as unusual amongst the incomers of the Alpujarras — there’s a local flamenco teacher from Denmark and a bloke from Sussex who shears the sheep —but I could imagine difficulties in finding pupils for Flemish didgeridoo lessons in wider Andalucia. Still, I kept such pessimistic predictions to myself and, sitting in the dewy grass beside their van, listened to what they had to say about this ancient instrument.

The didgeridoo is a long stem of gum tree, the inside of which has been gnawed out by termites. You don’t make your didgeridoo; you find it. You can decorate it to make it more to your liking, but the boring work has to be done by the termites. Heart of eucalyptus is as hard as steel. It’s a very ecological sort of instrument; apart from the noise it makes, it has a pretty minimal impact on the environment.

I had a free lesson, but couldn’t even get a whimper out of the thing. If you’re good, you should be able to make a continuous moaning sound, pulling air through your nose at the same time as you blow it out through your mouth and down the pipe.