Parrot in the Pepper Tree (20 page)

‘Look, I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll go and see
El Director,
Don Antonio, and see if he suggests anything. How about that?’

‘Fine’, I said, ‘that’s fine with me,’ and I was taken along to the headmaster’s study. I hadn’t been in one of these for years, and was amazed to find myself gnawing away at the corner of my thumbnail. But Don Antonio had a friendly intelligent manner that soon put me at my ease. We shook hands warmly.

‘How can I help you?’ he asked

I looked at Don Manuel and Don Manuel looked at me. Then he stated my case.

‘Yes, that’s it exactly,’ I said.

‘Alright then,’ said Don Antonio slowly. ‘But tell me just why you want your daughter to do
ética
rather than
religión?’

I coughed, buying time. ‘Well, it’s like this…’ and I offered Don Antonio a halting argument about humanist ideals and a wish to encourage Chloë to think beyond the constraints of religion.

‘That seems reasonable to me,’ he said. ‘But you do see Manuel’s problem, don’t you? If we extend this privilege to your daughter, then the whole lot will want out of
religión
and into
ética. Ética
is a very popular subject, you know?

‘So I’ve been told,’ I answered.

‘But I’ll tell you what,’ said
El Director.
‘You write me a letter stating succinctly your reasons for removing Chloë from the religion class, and I will make an exception for you.

‘You shall have it by Monday morning,’ I said.

‘What did he say, Daddy, what did he say?’ I wonder why children have to repeat everything.

‘Well, I went to see the
Director
and he said that if I can write him a good letter, then he’ll let you move to
ética.’

‘Oh Daddy, thank you, thank you.

‘But you’ll have to go to
religión
on Friday, I’m not going to finish the letter that soon.

‘I don’t mind, Daddy, I don’t mind at all?

I had the rest of the week and the weekend to get the letter done. And I needed every minute. This was the big league, a philosophical essay to the Head Teacher. I was going to need time to build up a pace, go down some blind alleys and recover myself or explore my central thesis from a range of angles.

I sharpened my pencil, poured myself a drink, and set about killing a few flies. Then I opened my book, scraped some candlewax off the table, and picked up the newspaper.

I awoke with a start as a voice impinged upon my reverie.

‘Are you writing that letter to the
Director,
Daddy?’

‘Er, yes, as a matter of fact I am?

‘Can I see what you’ve written?’

‘It’s not much yet — it just says
Estimado don Antonio.’

‘In Spanish, you write
Don
with a capital letter.’

‘Oh, you do, do you?’

‘You haven’t got very far with it yet, have you?’ Chloë added, picking up her felt pens and moving to the far end of the room.

Soon, though, the muse started to take control, and I banged off three or four tolerable paragraphs. As I sat back and admired them, Ana came in.

‘How’s the essay going?’ she asked, and then, seeing that I was on to my second page, added, ‘Finished with the Counter-Reformation, yet?’ There was a definite smirk playing around the corners of her mouth. Chloë, however, had jumped up with an anxious look on her face.

‘It’s not going at all badly, in spite of interruptions.’ I waved the page airily in Ana’s direction — a foolish move as I hadn’t meant her to read it just yet.

Ana’s look changed to one of furrowed concentration. ‘Chris, you can’t say that…’ she announced, taking hold of the sheet.

‘What can’t he say?’ asked Chloë, moving across to the table.

‘Look, who’s writing this letter, for heaven’s sake?!’

‘It’s too obscure, Chris. I don’t think anyone will understand what on earth you’re on about,’ said Ana, in all seriousness now.

‘Oh Daddy, please do it properly — please Daddy?

‘What exactly do you mean, for instance, continued Ana, ‘by
the distortion of children’s natural striving toward the Numinous?
Where on earth has all this come from?’

She had a point. ‘Maybe you’re right…’

‘But do you know what it means?’

‘Er… I read it in a book, it’s about being awed by the presence of the divine.’ In truth it didn’t sound much more convincing in the author’s own voice.

‘Daddy!’ came an exasperated splutter from Chloë. ‘What’s THAT got to do with anything — and it’s
la razon,
not
el razon
—don’t you know
anything?’

Then, with a concentrated look on her face, Chloë began to dictate, stressing each word with a wave of her felt pen. ‘Why don’t you just say that you want me to grow up to be a good citizen in a thingy… uh… secular society. And you think
ética
can teach me that best.’ She finished with a dramatic rap of her pen on the table and then dragged her seat towards me to supervise the secretarial work.

I was dumbfounded. Even Ana had an eyebrow raised. If this change of lessons could bring out such rhetoric from my daughter, then it was surely worthwhile.

‘Chloë,’ I gasped. ‘That’s brilliant. That’s an amazingly good argument — simple, to-the-point…’

‘Well,’ Chloë shrugged. ‘It worked for Hannah and Alba Recio. I don’t see why I shouldn’t say it too?’

On Monday morning I stuffed the letter into the most respectable-looking envelope I could find and sent it to school with Chloë. ‘If you lose this letter, then you’re stuck with
religión
for life,’ I admonished her.

Next day Chloë returned from school in a state of euphoria.

‘Don Manuel says I don’t have to go to
religión
any more,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Daddy, thank you.’

I was really rather pleased.

Later that week I saw Hannah’s mother, Tina, in town. Tina is an attractive, energetic woman who runs a doctor’s surgery and a farm with her husband. However, she’s never too busy to stop and talk and it’s always a pleasure.

‘Chloë’s thrilled to be joining the
ética
class with Hannah,’ I announced. I thought of adding a brief account of my letter-writing efforts but it seemed gratuitous.

‘Uh-huh,’ said Tina, as if waiting for the main subject.

This piqued me slightly. ‘I’m a bit worried,’ I persevered, ‘that she might find herself quite far behind the rest of the class. She hasn’t been given any course books yet, you see.

‘Course books?’ Tina looked at me incredulously. ‘But she’s doing
ética.’

‘I know, but they must have some sort of reference book?’

‘Chris,’ she said, looking at me with the same incredulous look. ‘You do know what
ética
is? Don’t you?’

‘Well, I think so, I’ve put together a pretty good argument as to why Chloë should do it..? But I never did get to repeat Chloë’s rhetoric because Tina’s next words took the wind from my sails.

‘It’s colouring-in, Chris.’

‘Urp’, I gulped. ‘So no debates on morality, then?’

‘No, Chris, just… crayons.’

ONE OF THE THINGS THAT HAD PROMPTED ANA AND ME TO SETTLE in Andalucia was our shared love of flamenco. Before arriving here we both had visions of going off to Granada for all-night sessions at flamenco clubs, while I nurtured the idea of reviving the guitar-lessons of my youth at the feet of some local maestro. In the event, we’ve seen an awful lot more shepherds than guitarists during our time here. Either it’s been too hard to find someone to look after the animals, or we hadn’t wanted to haul Chloë into dark, smoky bars, or the money just wouldn’t stretch. In fact, the sad truth is that most of our exposure to the top-notch Andalucian players has been through tapes kindly sent by friends in Madrid.

As luck would have it, though, Chloë has developed her own love of flamenco dance — or, to be more exact, a love of
Sevillanas,
the castanet-clacking fare of every Andalucian fiesta. From an early age she would stand spellbound at the front of a stage, studying every movement of the dancers. Later, when we bought her first flamenco dress, it thrilled me to see her swirling, clapping or stomping along with them. I had hoped that her enthusiasm might have prompted her to pick up the guitar but, sadly, she has resisted all my attempts to interest her in the instrument. Sadder still, and painfully resonant of my Seville days, she appears to prefer the accompaniment of a cassette tape to her dad.

The local maestros all failed to materialise, too. None of the country folk who would occasionally stay for a drink and a
tapa
on our terrace showed the slightest inclination to pull down one of the guitars which hung on our walls. Even Domingo, who seems able to turn his hand to anything, proved oblivious to this part of his heritage.
‘Me da igual,’
he said, using that bleak Andalucian phrase — ‘it’s all the same to me’ — when I got my guitar down and asked if he enjoyed music.

So, when Ben rang to say he’d like to come and stay, and would be bringing his guitar, I skipped like a lamb. ‘That’s great, Ben,’ I burbled. ‘Yes, by all means, come just whenever you like, and stay for good.’

Since I had never met Ben before, the offer, as Ana pointed out, was perhaps a bit rash. But I had heard about him. He was the nephew of a very close friend in London and had come to Spain to do just what I should have been doing: learn proper flamenco technique at a guitar school in Granada.

Ben arrived the morning after his phone call and before the sun had set on his dusty yellow 2CV he had become that rare thing, the indispensable guest. He was utterly disarming — tall, blond, with a cultured air and aquiline nose — like some character washed up by the sea from the classical world. For three weeks he dazzled us all: Ana with his conversation and charm; Chloë by being fun and introducing her to a whole new set of tricks and clapping games; and me with his guitar playing, which filled me with inspiration. During his month at flamenco school Ben had picked up an impressive repertoire which he played with an easy fluidity, and the lovely sound of his guitar washed over us all like a stream across a bed of pebbles.

El Valero is made for guitar music: ‘If I were really rich,’ I had often thought to myself, ‘I would employ a minstrel.’ Ben was the next best thing, but a few months earlier I had in fact almost acquired a minstrel. His name was Angel — and it suits him, for I have met few souls quite so ethereal.

I ran into Angel one winter evening, near the house of a Muslim family at the top end of the valley. ‘You wouldn’t by any chance have a job for me, would you?’ he asked.

‘Well, I can give you all the work you want,’ I assured this gentle-looking spectre. ‘But I’m afraid there’s no money to pay you. Why, what do you do anyway?’

‘Well man, I play guitar and I can sing, and I guess I’m something of an artist — and I’m really good at
yeso,
plastering.’

I was a little taken aback. Did Angel really think that I would pay him to play guitar and sing to me — or even pay him to paint me pictures?
Yeso
was good — I could always use some plaster-work — but as I had said, I had no money for pay.

‘I suppose the guitar playing would be quite a bit cheaper than the
yeso
work?’ I enquired, idly.

‘Oh yeah, man. I mean I really wouldn’t charge a whole lot of money to play guitar for you.’

I sat in silence for a minute, taking this on board.

‘When do I start?’ asked Angel brightly.

‘I’m sorry, Angel. I’d love to be the sort of guy who can employ a guitarist or an artist or a minstrel, but I’m afraid it’s not going to happen in this life.’

I went on my way, leaving Angel a little crestfallen.