A Matter of Latitude

by Isobel Blackthorn

  The British couple I worked for had bought and renovated an old farmhouse on the edge of Punta Mujeres and lived in it for a few years before deciding to sell. They found it impossible to find a buyer in the new economic climate so they let out the farmhouse as a holiday rental, following a well-trodden path. Many foreign homeowners choose to own a square of island paradise and establish a holiday let, and Celestino said they often do so without the local government's knowledge or approval and invariably without paying local taxes. Provide the right conditions and anyone will take advantage, it seems. Lanzarote is not an island for the scrupulous. Is anywhere? Yet the holiday lets provide much low paid casual employment. And just as it is with any migrant group the world over, the Brits prefer to deal with those they know and can trust—their own kind—which means residents like me can find such employment with relative ease. Exceptional ease in my case: Shirley put me on to the job, shoving a flier in my hand one afternoon when we encountered each other at the bank.

  After Richard's insult, I only managed one more shift. It was a Tuesday, and a party of vacationers had just departed. I traipsed through the rooms, stripping beds and attending to dollops of this and that stuck fast to walls and floors, to the handprints on the windows, the grime on the stove, the orange juice that had leaked in the fridge, and the hairs in the shower. All that filth and I earned no extra to deal with it. I felt more demoralised with every minute that passed. It didn't take long to make up my mind that I'd rather go hungry than suffer another moment. My decision was sealed when I opened the used toilet paper bin—onsite sewerage treatment on the island doesn't cope with the accoutrements of the toilet—to find streaks of brown and red and a sickly stench so overwhelming I blenched. It took all my resolve to empty it.

  Without casual employment, my resentment swelled over Celestino's determination to live off the earnings from his art. It was a resentment I struggled to quell, ashamed to find myself one of those people who put money before creativity. I resolved to adopt the attitude that it was the price paid when relocating to a tiny island off the coast of Africa. A few weeks later, I managed to climb up a rung of the menial-job ladder. Waitressing is still skivvying, but there is at least some dignity to it.

  Sunlight burst through the clouds, dappling the shade in the plaza. Richard stops in his tracks and dips a hand in his pocket as though to make sure he has his wallet. He pats the other and a look of mild relief appears in his face. He's aged. There's a lot more salt in his hair, the peppery threads all but gone. He looks drawn, thinner, and his upright gait is laboured. I raise a smile as he nears, and he reciprocates.

  'Hello, Paula.' He comes to a halt and forgoes the customary greeting by pocketing both of his hands. The newspaper under his arm slips down to his elbow. He braces and extracts a hand to grab it before it falls.

  'Waiting for someone?' He makes a show of admiring my outfit and glancing around.

  'She's late.'

  'She?'

  'My neighbour.'

  'Celestino hard at work then.'

  'Survive the storm okay?' I reply quickly.

  'Thankfully, yes. And you?'

  'Fine.'

  'Can I buy you a coffee?'

  'She should be here any moment.'

  'Then she can join us. We can sit somewhere prominent.'

  'Really I…'

  'That table's free,' he says, looking over at the rows of mostly empty tables outside Antonio's café. 'Come on.'

  His persistence is puzzling. I glance at my watch. It's a quarter past eleven. Maybe Shirley has changed her mind.

  I choose a seat facing out towards the street, smoothing down my dress as I sit. Richard pulls out the opposite chair. I wave him aside and indicate the one on my right.

  'Yes, of course.' Richard looks nonplussed but he obliges. With inward attention, he places on the table beside him the day's newspaper, folded in half, and he spends a few moments cleaning the lenses of his glasses. He doesn't put them on. Rather, he sets them down carefully so that the rims line up with the paper's title, as if underscoring it: 'Yaiza Mayor Opens Playa Blanca's New All-Inclusive Resort'. There's the usual cheesy grin for the camera. I make no comment, not wanting to get into a discussion about the effect all-inclusives have on the local economy with someone as ill-informed as Richard.

  Antonio approaches and welcomes us both with a warm hello and a menu.

  '¿Qué tal?' he says, directing his inquiry at me.

  'Bien,' I answer, although I don't feel at all good.

  '¿Algunas noticias sobre Celestino?'

  'Nada,' I say, lowering my gaze, hoping Richard can't understand the question, at once somewhat baffled at the intense privacy I feel in his presence.

  Sensing my unease, Antonio says, 'Perdoname,' which only serves to worsen the situation, for Richard is sure to know what begging your pardon means in any language.

  '¿Café?'

  'Si, gracias. Dos cafecitos.'

  '¿Para él?'

  'Sí, para él también.'

  As Antonio strides away, I turn to Richard. 'You still drink espresso, I take it? I ordered for both of us.'

  'Yes, I know. I heard. I can speak Spanish too.'

  'Of course.' I cringe inwardly. 'I was forgetting.'

  I stop short of explaining that waiting on tables has shown me the complexities of the variations, the accents. I have to work hard at my own fluency to keep up. Interpreting isn't necessarily that straightforward either, and there was one time only last month when an Englishman sat down, all grandiose gestures and false airs, treating me as though I was a backpacker on a long holiday. His mispronounced Spanish when he tried to order tapas had thrown me and I brought out the little salty potatoes instead of the squid he wanted. Flustered, when he then told me to fetch another two chairs because some friends of his were due to arrive any second, I tried to convince him to move to another table. I communicated to him in Spanish, believing that was what he preferred, and yet he couldn't, or wouldn't, understand me. Instead he demanded to speak to the manager and stood up abruptly, spilling a carafe of water on the table. It was a moment of intense chagrin, having to stand there and remain polite to a man I felt like slapping. I was thankful no one I knew was in the restaurant at the time. But I could feel all eyes on me as I went to the kitchen, and could scarcely defend myself when the proprietor, Eileen, sought my version of events.

  'I wonder, Paula,' Richard says, interrupting my thoughts. 'You don't happen to know of a good gardener?'

  'A gardener? Haría is full of gardeners.'

  'For hire, I mean.'

  'For your place?'

  'I'm finding it hard with my back. Too much bending.'

  'Have you tried asking at the supermarkets? They might know of someone. “Un jardinero”, or “una jardinera”.'

  'I can ask.'

  'But you might not understand what they tell you in reply?' Or them you, I think but don't say. 'Everyone speaks so rapidly.'

  'I thought I'd ask you first.'

  'I can't help you, but if I come across anyone, I'll let you know.'

  'That would be wonderful.'

  Antonio comes with the coffees. He sets them down with deft care, then looks at us both inquiringly.

  'Would you like to eat something, Paula,' Richard says.

  'I'm about to have lunch.' I hand back my menu to Antonio and draw my cup closer. 'You go ahead, though.'

  'I've some cold meat in the fridge,' Richard says, handing back his as well.

  'And pumpernickel?' I say, recalling the day I discovered he brought it with him from England.

  'Ever the tease.' He laughs lightly then his demeanour changes. 'What's all this about Celestino? Antonio wanted to know if you have any news.'

  Damn. I think it best not to reply and we fall into a moment of awkward silence.

  Richard breaks it with, 'Pardon me for asking, then.'

  I sip my coffee and stare at the street, wishing Shirley would hurry up.

  'Paula, I
didn't mean to upset you, or to pry. Your private life is your affair.' He fiddles with the spoon in his saucer. 'I've been meaning to get in touch. I hope you don't mind. It's just that I have something to ask you. Something else to ask you.'

  'Ask me or ask of me?' I say, keeping my eyes fixed on the street.

  'Ask of, I suppose.'

  'And what might that be, Richard?'

  'My latest work.'

  'I thought so.'

  'I need your advice.'

  'Really? On what?'

  'Water storage.'

  'I don't know a thing about water storage. You're mistaking me for Ann.' I didn't mean to sound quite that tart.

  He ignores my tone, or is oblivious to it.

  'Fresh water storage,' he says matter-of-factly. 'Aljibes, actually.'

  'Aljibes?' I can't help correcting his pronunciation. He said all-hee-bees. 'What on earth would you want to know? They're nothing more than underground water tanks.'

  'The one at La Corona. It's ancient. You're the expert on local historical sites. I was wondering what you knew about that one.'

  'I'm not an expert.'

  'Of course, you are.'

  It's true I know far more than him, although nowhere near as much as I would like. When I moved here, I made it my business to know all about the island in the hope of securing a job in tourism, only to find my language skills were not up to the mark.

  'I know little, Richard. Some Conejeros must have spent a long time digging a ruddy great hole and lining it with cement.'

  'Is that it? A pity. It's terribly important.'

  'I'm sure it is.'

  'It's the setting for my latest crime novel. The Aljibe.'

  'The Aljibe?'

  'Whatever is wrong with that title?'

  'Sounds like a Western.'

  'It does not!'

  I can't help taking pleasure in needling his oversensitivity. 'Richard, it should be El Aljibe, at the very least,' I say with a wry smile.

  'Whatever you think, Paula. Will you come with me one day this week, or not? To La Corona, I mean.'

  'Richard, I can't.'

  'You can't,' he repeats flatly.

  I refrain from telling him why. If he's trying to make me feel guilty, it isn't working. I sip more of my coffee, tiring of waiting in his company. I begin to consider going home when Shirley corners the plaza. She's changed into a flowing chiffon dress of lurid orange with matching scarf. She stops suddenly, feet apart, hands on hips, making a show of looking around, her manner suggesting that whoever it is she's looking for should be right there. She spots me and strides over.

  'Sorry I'm late.' Her hands grip the back of a chair. 'Maria phoned, and then I had to get changed.'

  I take in the chandelier earrings and accompanying necklace of fake white gold she has on. Garbed in orange, she looks like a fancy cup cake.

  Shirley shifts her gaze to Richard, and putting on a prim voice she says, 'Richard Parry, isn't it?' She proffers her hand. 'I heard you were back.'

  'You did?' Richard appears puzzled.

  'Richard,' I cut in, 'this is my neighbour, Shirley.'

  'I'm not sure we've met,' Richard says, shaking her hand.

  'We have. Once or twice, but not formally. How's the writing?'

  'Very well, thank you.'

  I stare down at my half-drunk coffee. It's the way he says things, so abruptly and defensive. A sudden beep startles me and I look over as a car reverses to let a small truck go by. Celestino flashes into my mind and I'm awash with guilt that I'm not out there searching for him, guilt that quickly shades into irritation. Life goes on. Whatever has happened to him, life has to go on.

  Shirley opens her mouth to speak when Richard says, 'How long have you been on the island?'

  'Twenty years. I'm practically a local.' She emits a self-deprecating laugh.

  I find myself recoiling. It's a reaction I often have to the claim made by expats that the time they've lived on the island earns them the right to a 'local' identity. For with it comes an implicit sense of ownership. Here we are, three Brits living in an island paradise, staking a claim like Bethencourt himself. Little wonder the Lanzaroteños, the real locals, call all the migrants 'estranjeros', which literally means strangers, for strangers we are and will always be, forever outside no matter what we ourselves think, here by invitation and not by divine right. I'm surprised by the strength of how I feel, and the hypocrisy embedded in it, for I know I have to include myself in the condemnation, despite my marriage to Celestino.

  Seated in the plaza of the island's ancient capital with two Brits who one way or another epitomise the cultural arrogance I despise, I suffer a sense of collective shame over the numbers of estranjeros who flock to Lanzarote, to all of the Canary Islands, or even to mainland Spain, a nation that undoubtedly has made the whole life-in-the-sun dream possible, easy and enticing.

  Shirley steps aside to let Antonio pass by behind her.

  'I'm going to steal Paula away from you, Richard, if that's all right. We have a lunch date.'

  'Where are you off to?'

  'Didn't Paula tell you? Costa Teguise.'

  'To the Dicken's Bar?'

  'You've been there?' Shirley replies.

  'There's a writer's group that meets there, but no I haven't.'

  'Surely you've been invited to give a little talk.'

  'They wouldn't pay your fee.'

  'How did you know that, Paula?' Richard says, a look of astonishment appearing in his face.

  'To answer your original question, Mr Parry, no, we are not going to the Dickens Bar.' And with that, Shirley makes to walk away.

  'Have an enjoyable time, then.'

  'We will.'

  Richard looks disappointed not to have received an invitation. The man's sense of entitlement beggar's belief. I have never encountered in him such neediness. I almost feel sorry for him as I walk away.

  Shirley drives a blue Maserati coupe and she drives it fast. She has to sit on a cushion to see through the windscreen and she's had the foot pedals lengthened. She looks even smaller behind the wheel, child size, and it's as much as I can do to keep from screaming out, alarmed as I am by the proximity of the walls—low stone or the high white-washed walls of the buildings—that whizz by as we pass. It's my first time in Shirley's car and I don't feel at all safe. My eyes won't leave the tarmac. As the car hurtles towards the hairpin at the edge of the plateau, I have to resist gripping my seat. Shirley lunges into the bend, the car leaning hard to the left, and once through, she storms down the straight descent towards the sweeping hairpin at the bottom. I remain quiet. I don't want to break Shirley's concentration until we make it to the Arrieta roundabout a couple of kilometres further on.

  It is Shirley who speaks first. Heading across the coastal plain, she says, 'How long have you known Richard?'

  I quickly realise Shirley knows little about me beyond the general comments that neighbours make about their lives and the little updates I volunteer concerning Gloria, Bill and Angela. I recall my old neighbour in Ipswich, Carol, the one with the struggling eucalypt, how close we were, and it's with a measure of nostalgia in my heart that I answer. 'He was the first English person I met when I moved here four years ago.'

  'Aloof, if you don't mind me saying. Don't you find him aloof?'

  'Not really.'

  'Stiff then.'

  I picture his injured back. 'Yes, stiff. Definitely.' Perhaps his back influences his manner, or is it the other way around? 'He comes to the island to write,' I add.

  'Got that. I heard his wife's full on. Have you met her?'

  'Trish? No, I haven't.'

  It suddenly seems odd he keeps his English wife tucked away at home in Bunton.

  'Have you read Ico's Promise?' Shirley asks, continuing with the topic. Her acerbic tone leaves me wondering where the conversation is heading.

  'Not yet.' I feel bad admitting it.

  'Don't bother. It's a travesty. He did the island such a disservi
ce.'

  'Surely not.'

  Although I can perhaps imagine how. Richard's ability to comprehend the history of the island with any depth or sympathy is limited. He's too quick to judge, to draw conclusions. I'm surprised to find myself defending him.

  'You won't be saying that after you've read it.' Shirley says. 'He portrayed Ico as a product of unwarranted lust, a half-breed who promised nothing and gave nothing, and left the island at the mercy of her son, Guadarfia.'

  'Guadarfía,' I say correctly, stressing the penultimate syllable.

  'If you insist. Richard had it that this Guadarfeeya, as you say, surrendered to the Spanish since they were genetically his own kind. The way Richard tells it, Ico should have failed that smoke test and died. Where on earth did he come up with it? Every danger something like that would put people off coming here.'

  'It's only a book,' I say, alarmed at the fast approaching Arrieta roundabout.

  'That's as maybe.' She presses down on the brake, coming to an abrupt stop on the white line. 'He's well known. People are easily influenced.'

  A stream of traffic flows through from the north. Must be the end of a cave tour, I think, recalling the time I shared that experience with Richard. He spent the whole tour talking to me about his dear sweet Ann.

  Shirley taps the steering wheel, waiting for a chance to pull out.

  'I don't rate him much as a writer, to be honest. Do you?'

  'Haversack Harvest's okay.' I try to come up with something positive to say about the book but my mind goes blank.

  Shirley puts her foot down on the accelerator and the Maserati shoots out in front of a red hatchback.

  'He has no right to come here and use the island for his own personal gain,' she says. 'There, I've said it.'

  'Why ever not?' A writer has to get their inspiration from somewhere. Yet I'm horrified to hear my own thoughts reflected back at me, a view shared by Celestino too; a literary gold digger—that's what he called him. He said he got the term from Domingo.

  The moment I have the thought I'm tense. I haven't dwelt on Celestino's whereabouts for perhaps half an hour, and now he's with me, summoned to the forefront of my mind.

  On the wider arterial road that connects the northern tip to the capital, Arrecife, Shirley's fast driving is less confronting. Although she doesn't care much for cyclists. As we approach the Costa Teguise turn off, my determination to accommodate my neighbour's driving is given a thorough run for its money as she barrels towards a brace of Lycra-clad men. Determined to frighten, she waits until the last opportunity to slow down, coming up far too close behind and whipping round them with only a whisker to spare.