I meanwhile stayed on, viewing my new property from every aspect. I scrambled up to the top of the twin-peaked hill across the river and looked across the dry scrub and pines to where El Valero appeared a little oasis with its dark fruit trees and bright streams of water. I could see Romero sitting in the riverbed on his horse, surrounded by his ill-favoured beasts, and his wife and daughter, backs bent to the planting of a terrace of garlic.
I climbed up the steep ridge behind the farm, way up till I could no longer hear the river and was lost amid the rosemary and thyme, with just the sound of the wind in the broom and the cries of unfamiliar birds. From there I looked over the whole valley, which widened at one end to gently sloping green fields and orchards before disappearing altogether into the deep cleft in the mountain where the river came rushing through, and at the other narrowing to the rocky gorge at El Granadino, the little settlement at the southern end of the valley. The farm looked infinitesimally small at the foot of the great hill, with a hillock at its tip, like the horn on the nose of a rhinoceros.
In the softening light of the afternoon I drove high up onto the Contraviesa, the great counterscarp to the southwest, and found a spot where I could see the whole valley, green and lovely and apparently inaccessible, lost amongst the dry hills of scrub and thorn.
My head was whirling with excitement; wild ideas and dreams pouring in. It was an amazing prospect. Every way I walked, and from each approach, I wondered at the beauty of the two rivers pouring into the wide valley, and the tall narrow gorge at its mouth. Then something began to dawn on me. This was a natural spot for a reservoir. A dam just fifty metres wide at the mouth of the gorge would fill the whole valley in weeks – two rivers, narrow gorge, just a few illiterate peasants to re-locate; the coastal towns just twenty kilometres south were dry as bricks, people drinking salty water from drying wells. It all fitted together. That was why everyone wanted to sell their farms. They’d be under water in a few years.
As this ghastly notion took hold, dark shadows started to shroud my new world. How the hell was I going to explain this to Ana? Even now, perhaps, she was scudding through the clouds towards the south of Spain. I ran dementedly down to the river to find Romero and his beasts.
‘Are they going to build a dam here and flood the valley?’
My future – to say nothing of my marriage – depended upon his reply. He looked at me in some surprise, a cunning grin playing across his unlovely features.
‘Of course.’
‘Do you mean to tell me,’ I squeaked, ‘that you’ve just sold me a place that will be twenty metres under the surface of a reservoir in a couple of years’ time?!’
‘Claro – naturally.’
‘How could you . .?’
‘Oh, you’ll be alright, they’ll pay you a whole heap of compensation for the place.’
‘But I haven’t bought it for the damn compensation, I want to live here . . . ’
‘That could well be difficult, under the water and that. But I must be off. I have to follow the beasts.’
And so saying, he whopped his horse with a stick and disappeared up the river.
PARADISE SUBMERGED
GEORGINA WAS LEANING ON A FRUIT MACHINE, READING A book about alchemy, when I burst into the Bar Retumba at the far end of town.
‘Georgina, what the hell is all this about a dam?’ I erupted.
‘A dam? What dam?’ She seemed genuinely puzzled.
‘Pedro Romero has just told me that they’re going to build a dam and flood the valley.’
‘Oh, that.’
‘What do you mean by “Oh, that!”?’
My look of anguish must have moved her, for she softened her tone a little. ‘Well, yes, there was a plan about twenty-five years ago to put a dam across the gorge and flood the valley, but the tests they did showed that it couldn’t be managed economically. The surrounding rock is like a sponge. And anyway, even if they do resurrect the scheme, you’ll be well paid for your trouble. It really isn’t a problem.’
‘Can we be sure of that? I mean absolutely sure?’
She mulled this over for a moment before shutting her book and reaching for her bag.
‘I’ll tell you what, we’ll go and see Domingo. He’s your nearest neighbour in the valley. He lives at La Colmena, at the north end. His family have lived there for years. He’s bound to know. I saw his car earlier so he must be around here somewhere.’
And she set off at her usual brisk pace along the main street of Órgiva, while I traipsed along in her wake.
‘Keep your eyes open,’ she ordered. ‘He’s easy to spot – one of the best-looking men you’ll see round here. He’s around thirty, short, but then so is everyone here, and balding a little . . . ’
‘Not the most promising of portraits,’ I commented, feeling that I could be forgiven a little peevishness in the circumstances.
‘Ah, just you wait and see. He’s built like a prize fighter and has the loveliest smile you could imagine.’ It seemed that the man had certainly worked some magic on Georgina.
Down we strode past the grandly named ‘Museum of Ham’, in reality just a small supermarket, past the town hall hung with its flags of Andalucía and Spain, and on to the main street and another cluster of bars.
Here we found my neighbour, leaning nonchalantly against a lamp post talking to a gypsy. He was trying to sell him a cow, or so it appeared. We waited to allow the transaction to reach some sort of conclusion, but it seemed to be a long time getting nowhere, both parties refusing absolutely to be swayed. A few bystanders had gathered round, keen to involve themselves in the deal. Georgina guided me to a bar across the street and signalled an invitation to Domingo to join us when he had finished his negotiations.
I watched Domingo from our table as he conducted his business. The other participants in the deal were listening with attention to what he had to say. He gave the impression of being accustomed to holding the floor. He was dressed in clean blue jeans, a white open-necked shirt and sneakers. The top of his head was, as Georgina had said, as bald as a shiny brown nut. Eventually he came over to join us. He shook hands with a shy smile, studying some spot below the table as Georgina introduced us.
‘Are you just going to come for holidays?’ he asked.
‘Hell no, we’re going to live here and farm.’
At this Domingo smiled, momentarily lifting his head. Georgina was absolutely right. His expression was transformingly handsome.
‘What do you know of the dam in the valley of La Colmena?’ Georgina asked. ‘Pedro Romero has been telling Cristóbal about some plans . . .’
‘Don’t listen to Romero,’ said Domingo quietly. ‘There was a project many years ago but it came to nothing. There’s no danger of its being revived.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ I gabbled. ‘You see, it’s really very important to us. We want to live out our days there, not cash in on compensation.’
‘Yes, of course I’m sure, but if you want to hear it from someone official we’ll go and see the mayor.’
With little more preamble we set out. In his sneakers and jeans Domingo wandered straight through the open door of the mayor’s office.
‘Hola, Antonio. This foreigner, Cristóbal, has bought the farm next to La Colmena, and he’s worried about the dam. I’ve told him, but I think he’d like to hear it from the mayor. You tell him.’
Antonio repeated all that Domingo had just told me. But by then I was no longer thinking of the dam. I was congratulating myself on landing such an estimable neighbour.
With this load off my mind, I collected Ana from the airport, skimming back towards Granada in the biscuit tin of a car that I had hired. We watched as the snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada appeared from a blue haze above the city and the winter sun set the tops glowing rose pink with the last rays of the day. Ana was enchanted and I too felt a bit dazed by the beauty of it all. What a place to come and live! We left Granada behind and climbed over the pass of Suspiro del Moro,
the Moor’s sigh, where the last Muslim king had turned to weep as he was exiled forever from his beloved city. Little wonder.
Pedro and Maria had invited us to stay the night and late in the evening we turned into the valley for Ana’s first view of our new home. In the light of the setting sun the fields along the road seemed even more beautiful than I had imagined. Ana seemed pleased with it all and I pointed things out to her proudly as we passed. Olives, oranges, lemons . . . cabbages . . . potatoes . . .
We climbed up over the cliffs of the gorge and into the valley.
‘There it is!’
You get a brief glimpse of El Valero just as you enter the valley, before it disappears again behind a great curtain of rock.
‘Where?’
‘Over there, you see? Up on the rock over the other side of the river.’
‘That?’
‘What do you mean “that”?’
‘Precisely that – that.’
‘Well “that” is it. El Valero. What do you think?’
‘I don’t think at all from this distance. I’ll reserve judgement till we get a little nearer.’
We drove on into the valley and stopped at a nearer vantage point. ‘Well, I think it really looks rather nice.’
I looked at Ana in amazement and delight. She is not generally given to such outbursts of enthusiasm.
We drove on a bit and parked the car where the road ran out. From here on we had to walk. ‘Piggeries?’ she asked. It was undoubtedly a question.
‘What?’
‘The piggeries?’ she asked again.
‘What piggeries? There’s no piggeries here!’
‘You told me that from the road to El Valero was just as far as the piggeries.’
‘Did I?’
The light was failing and I knew there was a long and rather tricky walk across the valley to get to the farm. We set off along the path down the hill, navigating a patch of bog where the way forded a stream, and then through a thicket of huge eucalyptus, sweet-smelling and whispering in the evening breeze, and ringing with birdsong. We emerged on the bank of the river. It tumbled full and clear down a steep bed of stones, crashing and roaring over the falls of smooth rocks and gliding in and out of the stiller pools.
I smiled and squeezed Ana’s hand as we set out eagerly across the pack-bridge, excited at the prospect of our first view together of our new home.
An hour and a half later it was growing steadily darker and we were thrashing about in a bramble patch up to our ankles in wet black mud. Spanish brambles are more vicious than English ones. Each thorn is a curved barb, and once they’ve got you they don’t much like to let you go.
‘I don’t know how you had the nerve to say it was only as far as the piggeries.’ The matter was clearly preying on Ana’s mind.
‘Distances can be very deceptive in this sort of terrain,’ I said pompously, while slithering about in the mud and dangling rather inelegantly by one ear from a bramble bush. ‘But I can’t imagine what has happened. I only bought this farm a few days ago and now I can’t even find it.’
‘That is most unlike you.’
I ignored the remark and peered on into the undergrowth. ‘This looks like the way I took last time, but it’s got a bit overgrown. Let’s go back to the big oleander and try the other way.’
At last we burst through a wicked clump of pampas grass in the enveloping darkness, and Ana spotted the pale dust of a path leading through clear ground.
‘That’s it. I knew it was here somewhere.’
And it was. As we puffed up the path with its rocky steps that had so delighted me when I first saw the place, I turned to Ana triumphantly and grinned at her in the dark. It was a warm night, the breeze scented with unfamiliar blooms, and as we trudged uphill a building loomed above us in the darkness. The scent of flowers gave way to that of dung and goats. ‘This is the house,’ I announced, indicating the murky outline with my arm, but Ana’s reply was drowned out by the yelping and snarling of the dogs. A door burst open and an ogreish voice cursed into the night.
‘Our host,’ I explained.
The door slammed shut again as we approached. I knocked and waited. The dogs growled and snarled around our knees. Once more the door opened and there stood Romero, with tiny Maria tucked behind his bulk. ‘Welcome,’ he beamed.
‘This is my wife, Ana.’
‘Good-looking wife,’ said Romero, looking her up and down with a lecherous glint.
‘How young you are and how lovely!’ enthused Maria, kissing her. ‘Come in, come in.’
We entered the room. Romero dealt a deft boot to the dogs sniffing our bags and closed the door behind us.
The sitting room at El Valero was small and square and all whitewashed but for the shiny cement floor. It contained a black plastic sofa facing two wooden chairs and a round table with a television. By way of decoration there was a plastic doll’s cutlery set hanging on one wall and a picture of Christ cut from a magazine on another. That was it – and there wasn’t a speck of dust. A bare bulb hung in the middle, feebly illuminating the scene.
We were ushered to the sofa. ‘No, no!’ I protested in my rather stilted Spanish. ‘We cannot sit on the only comfortable chair; we must sit on the hard wood.’
‘Alright,’ said Romero and slumped down onto the sofa, the better to leer at Ana. Ana got up and ratched about in her bag, pulling out an expensive tin of shortbread biscuits and handing it to Maria. Maria looked baffled and handed it to Romero. We all looked at one another in acute embarrassment, except for Romero who was busy prising the lid off the tin. He pulled out a biscuit, considered it and bit off a corner.
‘Arrgh! I can’t eat that. Tastes of cheese!’
‘They’re very popular in England, we thought you’d like them.’
‘No, we don’t.’ Romero grinned amiably.
Maria took the tin and put it in a dark store-room nearby. They would put a nice finish on the pigs, those Harrods tartan-tinned Highland Shortbreads.
We sat in silence for a bit, looking at each other.
Maria was the first to crack. ‘Welcome to our humble home,’ she said. ‘It’s very poor and very dirty but we’re very poor people so what can we do?’ She spread her hands and looked mournful.
‘No, no, it’s wonderful, beautiful – and immaculately clean.’ I nodded at Ana, indicating that she should agree. She smiled at Maria.
‘We got lost, couldn’t find the way across the valley,’ I said to Romero, hoping that Ana would continue the conversation I had started so considerately for her about the cleanliness – or otherwise – of houses.
‘Of course you did. You didn’t know the way,’ replied Romero, showing little sympathy and not much inclination to continue this line of conversation.
More silence. I coughed and pinched my leg, then grinned at everyone in turn. Romero grunted and lumbered over to the television and turned it on. The light bulb dimmed. A raucous hissing filled the room and something akin to the sound of massed frogs croaking in a distant pool. Eventually a blizzard appeared on the screen with shadows moving simultaneously up and down and from side to side. Romero moved to one side so we could all watch the screen and raised his head quizzically, inviting our admiration.
‘It’s a fine television,’ I offered hastily. ‘Incredible that you can have a television all the way out here. Hah! The wonders of the twentieth century!’ But nobody was listening to me; they were all engrossed by the programme – whatever on earth it was. Romero returned to the sofa and we watched the indecipherable nonsense on the screen for five minutes or so. I’ve known some long five minutes in my time but this outlasted them all. Then Romero got up and flicked a switch to change the channel. Another blizzard, more shadows accompanied by distant batrachian croakings, indefinably different. We all settled down to watch this new extravaganza.
Another five long minutes and Romero had had enough of the second programme, so he got up and switched over again.
‘Marvello
us,’ I said. ‘Absolutely marvellous. Tell me, how many programmes can you get on that incredible apparatus?’
‘Oh, just the two,’ he said deprecatingly. ‘This is the first one again.’
So there we sat, the four of us, captivated by whatever scene was unravelling before us, occasionally nodding or grinning at one another in approval, until finally Romero got up and switched the wretched thing off.
‘Well, that’s enough of that,’ I grinned. ‘I’m not saying that I don’t enjoy TV . . . but really it’s no substitute for the – er – for the sweet milk of good conversation . . . is it?’
A thick silence ensued. I felt like a dead pig in a tea-room. I pinched my leg again. I enjoy the sound of my own voice, but this was getting too much even for my thick skin.
‘Well, er . . . how does it feel to be going to live in the cortijo near the town? It’ll be very nice for you, I’m sure.’
‘It’s a nightmare,’ wailed Maria. ‘A death. We belong here in our beloved Valero. We are happy here. But we had to sell it and you bought it for less than nothing. We are poor people and now we are poorer – what can we do?’ And she spread her hands in that gesture of hers that indicated despair. All this she spoke with a warm and engaging smile.
‘Oh dear, I don’t want to drive you from your home. We’re not going to be moving in for a while. You can stay here all summer. No, for heaven’s sake, you can stay as long as . . . ’ A fierce cough from Ana drowned the rest.
We resumed the silence, Romero staring fixedly at Ana, until I was spurred into a fresh conversational gambit by a strong smell wafting through the window on the stiff breeze.
‘Goats! Got goats here, have you?’
‘Yes, goats.’
‘They’ve got goats here, Ana.’
‘How interesting.’
‘Would you like a glass of milk?’ asked Maria.
Driving Over Lemons Page 2