Virginity Despoiled

by Charles Brett

  María did not want to return to his architect's office where she was the drafting engineer. Compared to what she was doing for Enrique, that job wasted her abilities. In Enrique's pueblo she was in her element. Even having to sleep in the spare room at Enrique and Lili's in Úbeda itself, knowing that the former was two floors above and Lili far away, was tolerable providing she was occupied by expanding Enrique's olive inspection machine, or OIM as Lili had sneered before leaving for Yuste.

  OIM2 would process more than ten times the physical capacity of OIM1, able to handle 400 olives every few seconds. She hoped, by utilising some fancy heuristic software found on the Internet, to persuade OIM2 to teach itself faster ways to differentiate between infected and uninfected olives. If this worked out, OIM2 would improve its accuracy while reducing processing time. Perhaps as many as 6,000 olives might pass through each hour.

  Delivering turned out to be more complicated than expected, yet it provided unmitigated pleasure and enabled María to explore what was possible starting with almost nothing. On balance she was content. If she could progress and drop the recognition time by another half, and reorganise the washing and sorting, maybe Enrique would consider opening the big mill. At present her OIM2 would supply only sufficient to keep the intermediate olive mill busy, and only when it had finished with producing EVOO from the Super High Density trellises. To her chagrin, Enrique had worried on and on about this for the past three days, ignoring her even as she constructed OIM2.

  While María didn't understand the quality intricacies, Enrique's domain, she did appreciate his imperative that olives must not wait around between the picking, sorting and pressing. Enrique was resolute in ramming this into her.

  The last of the Super High Density olives would arrive from the massive harvester today. As an engineer she was almost as captivated with it as Enrique, if for different reasons. Once her sorting equipment orders were placed she had inspected it hoovering up olives as it inched along the trellises – a noisy process. Very noisy. Deafening would be more accurate. Following it along, she admired its thoroughness. Few fruit remained on the trellises. This amazed her. The engineer who'd dreamt this beast up was a genius.

  Inside the intermediate mill, all was about efficiency. The olives came in from the trellises in high-sided trailers. Unloaded gently into large hoppers, thus minimising the chance of bruising, the olives passed through washing and twig-removal before entering the mill where they met two large concrete wheels turning in a circle.

  Once crushed, the olives became a mash, which moved to what Enrique called a 'malaxer'. Malaxing involved stirring the crushed paste so that small oil droplets combined into bigger ones. Enrique explained he could obtain more oil by heating the mash, but this was not acceptable for Extra Virgin Olive Oil, which must not have heat added. He could also increase the oil yield by extending the malaxing. The downside was that the additional time involved encouraged oxidation, which decreased the shelf life of the end product.

  As always there were trade-offs. They involved judgement and balance. Enrique had a good team working here. María admired how well they knitted together.

  The final step split the oil from the rest of the olives' component parts, crushed skin, pits and all. Traditionally, weights or screw presses squeezed out the oil. Enrique preferred modern centrifuges. These spun the oil from the paste and water.

  Once separated, the EVOO trickled into steel containers. It was less of a flow, for so much volume from the malaxer, than María expected. The oil was removed in its steel containers to sit in cool dark rooms, with gravity performing a final detachment of any remaining water, which rose to the top before being drained off. Bottling followed.

  As María looked on, Enrique emerged from behind a machine with a huge smile on his face.

  "It's going well?"

  "It's fantastic. Better than my wildest dreams. The quality, at least at the moment, is as good as I could dream of for a first crop. I'm looking forward to tasting it once Lili's back."

  "You haven't tried it yet?"

  "Well, I have," answered an embarrassed Enrique. "But only running across my fingers. Lili and I have a ritual for deciding on the quality level. Not only will we taste this but we'll compare it to last year's and the previous one and some of our competitors. You must join us."

  María wasn't certain she could stomach tasting neat olive oil, however good. The smell in the intermediate mill, combined with the noise of the crusher, malaxer and centrifuges, oppressed. Anxious to appear positive, she nodded encouragement.

  "What about you? How is OIM2 shaping up?"

  "I'm ready to start building whenever you can free up this press."

  "I've had a better idea, or hopefully I have. Why don't we exploit the big mill's preparation space? That way you can have a dedicated facility now. If your sorting goes faster than we're able to mill olives here, we needn't hold you back. If you go fast enough for us to start the big mill, you'll already be in the right place."

  "Won't that introduce inefficiency, carrying the accepted olives from the big mill to the intermediate?"

  "Yes, but it's worth it, in case you can deliver sufficient volume to open the big mill. I've every confidence in your next OIM and there'd even be room to expand it, if appropriate."

  María glowed. It was the first real OIM-related compliment from Enrique. Lots of thanks, yes. This appreciation of her ingenuity was worth more – a first.

  "I think we may want to offer processing to others in the area. What about an OIM3, double the size again?"

  María almost swooned. It resolved her doubts on the spot. Stuff the architect's office! Stuff the risk! She would stay here to enjoy herself.

  Saturday: Yuste

  Lili had the house to herself. The wood-burning stove doled out warmth while heavy rain crashed onto the terrace outside. Inma had left to buy food and to meet a friend who ran a shop in the local pueblo. Inma hadn't specified what sort of shop, but she claimed to possess a minority interest. In her words, she would be inspecting her investment.

  Lili phoned Enrique. All was well at home. He was enthusiastic about the quality of the oil from the Super High Density grove and convinced she would like it. But he needed her to refine the Picual/Arbequina blend. He had suggested that each cultivar might be good enough to make Olivos Ramos y Tremblay Picual EVOO, a similar one for Arbequina and a blended one. He required her presence to make the decision, which had marketing implications. Each cultivar or combination possessed its own sensory signature. The harvester would leave tomorrow. All that remained would be to salvage what was possible from the standard groves.

  He had pleased Lili by insisting she must be in Úbeda for the blending decisions. He had annoyed her by raving about María, just as he had about Ana. He was like a forty-something teenager. Lili couldn't decide what she felt or should feel.

  Theirs had not been a formal marriage but it had possessed most of the trappings minus children. Moving back into her own suite was the correct move but it left a hole. Lili missed his masculine attention, particularly when she could dominate.

  She had raised the subject of men with Inma and received short shrift. Inma explained about her Opus background, including her celibacy. She'd even showed Lili her private chapel. It didn't look used these days. Dusty. Probably, like herself, Inma was sexless. Well, not sexless but not interested.

  It was clear Inma didn't have a man, or men, hanging round. Lili found this incredible, not with her dress sense and a body out of Sports Illustrated. Yes, her face was severe and not obviously attractive until she smiled. But her hair was a delight, so rich and lustrous compared to Lili's.

  The previous day, after spending hours exploring the insurance dimensions, Inma had introduced Lili to her exercise regime. Though Lili had asked to participate, the experience was a disaster. Lili was incapable of anything Inma executed with ease. They embarrassed each other.

  Eventually Lili took the initiative by watching Inma perform. That was
the only word to use. It was a performance. And sexy. Lili knew male bankers who would pay a small – no, a large – fortune to goggle at what she had been privileged to admire. On a small stage it would captivate. Inma had another potential career as an exercise artist. Lili said as much when Inma'd finished. Inma flushed, and changed the subject. Odd. It took all sorts.

  Lili relaxed in her chair. It supported her to perfection. The rain drummed beyond the windows. Drifting off to sleep, she forgot all about insurance and impending disaster.

  Parked in the pueblo, protected by a large umbrella, Inma bought meat, fish, vegetables and a host of cheeses and jamón. The carnicería would rejoice – a week of earnings received in a morning.

  With these stored in the X5, she set off for María's lingerie shop. Here she found not only María but her husband, Jesús, the local chief of police. With María serving a customer Inma exchanged desultory conversation with Jesús. This included local news before settling on the pestilence in Andalucía. He reported that the Cáceres olive growers were aghast. They now checked daily for any sign of bugs. So far all was good.

  Inma used the opportunity to fly a kite. What would happen if the pestilence was man-made? Jesús looked puzzled, querying what she meant. Before she could expand, María joined them. Jesús excused himself – duty, he commented.

  María burbled away. Yes, the business was going well. Not as well as in the summer when bikinis and swimwear had swum off the shelves. But autumns were generally slow until the Christmas season kicked in. Profits would be good this year. Inma could expect a handsome nugget.

  Inma laughed. She never took María's money. Instead she accepted payment in kind, usually whatever María weeded out. Over the past couple of years Inma had assembled an outrageous, hidden collection of delightful underwear, all originally high-priced but 'donated' because they failed to sell.

  All of a sudden María headed to the shop door. She turned the sign from Abierto to Cerrado. This took Inma aback. Saturday mornings were a busy day for María. She glanced at her watch, discovering it was past two.

  "I've just received some exquisite items from a designer based in Miami and São Paulo. Would you like to see?"

  María hesitated. Inma saw a mix of impatience and discomfort.

  "Actually, would you try on some of the items so I can see what they look like?"

  "Me? Model?"

  "Only for you and me."

  "What about yourself? You have a fine figure, which Jesús must appreciate every day. If he doesn't he's daft."

  "Don't worry, he does, thank you. No, what I mean is I can't inspect myself. You must show me how they look. That'll make it easier for me to make recommendations. Tell you what, if you like anything you try on, keep it."

  After yesterday's depressing discussions about the pest insurance followed by Lili's debacle when attempting the exercise regime, this would be a change. Inma? A model? It was ridiculous. As ridiculous as Lili's suggestion she should go on stage with her fitness regime.

  María cosseted and cajoled. For the next couple of hours Inma found herself revealed in a variety of sensual clothes, some daring, others comfortable in delicious forms. It was a shamefully hedonistic experience, exacerbated by María taking photos which she promised were headless. Inma felt and looked sexy. In the mirror she understood why María had worked so hard to persuade her.

  Inma departed with a selection of delights, far more than she deserved. María insisted. Inma insisted in return that these had to come out of her 'nugget'. Driving back to the finca, Inma realised she'd not phoned Lili to explain about her being 'detained'. She chortled at her word choice. It was misleading but not quite inaccurate.

  Closing the back door to the kitchen, Inma found the wood-burner running low. The explanation was simple. Lili was sleeping in one of the seductive arm chairs. For the first time Lili looked at peace, and beguiling. She exposed an innocence impossible to square with the intensity Lili projected in her day-to-day, financier-driven behaviour.

  Saturday: Madrid

  Ana sauntered into the terminal. She was early for Kjersti's arrival on an airline she'd never heard of. When she'd looked it up it was another EasyJet or Ryanair, but Norwegian.

  Terminal 2 at Barajas is not a place to wait for anyone, it being gloomy, dull and claustrophobic. The arrivals board showed the flight from Oslo had landed but its luggage was not yet available for collection. Would Kjersti be hand luggage only or a suitcase girl? Ana could imagine either.

  For something to help pass the time, she connected her tablet to the Internet and checked the news. Not much, other than the flies were no longer the main headlines. Uncertain what to read next she recalled Kjersti's reference to Facebook. She should look, if only for the sake of politeness.

  Ana didn't have to be a rocket scientist to find Kjersti's home page with its tens of thousands of 'likes'. Her latest postings were, as she'd declared, photos from the start of the Kuressaare 50K.

  Goodness, wasn't Kjersti a wiry blonde greyhound, tugging at the leash, thought Ana, inspecting Kjersti's photo at the start.

  Ana looked up 50K. It was further than from Madrid to San Lorenzo de El Escorial or almost as far as to Toledo. Presumably there was pleasure running such extreme distances? She couldn't conceive it.

  She swiped through more photographs, not all picturing Kjersti. One had caught Kjersti crossing the line with the timing clock above. Was that a good or indifferent time? Ana suspected it could not be bad. Kjersti didn't strike her as someone who ever did 'bad'. She expanded the image. Kjersti's face emitted distress.

  Ana passed to the last photo, a longer distance one where Kjersti stood beside a man radiating self-approval. Was this the guy who passed her in the last kilometre? She would ask. Idly her fingers enlarged the photo. Strange? He looked familiar. Of course he couldn't be ... unless it was someone she'd come across in Tallinn. Conceivable.

  Ana re-examined it. He was definitely familiar, though not like here in running gear, sweat-drenched and exhausted. She racked her memories of Tallinn. In a restaurant? A bar? Hotel? At the airport? On a plane?

  Kjersti's voice interrupted. "Why are you looking so concentrated?"

  "I'm not orange juice," Ana responded on reflex, glancing up to meet Kjersti's eyes.

  "What?"

  "Sorry, I was kilometres away, in Estonia."

  She shut her tablet and picked up one of Kjersti's bags, which resembled Ana's own laptop bag.

  "What was that about orange juice?"

  "It's a stupidity. When I was first learning English, my teacher always told me off for using concentrated when I meant concentrating. His trick for me was to remember that 'orange juice is concentrated so long as I concentrate on my English'."

  They laughed at the absurdity as they drove back to Madrid.

  On arrival Kjersti insisted on climbing the many stairs to Ana's apartamento. Ana apologised for its lack of space, explaining a piso in Spanish was a decent-sized or large apartment, while an apartamento was small, like hers.

  "Very nice too. Simple. Almost Scandinavian, except for no fire."

  "I like it. My grandmother, who died recently, helped me buy it to escape from living with my parents."

  "Lucky you. Anyhow, why, in the middle of Madrid airport arrivals, were you in Estonia?"

  "The photo on your Facebook page: who's the man?"

  "Oleg, the one who beat me at the finish and crowed. He calls himself an Estonian but he's Russian by birth, from Karelia, where Putin was born. To me he's a bit suspicious. When I first met him in Benidorm he claimed to be German until I caught him out."

  "Benidorm?"

  "I took a running holiday there with some girlfriends. Well, they holidayed, I ran. Oleg first called himself Oscar. We fell into competition after he tripped over my luggage on the journey out."

  Kjersti recounted the history of the two weeks including a blow by blow rendition of the last race, his cheating, her retribution and the climax, so called, executed
in her hotel room. As before, Ana warmed to her wry tone and acid turn of phrase. No wonder she was successful.

  "So, how do you want to proceed?"

  "I don't know. I read up about your Toxic Oil Syndrome and how it may have been a cover up to hide that tomatoes with weed killer were the cause. It's a dreadful story. I found similar ones about Italian olive scams, where bad oil is refined to appear good."

  "It happens here too. From conversations with Lili and Enrique, the olive growers in Úbeda, the same occurs. They say that if you buy Extra Virgin Olive Oil without a best-before date of at least fifteen months ahead and a minimum price of twelve euros for a litre you won't be purchasing the real thing. Lili calculates their best Extra Virgin Olive Oil, or EVOO, costs them a minimum of seventeen to twenty euros per litre to make. That, by the way, is the cost price, before adding any sales margin. Of course, they're premium producers."

  "It's that bad?"

  "In a nutshell, yes! This year it's worse because of the flies."

  "I read about those too. Disgusting. I don't want to imagine a fly egg as any part of my olive oil."

  "Business-breaking in their case."

  "Could we visit? Would they be willing to explain more? I need the edge of authenticity as supportive background for my story."

  "Lili and Enrique have contacts in Italy. Maybe they'll help."

  "Who knows? It's worth a try."

  As they continued, Ana's brain refused to give up. Why was that face in Kjersti's photo familiar? The more she focused the less an answer bubbled up. It was as if on the back of her tongue, not yet at the tip.

  "What would you like to do for dinner?"

  "I'm in your hands. You decide. I pay."

  "No way!"

  "Of course you'll let me. You're saving me hotel costs. It's the least I can do."

  Ana's Skype beeped. Davide. Ana wasn't sure how to react.