Two Old Fools - Olé!

by Victoria Twead

  It was the Union Jack in Antonio’s salon window that attracted me. ‘We speak English’ declared the sign. Goody, I thought, I won’t have to revise difficult Spanish words like ‘fringe’ or ‘parting’ or ‘layered’.

  Confidently, I entered the salon and was greeted by Antonio.

  “You speak English?” I asked.

  “Sí,” he replied, his face lighting up. He ushered me to a chair in front of a large mirror. “You seet. How like type today you want?”

  Oh dear, I thought. Perhaps I should have brought my Spanish/English dictionary after all. I resigned myself to communicating in Spanish and filling the gaps with sign language when necessary.

  I liked Antonio. He was tall, thin and well-groomed, with hair that stood in stiff, waxed spikes. His smile was easy and he listened attentively. Yes, he did speak English, but not well. His English was so heavily accented and jumbled that I didn’t understand a word he said. The problem was, in an attempt to be helpful, he insisted on speaking English. However, I couldn’t understand his English, and he didn’t understand my Spanish. The result was a very serious communication breakdown.

  For example, someone popped into the salon and handed Antonio a cardboard box. I could hear scuttling coming from inside the box, the scrabbling of claws on cardboard. Antonio seemed delighted, put down his scissors and carried the box over to the other assistants. I watched in the mirror as he carefully opened the box for a look, surrounded by his colleagues. They all exclaimed and admired the contents of the box.

  Curiosity consumed me. “What animal is in the box?” I asked in my best Spanish when he resumed work.

  Antonio’s scissors stopped snipping and his brow furrowed as he tried to understand me. I tried again. This time he leaned forward, concentrating intently, reading my lips in the mirror as I spoke.

  I said it again, in English this time. “Is there an animal in that box? What is it?” I tried pointing.

  “My sorry. Understand no,” said Antonio, shaking his head sadly. I gave up.

  But the communication problem was most severe at the end of the session.

  “Desire you spritz?” asked Antonio, a giant industrial-size can of hairspray already poised and aimed, ready to fire.

  “No, thank you, I’m allerg…” Too late. Phhhhhttt! The air turned heavy and sticky with spray.

  I left the salon coughing and wheezing, nose running, eyes streaming, but not before I’d managed to take a peep into the cardboard box. Inside were two young homing pigeons. The pigeons were attractive, but the spray was just too much. I didn’t return.

  And so my quest for the perfect hairdresser continued. Two months later I found myself knocking on the door of Juanita’s salon in the small town of Alhama de Almería, quite some distance from our village.

  Alhama is just one of a string of villages in the Andarax Valley, the gateway to the Alpujarras. It is a pretty town, unremarkable in many ways except for one thing. It has natural hot springs that gush continuously, causing it to be a mecca for elderly ladies who believe the water has health-giving properties. There is a pretty cascading waterfall and so much spring water in the area that huge pipes channel it away. I imagine some goes to fill the town swimming pool and the rest is destined for other needs, such as irrigating the vast orange and lemon orchards, a feature of the area.

  Alhama swimming pool

  Alhama had a smart new supermarket that Joe and I visited fairly frequently. They had their own bakery on the premises and parking was easy. Being new, this supermarket was forever running promotions. Buy one loaf of bread, get another two free. Buy a case of beer, get a free parasol. If we refused the free gifts, the assistants would be affronted, so we had a freezer full of surplus bread and an ever-growing pile of yellow San Miguel parasols in our garage.

  “I’ll just wander round the village and wait for you,” said Joe. “I’ll probably pop into the supermarket, too. Meet you over the street in an hour.”

  Juanita’s beauty salon was in the main street of Alhama. It was fronted by the typically tall Andalucian double wooden doors, painted in heavy brown gloss and opening onto the pavement. This was Juanita’s home, but she had allotted two rooms downstairs to run her hair and beauty business.

  I liked Juanita. She was friendly, and pictures of her family decorated the walls of her salon. Her kitchen was next door to the salon and delicious aromas wafted through to me as I sat in the chair ready to have my hair cut. She told me all about herself.

  In her thirties, Juanita shared her house with her husband, little daughter and her elderly mother. Her husband worked in construction and was seldom home. She had never travelled outside Andalucía, and never wished to, happy living in Alhama in the bosom of her family.

  Juanita was clearly a confident business woman, and had a reasonable number of regular clientele. She ran the business by herself, aided only by her burly Lithuanian assistant, Olga. To be frank, I found Olga rather alarming. When she smiled, she revealed a set of teeth capable of crushing concrete, and whereas Juanita’s white overalls were crisp and dainty, Olga’s barely contained bulging biceps a Russian weightlifter would have envied.

  The pair were masters of salesmanship.

  “You would like Product?” asked Juanita, pausing with her scissors. “Extra vitamins for your dry hair? You would like Olga to give you an Indian Head Massage?” Olga flexed her fingers and cracked her knuckles hopefully.

  “No, thank you, just my hair trimmed…”

  Juanita wasn’t giving up. She picked up one of my hands and inspected it at close quarters. “Your nails are ragged. You need a manicure.” Olga began rearranging the rows of nail polish on a glass shelf. The bottles rattled and looked tiny in her huge hands.

  “Thank you, but really I just want my hair cut...”

  Juanita lost interest in my hand and dropped it back into my lap, focusing on my feet instead. “Pedicure?” Olga switched allegiance and busied herself with the foot-care tools: scrapers, cutters, clippers and all manner of evil-looking equipment.

  “No, really, just a haircut.”

  But Juanita was made of sterner stuff. “Your eyebrows have grey hairs in them,” she observed. “Olga will dye them.”

  My whimpers of refusal were ignored as Olga parked her trolley firmly by my chair. I was helpless. My head was wrenched back, and I closed my eyes as Olga’s huge face loomed close to mine. Half an hour later, while Juanita sat on the front door-step smoking cigarettes, Olga had transformed my eyebrows into black hairy caterpillars.

  Juanita returned to finish cutting my hair. “There is a lot of water in the road outside,” she commented.

  At last the job was finished and I paid them both and departed. As promised, Joe was waiting for me on the other side of the street. I wasn’t surprised to see he had yet another yellow San Miguel beach umbrella under one arm and yet more loaves of bread sticking out of a carrier bag clutched in his other hand. He’d evidently visited the supermarket and been showered with the usual mandatory gifts. However, I was surprised to see the state of the street.

  Juanita spoke the truth because a river coursed down the previously bone-dry road. Cars splashed and drove gingerly through the water. I hitched up my skirts and waded through warm water to join him.

  “You should have seen it!” said Joe, wisely not remarking on my duelling raven eyebrows. “The digger up there on the mountainside broke through one of those big water-pipes. Never seen so much water! Absolute torrents! Hot water came rushing down the mountainside and down the road like a mini tsunami!”

  I was disappointed. But for my caterpillar eyebrows, I might have seen it too.

  Back in El Hoyo, three more things happened. As we parked the car in our garage, Federico walked past. Trotting at his heels was a small, rather ugly little dog. Its hair was very short, coarse and patchy. There was definitely Chihuahua somewhere in its ancestry, but beyond that, I couldn’t fathom. Even so, there was something about this dog that seemed familiar.


  For some reason, Federico seemed mortified to see us. I left the talking to Joe as I was still very conscious of my coal-black eyebrows.

  “Buenas tardes, Federico,” said Joe. “How are you?”

  “Buenas tardes,” answered Federico, looking uncomfortable, and standing deliberately between Joe and the dog as if hiding it from Joe’s scrutiny.

  “I see you have a new dog,” said Joe innocently. He looked up and down the street, adding, “And where is your beautiful little dog, Copito?”

  Two spots of livid colour appeared on Federico’s cheeks. His fists clenched and he could barely contain himself.

  “I like children,” he said furiously. “Everybody knows I like children. But today I do not like children! Today the Ufarte boys have spoiled my beautiful Copito!”

  “You mean that’s Copito?” asked Joe in surprise, pointing at the ugly little dog behind Federico.

  “¡Sí! The Ufarte children, they painted my Copito! They opened all their father’s tins of paint, and painted my poor Copito! And so, (dramatic intake of breath) I have no choice, I shave all poor Copito’s hair off!” Federico crammed his knuckles into his mouth, squeezing his eyes tight shut in pain. Copito didn’t seem concerned in the slightest and trotted off to cock his leg against a wall.

  “Oh dear...” said Joe sympathetically, but Federico was already walking away, wailing and wringing his hands in despair.

  “Poor Federico,” I said. “He was so proud of Copito’s snowy white fur.”

  “Oh well,” said Joe. “No harm done really. It’ll grow back in a few months. Like your eyebrows...”

  I flinched.

  And there were still two more surprises left for us that day. As Joe unlocked our front door, the Ufarte twins, dressed as ballerinas, skipped up behind us.

  “Tía Veeky! Tía Veeky! We saw Francisco today!”

  “Er... Francisco the chrysalis? You saw him?” I hadn’t confessed that Francisco had crumbled into a pile of dust at the bottom of the jam jar.

  “¡Sí! He is a beautiful butterfly now! He was flying up the street...” Ballerina #1 fanned her little hands, demonstrating, then pirouetted.

  “And then... Oh, then he sat on the wall beside us, watching us play!” said Ballerina #2.

  “How lovely!” I said, enjoying their pleasure and heaving an inward sigh of relief. I’d gotten away with it. I wouldn’t have to tell them about the real Francisco’s demise.

  “And you’re very sure it was Francisco?” asked Joe, a twinkle in his eye.

  “Oh yes!” chorused the ballerinas. “We’d recognise him anywhere!”

  But the day was still not over, and the final surprise knocked the wind out of my sails. Being a Friday, Paco’s family arrived for the weekend as usual.

  “We have good news!” said Carmen-Bethina, the dimples appearing in her plump cheeks as she smiled.

  “Pah!” roared Paco, thumping the door frame with his fist. “Don’t get excited, woman! You know what Sofía is like! That daughter of ours is too fussy!”

  “Sofía has a new boyfriend!” continued Carmen-Bethina. “He is a policeman!”

  “Pah!” roared Paco again. “It won’t last. Sofía will find something wrong with him. I do not think she will ever get married!”

  “They seem very happy,” said Carmen-Bethina, ignoring her husband. “Who knows? Perhaps this will be ‘The One’. He is coming up to the village tomorrow, Sofía will bring him round to meet you.”

  Which would have been fine if I hadn’t been idly watching the local Spanish news on TV that night, and saw something that made my mouth hang open in astonishment.

  9 A Night Flight, New Faces and Melons

  Amoroso Mussels with Almonds

  “...Police helicopters have been scouring the area and have successfully spotted several cannabis cultivations. Arrests have been made, and police are confident that the current crackdown on the growing of these illegal plants will result in more...”

  The reporter’s voice continued, and the camera zoomed in on an individual plant. I froze, gripping the arms of my chair in horror.

  “Joe? Joe! Did you see that?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Mother’s tomato plants! They’re not tomato plants at all!”

  “Mother’s tomato plants? What are you talking about?”

  “They’re not tomatoes! She’s given us marijuana plants to look after!”

  Joe stared at me, then started laughing. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure! The TV just zoomed in on a plant, and it’s exactly the same as Mother’s plants!”

  “Haha, that wicked old lady!”

  But I wasn’t amused. “Stop laughing, Joe, this is serious!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! Do you think the Spanish police helicopters are going to be spying on our garden? Hovering around checking on us? They’re looking for big cultivations, not six plants in somebody’s garden!”

  “Twelve plants, actually. And I wasn’t thinking of the helicopters. Have you forgotten we’ve got Sofía and her boyfriend coming round tomorrow?”

  “So? They won’t know what those plants are, don’t worry.”

  “Has it slipped your mind? Sofía’s new boyfriend is a policeman!”

  “Oh!”

  “And even if he didn’t spot them, he’d smell them. Those plants stink, and now we know why!”

  Joe’s hand crept down to his groin for a good scratch. “I guess we’ll have to hide them or something,” he said at last.

  “How can we hide them? They’re huge!”

  “Hmm... Then we’ll have to take them back to Judith and Mother. Get on the phone to Judith.”

  I hate it when Joe orders me around, but this time I obeyed him without question.

  “Judith?” I said, when the barking dogs had quietened sufficiently for her to hear me. “I’m afraid we’ll have to bring Mother’s tomato plants back.”

  “Oh, really? Why’s that, m’dear?”

  “Er, they’ve grown quite large. Er, very large. Too large! We don’t have room for them anymore!”

  “But I spoke with you yesterday. You didn’t say anything about their size being a problem.”

  “Er, they’ve suddenly grown very quickly.”

  “What, overnight? Never mind, of course we’ll take them back. I know Mother will be most excited about seeing them, she reads books about specialist gardening all the time. Some time next week suit you?”

  “No! Can we bring them tonight?”

  “But it’s already eleven o’clock, dear! Are you quite alright, Vicky? You sound strange.”

  “I’m fine, thanks, Judith. But we really do need to return those plants tonight.”

  “Haha! Worried they’ll grow even more overnight?” guffawed Judith. “They’re just little tomato plants, dear thing, not Jack’s beanstalk!”

  I tried to sound more relaxed. “So, will tonight be okay with you?”

  “Well, Mother’s already gone to bed, and I was just about to toddle off meself...”

  “You could just leave your side-gate open? We’ll bring them over later tonight and put them in your garden.”

  “Vicky, are you sure you’re quite well?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry about a thing, Joe and I will bring them over, don’t wait up.”

  “Righty-ho, m’dear, if you’re sure...”

  That night was a long one. The Ufartes were singing and dancing in the street until 2.30 a.m. and we couldn’t begin our mission until the coast was clear. We dozed fitfully in our armchairs, waiting, waiting. Finally, at 3.30 a.m, we agreed that the village was asleep, and that it was time to begin Operation Evacuate.

  Like burglars under cover of darkness, we loaded the jeep as silently as we could. At that time of night, every creak and footstep seemed magnified, and I kept checking that all our neighbours’ shutters remained closed. The plants had grown so tall that we needed to fold the car’s canvas roof down, and they filled the back like a miniature green
Amazonian jungle. The smell was overpowering and the plants were awkward and heavy, but at last we drove away.

  All went well until we passed through the village and out the other side. A figure was weaving down the road, bottle in hand, trailed by three dogs.

  “Oh no,” I breathed, “it’s Geronimo...”

  The road was too narrow to drive round him, so we were forced to stop.

  “Geronimo! ¿Qué tal?” said Joe, as if this nocturnal encounter was the most normal thing in the world. “How’s things?”

  “Mal,” Geronimo said, shaking his head grimly as usual. (Bad) He rested his beer bottle on the car. “What are you doing?”

  “Oh, nothing,” said Joe airily. “Just going for a night drive.”

  “It’s such a lovely night,” I babbled. “A full moon.”

  “The back of your car is full of plants,” said Geronimo, slurring a little.

  “Yes,” said Joe brightly, “It is! Well, we must go... See you in the village tomorrow, probably.”

  Joe revved the car’s engine and Geronimo stepped back. We drove off, but not before I noticed a mysterious, shapely figure hiding in the shadows. Was that Lola Ufarte? Geronimo tossed his long hair aside and took another lengthy pull on his beer.

  “He won’t remember anything in the morning,” said Joe as we drove away.

  “I don’t think he has us on his mind at the moment,” I said.

  Judith had left her side-gate open as promised, and we saw nobody as we unloaded the plants. By 4.30 a.m. we were back in our bed in our cave bedroom, vastly relieved that our garden was innocent once more.

  The next morning, Sofía brought her policeman boyfriend round to meet us. With clear consciences we sat under the vine in the garden, chatting. Only once did she break off and peer into our faces, saying in that blunt way the Spanish have, “You both look tired. Are you sleeping well?”