A Parrot in the Pepper Tree

by Chris Stewart

  ‘Pancakes, I expect,’ she said, rather absently, then revived a little, adding,’ Ooh lovely, my favourite.’

  There was clearly something preying on her mind.

  ‘Daddy?’ she asked, after a pause.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Daddy, you promise not to be angry if I ask you something?’

  ‘I’ll try to promise, though it does depend on what it is you want to ask me.’

  ‘Well … I want to stop going to religión classes. I just don’t like them anymore. Can I stop, Daddy? Can I?’

  ‘There’s no reason I should be angry about a thing like that, is there? I’ll tell you what, we’ll have a talk about it when your mother gets home.’ Normally I can stave off thorny issues with this simple delaying device, but Chloë wasn’t going to be sidetracked this time.

  ‘But it’s religión on Friday and I don’t want to go. Can you go and talk to the teacher about it? Please, Daddy, please.’

  We had reached the bridge by this time so conversation was momentarily suspended while we picked our way along the timber beams above a torrent of white water.

  The religión question was by no means new. When Chloë had first joined the school we had thought long and hard over whether to keep her in the Religious Education class or plump for ética on the grounds of my confirmed agnosticism. We had decided in the end that an insider’s knowledge of the Bible and the tenets of Christianity would be more of a help than a hindrance in getting to grips with European literature and culture. It also seemed a good way to get a grounding in the numerous festivals and saint’s days that pepper the Alpujarran calendar.

  A glance through the religión school books satisfied us that the opposition were getting a fair crack of the whip. There were brief accounts of other faiths accompanied by caricatures of people of a dusky hue with bulging eyes wearing loin cloths and sitting about in the lotus position. Mohammed and the Muslims got pretty short shrift if I remember rightly — too close for comfort in Andalucia — but the more oriental religions were assumed to be far enough away not to pose a threat. These books were obviously not produced with the Alpujarras in mind, however. All the oriental religions are well represented here and within ten kilometres of Orgiva there are more cults and sects and sub-sects than you can wave a joss stick at.

  I questioned my daughter a little more. ‘Why are you so against religión, Chloë?’

  ‘Religión is boring and I just don’t really like it and ética is much more interesting.’

  ‘Ah, but how do you know it’s more interesting?’

  ‘Hannah told me.’

  ‘Of course, she must know quite a bit about it by now. Hannah is Chloë’s best friend. She’s German and her parents are rather progressive, so Hannah got opted out of the religious classes from the very start.

  ‘And Zohra, too,’ Chloë added. Zohra is another close friend of Chloë’s, and as you might deduce from the name, is a Muslim.

  ‘And Alba Recio? Alba Recio’s parents are Spanish progressive. The picture was becoming clearer now. Chloë liked the idea of being part of the exclusive little coterie, sitting apart and studying ethics, while the lumpen masses droned through catechisms and learned how to tell their rosary beads. I was impressed, and as we sat and ate our pancakes together, I mused out loud about what an interesting subject ethics was.

  Chloë agreed wholeheartedly and before she went to bed we read two chapters from Heidi, a favourite of Chloë’s at that time. I’d hoped to fit in a discussion about the different ethical universes of Grandfather and Fraulein Rottenmeier, but we got engrossed in the astonishingly curative effects of toasted cheese and mountain air on Clara’s disability. I did note, however, that Chloë showed no absolute objection to Grandfather returning to the village church and hob-nobbing with the vicar.

  The next night, when Ana arrived home, I told her about our discussion. ‘Are you sure she doesn’t just want to have an hour off to fool around with her friends’, she said.

  Ana can be shockingly suspicious at times. But she did agree that it would be hypocritical of us to force Chloë to continue with religion if she’d specifically opted for ethics and that we should, perhaps, swing behind our daughter on this one. Personally, I was delighted with Chloë’s anti-clerical stance and thought it boded well for a free-thinking future. So the next afternoon I went along to see her teacher, Don Manuel.

  Chloë horsed around in the playground while I was sent up the stairs to do the deal. Don Manuel was very understanding, but, he said, there was a problem: it was late in the spring term and, normally, if you wanted to drop a subject you should do it at the beginning of the school year. It was the sort of irregularity that might have everyone jumping on the same wagon, because, he confided in me, there were quite a few who wanted to change classes. Ética, it seemed, was becoming increasingly popular among the pupils.

  ‘Oh, Don Manuel,’ I said, ‘porfi?’ — I had found myself using the children’s abbreviation of por favor.

  ‘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.’

  BACK TO SCHOOL

  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.

  Not long after Ben’s all-too-brief stay, I signed up at the guitar school in Granada. This wasn’t just Mr Toad-like suggestibility, but an emergency measure for the harmony of our home. Ana and Chloë, having sampled the higher plane of Ben’s playing, were having a bit of difficulty adjusting back down to the earthier terrain of my own. Ana particularly was reaching the end of her tolerance of my constant practice sessions and would resort to acts of virtual warfare, ranging from the gratuitous use of a coffee grinder to incitement of the animals.

  Then, one day, she cracked completely. I had been explaining how lucky she was to have a guitarist like me about the place to fill the house with sweet music — a little provocative, I own —when she turned on me.

  ‘Chris, I really don’t think you can call that music!’ she said. ‘It’s absolutely intolerable and there’s not a woman on the planet who’d put up with it. Bobble’obble’obble’obble all day long…’ And she gave me a passable and even funny, imitation of a guitar doing a bad tremolo. It took the wind out of my sails and I laughed.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ she growled, keeping the tone censorious. ‘What I suggest is that from now on you go and practise in the study or, better still, the sheep shed, and then, when you’re good and ready you could give us a recital — once a week, at the most — and Chloë and I will listen, and maybe even clap.’