‘Madame, Francisco, he cannot see,’ one of the Josés announced.
They had lost the fourth member of the quartet, due to an eye infection, he came to tell me.
Blind drunk, I giggled to myself under my breath. ‘Oh, dear, I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Today, we need you to clear the garage so that we can knock out the remaining ceiling.’
‘Now?’
I called to Quashia for assistance. What a chaos of moulderingness. How had we ever accumulated so much junk? When we had finally acquired Appassionata and I entered this garage, I remembered how fascinated I had become by the piles of detritus, forgotten lives relinquished there, and now, here we were, little better. I tucked Homer into a corner on a blanket and went to work. Lack of sleep was kicking in. Decision-making was not at its keenest.
‘Shall we sling this?’
I was thumbing through the pages of a film brochure, glossily encased pitch material for a project that we never raised the funds to shoot, but it remained a terrific idea. For a second, it made me wistful. Dreams that had hit the dust. ‘It’s hard to know where to begin.’
Quashia shoved me out of his way. ‘I prefer to do this myself. If I wait for you,’ he moaned, ‘the way you dither and moon over everything, we will never get through it all. And those blasted men’ll be here all year. They are destroying my trees, they show no respect. And they drink!’
‘In five weeks, Mr Q, they will be gone and you will have a fine garage with a dry ceiling.’
As I stepped over plaster lying on the floor, I was stunned by this room of lost things with its discarded souvenirs of earlier selves decaying in the damp. I rose up from my haunches and slapped Quashia on the back. ‘You’re right; you are far better placed than I am to clear this lot out. Shall I leave Homer with you or take him?’
‘He’s fine with me.’
I passed the remainder of the morning in the hangar, shaded by fruit trees, preparing for the stockpiling of the clutter Quashia was not throwing out. When I stepped out into the morning air to stretch, I noticed that the delicate green leaves on the peach, apricot and nectarines were looking as though they had been embroidered, stippled with a rather attractive red along their upper surfaces, and then, cinders were falling around me. Smoke was rising. Where was the smoke coming from?
And what was the rumpus?
The trio of Josés were setting up a table at the edge of the parking area within the long shade of the cypresses. On it stood four bottles of wine: red and rosé. Three upturned dustbins, ours, with a plank of wood, served as a bench. A small grill, filched from one of our defunct barbecues, had been placed on the flames of a fire burning in the grass. Sausages, steaks, cutlets were sizzling and spitting. Lola, our rotund mother Alsatian, was slavering at the men’s feet.
Petit José, who must have been handsome once upon a time with eyes as cornflower blue as a girl’s, but now marbled by hard living, cut himself a hefty chunk of bread and then another for the greedy dog who gobbled it whole.
‘Please don’t feed the dogs!’ I called.
He nodded, not listening, now pulling corks, splashing deep red Bordeaux into generous-sized plastic tumblers. Behind them, the appetising smoulder of meat griddling on an open fire.
I returned to the house to fix myself a snack and there, on my computer, I found a most unexpected communication. An email from America, from the head office of one of the six major agrochemical companies; they who produced the ‘organic’ answer to our pesky fly. The sender said he had heard that I was looking for a non-chemical treatment for our groves and he would like to help me achieve this goal.
We want to do everything within our power, Carol, to make sure you get a bumper crop this season.
I was stunned. I read it over several times and filed it. A response required consideration. How had the sender heard of my quest?
I observed the post-prandial pleasures of cigarettes and coffee from the terrace above but said nothing. My mind was on the American note. Petit José had finished washing up their plastic plates, cutlery, frying pan, in a bucket Quashia used for transporting cement. Their wine glasses remained on the table, three-quarters supped in the shade. No doubt they would be returning to them throughout the course of the afternoon. Now they were settling to a smoke while their coffee was heating on the open fire that had burned a black circle in the grass. Quashia was still hauling and trawling in the garage while I, overtired, intended to complete some desk work. Lola and our convalescent, Homer, had been seduced. They lay at the feet of the Latinos, hoping for titbits, refusing to respond to my bidding.
One of the men, plump, black-haired ‘big José’, was not preparing for a nap. He slugged back his cup of caffeine and set off in their lorry to discharge some of the mounting piles of rubble. Only a few days earlier they had been so conscious of the driving laws yet today was another day. Did they think the police were also taking siestas?
But the work continued, or it would once the vino had been slept off.
Quashia was yelling from the garage, yelling unnecessarily loudly. To disturb the snoring men, perhaps?
Down I went.
‘Do you want to keep these gardening shoes – they’re worn out – or should I just chuck them?’
‘Oh, bin them.’ As I turned to go, he grabbed me by the arm and dragged me deeper into the smelly recesses of this stockroom.
‘Six!’ he hissed from within crepuscular gloom and rancid scents.
I feigned ignorance.
‘Three of them have downed six bottles of wine.’
‘Four, but they replaced two into their lunch satchels,’ I lied. Our man was not fooled. He shook his head, jettisoning a torn box into bulging dustbins.
‘They’ve purloined three dustbins and they’re incapable of work.’
‘Have faith, Mr Q.’ I returned to my paperwork.
Forty-five minutes later, a rap on the door. Slender, topless petit José had a face on him that signalled trouble. His breath could have been set alight by rubbing two sticks together.
‘We have fallen upon a problem,’ he rasped solemnly.
Bidden to the site, I found only one other José scratching his head and staring at a tape measure.
‘What’s the problem?’
He looked up at me with eyes that were glazed, bloodshot. I threw a surreptitious glance towards their shady lunch table where all glasses stood empty. Was it conceivable they had consumed six bottles?
‘The walls are different sizes.’
‘That’s impossible!’
The little fellow (the only one who did any of the heavy manual work), now at the rear of the two-stable space, was clambering over materials, pacing from one side of the roofless expanse to the other. Arms outstretched, he reminded me of a small boy playing aeroplanes. ‘Here, Madame, it measures five metres ten while, at the front, it is four metres eighty-six. There is a difference of twenty-five centimetres.’
‘But that’s considerable,’ I cried.
They nodded gravely. ‘Nothing for it but to tear down this wall as well and rebuild it.’
‘But the wiring, piping, electricity, water, all is within it,’ I contested. ‘And you were quite specific at the outset that it could stay. I’d need to call in both the electrician and the plumber.’
‘Then you must.’
Michel had warned me, as he stepped out of the car at the airport, that we would be bound to encounter a minor hiccup or two and that I was not to concern myself. ‘They can always be resolved.’ But this struck me as more than a hiccup.
I tried to find Quashia to see whether he had any thoughts on the subject, while the three men – the third José had returned with lorry from the builders’ dump – were squabbling in their native tongue, roaring and huffing like mad bulls, snatching the tape measure from one another like children fighting over a toy.
‘We’re moving! I can’t stand this any longer,’ I muttered to myself.
It seemed that the work
would involve more than simply tearing down the sole remaining exterior stable wall. It would also involve bringing in an earth digger, shifting tons of soil, drilling into mountainside limestone and dismantling the stone steps that led us to the upper level of that east wing, to the terrace behind our bedroom, which was, within the terms of their agreement, to be cement-filled and then tiled. This was to be the exterior of the flat garage roof. The ‘crooked’ wall was intended as the structural wall.
‘Beaucoup d’argent,’ they were threatening, shaking their heads.
But of course.
Had this ploy been up their sleeves all along, once they had agreed to lower their price by so many thousands? Was the wall really as wonky as they claimed or were they too drunk to measure accurately? I had no idea.
Quashia had disappeared, no longer hauling garage innards on to the driveway. Every article that was not to be thrown away was to be rehoused wherever a covered corner could be appropriated. I doubted we’d ever find anything again. I was standing in the midst of chaos with men yelling at me to make decisions. Eventually, I located Q over near the ruin, planting an avocado tree that had been ailing in the greenhouse.
‘How are you getting on?’ I called as I approached, wondering why he had abandoned the clearance chores. ‘I need your advice.’
He shook his head. His saggy face looked tired and old, his eyes faded by age.
‘Everything fine?’
He shrugged, ignored me; displeased. We discussed the needs of the tropical plant for a few moments, remaining on non-confrontational territory. Its lower foliage had yellowed, browning at the tips. I had been concerned that it was pot-bound and would die.
‘It already looks healthier,’ I encouraged, ‘being out in the fresh air.’
Our chosen spot for it offered plenty of growth space with nothing but a terrace of vigorously blossoming apple trees for company one level lower.
I urged Q to return to the work site and give me his opinion on the halted proceedings. Crossing from the Second Plot towards the east side, the grass and wild flowers more than ankle-deep now, he said to me solemnly, ‘They are not like us, those men. They drink. Have you seen the bottles under the tree?’
I made no response, aware that this was an area where we did not see eye to eye. Drinking alcohol offended our loyal friend’s Islamic sensibilities so we always preferred to be discreet about it.
‘Those men are troublemakers, not masons. I’m a mason. The job needs concentration, dedication. You should have let me do the restoration.’
Had Quashia felt that by bringing in these professionals we had undermined him?
‘You have so many other responsibilities, Larbi.’ (Rare for me to call him by his first name.) ‘You work too hard as it is. And we don’t possess all the machinery this job requires. We would have been obliged to hire it and that would have made it prohibitively expensive.’
‘True. I lack the tools.’
This seemed to satisfy him, for the moment at least.
By the time we had returned to the site, the calculations had been discussed and the cost of rectifications assessed. Quashia took one look and testified against dismantling the offending wall. ‘This property was constructed at the beginning of the twentieth century. No one expects it to be perfectly straight.’
The masons, jumping up and down, hotly rejected this argument.
I stood back taking in the scene, all too aware that the differences of opinion being voiced were hiding underlying prejudices. Religious, cultural differences. These hell-raising Portuguese judged our loyal Berber an orthodox Muslim and a peasant who was ill equipped to pontificate on the finer points of their art, while he judged them lazy, decadent. Over the coming weeks – months at their current speed – I would be obliged to find ways to keep the peace.
‘This wall will carry the weight of all the work from here on in. It must be reconstructed.’
‘I built every one of my children a house in Algeria. I’ve never heard such nonsense.’ Quashia never raised his voice, but he was tilting in the balance and stomped off in disgust. It was clear that he believed he could have achieved this work alone if we had purchased the equipment. Michel and I knew he could not.
I returned my attention to the Portuguese and asked outright what the cost was going to be. The difference would be an additional five thousand euros for dismantling the wall plus the removal of earth, digging machine, reconstruction etc., etc.
‘This needs my husband’s approval,’ I told them. ‘Are you able to continue until I have an answer?’
They assured me that they could and I agreed to discuss the matter with Michel who would be home the following evening.
Alone in my office later that evening, I opened up the American letter, perused it again and replied: I wonder how you know of me? I would be interested to hear what you suggest.
I read it over, sipped the tea on the table at my side and pressed SEND.
March was nearing its end and with its departure came more rain. Q and I were relocating essentials to the hangar. Outside, the young, damp leaves on the soft fruit trees, still mottled by burnished markings, were now curling and deformed as though crippled with arthritis. This was leaf curl, I learned. Taphrina deformans: a fungus that occurs in spring. The rainy days that we had experienced during the early development of the foliage favour this fungus, which can eventually stunt the growth of the tree and radically reduce fruit production. I had been travelling the previous year at this time so did not know whether it had already taken hold or whether we were seeing it on our farm for the first time. Quashia claimed that this was its second appearance. I heard the edge of accusations returning.
A copper-based fungicide was recommended by our nursery.
‘Any organic suggestions?’
Their answer was negative. I decided to let it be.
‘If we lose the fruits, so be it.’
Quashia had grown two of the peaches and one apricot from stones and was particularly proud of them.
‘But the fungicide would not be applied until after the leaves have fallen in the autumn, Monsieur Q, so, please, let’s not argue about this now. We’ll find an alternative solution and we’ll cure this.’
‘It’s like everything else, Carol. You are simply not practical. You cannot save a leaf or organise beehives. I see no point in remaining here. My work is wasted.’
I sighed, feeling defeated, dejected.
Our man absented himself for a long weekend and the Portuguese were unable to work. Thursday had brought in the spate of bad weather – no more cement-mixing machines, yelling, hammering, until, at the soonest, Monday, when the barometer promised clearer April days. Michel was down in Cannes participating in the annual spring television festival, which had fallen early this year, and I was alone with the dogs – Homer’s face had all but healed – sitting by a log fire, in candlelight, with a glass of white wine at my side, enjoying the stillness, the calm, listening to logs crackle, the muezzin beckoning the Arabs across the valley to prayer.
The world was honouring Earth Hour this evening and I had signed the farm up for it. Commencing at eight thirty for one hour on this relentlessly wet Saturday, the lights would be switched off. I had been anticipating spending these designated sixty minutes out on the terrace, stargazing, tuning into the planet, but the non-stop rain had driven me indoors. Before Michel headed off after breakfast, I had reminded him that I and the farm would be in darkness for a spell. He was booked for a business dinner and would not be back until late, arriving with a house guest, a gentle Chinese colleague and client of his whose name always confused me: Chowguong (or was it Guongchow?).
Earlier in the afternoon I had run through the rain down to Quashia’s cottage and disconnected the time switch; I had reset our automatic clock that floodlit the terraces around the house; I had fed the dogs, brought them in with me, switched off the music, closed down my computer, photocopy and fax machines and lit candles. The fire was roaring. I refi
lled my glass, reminding myself that although the fridges were still operating, they would need to stay closed throughout this hour because their interior bulbs came on when their doors were opened. I had thought of everything.
I settled myself on the old spreading sofa alongside the fire and began to sink into my thoughts when, suddenly, the exterior lamps all around the property alighted. I must have miscalculated the programme. I hurried downstairs to the garage to reset it, but it refused to disengage. Sufficient wattage to illuminate a miniature Eiffel Tower was blazing out towards the sea from this eco-friendly property. I twisted and turned the dial back and forth, breaking two nails, until, eventually, I slapped off the trip switch at the mains and cut off the electricity supply to the lower storey of the property. Garage, pool, drinks fridge, exterior lamps and, still weathering it out in the stable block, the washing machine. Every appliance, every bulb on the lower storey had been disengaged.
I sloshed through the rivers of fallen water, showing no signs of easing, and reinstated myself on the sofa. The logs were crackling and across the valley the muezzin remained in full voice. Still and peaceful was the world and I was grateful for the calm.
Eight thirty.
I closed my eyes; my head sank back against the cushions in meditative mood.
Suddenly, my mobile began to ring and I almost fell over the coffee table in the darkness trying to reach it.
‘We’re here! I’m down at the gate.’ It was Michel.
‘What time is it?’
‘Dead on nine, we’re early. See you, love you.’
‘Michel! Michel—’ The line had gone dead and I could hear the chug of the old farm bus making its way up the drive. I slipped on shoes, out into the soaking darkness, down the stairs, to remind him of the reason for the blackout. Both men piled out of the car.
‘Hello,’ I waved to Guongchow – no, Chowguong, who does not speak many words of any language other than Cantonese.
‘Welcome, welcome, nice to see you again.’ Huddled in a coat, he hurried from the car wheeling a massive suitcase and stood before me bowing.
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