A Lizard In My Luggage

by Anna Nicholas

  'Get a jumper on, woman, or you'll freeze and get the sleeping senyor to come and give me a hand.'

  Alan is already halfway down the staircase as I stomp back up. He rubs his hands together. 'Ah, wood. What a wonderful sight!'

  'Your back won't be saying that tonight.'

  He grimaces. 'Well, the promise of a relaxing massage later…'

  'In your dreams!' I give him a prod in the direction of the front door and watch as Lorenç comes over to greet him. Upstairs, I quickly change into my running gear and give my face a quick splash. Given that I've been forced to rise early, I might as well get my run over with before the day gets going. Ollie is still in a deep slumber when I pop my head round the door of his room. I'm impressed that he can sleep through the din of crashing and splintering wood as Alan and Lorenç hurl logs, one on top of the other, in a giant heap on the front porch. I watch them from the doorway.

  'You still got no water and light?' quizzes Lorenç.

  'It came on last night,' says Alan. 'Four days of living like moles and the phone won't be fixed for a week.'

  'You saved on some bills though?'

  'No way! It cost us a fortune. We had to eat out all the time.'

  Lorenç stands erect and gives a philosophical shrug. 'You want to live in rural Mallorca. Now you see what it's like.'

  Alan swings a log at the pile. 'Yep, no surprises any more.'

  I slip out on to the steps and do my warm up exercises in the courtyard, much to Lorenç's glee.

  'Ah look, the professional at work,' he taunts. 'You going to win the London Marathon, si?'

  'Well, I'm expecting her to do it in under two hours,' Alan says with a wink.

  'You reckon it'll take me that long?' I scoff, joining in the banter.

  Lorenç laughs. 'Well it would take me about a month.'

  'And me about a year,' rejoins Alan, 'but I'd never be mad enough to do it.'

  I bid them farewell and jog off up the track, nearly colliding with Margalida Sampol outside her house. She squints at me and begins muttering in Mallorcan.

  'Look at you! Uncovered arms on a day like this! You'll get the grip.' Mallorcans are always predicting colds.

  'I'm fine, Margalida. Once I start running, I get really hot.'

  'You'll be running a fever more like,' she tuts.

  I try to smother a guffaw.

  'Young people never listen to good advice. You should be wearing a coat at this hour.'

  I thank her as sincerely as possible for her pearls of wisdom and excuse myself before I really do come down with a grip, standing around in the cold. I don't even want to try contemplating what it might be like running in a heavy winter coat.

  As I set off along the main road for the port, a car honks from behind. I slow down and turn round to see Pep, Alan's new accomplice, leaning out of the window, puro in hand. He stops the car abruptly, seemingly oblivious to the truck tooting behind him which is forced to overtake. He pushes his wavy grey hair back behind his ears and leans his head out of the car window.

  'Hey you want a churro? It will give you energy.'

  He delves into a bag on the passenger seat and produces some churros, the sugary doughnuts savoured throughout Spain. I smell their rich aroma.

  'Are they still warm?'

  'Segur, of course, I have just come from the town. They're fresh from the bread shop.' A tanned arm juts out from the car door, at the end of which he is dangling a fat, sugar and oil drenched churro.

  I'm almost tempted to accept which just goes to show how dedicated a runner I really am. 'Pep, my mother told me never to take sweets from strange men in cars.'

  'Good advice, but I'm not so strange really and even your mother would have succumbed to a churro.'

  I give an exasperated sigh. 'Put them away! I'm trying to get in training for heaven's sake.'

  He sniffs disdainfully. 'Oh well, if you insist. I'd better let you go but remember we all have dinner tonight? We'll feed the boys early so they can go and play in peace. You won't forget?'

  'How could I? It will be the highlight of my day.'

  He gives me a curious smile and takes a long drag on his cigar. The engine rattles and with a languid wave from the window, he drives on.

  We are sitting at the spacious mahogany dining table in Pep's parlour, replete after huge helpings of arroz brut, literally meaning 'dirty rice' in Mallorcan, a mountain delicacy which is rich and flavoursome and anything but dirty, except maybe in colour. It's the nearest you might come to a soupy rice stew – a hearty fusion of vegetables, rabbit, pork, caracoles (snails) and when in season, tords (thrushes). I am thankful that no tords are in evidence.

  'You know,' drawls Pep, 'Now is the beginning of the hunting season because the birds are migrating from Europe to Africa.'

  'Presumably thrushes need to take cover?' asks Alan.

  'To be sure. The tords are a great Mallorcan speciality and are hunted until the end of October. '

  'Do you hunt them?' I ask pointedly.

  'When I was young, si, but now I can't be bothered. My father and grandfather used to fix up the filats, big nets that stretched between bamboo poles which we put in the fields. The stupid birds would fly straight into them and get trapped.'

  I can't bear the idea of thrushes being killed by the bushel in such a seemingly heartless way. Alan chews on a piece of bread thoughtfully, not wanting to pass comment on an ancient Mallorcan custom. Pep leans back in his chair and observes us coolly.

  'You British think we're barbaric, no? We kill little bulls, we eat thrushes, and you British are so proper.'

  Alan frowns, trying to make light of it all. 'I have to admit, I'm not a great one for game hunting of any kind, but I'll eat it just the same. I just don't see the necessity to kill small birds.'

  'Yes, what's the point when there are so many other things to eat?' I ask.

  'Well, you can apply that to anything,' grunts Pep.

  Juana, Pep's sturdy Mallorcan wife who is bustling about the kitchen preparing coffee, wipes her hands on her pinny and shakes her head. 'You can debate all night on the subject but at the end of the day, we eat them because they taste good and it's a tradition, although it's not so popular now. As they say, when in Rome…'

  'Absolutely,' says Alan, with some relief. 'We've moved here to be part of Mallorcan life, and that means embracing all the traditions.'

  'Good,' says Pep, mischievously. 'Then I'll pick you up for a spot of tord shooting in the morning.'

  Alan's face expresses momentary discomfort before he registers that his leg is being well and truly pulled.

  'Very funny,' he says, narrowing his eyes.

  Juana gives a husky chuckle and places a tray of cheeses and bread on the table and sits down. A pot of coffee simmers on the stove.

  'Ah, there's nothing like good Mallorcan yeso,' says Alan eyeing the cheeses with satisfaction.

  Pep and Juana share a smile at this while Alan looks on helplessly.

  'Be careful,' says Pep, unable to control his facial muscles. 'If you go into restaurants asking for yeso, you might get more than you bargained for. Yeso, means plaster. I think you meant queso, cheese.'

  Juana and I are already giggling inanely as Alan fights to maintain a little dignity. 'Well, it's damned similar,' he protests. 'Sometimes I think I'm too old in the tooth for learning a new language.'

  'Not at all,' says Pep kindly. 'You do admirably well. Think of all the lazy English living for years in Mallorca who don't bother to learn a word. You should be proud of yourself, mi amic.'

  He jumps up and rumbles about in an old cupboard. There's a clinking of bottles and he returns to the table with cognac and Herbes, the local Mallorcan liqueur.

  'Let's drink to new friends!' he says heartily. 'Juana! Go and get the glasses.'

  She obediently ambles over to a wooden sideboard and fishes out four small tumblers which she dumps on the table. Then, before sitting down, she unceremoniously whacks Pep round the ear with a tea towel. H
e yelps in shock. 'Next time, remember to ask nicely,' she says with a warning smile.

  Alan's eyebrows rise a slither as he catches my eye. Pep may be a cool customer but he certainly met his match when he married Juana.

  Our local Banca March is throbbing with people as we push against the glass front doors and enter the throng. The new look bank is now open plan with a light marble floor, shiny polished wooden counters and gleaming white paintwork. The manager still retains his own office but, in the refurbishment, one wall has been fitted with a large glass panel so that he is now exposed to the customer. Alan seems to disapprove of this.

  'The poor chap won't have much privacy, will he?' he says above the din as we squeeze towards the drinks table.

  'You mean he can't sneak a quick cigar if he wants one,' I reply crisply.

  'Exactly,' he says.

  Someone touches my arm and there is Tolo, the deputy bank manager, bearing two glasses of chilled cava.

  'Here,' he beams. 'I am so happy you have come to toast our new refurbishment. What do you think?'

  'Jolly nice. It's very open.'

  'Si, si, it's much more friendly and bright. Come, let me introduce you to some clients.' He leads us towards a group of suited men quaffing drinks and apparently sharing a private joke. They halt their huddling and turn politely to greet us.

  'This is Senyor Rivas, el Batle, the mayor, and Senyor Marco Arbono, one of his councillors, and finally Senyor…'

  The senyor in question is Xavier, owner of Colmado La Luna, my favourite local grocery store.

  'Hola guapa!' he says, kissing me on both cheeks and shaking Alan's hand warmly. The mayor and the others relax, pleased that we are known to at least one of them.

  'This senyora is one of my best customers,' Xavier says in Spanish.

  The mayor smiles. 'So you are helping the town's economy?'

  'Single-handedly,' I say.

  Alan leans over to Tolo and says dryly. 'Maybe now is the time to freeze our account?'

  'If she runs your account into the ground, we'd be happy to give you a loan,' replies Tolo with a broad smile.

  Alan punches him on the arm. 'No doubt.'

  We pass a few pleasantries with el Batle and decide to take our leave.

  'Wait,' says Tolo. 'I want you to meet Victoria Duvall, she's a local celebrity – a film director.'

  We dutifully trail behind him until we come face to face with a tall, striking woman, who is hastily bidding farewell to another guest.

  'Senyora Duvall,' says Tolo with gravitas. 'May I present…'

  Impatiently she whips out a card from her handbag and places it firmly in my hand. 'Nice to meet you, but I really must be off. Call me some time.'

  And with that she glides through the crowds and disappears into the street. I peer at the thick cream card which has the words, 'Victoria Duvall, Film Director' embossed on its surface in rich, black ink.

  Tolo shrugs his shoulders. 'I apologise. She is a busy woman but at least now she knows who you are.'

  Hardly. She didn't even wait to be introduced. Nevertheless, I have her card and also a strange feeling that we shall be meeting the elusive Victoria Duvall again before too long.

  The alarm clock bellows in my ear. It's seven o'clock. I turn to awaken Alan but he's not there. The pillow is plumped up which indicates that he hasn't been to bed at all. The previous night he and Pep had agreed to meet in the town's plaça to discuss their secret business scheme, and I had been warned by Alan that it could be a late night. Late indeed. I hope nothing untoward has happened to him but have a vague memory of hearing the front door slam at some stage in the night. Maybe he never made it as far as the staircase.

  I wake Ollie and get him washed and dressed before pottering into the kitchen for my morning cup of tea. An intriguing sight greets me. Alan is slumped in a chair, his head resting heavily on his crossed arms on the kitchen table. He snores loudly and contentedly, blissfully unaware that I have entered the room. It's only then that I notice the debris littered on the table – an assortment of empty and half drained bottles of specialist whiskies together with empty cigar boxes, a gasping ashtray and two small grubby tumblers.

  Ollie walks in and stares calmly at his father as if he's examining a laboratory rat. 'What's he doing?' he asks as he places a chocolate croissant on a plate and sits down at the table.

  'Sleeping,' I say while filling the kettle.

  'I can see that,' he replies disdainfully. 'Can I wake him up?'

  'Sure.'

  He strides over to Alan and pounces on him like a rather zealous cat with a gecko, and then begins shaking him violently. Alan gives a deep groan and raises his head, his eyes blearily scanning the room.

  'What am I doing down here?'

  'Good question.' I am savouring the moment.

  'Looks like you've had lots of naughty drinks and puros,' says Ollie helpfully.

  Sadistically I place a cup of black coffee in front of him. 'It seems to me that you and Pep had quite a long business meeting.'

  He surveys the bottles and winces. 'Well, Pep wanted to try some of my rare Scottish malts so we came back and had a few drams.'

  'So I see. And then what?'

  'Well, Pep walked home…'

  'Staggered more like.'

  He glares at me. 'We were doing some important research for our business scheme actually.'

  'Really? And what might that be?'

  He looks defeated. 'I suppose I might as well tell you. We're thinking of opening a specialist whisky shop.'

  It's difficult to suppress an urge to snort out loud.

  'Don't tell me, it will also sell rare puros?'

  He brightens a little and regards me with admiration. 'Well funny you should say that. We were just thinking along those lines.'

  I leave him nursing a sore head, shower, dress and rush Ollie out of the door ready for school. As I jump in the car, engine humming, Catalina drives into the courtyard. She beams from behind her window, parks and comes over. I lower my window.

  'Hey,' she says with a huge grin. 'A little bird tell me two bad men were out on the town last night. They were drinking in Café Paris until very late.'

  I tap her on the arm. 'Your little bird was correct, but what you don't know is that the two revellers carried on back at the casa until the wee hours.'

  Catalina shakes with mirth. 'And where are they now?'

  'The Scotsman is a fragile wreck in the kitchen and I hate to think what Juana said when Pep crawled home.'

  'I look after Alan,' she says compassionately. 'Maybe I cook him nice eggs and some jamon serrano?'

  'Lovely,' I say, imagining Alan's green aspect at the very suggestion of fried eggs and smoked ham. 'Oh and do remind him that he has his Spanish lesson with the luscious Paula at ten o'clock.'

  She gives an enthusiastic and complicit nod of the head and disappears into the house.

  SIX

  LONDON: OCTOBER

  Thursday 6 p.m., Caffè Nero

  Ed is gorging on a chocolate muffin and eyeing the door of the café warily. In order to maintain his vigil, he fretfully pushes back his dishevelled mop of hair, which falls in front of his owlish spectacles like a dense black veil. I give him a kick under the table. He shoots me a frightened chicken look.

  'What on earth is the matter with you today?'

  He touches the rim of his MEK for reassurance like Linus with his blanket, and scrapes some crumbs from his lip with his hand.

  'It's just that I've got a little nervous about terrorist extremists, Scatters. It's the idea of a bomb-laden nutter walking into the café and blowing us all up.' He gulps at his cappuccino.

  'You mean terrorists against the evils of caffeine?' I ask naughtily.

  'You may mock, but there are always shoot outs in fast food places in the States. All it needs is one stray lunatic to get the idea…'

  'You don't think they'd choose a more obvious target? I mean why here, today?'

  'Why when anywhe
re?' he sniffs deeply, taking a small yellow pill from the MEK and popping into his mouth. 'Look, you're a bit out of it where you are. I just think one should be vigilant.'

  'Fine, Ed, but you did choose the location.'

  He swallows some coffee. 'You're still annoyed because it's not Starbucks.'

  'Ed, these days I really don't care where we go. At least they have real cups here.'