A Lizard In My Luggage

by Anna Nicholas

  I am struggling back from the market with two heavy shopping bags when I hear a loud 'Senyora!' from the mouth of the track. It is my elderly neighbour, Margalida. She is panting and waving her stick at me as if flagging down a passing car. When I reach her, she hooks one arm under mine and carries her stick with the other. I stop to re-adjust my load, at the same time asking her where she wants to go. There is only one other finca aside from Rafael's and ours at the end of the track. She points straight ahead with her stick and staggers on. As we walk she quizzes me on what I have been buying and looks satisfied that it is vegetables from Teresa, her old friend at the market, and nothing frivolous. Perhaps I have the makings of a good housewife yet. We walk slowly in silent intimacy. Margalida is so close that I can feel the warmth of her arm under mine. Her skin is translucent and forks of raised green veins run like rural map boundaries across her small, arthritic hands. She is vulnerable and bird-like, her small blue eyes squinting sightlessly behind thick lenses. I feel like Little Red Riding Hood but this is not my grandmother. A sorrow wells up in me remembering the grandmother I adored and my frail elderly aunt who now lives miles away back in England in a nursing home. Now I see her infrequently and my visits are punctuated with interruptions by care workers and communal meal times. Forever under public scrutiny, we are rarely permitted the freedom to speak together alone.

  Margalida comes to a standstill outside the handsome stone finca with olive green gates and shutters whose occupants are still unknown to us.

  'This is my daughter and son-in-law's house,' she says. 'I have lunch here every day.'

  Lucky Margalida. If she were a pensioner in England, her family would probably have dispersed and she'd be in a care home or relying on meals on wheels. She bangs on the metal gate with her stick and calls out sharply, 'Sílvia! Sílvia!'

  A grand, statuesque woman appears, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She is high cheek boned and buxom and her hair, the colour of sand, has been carefully set and lacquered. We make our introductions and she appears bemused that I am on such friendly terms with her aged mother.

  She gives me a smile. 'My mother tells me you have become great friends. I'd love to know what language you two speak.'

  So would I. It's certainly not Spanish, more a mix of sign language, telepathy and rudimentary Mallorcan.

  'We have our own special language,' I reply.

  She chuckles. 'Well, thank you for keeping her company. My husband, Pedro, and I are very happy you have moved here. It's nice to have the old finca occupied again.'

  Once Margalida is in her daughter's care, I set off up the track. As I reach the finca I can hear Ollie screeching with delight. Something's up. I enter the house to find both he and Alan sharing secret smiles, and almost goading each other in to speech. They help carry my bags to the kitchen, suspicious in itself, and then Ollie blurts out.

  'We've got a cat!'

  I narrow my eyes. 'A cat?'

  Alan interjects. 'We were up buying olive oil at Can Det, when Bartomeu presented Ollie with a kitten. We could hardly refuse.'

  Catalina recently introduced us to Bartomeu whose family runs one of the last privately owned olive presses in Mallorca. There's a high-pitched mewling coming from a cardboard box and as I peep inside, a tiny face, oysterhued, and with massive blue eyes looks up at me beseechingly. It appears to be part Siamese and has a ridiculous stunted tail which curls round like that of a monkey.

  'What's wrong with its tail?' I ask.

  'Born like that, apparently,' yawns Alan.

  'I'm going to call it Inko,' says Ollie.

  'But it's cream coloured?'

  'Exactly,' he says gravely.

  'And what do we do with it? I mean, what do cats eat? It's a terrible commitment.'

  'Food?' proffers Alan helpfully.

  Thankfully this scene is not happening in our London residence where Lord Jim Jam has been known to prowl the premises with his air rifle in search of contraband pets. Indeed, the pigeon population of our local square already fears for its life, after he took a pot shot from an upper window and instantly felled one in a tree. Although I dislike hunting, at least out here our mountain caçadors, the local huntsmen, eat the birds they shoot.

  Alan languishes unconcernedly in the doorway tinkering with a screw and a broken hose nozzle.

  'Inko will keep the mice away,' says Ollie eyeing his father.

  They're in collusion.

  'Fine. Then you two are in charge of it.'

  They nudge each other and nod their heads but I know that the care of this new charge will inevitably be down to me.

  It is a few years since I've driven. When my car was stolen outside the front door in London, involved in a collision and subsequently burned out, it seemed like a good idea to put my faith in public transport and invest in a pair of sensible walking shoes. However, where I live in Mallorca a car is a necessity, on the level of breathing, unless of course you have time on your hands and prefer to do it the hard way and choose to ride a burro, a donkey. Therefore, I decide that a few lessons on Mallorcan soil are called for and Catalina suggests a local driving instructor, Tomeu Borras. Together we visit his school, a modest set of offices in an old stone finca on the outskirts of the nearby port. Outside, the place is teeming with babbling students, all of whom barge through the front door en masse, excitedly clutching sheets of road symbols and Spanish highway code books. Catalina explains that Tomeu holds evening classes for them on the theory of driving. I bet that's fun. It seems that whole generations of families have trained with Tomeu and many aspiring youths in the area automatically gravitate to his school. Given the high number of prangs locally I reckon he's got a good deal to answer for.

  Catalina waits until the students have dispersed and pushes open the large mahogany front door that gives on to a spacious reception area, its white walls cluttered with large area street maps and posters depicting coloured road symbols. To the right there is a large stone fireplace built into the wall, on either side of which are several forlorn, grey plastic chairs. It has the stale air of a doctor's waiting room. A table piled high with antiquated Spanish reading material sits squat in the middle of the room and in the far corner an al.lota, a young girl with Bambi eyes, sits behind a wooden reception desk laboriously copying names, presumably of students, from a sheet of paper into a large blue register. To the side of her runs a corridor lined with doors. She looks up brightly when we walk in. Rattling away in Mallorcan, Catalina explains that I need a refresher course. The girl nods and looks at her watch nervously, explaining that the driving instructor has just commenced a theory lesson with students and will probably not want to be disturbed. I wonder why she can't just book me an appointment herself. Finally she plucks up the courage to knock on one of the doors. There's silence, the sound of muffled footsteps and then a large man suddenly emerges from the room.

  'What is it?' he asks irritably, striding into the reception, glaring all the while at Miss Bambi. He is tall and well built with a moustache the shape and size of a large arachnid, a forest of a beard and a shock of thick black hair. He views both of us with some disdain.

  'She speaks Spanish?' he enquires brusquely without looking up from the open diary he has whisked up in his hand.

  Catalina lies. 'Oh yes, she's fluent.'

  'Can she drive?' That's debatable.

  'Déu Meu!' says Catalina. 'She's driven all her life.'

  'Well then, she's in the wrong place,' he says with a thin smile.

  'But it's been some years.'

  Tomeu grunts and scribbles in his appointment book. 'Five lessons, then. Starting from Monday. Don't be late.'

  He drops the pen on to the desk and steams back to his class. Bambi throws me a nervous smile and writes out an appointment card. This is going to be a barrel of laughs.

  And now it's the morning of the first lesson and I sidle up to the green Renault parked by the town square as pre-arranged. It is ten in the morning and the place is bustling with life
. I see Tomeu at the wheel, his face serious and stern, and tap gently on his window. Impatiently he gesticulates that I should get in, indicating that it is best for me to take the passenger seat until we get on to a quiet road in the environs of the port. Good idea. Ten minutes later after a rather stilted, monosyllabic conversation, he drives to the edge of the port and parks in a small side street.

  'OK,' he sighs, 'Get in the driving seat and I'll give you instructions.'

  He rattles off a string of commands. I nod obediently although only understanding a fraction of what he's saying. Why hadn't I mugged up on Spanish driving jargon before the lesson? And what on earth was I thinking of hiring a male instructor in a macho place like Mallorca? More quickly than I had hoped for he has me turning on to the busy main road and heading towards the harbour area. The sea glistens temptingly on my left and to my right there are an assortment of souvenir shops and restaurants offering cheap menus del dias. At least I'm in motion. Surely he'll give me credit for that much? Apparently not.

  'You're wobbling. Keep the car straight!' he bellows as I veer towards the middle of the road. The light from the sea catches my eye and beckons invitingly. It's a far cry from my days learning to drive in the cut and thrust of London with the sound of traffic pounding around me and buses and taxis bearing down on the car, their menacing frames looming large in the car mirror. I'm jolted back from my thoughts by a vehicle in front which stops abruptly and turns right without indicating. I hit the brake sharply and Tomeu's head lolls forward. He narrows his eyes and gives a deep threatening growl. 'Take the next right!'

  I indicate and tear round the corner. The car screeches and I struggle to straighten it as it lists towards the pavement. Tomeu hits the dual control brake.

  'Remind me when you last drove?' His grin is sardonic.

  I decide that silence is the greater part of valour.

  'OK now take the next left.'

  On cue, a dog strolls out in the road and I am momentarily distracted, completely missing the turning. He tuts irritably and erupts with, 'Per l'amor de déu! Use your indicator. I said turn LEFT! Loca! Now where are you going?'

  He really is calling me mad. When I was 17, my London driving instructor used to sit mutely beside me, as cool and unemotional as a gecko. He would certainly never have mustered up enough energy or passion to hurl abuse at me. Here, in Mallorca, however, everything is done with passion and that includes lambasting an inept English woman for her appalling road sense. I sniff defiantly and look in the mirror at the traffic building up behind me. Tomeu instructs me to take the following left turn; a small street lined with acacias which curves round and leads directly into the harbour area. I stop at the junction. He rubs his eyes and yawns.

  'Go left, but remember this is a busy road.'

  The road to the port is always packed with cars and local sporting machos who attempt elaborate manoeuvres in the middle of the main road and snarl up the traffic. There are a series of anguished and discordant blasts from horns when this occurs and then everyone starts theatrically yelling and flapping their arms out of the windows as everything comes to a grinding halt. A few minutes will pass and then this outstanding free entertainment is over as cars begin circulating again and tourists, riveted to the pavement by the spectacle, are broken from their spell. On this occasion I cause the hold-up because when I attempt to turn, I somehow stall.

  'Fre de mà! El fre!' Tomeu is shrieking. Ah, the handbrake. Not a bad idea given that the car is sliding backwards. On both sides of the road hysterical drivers are tooting. A cyclist enters the fray and decides to cross in front of me, so I remain rigid. The road's log jammed. Tomeu is so incensed that he clutches wildly at the dashboard as if he might break it free and smash it over my head. Luckily he can't. He sniffs loudly, turns his head away and leans out of his window, mumbling darkly like a disgruntled sorcerer, in local dialect. The car suddenly roars and bucks as I turn the ignition and swerve round to the left narrowly missing two tourists with a death wish. We carry on in awkward silence. Small fishing boats bob up and down on a choppy sea on one side, and far off beyond the lighthouse I can see bulky vessels waiting to enter the port. Tomeu stonily tells me to continue until we reach a roundabout.

  'Gas! Gas!' he bawls.

  Heavens, this is like giving birth.

  'Why are you stopping? Can you see a car?'

  Well yes actually, I can. In England we stop when a car's got lane priority. I don't feel inclined to hurtle at top speed in front of a fast moving vehicle two feet from me. He holds his head in his hands. Some minutes later, as we tootle along the main road that leads back to his offices, we get to a give way sign. I stop.

  'El gas! El gas!' Tomeu is practically hitting the dashboard with his head in frustration as I stubbornly wait until I am sure the road in front of me is devoid of traffic. We reach a crossroads with traffic lights.

  'El gas ! El gas!' he hollers again.

  I glare at him like an intransigent mule, frustrated that I don't have enough of the lingo to make some clever quip. The red light turns to green and I release the handbrake and cross over the road wearily.

  'I'll see you tomorrow,' Tomeu says dryly as I park the car shakily outside his driving school. I groan inwardly at the thought. Can I survive another such session? More to the point, can he? Still, this lesson has served a useful purpose, enlightening me as to the guiding principles of Mallorcan driving, as follows:

  1. Forget who has priority at roundabouts, screech out and get ahead. DON'T indicate and DON'T let other road users second-guess you.

  2. Save time and fool other motorists by ignoring NO ENTRY signs. Make a principle of driving the wrong way down one-way streets.

  3. Should you stop at give way signs? Home! Ever heard of Mallorcan pride?

  4. A fast car is approaching on the opposite side. Do you overtake the car in front? Of course! The other driver can always use the hard shoulder or veer into a ditch.

  5. Car mirrors serve no useful purpose other than for your girlfriend to touch up her make-up. Ignore them.

  On my fifth and final lesson with Tomeu, he takes me up a winding mountain road at nightfall and then instructs me to drive back down again using my headlights in the dusk. I actually enjoy the challenge and find Tomeu no longer threatening but, dare I say it, endearing. Once he decides to stop yelling at me and begins to acknowledge that I'm not going to make him another dismal road statistic, we begin to talk. In fact, on that lonely last run, I'd almost go as far as to say we connected. We laugh and chat about work, travel and politics and suddenly it dawns on me that I am being instructed by a hugely well-educated man who, on leaving university, opted to open a driving school rather than follow in the family accountancy business. As we arrive back at his driving school he shakes my hand, slaps me on the back, and with a broad smile says, 'You'll do, you'll do.'

  It's a crisp November day and heavy white cloud is draped like a thick pearly mantle over the valley. Alan, clad in a heavy knit, twill trousers and green wellies, is manhandling a lavender plant on the terrace and replanting it in a perfunctory way in a nearby flowerbed. Defiantly he puffs on a puro, his brow furrowed and eyes downcast. I have no intention of remonstrating with him about his nicotine habit at this juncture. He is in ill humour because despite excuses, artifice and subterfuge on a Machiavellian scale, our house visitor has not been deterred and is still arriving tonight. Catalina has made up the basement guest room, previously our dank and creepy cellar, and cut fresh seasonal flowers which she arranges in a small glass vase on the dresser. The room is spotless, the terracotta floors scrubbed and polished to perfection, the white walls and ceilings cleared of any lurking cobwebs, ants, spiders, diminutive scorpions and moths. The bathroom is the only truly functioning one in the whole finca. The old four-poster bed is covered in simple white cotton sheets and duvet and a selection of reading material from ¡Hola! to The Economist is piled neatly on a side table. Even Charlotte Jacobs, fashion and style guru for one of the broadshee
ts with her own TV spot to boot, won't be able to find fault with anything. On second thoughts… I walk into the kitchen where Catalina is brewing some savoury concoction on the stove. It smells heavenly.

  'You busy in office, so I make you albondigas, tomato sauce and rice for dinner. Your friend like meatballs?'

  Heaven only knows what she likes. Charlotte's fads change with the weather. Formerly a vegan in her chrysalis period she evolved into a vegetarian then a macrobiotic but last time we met she had switched from the Atkinson diet to the blood-group dietary plan. However the whole thing is a sham so there's no point in sharing this lunacy with Catalina.

  Charlotte is a menopausal woman in her early fifties who can't accept that she is no longer the staggering beauty she once was. Divorced and childless, she now lavishes her money on three overfed Persians with whom she shares a luxury flat in St James's, a hair's breadth from the Ritz. She has a full time maid and a butler for weekends and dinner parties. Her lovers are wealthy, some married but most are divorcees who, rejoicing in their newfound bachelor freedom, are only ever interested in short-term affairs. Charlotte is a useful stopgap, a polished companion for sporty weekends hunting and fishing in the country, a valuable party ticket in London's media land, and a reasonable bit of crumpet for an indulgent, naughty weekend in Paris, Venice or Rome. Hailing from a modest family in Sussex, Charlotte – real name Katie – yearned as a young child to live like her picture book American heroine, Eloise, in a luxurious hotel with servants, nannies and the best things that life could offer.