The builders are crashing about in the entrada with the front door wide open as they plod in and out with tools and materials. I'm trying not to get over-excited but with any luck our new enlarged stone fireplace will be completed today. Up until now we've made do with a small hearth that doesn't afford much heat beyond the entrada. The thought of having a huge blazing fire in the hearth is enough to bring me out in a cold sweat of anticipation. I shiver with the chill knowing that we won't have central heating fitted for some months. The enhanced fireplace will be a start. Meanwhile we will continue to make do with fingerless mittens, thick sweaters, woollen scarves and socks. Catalina is bustling around the builders, breaking up a cardboard box and sweeping up leaves that have blown in through the French doors.
'Always much dirt,' she says accusingly, prodding one of the builders with her brush. He leaps away and cackles with laughter. She turns to me. 'Hey, you forget your Spanish class?'
I look at my watch and realise that I'm running late. Grabbing my exercise books and jacket, I bolt out of the front door. The turf is hard and crusty underfoot as I walk briskly along the lane. Nearing Rafael's house I see Franco sniffing cheerfully in the hedgerows outside his pen. Loud Hispanic music is belting out from the windows of the finca. I give the dog a pat as I walk by and plod on. Ten minutes later, deep in thought about my Spanish verbs and nearing the office of Fransisca, I hear heavy panting and am alarmed to see Franco tripping along some distance behind me. Knowing that he is not allowed past our lane, I attempt to steer him back up the road and in the direction of Rafael's house. At the corner of the street, I see Margalida Sampol chatting with some elderly friends. I wave to her and she scrunches up her eyes before the penny drops. 'What are you doing with Rafael's dog?' she asks in puzzlement.
'It won't stop following me,' I reply helplessly.
She confers with her friends who begin calling the dog's name. This achieves nothing given that the mutt is already over-excited and now barks madly at the sound of his name. Margalida makes the sign of the cross and shrugs her shoulders. Meanwhile, several bemused locals stop to watch my dismal attempts at coaxing him home. Have they nothing better to do? I decide to run on and give him the slip but he mistakenly thinks this is a game and bounds along, finally knocking me over and covering me in dirt and spittle. An old lady in black garb starts to cackle and soon various passers-by join in the fray. They all seem to know the dog's name and to my dismay cry out, 'Franco! Venga! Venga!' which makes the stupid animal grow even wilder. The big-hipped duena, the boss of our local grocery shop, comes out on the pavement and waves to me.
'I see you have a new friend!' she chuckles in Spanish.
Oh very funny. Meanwhile her husband attempts to catch Franco by the collar but the boxer evades him, pawing me frantically and licking my hands in between excited barking. My small band of loyal spectators titter with amusement as I stand helplessly in the street outside Fransisca's office. In a flustered state I buzz her intercom.
'Si?'
'Fransisca, it's me but I've got my neighbour's dog down here.'
'Vale, OK,' she says. 'Bring him in if you want.'
'You don't understand. I don't want him here at all.'
She struggles to hear me above the barking and sounds a little perplexed.
'Then why did you bring him?' she asks.
'I didn't. Listen, I'm just going to call Alan and I'll be with you.'
'No problema,' she says and the intercom goes dead.
Alan is impatient when I call him on my mobile. He asks why on earth I took the dog with me. I try to explain above the din of barking.
'Calm down.' I hear him say. 'I'll get Rafael to fetch him.'
Fifteen minutes later Rafael arrives at the office to reclaim his pet. Franco is lying on the tiled floor listening attentively to the lesson in progress. Grinning from ear to ear, my sporty neighbour bounds over and kisses me on both cheeks.
'Hola! Everything good? So you take my dog for lessons of Español, eh? You don't think Franco speak good enough Spanish?'
He rocks with laughter while Fransisca enthusiastically recounts the whole tale at my expense. That's one of the keys to life here, being able to laugh at oneself. Anyone with a dangerous sense of self-importance or gravitas would be strongly advised to get straight back on the next plane for London. When I first met Catalina's husband, Ramon, I remember telling him rather loftily that I ran a public relations company. He gave me a look loaded with irony and asked whether I could also do anything useful like sewing or cooking, so I'm catching on fast. After much guffawing and belly laughs, Rafael leads Franco from the flat by his collar. At the door, the dog turns and gives me what I take to be a large canine grin, his wet, red tongue lolling out of his mouth, as if he too is enjoying the joke.
It is eight in the evening as we arrive at Fransisca and Hans's flat which spreads across the top floor of an apartment block on the perimeter of the town. It is clean and modern with a huge white living space that gives on to a veranda overlooking the busy main road to the port beyond which lie the Tramuntana mountains. I first met Fransisca and Hans, when enrolling for classes at their language school. For several months now Fransisca has patiently persevered with teaching me Spanish despite my erratic timekeeping, for I too am falling under the spell of mañana, mañana. En route to her office, I am easily waylaid, engaging in gossip with neighbours, and dishing out food scraps to roving dogs and feral cats along the path in the belief that I have all the time in the world. Then there are my frequent hops back to London which mean cancelling lessons, often at short notice, and putting homework on a back burner. While Fransisca and her disciples teach, Hans runs the business, skilfully juggling the diaries of their foreign clients and, on the phone, switching between languages with the speed of a baton in a relay race.
Despite my tutor's efforts I do not feel I have progressed as quickly as I would have liked but this has more to do with my initial naivety in thinking I could be truly fluent in a matter of months, just absorbing the language by osmosis. The reality is that learning a language properly, and by that I mean understanding its nuances and poetry, takes time and dedication. Unfortunately, there is no magic chip which, once inserted, has you babbling fluently in the lingo, and all those feckless friends who merrily tell you on departure that learning a new language is a cinch are what we call in Mallorcan complete mentiders – liars. In fact, in most cases, the people who brag about the ease of mastering a foreign language have seldom attempted to do so themselves and often have a dismal grasp of their own. The key to linguistic success of course, is to listen to the locals and attempt at every opportunity to participate in conversation, regardless of how humiliating or embarrassing the consequences might be. However, Alan learned the perils of following this path some months before when at a dinner party he spoke of his love for pajaras, slovenly bitches, instead of what he meant to say; pajaros, birds. As they say, what a difference an 'a' makes.
But back to tonight. Fransisca and Hans are hosting their pre-Christmas fiesta, an 'at home' which they have organised for clients and friends, and the place is buzzing with chatter. As we enter, engulfed in warm air and light from the small doorway, I notice out of the corner of my eye a piano and an assortment of musical instruments placed prominently in the centre of the room. What can be the significance of this? Fransisca, face glistening from the heat of the kitchen, greets us with hugs and kisses and shows us into the flat. The drinks are flowing and Hans emerges from the kitchen balancing a tray buried beneath platters of cold meats, rice dishes home-made pies and rich German cakes. He and his wife rig up two pine trestle tables on which they place dish upon dish of food. There is nothing over engineered and the simplicity and homeliness of the occasion takes me back to the buffets once organised by my elderly aunt when I was a child. Various friends dive into the kitchen and open bottles of Rioja which they share round the guests. Far across the valley, stars burn in the sky and the dull rumble of passing traffic can just be heard
from the open doorway of the veranda. There's a warm hand on my back.
'Venga!' says Fransisca, 'The fun is about to begin.'
I espy Alan and Ollie at the other side of the room, chomping on large plates of paella and pie. At the mention of fun, Alan shoots me a wary look. To our joint astonishment, Hans takes to the piano and Fransisca to the guitar. I am immediately reminded of the singing duo, Peters and Lee. There's a hush as smiling Spanish guests gather round the piano quite obviously anticipating a sing-song. My eyes meet those of Alan and in a moment of self-consciousness of an urban kind, we both scuttle to the side of the room and sit down. Could this ever happen in London? Within minutes the room is filled with singing voices, frenzied guitar strumming and the tinkling of piano keys. Two Spaniards begin to shuffle to the sound of the music, clapping their hands dramatically and Olé-ing. Yes, it's true, the Spanish really do say Olé. An exotic Spanish woman in a slinky red dress with black hair that snakes down past her waist beckons to me to join her as she gyrates around the piano. Oh God, how do I get out of this one? I decline demurely and nod in the direction of Ollie, picking him up and pretending that he's sleepy. Indignantly, he gives me a shove and demands to be put down. There's nothing for it. I have to join the group. As I sway inelegantly with this happy crowd, clapping to the music, I see Rachel's horrified face swimming towards me as in a dream, her mouth hissing, 'For Christ's sake. What are you doing?' I shake myself out of my stupor and see Ollie watching me from his chair, a smug grin playing on his lips. Alan is to my left now, plucking at the strings of a guitar while a large man, his eyes dancing with excitement, claps him cheerfully on the back yelling, 'Bravo! Bravo!'An hour later and we are all singing rowdily, Ollie is dancing with an elderly Spanish woman wearing a white caftan and hoop earrings and Alan is playing 'The Maple Leaf Rag' on the piano to rapturous applause.
We leave at midnight, tipsy and warm with red wine and exertion and stroll off along the road back to the finca. Several partygoers call out raucously and toot us as they drive by, the tail lights of their cars glowing like cigarette butts in the dusk. Soon we are crunching up the gravel of our track, mutely, engulfed in darkness and the sounds of night in the country. The owls and bats soar overhead and as we reach the courtyard I am at once aware of a huge canopy of white stars blazing above us. There's a familiar scratchy cough coming from the pond and, as I peer closer, I see the silhouette of my portly toad observing me from a rock at the edge of the water. I thought he'd be gone by now. He creeps out of the shadows, his eyes glinting in the light of the stars, and then, with a sly wink and a full throttle croak, he disappears into the crevice of a rock.
Rafael's cockerel, like an over-excited town crier, is screeching at the top of his voice as Catalina drives, lights blazing, into the dim courtyard. Just in case anyone's still asleep in the house, she stabs at the hooter and yells out of the van's window. I jump in beside her, kitted in mountain gear and thick gloves.
'They're still asleep,' I mutter.
Catalina takes no prisoners. 'But it's half past six. They should be up by now.'
We whiz off down the track and through the quiet country roads. The ghostly light of a moto comes towards us on the other side of the road and then I see the familiar frame of Gaspar, the paper delivery man. He gives us a toot and a thumbs up sign and rumbles off.
He must be off to pick up the papers,' I turn to Catalina.
'Yes, Gaspar gets up very early, but he's happy.'
We climb up the mountain roads finally reaching a tranquil spot with wild terrain and forests where the road curves off to the left. Catalina flicks her indicator, although at this hour there isn't a soul on the road. Rumbling along a steep track for about a mile, thick forest land on both sides, we turn right into a narrow lane full of boulders and sharp rocks and jolt along for a few miles until we reach a small clearing.
'Thank heavens I borrow Stefan's old van,' she shouts above the noise of the engine. The road widens slightly, enough for a car to park on one side. Catalina stops abruptly and we both get out. In the back of the van, she unearths two large trugs and some sharp little knives and torches.
'OK, we meet my aunt Maria here and then we walk through the forests and up into the terraces. It will be light soon.'
The air is cool and, like dragons, our breath is white. I look inside my trug. It's quite big. 'Do you reckon we'll find many bolets?'
She shrugs. 'That's the thing about hunting for mushrooms. You never know what you will find until the day.'
The sky is still dark and both of us jiggle about in the chill while we wait for Maria. A headlight hits us before the car struggles up the lane and jolts to a stop behind ours. The door flies open and Catalina's ebullient and energetic aunt jumps out, talking animatedly. I try to keep up but the stream of Mallorcan linguistic ping ponging between the two, finally defeats me.
'Molt bé!' she gives me a big hug. 'Now we go searching for gold!'
We take our trugs and set off across the damp field and into the woods. Maria is small and fit and exudes an air of confidence. Up in her local village she and her husband Jaime run an excellent restaurant called Canantuna which even the King of Spain has been rumoured to visit and heavenly fresh bolets are always on the menu when in season. She snaps off twigs and bends branches as she strides on, torch in hand, through the obscurity towards her goal. I scramble after her and Catalina, holding my torch in one hand and trug in the other. We're all huffing and puffing as we begin our ascent through the stone terraces where Maria's hidden treasure trove of bolets, the much prized local mushrooms, are to be found.
'Do many people come up here for bolets?' I ask.
They both swing round and give me a harsh look.
'This is my private land! If anyone dared come here I'd chase them off,' says Maria spiritedly.
'People go mad for them,' adds Catalina conspiratorially. 'You see them searching with torches in the hedgerows at the crack of dawn.'
'Are they difficult to buy?' I'm mystified by the cult and wonder if they have the rarity of truffles.
'You can buy them easily enough, but they cost a fortune and aren't always fresh,' explains Maria.
The science of bolets is something unknown to me which is why Catalina and her aunt generously invited me to join them on one of their many seasonal mushroom hunts on Maria's private land. There's a trickle of light in the sky so we turn off our torches.
'Now,' instructs Maria. 'Be careful what you pick and check back with me. There are many poisonous mushrooms around and some are deadly.'
That's cheerful news. I shall certainly not be popping any finds in my mouth before first conferring with Maria.
She takes out a sharp knife and begins scraping the soil beneath a tree. There appears to be nothing there so I'm not quite sure what she's doing.
'Can you see any mushrooms?' she quizzes.
'Not a thing,' I reply.
She raises her eyebrows and like a magician tells me to step aside. With one quick move of the knife, she uncovers two enormous mushrooms on the place where I had been standing. I'm stunned.
'But they looked like half-buried pebbles,' I stammer.
She triumphantly hurls them in my trug. 'Don't be fooled!'
Back under the tree where she was digging, she uncovers a patch of red esclatasangs, bloodbusters, so named because of their bright red juice. I fish around in the undergrowth but seem to find nothing but trouble. I hold up a small mushroom.
'Peu de rata, rat feet. That one's no good. Throw it away!' she tuts.
A clump of delicious looking grey mushrooms catch my eye. 'No, no,' Catalina yells. 'Those are bolets verinosos, very nasty toadstools.'
I notice, a little petulantly, that both Catalina and Maria are filling their trugs effortlessly.
'You develop an eye for bolet hunting,' says Catalina sympathetically, 'and my aunt knows exactly where to find them.'
She beckons to me. 'See here? The sheep have beaten us to it. Normally there's a bi
g patch under this tree but they have been eaten. This is why we come early morning.'
An hour later, quite unexpectedly, I alight upon a large area of mushrooms. Excitedly as if I've discovered some rare archaeological find, I carefully scrape away the soil and holler for Catalina.
'Molt bé!' she says. 'You've found your treasure. Dig carefully and remember to cut at the base of the stem or you'll destroy the next crop.'
Heavens, bolet hunting is a tricky business and not for the impatient or faint-hearted. We plod on through the terraces, higher and higher, following in Maria's experienced foot steps. Some hours later we stop for a rest and examine our trugs. Theirs are groaning under the weight of various varieties of bolet, while mine is rather thin on substance.
A Lizard In My Luggage Page 18