A Lizard In My Luggage

by Anna Nicholas

  'New year, new life,' he says softly, touching my arm.

  ELEVEN

  ANIMAL RITES

  It's New Year's Day and I'm running through the port under a blue and white marbled sky. To my left a restless sea lashes against the rocks and the small fishing boats touch and embrace as the waves unite them in brief moments of passion. The cafés are just beginning to open and the familiar smell of strong bleach assails my nostrils as I sprint by pristine doorsteps, freshly scrubbed by women preparing for a new round of guests. From behind, there's the familiar pop pop of Gaspar's moto followed by a wild tooting as he levels with me, exuberantly offering seasonal greetings and giving me the thumbs up. I give him a wave and watch as he disappears up a small road. As I pass a mountain of abandoned nets with their briny aroma of stale fish, I hear a resonant voice calling my name and there, pouncing out on the quay, with arms outstretched, is our local doctor, Senyor Vidal. He is portly with greying hair, a large handlebar moustache and eyes crinkled with mirth. He gives me a hug and shouts, 'Bona figura!' and claps loudly, blowing kisses after me as I resume my run. I turn round and reciprocate the gesture and notice several locals shaking their heads and smiling. Doctor Vidal is a real character who is greatly respected in the local community and known for his eccentricities. I jog on, leaping over secured anchors and past the trawlers standing tall and impenetrable, their noses to the port, and onwards to the end of the harbour. As I loop back and head for home, a car toots and leaning out of the window and waving frantically is Tolo. I return the gesture and mouth 'Molts d'anys'. I'm pleased to see that he's having a break from the bank.

  The light from the sky hits the masts of the yachts bobbing gently up and down along the side of the quay. Around them the rich blue sea glints and dances and in that split second, with the warmth of the sun on my back, I realise there's no other place I'd rather be.

  The sun is dazzling as we finally draw to a halt at the old iron gate leading to Catalina and Ramon's olivar, their olive grove. It has been a challenging journey so far, with many a precarious bend on a narrow and precipitous mountain road which seemed to curl forever upward like a giant helter-skelter towards the infinite blue sky. Alan gives a genuine deep sigh of relief as we once again study Ramon's hand drawn map offering directions.

  'Looks as if we've finally arrived,' he says.

  I get out of the car and push back the gate. It gives a squeal of disapproval as it is wrenched open and pinioned against the wall. The air has become notably cooler and the view from up here, high in the hills, is spectacular. Running down from the mountains in all directions are a seemingly endless series of terraces, known in Mallorcan as marjadas, on which olive trees are cultivated. Each terrace is protected by a sturdy hand-constructed drystone wall, the marge, which serves to keep the soil level and in place. The double wall construction in which rubble is placed between the stones instead of cement assists with drainage, a godsend in rainy and tempestuous weather, stopping the soil from slipping away and becoming waterlogged. A glut of families in rural Mallorca are lucky enough to own an olivar where they spend many a weekend during the olive picking season producing enough oil for their own consumption.

  A moment later we drive down a bumpy track surrounded by woodland and find ourselves outside an old stone porxo, what might be described as a sort of mountain cabin. It has smoke billowing from a chimney and in the doorway, talking, are Ramon and Catalina. On the front porch their two daughters, Sofia and Carolina, play with dolls while Catalina's mother and father sit under a tree in the olive grove preparing vegetables. Ramon greets us at the car.

  'That was some journey!' Alan cries, stretching his arms in the air.

  'The road's a little narrow,' Ramon concedes.

  'A little?!' scoffs Alan as he turns to kiss Catalina. 'I need a drink.'

  Catalina slaps him on the arm. 'Don't worry. I've got some good Rioja for you.'

  'We're not late are we?' I ask.

  'You're the first. My brothers and the rest of the family are on their way.'

  We all exchange New Year's greetings and stroll off to the olive grove to meet Catalina's parents, Paco and Marta. Her father is cutting thick wedges of lemon and green pebres, the Mallorcan word for peppers, which will accompany the paella at lunch. Marta, sublime and smiling, puts down her knife, which she is using to cut garlic, and gets up to hug us one by one and to talk to Ollie. He shares a few words in Mallorcan and then rushes off to play with the girls on the porch. I notice that the dolls are abandoned immediately in favour of a running game.

  We follow Catalina over to the log fire that has been set up for the cooking of the paella on a strip of turf near our car. Inside the porxo, the cabin, there are two interlinked small rooms, one with bunk beds and the other with a chimney, sofa, table and sink. A few utilitarian wooden cupboards face the front door and old rugs are thrown over the cement finished floors. There are seldom cooking facilities in a porxo and no bathroom. It is akin to camping, and families enjoy the simplicity of preparing food a fora, outside, and tending to their olive groves. Ramon lights the fire while Catalina and her mother set about cooking. I have tried numerous versions of paella but, in my opinion, Catalina's own recipe takes some beating with its rich blend of succulent marisç, shellfish, rabbit and pork, vegetables and saffron rice.

  As soon as the cooking begins in earnest, Ollie and the girls come running over, keen to watch the fire spit and spark as the heavy black paella pan is placed aloft and its contents swirled about in hot olive oil. Soon the smell of peppers, onions and garlic rises on the breeze and we all inhale the sweet aroma hungrily.

  Paco ambles over to Alan with a bottle of Rioja. 'Here, let's all have a glass before the rest of the family arrive!'

  He is filling our glasses when we hear a toot from the track. From the car windows Catalina's brother, Stefan, and his wife Cristina are waving and in the back of the car, are some elderly relatives. Another car swiftly follows with her younger brother Marc and his family.

  Paco nudges Alan's arm. 'By the way, how was the turkey? I hear it was so big you had to cook it in the garden!'

  Ramon enjoys the joke. 'Yes, they only had to dine on one leg. They'll be eating the rest of the bird at Easter.'

  I give Ramon a shove. 'Next year we're going vegetarian.'

  'Oh you can't do that. I've already started to fatten you a turkey chick!'

  I give a mock groan. 'Can you put this one on a diet?'

  Paco laughs aloud and pats me on the back. 'Next year we'll save up to buy you a new cooker for Christmas.'

  There are explosions of mirth from all sides as Stefan and the rest of the family appear, quickly cottoning on to the joke.

  'Molts D'anys!' says Stefan giving me a hug. 'So why is my sister cooking paella? We thought you'd be bringing turkey croquetas for everyone!'

  More giggles and merriment. Somehow I think the turkey joke, like the Duracell bunny, will just keep on going…

  We have survived Christmas, New Year and are now on the last lap. El Nit dels Reis has arrived, an event prized above all others by Mallorcan children. In England we have Father Christmas, but in Mallorca they have Three Kings, the Magi, the wise men from the East, who ride into town at dusk on 5 January, bearing gifts. In recent times Father Christmas has some how directed his sleigh towards Mallorca which poses a problem for local families. Do they celebrate both occasions or hold out with the Three Kings? In rural Mallorca at least overindulging children is frowned upon so Father Christmas finds few takers in the hills.

  The arrival of the Three Kings, Els Tres Reis, is handled differently all over the island but up in the mountains it is a very intimate affair with three male volunteers from the village playing the kings Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar, and arriving on horseback, heavily disguised and magnificently attired in Magi dress, with a train of magical creatures and courtiers dancing behind them. Loaded on to a float are presents for every local child. The event is financed by the local ajuntament, the to
wn or village council, and is a magical affair. As honorary members of Catalina's village we are invited along and take our seats in the main Square. This is good news for Ollie as he gets to enjoy the generosity of Father Christmas as well as that of Els Tres Reis whom Catalina has made sure include him in their distribution of gifts. This year, Catalina's three brothers have agreed to play the kings and they arrive to a great fanfare and screams of excitement from parents and children alike. Ollie, pink cheeked, can hardly contain his pleasure when he sees the cart laden with brightly coloured parcels. Catalina's two little girls are equally ecstatic.

  'Will there be one for you, Ollie?' little Sofia questions in Mallorcan.

  'I hope so,' he mumbles.

  Ramon gives him a hug. 'You've played well at football this year so the kings will be pleased.'

  'Really?' he asks.

  'Si, si. The kings are great footballers.'

  Ollie digests this information carefully and looks rather surprised.

  Solemnly, the kings dismount and make their way to the stage in the square while a group of elves following in their wake throw sweets to the expectant crowds. Each king has his name etched on his robe. I notice Catalina's older brother Jordi, playing Balthasar, is having problems with his gold turban which keeps slipping over his eyes while her younger brother Marc, playing Caspar, battles to keep a long brown beard in place on his chin. Stefan, as Melchior, seems to be in good shape and appears to like his silver cape and bejewelled gold crown. As he passes us, Stefan gives a surreptitious wink which we reciprocate. He touches Ollie on the head.

  'Did you see that?' hisses Ollie. 'The king touched me!'

  The event begins. It is chilly but there is no wind and above the stage the sky is laden with stars. Balthasar attempts to make a speech but the microphone is faulty and so we watch him in mime, oblivious to the problem, until a technician runs up to the stage and attempts to rectify things. It finally whines into life and he speaks.

  'Benvingut and Molts d'anys everyone!'

  There's a huge cheer from the assembled audience and clapping. Caspar sets the ball rolling inviting the children up to the stage, calling out their names one by one from a large gold scroll. As each child approaches the front, I observe Ollie, anticipation and hope etched on his face, listening ever for the sound of his name. Moments later, Caspar looks in our direction and with a smile bellows into the mike, 'Ollie…'

  In a flash, Ollie relinquishes his grip on my hand and sprints to the stage where Melchior, with a stealthy nod in my direction, engages him in conversation. Stefan is a good linguist and so I wonder whether he has decided to address our budding footballer in English. Ollie returns to me clutching a large package.

  'Those Eastern kings are really clever you know,' he confides. 'They can even speak English.'

  The phone purrs and then it connects.

  'Ed it's me!'

  'Ah, how are you? How's Mallorca?'

  'All fine.'

  'When are you back in London?'

  'Oh, not for a month or so.'

  'You don't seem too bothered,' he admonishes.

  He's right. I'm rather happy staying here in the mountains away from all the stress and hassle. I decide to change the subject. 'Ed, you didn't answer my last e-mail. Are you OK?'

  He coughs. 'I've been a bit preoccupied I'm afraid.'

  'What? With work?'

  He sniffs. 'Actually I've been seeing rather a lot of Julia the last few weeks.'

  'Ah, the nurse?' I've caught him!

  'Yes,' he says slowly. 'She's very sweet and seems to be able to cope with my neuroses.'

  'Gosh, she must be a saint.'

  'Maybe she is,' he says dryly. 'It's quite nice to meet someone in the flesh, I mean rather than through the Internet.'

  I decide to resist the urge to say, 'You don't say?'

  'So has anything happened?' I ask intrusively.

  'Actually, yes, we have shared an intimate moment.'

  There's a pause on the line. I'm all agog.

  'Well, what was it?' I hiss impatiently.

  'I allowed her to look in my MEK,' he says.

  It is 16 January, a crisp night up in Catalina's village where the festivities are taking place. We have been invited to join the party in the plaça which always happens the day before Beneides de Sant Antoni, the blessing of animals. Pep, Juana and Angel meet us by the water fountain where they are chatting with Catalina and her father, Paco. Angel rushes over to Ollie and they disappear into the crowd on some mischievous mission or other with the local village children. A huge bonfire blazes in the centre of the square, illuminating the ancient olive tree, the centrepiece of the village, and tables and chairs are set up around the perimeter for the guests. The local ajuntament finances the celebrations, providing a band, wine and copious amounts of meat for barbequing. It's a wonderfully cosy village affair which, after the wholesale consumption of warming wine, becomes even more entertaining as locals begin singing and telling saucy tales to the gathered guests. Ramon grabs my arm.

  'You know Catalina's aunt, Maria, is bringing her ximbomba along. Be warned!'

  I have seen one of these bizarre instruments but never watched it in action.

  'That's excellent news! I've been desperate to hear the ximbomba played.'

  'You'll be desperate enough!' he taunts. 'Maria sings very risqué songs while she plays. I hope your Mallorcan's not up to it.'

  'Well, I hope you'll translate.'

  'You must be joking! They're far too rude for your ears.'

  'That's very mean,' I pout.

  Juana comes over with Catalina who hands me a huge glass of wine.

  'My aunt's coming, you want to play the ximbomba?'

  Ramon quickly joins Alan and Pep, keen not to be involved in the embarrassing spectacle we women are going to make. I see Maria bustling into the square and pulling her prized instrument out of a plastic carrier bag. She gives me a wicked grin and beckons me over.

  'Here, I set it up and you try it.'

  I look at the strange contraption which has a terracotta base rather like a plant pot, and a surface covered in taut goat hide. A long, vertical bamboo cane is inserted in its middle which Maria tells me causes friction and a particular sound.

  'Here, I also have a wet cabbage leaf. You rub this up and down the cane and it make a good noise. Here, I show you.'

  She sits on a chair and with the ximbomba held erect between her knees, wraps the cabbage leaf around the cane and begins pushing it up and down. A sound similar to someone blowing a loud raspberry is emitted. People stop to listen and several admiring groups amble over to get a good earful. Someone knocks my arm. It is Pep with a dangerous twinkle in his eye and characteristic puro in hand.

  'You know this is an important phallic symbol,' he says solemnly.

  'Oh please…!' I roll my eyes.

  'He pretends to look aggrieved. 'Listen, I can explain the significance.'

  'I'd rather you didn't, thank you.'

  He giggles. 'Come on Maria, let her try!'

  Maria breaks off from her task and gets me to take her place. Rather awkwardly, I take up position and begin rubbing at the cabbage leaf. A loud squawk, more an anguished cry, escapes from the drum and people erupt with laughter.

  'That sounds more like a constipated cow,' yells Pep.

  'You do it then!' I growl at him.

  'Here, hold my cigar,' he instructs before I can object. Then he leaps up and clasps the stick to his chest and begins singing wildly as he plays. This immediately draws an appreciative crowd.

  'He is singing one of the gloses,' whispers Maria to me.

  'What's that?'

  'It's a little bawdy tale. This one is very funny about a nun and a…' she doubles up at the words.

  I give her a frustrated nudge. 'A nun and a what??'

  She shakes her head and wipes her eyes. 'Oh! It's too naughty. Molt malament!'

  Alan and Ramon wander over with wry grins on their faces.
/>   'Ever the showman,' sighs Alan.

  'He is very funny but his song is a little strong, like a robust cheese,' says Catalina.

  The villagers are captivated by Pep's debut. He finishes his piece, stands up and bows, before passing the ximbomba back to Maria. The crowd claps as Pep plucks the puro stub from my hand and strolls off towards Aina's bar, the oldest bar in the village.