A Lizard In My Luggage

by Anna Nicholas

  I wonder if this is some Dracula Fest for kids.

  'What on earth's that?' I ask in trepidation.

  'It's the annual pottery fair in Marratxi. You should go. They sell wonderful handmade plates and cups.'

  'Don't encourage her to spend money,' growls Alan. 'We'll visit next year. Let's just get the house straight first.'

  He has a point. We still have work to do even though we've got used to wires spewing from walls and exposed light sockets. I've stopped dreaming about owning a dishwasher. We can't have one because its designated place is currently home to the washing machine and we have nowhere else to put that. Stefan is going to build a small casita off the patio which will house all our washing paraphernalia and the dratted machine and dryer but until then, it must stay in the kitchen. As for the swimming pool, it's possible we can start work on it next month if we can squeeze a little more goodwill money out of our indulgent local bank.

  'Poc a poc', says Catalina cheerfully.

  A car draws up to the house and we look at each other in puzzlement.

  'Were you expecting anyone?' asks Catalina.

  'Ah!' says Alan in a state of angst. 'I forgot… my lesson with Paula. She's having her flat repainted so asked if we could do it here instead. Damnation!'

  Paula, clad in a floaty red floral dress which covers her rather ample girth, wafts into the kitchen and studies Alan carefully.

  'You haven't forgotten our lesson?' she says sternly in Castilian Spanish.

  'No! Of course not. I was looking forward to it Paula.'

  He plants a kiss on her cheeks and at the same time shares a surreptitious grimace with me. Paula shakes hands with Catalina and gives me a peck on both cheeks. She is wearing bright red lipstick and I feel a sticky layer deposited on my skin. I smile and offer her a coffee.

  'A café solo. No milk,' she barks, running her pink talons through her mane of thick grey hair.

  'Where are your books?' she says suspiciously.

  'Er, just upstairs in the office. I'll go and clear the table.' Alan bolts up the stairs while Catalina tries to hide her amusement.

  'He loves Spanish with you,' she says mischievously. 'He talks about how much he's learned during the year.'

  She baulks at this. 'That's surprising to hear. He always seems to have an excuse for why he hasn't done his homework. He's got to be more disciplined.'

  'Absolutely!' I nod. 'Maybe he needs more lessons.'

  'I agree. One hour a week isn't enough. We could up it to two perhaps?'

  'Good idea,' I add.

  Alan is halfway down the stairway, his eyebrows knitted in horror.

  'It's a lovely thought, Paula, but I'm just too busy. Come along and let's leave them to their work…' He gives Catalina and me a meaningful, nay, threatening look. We keep our heads down and snigger. Paula seems oblivious to it all, takes the coffee cup from me and sweeps out of the kitchen like a proud galleon behind Alan.

  He turns on the bottom stair and hisses, 'I shall speak to you two later.'

  And with that, he stomps up to the office to suffer his fate.

  It's Saturday and Ollie returns ecstatically from the local football pitch where he has scored a critical goal in a friendly match. Angel has his arm draped over his shoulder as they slope up the drive, having walked home, covered in mud and with grubby knees.

  'Hi Angel! Were you playing today too?'

  'Si. We had a match but we lost.' He runs his tanned fingers through his unruly black hair and tuts. 'The other side were very mean.'

  'Too bad. Well, come and have some orange juice.'

  He pulls a face. 'Do you have Coca-Cola?'

  'Why drink delicious, freshly squeezed orange juice from the field when you can drink coke, eh?'

  'Exactly!' says Ollie energetically and they dive for the fridge. They sit chatting in Mallorcan discussing animatedly the two matches both have played. Ollie drains his glass and thumps it down on the table.

  'We're going next door.'

  'To see Helge and Wolfgang? But they've only just arrived from Berlin.'

  He gets up. 'I just saw her and she's invited us for a game of football.'

  The woman must be a saint. 'Alright but don't overstay your welcome.'

  They disappear in a flash, leaving me to finish setting the table. Juana and Pep are joining us any minute for lunch and Alan has hinted that he and his accomplice will be unveiling their plans for the whisky shop. Juana and I have had many a furtive discussion by phone and neither of us are keen to encourage the notion further. The thought of those two running a shop every day and commuting constantly between here and the capital seems unrealistic to put it mildly. There are far better, less tying ways to earn a crust, me thinks. Alan bounces in from the back patio.

  'They're here.'

  I follow him into the courtyard where Pep is parking the car.

  'Come in,' yells Alan. 'Time for a cava!'

  In the kitchen Alan pours them a drink.

  Pep raises his glass. 'Here's to spring! Are the boys back?'

  'They're playing with our gorgeous German neighbour.'

  Pep's eyes light up. 'Ah sehr gut. Maybe I should go and introduce myself. I speak excellent German.'

  'Why am I not surprised?' I give him a stern look. 'And so modest too.'

  I usher them into the sunny garden where Alan enthusiastically begins showing them his plants and vegetable patch.

  From beyond the open French windows in the entrada, I can hear a loud croaking from the pond in the front garden. I tiptoe over to the door and peer out. Can it be true? I am overcome with joy to see that the granots, my frogs, are back for the spring. And what of Mr Toad? I lean over the pond and peer in. Silence. Perhaps I've scared them all away. There's a splash and a rasping sound.

  It's him, large as life and fat as ever. Dreamily, I begin inventing a new script for us but maybe this time he could be a Hispanic toad?

  'Hola amiga!' he rasps. 'You comma here often, si?'

  No. That doesn't work. I like him better as a fast talking American. I start again.

  'Hey, you look well!' I smile.

  'You mean fat,' he says caustically.

  'Who wants to be thin anyway?'

  He blinks at me. 'How's tricks?'

  'Oh everything's fine.'

  'You seem different. Much less stressed out. The island suits you.'

  'Thanks. That's good to hear.'

  He suddenly plops into the water. Mystified I search for him. 'Was it something I said?'

  'I don't know,' Pep says wryly, having wandered quietly up the path. 'Who were you talking to?'

  Caught in the act. 'Oh just imagining I was talking to a friendly calàpet.'

  He lights a puro and studies me. 'You know when I was ten I used to have a pet toad called Jorge.'

  'Is that so?'

  'He taught me a lot.'

  I wonder where this is leading. 'Such as?'

  'Well never to judge by appearances for one thing…' He is about to continue when the boys run into the courtyard. Helge appears behind them, waving. 'I'm exhausted but we had a good game. It's so lovely to be back. Anyway, enjoy your lunch… we'll catch up later.'

  Pep's eyes bulge. 'Wait for a second,' he calls after her. Then he taps my arm. 'This charming lady, I have to meet.'

  An hour later we are working our way through my homemade lemon tart and ice cream when Pep raises his glass again.

  'Here's to new ventures!'

  We all exchange glances. Alan has obviously been primed.

  'Yes, maybe it's time to discuss our whisky enterprise to you all.'

  Juana gives a crooked smile. 'We're all ears.'

  The boys groan. 'Can we go and play?'

  I nod and watch as they rush into the garden in some relief.

  'Well we've found a shop site in Palma that looks quite promising.'

  'Where?' I quiz.

  'Around Jaume III.'

  'That would cost a fortune!' shrieks Juana. 'How woul
d you fund it?'

  Pep sips at his white wine. 'One or two people might like to invest. We're having another meeting with the bank next week.'

  I decide to bide my time. Once their plans are a little more concrete I shall seek advice privately from Terence Panton, a savvy Palma property agent I met some months back through one of the parents at Ollie's school.

  'Just keep us in the loop,' I say brightly. 'If it's meant to be, I'm sure it will happen.'

  The two men eye me quizzically while Juana throws me an inscrutable look.

  'Anyone for coffee?' I ask.

  There's the sound of foot steps on the gravel at the front and suddenly Helge appears, this time with Wolfgang. They pop their heads round the front door. 'Can we interrupt?'

  'Of course, Helge. Come in, have some coffee,' says Alan in Spanish.

  'Your Spanish is getting better. How are the lessons going?'

  'Oh Paula and I commune regularly. It's the highlight of my week,' he says dryly.

  They join us at the table whereupon Pep makes his introduction to Juana in German. Wolfgang gives him a broad smile. 'You speak excellent German.'

  'Ein bissien,' he replies modestly giving me a wink.

  'So, tell me about the whisky shop…' says Wolfgang.

  I express surprise.

  'I was just telling Helge about it earlier,' confesses Pep. 'In German, of course. She mentioned that Wolfgang enjoyed puros too…'

  Juana gives him a swipe on the arm. 'You're incorrigible!'

  'By the way,' says Wolfgang with a glint in his eye. 'Those wretched frogs of yours are making a terrible racket. Mind if I shoot them?'

  He knows of my soft spot for small amphibians.

  Helge gives him a push and tells him off.

  'Well, if you want us to maintain good Anglo-German relations, you'd better not!'

  'Only pulling your leg,' he says, punching my arm. 'Whatever happens, we don't want to start another war.'

  It is the week of Setmana Santa, Holy Week, and here in our local town the occasion is celebrated with great gusto, not maybe on the scale of a city on the Spanish mainland but it's significant nonetheless. During the nights of Maundy Thursday to Easter Sunday, locals collect in the centre of the town to observe the lively nightly procession which, with great ceremony, forms a slow, faltering loop from the cathedral in the plaça, round the town and back again. We decide to meet Pep and Juana for a drink at Café Paris on the second night of the procession. Pep is at his happiest in Café Paris because it's where the heart of the townsfolk beats on a Saturday morning and where Mallorcan is heard above all other languages. In the tourist season, visitors sit at its tables under parasols on the front patio drinking orange juice and licking on ice creams, relishing the hustle and bustle going on around them in the square. But, for the most part, locals and foreign residents huddle inside with newspapers, playing cards and iced coffees, enjoying the shade of the bar and familiar chatter in Mallorcan.

  Juana gets up to greet us as we approach the table.

  'Let's order some drinks and then find a good position for the procession.'

  Pep shrugs. 'We could always sit here and watch it go by. What's the rush?'

  'The children will want to get a good view. You and Alan can stay here with your beer.'

  'Now you're talking,' adds Alan helpfully.

  'Let's all stay. The kids can go and watch. We can see perfectly well from here.'

  For once Juana seems to defer to him and we order our drinks. Within a few minutes José arrives with a tray of chilled wine, beer and cokes. Angel and Ollie drain their glasses and run into the busy square in anticipation of the big event. Pep touches my arm.

  'You know the significance of Setmana Santa?'

  'Somehow I think you're going to tell me anyway,' I say.

  'Correct,' he yawns. 'We good Catholics celebrate the passion, death and resurrection of Jesus, what is known as the Paschal Mystery. You knew this?'

  'I was brought up a Catholic.'

  'That doesn't mean anything. So was I and do you see me in the procession?'

  'I doubt you'd be invited.'

  'Very true!' cackles Juana. 'Only pure of spirit can take part.'

  There is suddenly great activity outside the church, a brass band strikes up and the procession slowly wends its way through the square. I notice that one of the leaders of the band is the son of the toy shop owner. To his left is Rafael's son, Cristian, a talented young singer. The capella, the priest, leads the way followed by a long line of spookily clad men who are covered from head to toe in triangular hoods and long flowing coloured robes.

  'Here are the caparutxes. They look like the Klu Klux clan, non?' jokes Pep.

  Juana swipes his arm. 'People might hear!'

  'So what? Oh, yes, now behind them are all the confradias.'

  'Who?' asks Alan.

  'They are religious groups from different neighbourhoods who bring their own religious icons and statues along to the procession. You see each group has its own colours?'

  I stand up to get a better view. 'Yes, and who are the women dressed all in black?'

  'They are local women who wear antique traditional costumes and follow the procession. You can't see their faces because I suppose they are modest.'

  'It's quite complicated,' says Alan.

  'Not really. It follows the same pattern every year. Ah, here comes good old Jesus with his cross.'

  Juana puffs out her cheeks and eyes her husband warily. 'If you're going to start being sarcastic…'

  He ignores her and narrows his eyes. 'Hey, you know who it is this year? Poor Pedro. I bet he'd rather be having a drink.'

  Juana tuts and turns to me. 'That's complete rubbish. He's a lovely man, our electrician in fact. He's so committed and devout.'

  I watch this muscle-bound would-be Jesus carrying the hefty piece of timber representing the cross and wonder how he's going to manage the four mile circuit. He's only just started off on the procession but he's already huffing and puffing behind the women in black. A small man in a dark suit, one of the leaders of the confradias, is holding a sizeable painted porcelain effigy of the Madonna aloft. His aspect is serious as he marches to the music. I hope he doesn't trip.

  Does this happen everywhere on the island?' I ask.

  'Yes, in most towns and villages. How about another beer, Alan? You two want another rosado?'

  The chilled rosé is rather good here and another glass wouldn't go amiss. Juana nods her head and chews thoughtfully on some nuts. 'I always like this event. It evokes so many memories from my childhood.'

  'Juana came from a good Catholic family. Mine wasn't quite so religious. But despite that...' he trails off, momentarily distracted. 'Look, here come the boys.'

  Ollie and Angel rush up to the table panting.

  Angel touches his father's arm. 'They're going up the hill now. By the way, dad, Pedro whispered to me that once he's shot of the cross, he'll be around later for a beer.'

  Juana's eyes flash. 'How can he even be thinking of such a thing when he's playing Jesus?'

  'The priest volunteered him to do it. He didn't want to play Jesus at all!'

  Pep taps his puro on the side of the ashtray and nudges a laughing Alan. 'As Juana says, Pedro is a very holy and committed man.'

  Alan appears at the kitchen door with a trug brimming with faves, broad beans in Mallorcan.

  'How's that for a nice crop?' he beams.

  'Wonderful, but we'll never get through them all. Can I pop some in to Margalida?'

  'Please do. I hope she'll be impressed with my efforts. I told her I was planting a crop.'

  Catalina wipes her hands on her apron and comes over to inspect the trug. 'Hm, not bad for an Englishman.'

  He gives her a frown. 'Scotsman, if you please!'

  'You know, it might be nice if you gave some to Paula,' goads Catalina.

  'Don't even think about it! I haven't forgiven either of you for your behaviour the other day. The w
retched woman is nagging me to have extra lessons because of you two.'

  'She obviously thinks you have potential,' continues Catalina.

  'Money you mean!' he puffs.

  'Oh, how cynical of you.' I pat him on the sleeve. 'I think you're her star pupil.'