A Lizard In My Luggage

by Anna Nicholas

  Moments later, a pile of roughly hewn brown bread is placed in front of us on the red gingham tablecloth, together with a bowl of black olives, thick golden olive oil and a plate of ramellets, the local Mallorcan tomatoes, which are often used to make pa amb oli. Jason chews on a piece of bread and gives me a round up of the day's news. Local Mallorcan elections are looming and the political mud-slinging season has officially begun, promising to provide endless column inches for a newspaper like his. I lean back in my chair and yawn.

  'It doesn't matter where you are, you can't escape politics.'

  Jason sniggers. 'Oh well, it'll be the celeb season soon. That'll liven things up a bit out here.'

  Mallorca has its celebrity season from June to August when shoals of European household names (most unknown to me) arrive at the airport or by luxury yacht and turn a blissfully peaceful island into a living copy of Hello! magazine.

  'I don't recognise half the supposed celebs that come out here,' I say sniffily.

  'Yes, well if you bothered to watch some British soaps, you might,' he scoffs. Fair criticism. Since living here I rarely glimpse television and return to London each month like Rip Van Winkle, rising from a blissful slumber, disorientated and bemused by the volume of tittle-tattle in the media and the public's desperate desire to exist vicariously through celebrities' lives. Surely there has to be more to life than that?

  A waiter bounds over and takes our order – fresh calamari, chargrilled artichokes and rosemary-infused lamb.

  Jason suddenly raises his glass. 'Heavens, I nearly forgot! Well done on the marathon. That was a result. Under four hours, right?'

  'Three hours and forty eight minutes of hell but it was worth it for the party afterwards and hopefully I'll have raised several thousand pounds for charity.'

  'Great stuff. You're so lucky,' he muses, 'Living here and flitting back to London. You really have got the best of both worlds, haven't you?'

  'Perhaps.' I drain my glass and put it down gently in front of me. I rarely stop to think about it but Jason's absolutely right of course. Ostensibly, island hopping each month holds many attractions but is that what I really want? Aye, there's the rub.

  I'm rushing along the Borne in Palma to the estate agency, Engel and Volkers. My contact there, Terence, has offered to give me some off the record property advice about Pep and Alan's whisky venture. He beams as I walk in to his white pristine offices. 'Come, let's have a quick catch up.'

  He seems amused at the thought of Alan opening a shop. 'It's not cheap on Jaume III,' he says. 'And can you imagine these two semi-retired guys driving from the mountains each day to open up shop?'

  No, in a simple word.

  'I think he'd be better following the garden consultancy idea you mentioned.'

  Join the club. 'Could you maybe have a word with them?'

  'Sure. Why don't I invite them in and we can chew the bit.'

  My mobile chirrups. It's Alan. He's just taken Ollie for his weekly treat to an English bookshop near his school. Having recently discovered that there are two British bookshops on the island, it has become a ritual to visit the Universal Bookshop on a Tuesday and the Bookworm when we're ever in town on a Saturday. Now the boys are en route to pick me up from Cortès Inglès, the large department store, a stone's throw from the Borne.

  I get up to leave, having only a few minutes to jog up the road to our appointed meeting place. Terence scratches his chin thoughtfully. 'Joking apart, have you ever thought about the holiday rentals business? Very profitable if you buy the right properties. I could help you.' Ever the good salesman.

  I laugh. 'A really interesting idea but first we need to knock the whisky shop on the head and decide what we're doing about our London flat.'

  'Don't worry,' he says tranquilly. 'It'll all come together. You'll see.'

  You never know, he could be right.

  SIXTEEN

  STONE WALLING

  Alan orders me an espresso while I finish a conversation with Ed. I ring off and plop the mobile back in my handbag and glance round at the other tables. As usual Café Paris is full of the usual suspects. Gaspar, the paper delivery man, is grinning at me from the other side of the bar and Tolo is finishing a cortado, a small strong coffee laced with milk, while he catches up with the news. He flicks his newspaper down and gives us a smile from across the room.

  I glance at Alan. 'Good news! Ed's booked his easyJet flight and he's arriving mid June.'

  'He might be in time to christen the pool with us,' laughs Alan. 'By the way, I've given the go ahead to Stefan to get on with it. Should take them about two months to remove the soil and get building.'

  I'm ecstatic. 'But what about the cost?'

  He waves his hand in the air. 'We'll just have to tighten our belts for a while.' He lights up a cigar but I'm too pleased about the pool to chastise him. 'So, is Ed alright about flying?'

  'No, but we'll deal with that nearer the time.'

  'Still with Julia, the nurse?'

  'Apparently so. I can hardly believe it.'

  He yawns and looks at his watch. 'It's eleven o'clock. Do you want me to drop you back at the house?' His eyes rest on my two bulging baskets beneath the table.

  'No, the walk will do me good. Besides, I don't want you to be late for your lesson with Paula.'

  Alan is quiet for a second then he sighs. 'Well, I might as well tell you. I've finally decided against the whisky shop idea. Actually Pep and I have both been getting cold feet about the cost and time involved.'

  I nearly choke on my coffee. 'What?'

  'It's just that I had a surprise call from Terence the other day and he gave me a lot of food for thought about the property market. I still think it's a great idea but there are other things we could do.'

  Good old Terence. I owe him one. 'Such as?'

  'Well, I've talked to Pep about working on a landscape design business with me and we could think about the holiday rental business. It's very profitable apparently.'

  I try to feign surprise. 'We should do a bit of investigation then.'

  He takes a bite of his croissant. 'You and Juana always hated our whisky shop scheme anyway.'

  'Well we worried that you and Pep would down most of the product before it actually hit the shelves.'

  'As if!' he cries. 'So have you thought any more about London? I mean maybe we really should sell the flat and move on.'

  I decide now is the time to discuss George's expansion plans for Havana Leather. Alan listens intently and then draws a puro out from his pocket.

  'Why on earth didn't you tell me about this before?'

  'I don't know, I thought you'd tell me I'd be mad not to accept.'

  'You're wrong. It might well be lucrative but is that what you want to do?'

  'I don't think so. But what about the money?'

  He sits back in his chair. 'How much money do we really need? We hardly live in the fast lane. Don't let that cloud your vision.'

  His mobile rings. 'Vale, vale. Me voy!'

  He says he's on his way so it has to be Paula calling.

  'I've got to run. Paula's waiting for me at her house. After that, Pep and I are off to view some nurseries and garden centres.'

  So, they're on to the next venture. Plan B.

  'Listen, we don't need London anymore. Don't make money the excuse for not letting go.' He ruffles my hair, drops some coins on a plate and strides off to meet his accomplice in crime.

  As I turn wearily into the stony track leading up to our finca, I pause for a moment outside old Margalida's house to readjust the two heavy baskets of vegetables I am carrying. Like a merciless sniper stalking his victim, the sun has kept pace with me from the town, its burning rays trained unflinchingly on my middle back with the precision of a laser beam. Ahead of me, crickets are leaping about the path and a mass of butterflies flitter past, their golden wings iridescent as they catch the light of the sun. It seems that summer has at last arrived in Mallorca.

  Placing the ba
gs down against Margalida's rocky wall that is ablaze with scarlet bougainvillea, I examine my red and swollen hands and wonder why I stubbornly chose to walk rather than drive to the market. The reason, of course, is that I love the leisurely walk to and from my small market town when I have the opportunity to meet friends and neighbours along the way to catch up on gossip of a rural kind. Everyone, from the local garage attendant and his family to the buxom matron who polishes the local church brass, greet me like a long lost friend even though in reality they may have exchanged news with me as recently as the night before. Neither am I fobbed off with a brisk Hola! No. People here like to talk and there are never any constraints on time.

  When foreigners first arrive in Mallorca, they are often appalled at the atrocious time keeping of the islanders and cannot understand how they can be an hour or more adrift for meetings or social events. The simple reason for this is that everything is done in a spontaneous manner and it is very easy to be distracted on the way to an engagement. It might be that a neighbour suddenly invites you to view his new orange tree irrigation system, another to partake of a glass of herbes liqueur with him in the local square, or a friend pops by with a newborn baby over which you coo dutifully for some considerable time. In a similar vein to the aberration suffered by Little Red Riding Hood en route to her grandmother's house, there are more than a hundred respectable excuses for being side-tracked and why you may indeed turn up shockingly late for a preordained appointment. However, when you do eventually arrive, the best approach is to act cheerfully and in a relaxed manner so that your host is made to feel that it is he or she who has confused the time and that you are innocent of any social blunder. In those circumstances where you play host yourself, it is best to avoid unnecessary angst and heart palpitations by setting the time of your appointment or function at least one hour ahead of the time you would like to greet your guests. That way, everyone can relax.

  I pick up my bags and am about to continue along the path when there's a faint twitch of a lace curtain and suddenly Margalida is opening her front door and hobbling out on to the steps. She holds one hand over her eyes and squints at me while the other hand searches out her wrought-iron grab rail. Today her short white hair is uncombed with small clumps rising up from her head in soft meringue peaks. I give her a cheerful 'Hola' but she eyes me with suspicion and grasping her wooden stick perched against the bottom rail, approaches me haughtily, one firm step at a time, like an aged Queen Victoria, swathed in black, and disdainful. I almost feel I should bow. When she is a gnat's breath from my face, she breaks into a smile.

  'Ah, it's you, senyora! How young you look! I didn't recognise you.'

  I put an arm gently round her shoulders. 'Margalida! Where are your glasses?'

  She waves her stick impatiently in the air. 'Pah! What's the point of glasses when you're half blind?'

  There's tooting at the front of the house and a young man with raven black hair emerges from the passenger seat of a dusty red car with a young toddler in his arms. Who on earth is this? I stand on the porch smiling inanely without the faintest clue who he is. To my relief the driver of the vehicle bustles out and I see that it is Rosa, the local curtain maker. She waves and ducks into the back of the car to retrieve something. Her companion strolls towards me, smothering the child with kisses and smiling broadly. He introduces himself as Rosa's son. He explains that he is here to assist her with hanging our curtains. Our curtains? Somewhere in my head a distant bell is ringing, a memory of an order placed some many months ago.

  'Hola!' wheezes Rosa, her ample bust rising and falling like the giant swell of a wave as she hauls two bulky bags on to the porch. 'I finish the curtains. You are pleased, yes? Have you met my son and Gabriela, my granddaughter?'

  'Yes, indeed. Well, what a surprise! It seems ages ago that you first came to measure our curtains.'

  She is offended and rears backwards like a defensive cobra ready to strike. 'Home! Is only eight months!'

  I nod my head quickly and attempt to pacify her. Indeed, what is eight months between friends? In Mallorca everything takes time and soon the pain and irritation of not having what you want when you want it subsides into a form of apathy and then complete nonchalance. It is only when guests visit and comment innocently on a missing tile on the patio, a gaping hole under a rug, a mass of electric wires lying abandoned under a sofa or a leak under the sink that you hazily recall the time when you requested these things to be fixed. In London I would be snarling threats down the phone receiver of a hapless plumber or builder but in Mallorca I have learned the art of patience. There is a good chance that one day the errant ironmonger, electrician, phone engineer, or curtain maker will arrive quite out of the blue and when least expected, rekindling faith in the Mallorcan term poc a poc, little by little. All good things come to those who wait. So, Rosa, the curtain lady, follows me into the house while her son deposits little Gabriela on the floor of our entrada and bounds outside to the boiler room to find the stepladder. An hour later, thick cream linen curtains hang above the French doors in both kitchen and entrada and buttermilk cushions adorn the kitchen chairs. The introduction of textiles really does have a startling effect on the appearance of our finca and the unexpected pleasure I feel at having achieved this small step towards domestic rural bliss is immeasurable. The phone rings and I leave Rosa and her son scrabbling around on the kitchen floor playing with his toddler. It is Rachel.

  'I sent you a couple of press releases this morning. It's pretty urgent. Could you check them?'

  'Ah, of course. Sorry Rachel. I'm just having some curtains fitted so I'm a little distracted.'

  She strikes a cautious tone. 'Are you serious?'

  'Why ever not?'

  'Never mind. Look, I've got a stack of meetings today so if you could e-mail any corrections through later, that would be great. By the way, Michael Roselock's a dark horse. He's getting married tomorrow to guess who?'

  'Oh that's a tough call. Let me think...'

  'Did you know?' she asks.

  Gabriela has crawled over with a big grin on her face and is pulling at the laces on my docksiders. 'I had a small inkling. Just because I live in the sticks doesn't mean I'm out of the loop.'

  'You could have told me,' she sounds aggrieved.

  'It slipped my mind Rachel. You know what I'm like these days?'

  'I'll let you off this time. By the way, can you give George a call. He rang this morning but won't tell me what it's about.'

  Thinking of George makes me feel edgy. I have been stalling him. Avoiding his calls. Avoiding the big issue. Avoiding simply saying, NO. What am I afraid of? Finally severing the chord with London? Rachel's voice on the end of the line pulls me back to reality.

  'Well, must dash. Speak to you later.'

  I turn round and smile at Rosa. She and her son have been waiting patiently for me to end my call. Once again, Rosa's son is holding Gabriela and showering her with kisses because, in Mallorca, it is cool for men to show public affection for their children and most enjoy any excuse to parade their offspring especially on market days.

  'We go now,' says Rosa, much appeased now that the curtains are up and the senyora of the house is overcome with gratitude. 'But first I have something for you.'

  She disappears to her car and returns with a small, crimson silk cushion infused with local herbs. 'A little house warming gift,' she says without ceremony. The strong smell of rosemary and lavender pervades the sunny entrada, and as I stand there breathing it in, I am thankful that the little cushion bears not the slightest resemblance to a lizard.

  Catalina walks into the kitchen from the back garden carrying a huge trug full of faves, broad beans, and a healthy pile of baby potatoes, their skins caked in rich red soil. She thumps the trug down by the sink and washes the mud from her hands.

  'It's very hot out there now,' she says, slightly short of breath. 'The Moro is still out there picking faves.'

  I rise from the kitchen table and fetch her some
cold water from the fridge. 'Well, I hope he doesn't pick too many or we'll have beans coming out of our ears. I think you've picked more than enough there.'

  She nods. 'Yes, but he is worried the builders will accidentally drive over the vegetable patch with their machines.'

  'Well, they'd have to be blind to miss it.'

  We both laugh. Catalina, opens the back door to let in the fresh air and stalks out to talk to the builders. She returns with a look of excitement on her face.

  'My brother thinks the pool may be finished in June.'

  In truth, we haven't got the money for such an extravagance. Alan's preference had always been to buy a rotavator, a powered soil-tilling machine, which he felt was a much more practical purchase and one which wouldn't cost us dearly. However, I impressed on him that the dubious pleasure of using a rotavator under a scorching sun could never replace the delights of swimming in a cool pool so, begrudgingly, he acquiesced.