A Lizard In My Luggage (10 page)

  'You scared they going to bite you?'

  'Give me time. It's not quite like M&S pre-packed, that's all.'

  She throws her head back and laughs. 'Come on girl, the poor snails are more scared of you. I find all these leaves in your own garden. Soon you won't need to go to market, eh?'

  'Yes, but I like going to the market, Catalina. How else can I practise my terrible Spanish and what on earth would Teresa and the other stallholders do for laughs?'

  She giggles. 'You think speaking Spanish is hard. Just wait till you start learning the Catalan-Mallorcan dialect.'

  Yes, that little challenge is yet to come. Still, despite my reservations I've heard that the local town council is offering free Catalan lessons for foreigners and I'm feeling strangely tempted to sign up. I look through the French windows and see the tall shadow of Alan struggling with a pair of bushy young cypresses behind a wall. It's like watching a bizarre shadow play. Catalina steps away from the sink where squeaky clean green leaves are now ready for the pot, and follows my gaze. She shakes her head and tuts.

  'What's The Moro doing? Planting more of his trees?
Home! S
oon you'll have forest, not garden.'

  I laugh.
Moro
, a term of endearment and a throwback to tempestuous times in Mallorca's history when Moorish pirates made many violent assaults on the island. Catalina and her family use moro to describe Alan because his skin effortlessly absorbs the sun like litmus paper so that he appears browner than the locals themselves. Catalina gets back to her cleaning then pushes back her long dark hair with hands covered in soapsuds and looks up at me disapprovingly.

  'Remember I say Rachel rings from office in London? She want you to call her.'

  Rachel rang an hour ago but it's unlikely to be urgent so she can wait.

  'You go to the town for shopping today?' Catalina persists like a mother chiding a loafing teenager.

  'Probably,' I mutter, reading the small ads with mock interest. We have bought this local British newspaper every day since we came here and now I have met Jason Moore, the editor, and agreed to write him a weekly column. It will be largely about London news and gossip. My monthly forays back and forth to England should provide plenty of copy.

  'Don't forget you take Ollie to football tonight. At the pitch, Antonia's brother, Felipe, will give you
inscripció
, OK?'

  How could I possibly forget my son's admission or should I say
inscripció
to the local football club? It will be the highlight of his and Alan's day.

  'Another thing,' says Catalina, tapping me on the arm. 'Remember tomorrow is bull running in my village. You come have breakfast with Ramon and me afterwards.'

  'That's if you're still alive.'

  'I strong woman, you know. I can run faster than a bull.'

  'I sincerely hope so. Don't count on me to come and save you.'

  She whips me lightly with a tea towel, waggles her finger in the air and pronounces, 'Next year you'll be running with me.'

  '
Ni muerta!'
I mutter. In other words, over my dead body!

  I turn over the page of my newspaper. I really should call the office, I suppose, but I'm enjoying this feeling of indolence too much. Do I feel guilty? Strangely not. After years of pushing myself to the edge of reason, I am basking in having time out so I shall sit here a little longer being idle and contemplating nothing in particular. Everything can wait. A gecko darts up the wall in front of me and hides behind a painting, its emerald face peeping out absurdly at the corner. I half expect it to start nodding and emitting a fragrance with Eastern promise. Catalina gives me a nudge.

  'You want a turkey?'

  I wonder if I've heard right. 'A turkey? What for?'

  'Christmas, of course! Ramon bought some turkey chicks long time ago in Sineu market which he's been feeding up for Christmas.'

  'But it's only September.'

  'You think a turkey grow in five minutes?
Per favor!
It takes many months.'

  I say we'd love one of her home reared turkeys and thank her profusely, although I'm already worrying about the execution scene come Christmas. I hope I can duck out of that one.

  'Hey, you help me fold the sheets now. Lazy woman!'

  I yawn and slowly rise to my feet, trotting meekly after Catalina out of the kitchen and up the sunny garden path to the washing line where dazzling white sheets cavort in the breeze.

  She pulls off the pegs and together we stretch and fold the crisp sheets ready for ironing. She stops suddenly and peruses the nearby mountains.

  'It's a beautiful day, isn't it? Look at the sky, as blue as your eyes, no?'

  I laugh and peer up above me. There's not a streak of a cloud in the sky, just an uninterrupted baby blue blanket of warm air and a dazzling sun. What more could a girl want?

The town's football pitch is only a 15-minute walk from our
finca
but Ollie insists that we drive there, given that walking is still a new concept to him.
Poc a poc.
Having parked the car in a nearby street, we cross over a small stone bridge adjacent to the entrance. At this time of the year the
torrent
, the river, is usually dried up but after a stormy night water gushes downstream from the craggy mountains and the wild ducks quack and splash about in the cold foam, like a gaggle of giggly girls. On one side of the fast flowing river is a narrow road leading to several mountain villages beyond and on the other, a strip of orchards and gardens where rabbits and hens cautiously peep out between the long grass and trees when they think no one's looking. We enter the football ground, and take in the scene. There's a modest bar to the left, heaving with locals, children with
gelats
, ice creams, old men sucking on
puros
, mothers gossiping over
café amb llet
, milky coffee, and local builders propping up the bar. In front of the bar is the pitch itself which somehow seems enormous to my untrained eye but then this is the first time I've ever seen one up close, never having been a fan of the game in London. The towering Tramuntana mountains form an impressive backdrop behind it and to the sides there are distant villages where wisps of smoke can be seen rising from the chimneys of seigneurial stone
fincas
. It's still sizzling hot even though it's late afternoon so heavens know why the home fires are burning up in the hills. It must be the wood stoves often used for cooking. Children of all ages in polyester green and white football strips are milling about, pushing past and looking us up and down as if three Martians have landed in their midst.

  'Why are they staring at us?' whispers Ollie.

  'Well, it's pretty obvious we're the only foreigners here and also that we don't have a clue what we're doing.'

  As usual I have the patience of a bee in a jam jar and abandon the boys in search of someone in authority. Eventually I glimpse an official looking man in shorts and T-shirt with a whistle, so stalk on to the pitch and ask whether he can direct us to Felipe, the club manager. He gives a friendly smile.

  'I'm Felipe.'

  'Fantastic! I wonder whether your sister Antonia might have mentioned me? '

  He lapses into perfect English. 'Yes, don't worry. I was expecting you. Welcome. Your son can start in the under sevens today. Come with me to the office and fill in his application.'

  Alan and Ollie amble across the pitch towards us and I make some hasty introductions.

  'You speak excellent English,' says Alan.

  'Well, I teach at an international school in Palma so I should.'

  He turns to Ollie. 'You speak Mallorcan dialect?'

  '
Un poc
,' replies Ollie softly, his eyes downcast. 'We're learning Mallorcan and Castiliano at school.'

  Felipe puts an arm round his shoulder. 'Then surely you know how to say run and goal in Mallorcan?'

  'Of course!' he replies a little heatedly.

  '
Molt bé!
You'll be fine then,' says Felipe displaying a dazzling set of Persil white teeth, and leads us off to his office where we complete the form and pay Ollie's joining fee.

  'When will I get my strip?'

  'We have a special ceremony next month. You'll get it then.'

  Ollie is flushed with excitement. I try to comprehend how the promise of lime green and white polyester shorts can induce such delight, and give up. Alan is beaming with pride at the thought of a mini Ronaldo in the family. A whistle is sounded and boys stream on to the pitch and take up position with their various teams. We are led to the under seven group where Felipe introduces us to Fernando, the cheerful coach. Sixteen boys of varying heights and weights eye Ollie warily. Alan and I beat a hasty retreat to the spectator area and take our seats.

  'I hope he understands what to do,' Alan frets.

  'Look, he only has to kick a ball about,' I say dismissively.

  'You really haven't got a clue about football, have you?'

  'Well, I'm sure I'll get the hang of it if I come here enough.'

  Alan turns to watch the various trainers on the field instructing their teams. Groups of boys begin running about the pitch in their designated areas, kicking balls enthusiastically and responding to shrill whistles. After a brief team talk, Ollie and his polyester clad accomplices break up and begin to play in earnest. I try to follow the game but at that moment am distracted by a waft of strong tobacco coming from behind my seat. I spin round to face my tormentor, a bronzed, rather laid-back individual with flowing grey locks and moustache, dressed in a pale blue polo shirt and beige chinos. He puffs on an enormous
puro
and fixes his merry grey-blue eyes on me.

  'Forgive me, am I blowing smoke on you?' he says in perfect English laced with a rich Spanish accent.

  'Well, actually you are. I can move, don't worry.'

  'Certainly not!' he cries. 'It's my fault. Here, I'll come down to your row.'

  Before I can say anything he descends one level into our row of seats.

  'I am Pep Ramis,' he says with a radiant smile. 'You are British, of course.'

  Alan jumps up to greet him, delighted to meet another
puro
addict. We make introductions and sit down together. He places himself between us.

  'Your son is a good player,' drawls Pep, blowing his smoke in Alan's direction. 'Mine is ten years old. He is playing over there.'

  With his cigar, he indicates a tall, dark, lanky boy mid-tackle.

  'Well, Ollie's not been playing long. He's tackling well but it's going to be a tough learning curve.'

  Pep nods sombrely as if he and Alan are discussing the challenges facing a new recruit at NASA.

  'Oh for heaven's sake! It's just a game,' I say impatiently.

  Pep's eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. 'Just a game? How can you say that?'

  Alan lights up a
puro
. 'Women just don't understand.'

  Pep calms down and gives a hoarse cough. 'My wife, Juana, is as bad. So you are living here?' He turns to me.

  'We are now. Just off Calle Alcover, down the small track past the church.'

  'Ah!
Fantàstic!
We live just a short walk from you.' He fumbles in his trouser pocket. 'Here's my card.'

  'I'm afraid I don't have one on me,' says Alan, who, since moving here, has found it hard to admit to not carrying cards anymore.

  'I have.' I pull an English business card from a leather holder in my handbag and scrawl our Spanish telephone number on the back.

  Pep studies it carefully. 'You have your own company?
Una dona?
A woman?'

  I feel my hackles rise and then notice an evil grin on his face. 'I'm only teasing you. We Mallorcans are supposed to be sexist, aren't we?'

  'And are you?' I retort.

  'No, we are happy to let women work, then we can watch football and smoke all day.'

  'Is that what you do?'

  'More or less,' he replies, staring into the distant hills.

  Alan gives him an admiring look. 'Well, you must come and visit us. The house is still a bit of a mess but…'

  'No. First you must visit us,' says Pep graciously. 'And we can go to a match some time if you like? I always go to see Real Mallorca when they're playing at home in Palma.'

  'Great,' smiles Alan, pleased as punch.

  I hear some jubilant shouting and see that Ollie has just kicked a ball into the goal.

  '
Molt bé!
' shouts Pep. 'That means very good in Mallorcan.'

  'Even I can understand that one,' I say a little curtly.