A Lizard In My Luggage (12 page)

  The door bangs downstairs and another customer calls up to me from below. She is middle aged, bespectacled and wearing the sort of shapeless, flowery print cotton dress found only in local markets and Russian maternity wear shops. She speaks rapidly in fits and starts like the rat-a-tat-tat of a round of machine gun fire. At least she's speaking in Castilian Spanish. From what I can grasp, she needs some technical advice. I skip downstairs and start to demonstrate the workings of an infrared mouse to her as best I can. She looks startled and shakes her head sternly. She did say
raton
, didn't she? Antonia arrives in the nick of time and has a fit of giggles. Apparently the woman is a neighbour and has just popped by for a chat, to while away some time,
pasar el rato
.

  'Is an easy mistake,' comforts Antonia, sporting an enormous grin. '
Rato
,
raton
, they sound so similar.'

  God knows how I got the wrong end of that stick. It seems I'm going to have to work a little harder at my Spanish. Which reminds me that tonight I have my first lesson with Fransisca at the local language school. She's about half the age of Alan's teacher, Paula, and sounds a lot more fun.

  Back upstairs I send off some e-mails and wade through those crying for attention in my in-box. The office in London has sent a steady stream of press release drafts and client proposals for approval along with the minutes of several meetings for checking. An important hotel client has had a major crisis, so I need to pen a carefully worded holding statement for the British media. There's never a dull moment in this job. I stare out of the window. It's nearly six o'clock. The shops are still open and people, their bags full of wares, are ambling along the little cobbled street below me, stopping occasionally for impromptu chats with friends and neighbours. Just a few doors from HiBit, I've discovered an enchanting little shop called Finca Gourmet which sells local food delicacies – home cured
sobrassada
sausage, honey, olive tapenade and seriously scrumptious wines. Then there's Colmado La Luna, our town's mini Fortnum & Mason, which sells heavenly cold meats and cheeses. It's a treat to go and chat with its showman of an owner Xavier, and Carmen, his dry humoured and no nonsense assistant. I'm sorely tempted to pop down and make some purchases but then remember I've already got my computer to carry home. Maybe tomorrow. I see our immaculately groomed deputy bank manager, Tolo, sauntering along, greeting passers-by with a nod of the head or handshake. I knock on the glass pane and he looks up and gives me a huge smile and a wave. He begins mouthing something so I pull open the window. '
Como?
'

  'It's the party next month. You and Alan will come?'

  'Of course! Wouldn't miss it for the world.'

  He nods his head, satisfied that at least one of his customers will be there to witness the cutting of the ribbon. That's if they have such quaint customs in Mallorca. I close the window and observe the other shoppers. No one appears to be in a hurry, as if they have all the time in the world. This is in sharp contrast to London life where we abuse and bully time to mould around our increasingly frantic existences. As I peer dreamily into the street I dwell on how I constantly used to be running to catch up, breathlessly trying to cram as much into the working day as possible. Why? What has to be done today that we can't fruitfully put off until tomorrow? I close down my computer, and watch with satisfaction as the screen goes blank. Antonia plods up the stairs, her wavy blond hair pushed back behind her ears, and pulls out the swivel chair next to my desk. She's holding an unlit cigarette in her hand. 'I need a fag,' she declares and with that, takes some matches from her pocket and lights up.

  'You finished already?' she asks quizzically.

  'Yep. I fancy a coffee and a quick run before my Spanish class. Work can wait.'

  'That a girl! Hey, I could do with a quick espresso too. I'll join you.'

  Like a pair of naughty children we shut up shop and head for Café Paris in the
plaça
. It happens that there's a folk dancing demonstration going on in the square. It's the beginning of another fiesta and therefore another bona fide excuse for perfecting the art of doing absolutely nothing.

Rafael's son, Cristian, is sitting next to Ollie in the back of the car, a Game Boy balanced on his plump thighs. He is muttering in Mallorcan and then switching to Spanish and firing questions at me about donkeys. It's a dull day and the clouds are racing across the mountains. I groan at the thought of my marathon training which is scheduled again for tonight.

  'What's he saying?' asks Ollie impatiently.

  'He wants to know how many donkeys we're buying.'

  Ollie looks hopeful. 'Are we going to, then?'

  The fact is that I'm not sure why we're here. Rafael's father breeds donkeys and in a rash moment I mentioned to him that they were my favourite animals. The next day we were summoned to his father's field for, I presume, a lesson in donkey maintenance. Ollie and Cristian have become good friends despite a three-year age difference and so they have decided to accompany me on the trip. At least Cristian can converse with his grandfather in Mallorcan if my language skills give out. Alan has conveniently been invited to discuss a business proposition in the town square by Pep, our new friend from the football pitch, so has managed to wheedle out of this dubious excursion.

  Old man Bernat, Rafael's father, is leaning on a stick as we walk across his massive pasture which backs on to sharply peaked mountains. At his side is a tiny shivery dog, a
ca rater
, a popular Mallorcan breed. Donkeys eye us cautiously as we approach a barred wooden hut in the corner of the field. Cristian stops still and shouts at his grandfather who shrugs nonchalantly and pulls at the bolts.

  'What's in there?' I ask weakly as Cristian scales a fence and grins horribly at us. Ollie instinctively starts to wrap himself around my legs like a baby monkey. It's just a donkey, Old Man Bernat informs me, but apparently he is an angry, evil brute which presumably is why he remains locked up. He says he needs a home. What kind, I wonder – psychiatric? I step back gingerly, sizing up which tree to run for.

  The door creaks open and a sinewy and grumpy Eeyore rushes out with the ferocity of an angry bull. Cristian's grandfather wards him off with his stick while Ollie and I cower by an olive tree. He doesn't seem interested in either of us but circles the field with a menacing look on his face before head-butting two docile females grazing nearby. They whinny and gallop away, forming a huddle with the rest of the herd. This fiery bundle of fur has got one serious attitude problem. Cristian's grandfather is now yelling at him, tapping his flanks with his stick like a zealous circus trainer. I lift Ollie over the fence and am on the point of hiking myself up too when the mobile rings. It's Michael Roselock. He sounds hysterical.

  'This is a bit of a bad time, Michael. Can I call you back in a minute?'

  No. It's urgent, he has to speak to me now. Am I in Mallorca? Yes, I am. Well in that case, he says, we might get cut off so he has to speak with me while he has the chance.

  'It's disastrous,' he's mewling. 'What are we going to do? The bank is foreclosing. I'm finished.'

  When Michael calls like this, his chief intention is to reduce the recipient to a similar state of blind panic. It's a swift transaction, a transfer of terror in the form of WE. What are WE going to do? Like Alice in Wonderland chasing the rabbit down, deep in its burrow, the Michaels of this world succumb to their worst fears, allowing themselves to be gobbled up in a vortex of mayhem and chaos. I don't have a problem with chasing rabbits as long as it's into the sun.

  'Hello? Are you listening? Prudence is besides herself. It's curtains.'

  There's a loud, angry braying from the Rocky of the donkey world. He's showing me the whites of his teeth. Where's Old Man Bernat gone?

  'What the hell is that noise?' snarls Michael.

  'Just a motorbike, carry on.'

  Cristian and Ollie are laughing hysterically as the donkey waggles its long ears at me. I try to give it a friendly smile. It glowers back. Michael is telling me that bailiffs have been in, real thugs, who made him feel like a criminal. He says he has to get hold of money, any money, urgently or the shop will be taken. I know that any knee-jerk plan to save the business will, quite frankly, fail. Roselock Fine Jewellery has had its day. It's been well and truly snubbed by the new bovver boys of retailing on the Bond Street block. It's over.

  'How would you feel about losing the premises?' I ask as calmly as I can with a donkey savaging my sleeve.

  'How? I don't want to think about it!'

  Brusquely I release my jumper from Rocky's jaws and head quickly for a nearby tree.

  'Michael, it isn't the end. There are other things you can do.' Oh yes, such as? Retrain as a donkey breeder? Come on girl, get a grip.

  'What?' he spits at me furiously. 'It's easy for you to say that out in the sun, having a life.'

  The irony is that Michael could easily be doing the same, commuting between two destinations, having a life out in the sun. But he never would. Money isn't the issue. It's a fear of change, of facing the unknown, and starting afresh, be it in England or elsewhere.

  'Michael? There are other things you can do. You're sixty-two. Isn't it time to let go?'

  He's sighing heavily now. 'I don't know what to do or where to turn.'

  An ambitious thought, a potentially life-saving scheme bursts into my head. Impossible, insane, unworkable and yet… 'I have an idea,' I say hastily as I butt Rocky with my left elbow. 'When I'm back in London, let's talk.'

  Michael pulls himself together. 'I'm so sorry. Forgive me.'

  I manage a few words of solace and a hurried farewell before dropping the phone and yanking myself up over the fence. Old Man Bernat puffs up to the tree, first bending down to pick up the mobile. He spits copiously on it, before wiping it against his sleeve and passing it back to me. He juts out his bottom lip and swears angrily at Rocky. The donkey does a U-turn and meekly returns to his shed.

  'He wasn't happy today,' he says without a whiff of irony. No indeed. There's nowhere to keep a donkey in our unfinished dwelling at present but I wonder if one day in the future, with a little love, attention and a good shrink, I might possibly bring him to heel?

Alan potters into the kitchen with a large smirk on his face.

  'Have a good time with your donkeys?'

  'Actually, it was more like an SAS training session.'

  'Really?' he replies absentmindedly as he flips through a pile of books and newspapers on the table. 'I'm just on my way out to see gorgeous Paula. Can't seem to lay my hands on the Spanish grammar book though.'

  'I saw it in the garden yesterday on top of your wormery, of all things.'

  He knits his eyebrows in bewilderment. 'Why on earth would it be there?'

  'Search me.'

  He frowns then shakes his head. 'I must have been distracted and put it down there.'

  'Or perhaps you thought it would make excellent fodder for your worms?'

  He tuts. 'Paula would be appalled at such a suggestion. I'd better go and retrieve it.'

  'Not so fast. I want to hear about your meeting with our chum, Pep.'

  He averts his gaze. 'Ah, very good. We met for a coffee at Café Paris in the
plaça.
He's an interesting chap.'

  'So what did he want to talk to you about?'

  'A little business scheme.'

  'Such as?' I can tell he's being deliberately evasive.

  'It's quite complex. Anyway, we're going to a football match in Palma in a few weeks so I'll probably learn more then.'

  He wanders outside before I can interrogate him further, then reappears with his Spanish book. 'Well, best be off. We're studying the preterite tense today.'