A Lizard In My Luggage (15 page)

  He sniffs disdainfully. 'Oh well, if you insist. I'd better let you go but remember we all have dinner tonight? We'll feed the boys early so they can go and play in peace. You won't forget?'

  'How could I? It will be the highlight of my day.'

  He gives me a curious smile and takes a long drag on his cigar. The engine rattles and with a languid wave from the window, he drives on.

We are sitting at the spacious mahogany dining table in Pep's parlour, replete after huge helpings of
arroz brut
, literally meaning 'dirty rice' in Mallorcan, a mountain delicacy which is rich and flavoursome and anything but dirty, except maybe in colour. It's the nearest you might come to a soupy rice stew – a hearty fusion of vegetables, rabbit, pork,
caracoles
(snails) and when in season,
tords
(thrushes). I am thankful that no
tords
are in evidence.

  'You know,' drawls Pep, 'Now is the beginning of the hunting season because the birds are migrating from Europe to Africa.'

  'Presumably thrushes need to take cover?' asks Alan.

  'To be sure. The
tords
are a great Mallorcan speciality and are hunted until the end of October. '

  'Do you hunt them?' I ask pointedly.

  'When I was young,
si,
but now I can't be bothered. My father and grandfather used to fix up the
filats
, big nets that stretched between bamboo poles which we put in the fields. The stupid birds would fly straight into them and get trapped.'

  I can't bear the idea of thrushes being killed by the bushel in such a seemingly heartless way. Alan chews on a piece of bread thoughtfully, not wanting to pass comment on an ancient Mallorcan custom. Pep leans back in his chair and observes us coolly.

  'You British think we're barbaric, no? We kill little bulls, we eat thrushes, and you British are so proper.'

  Alan frowns, trying to make light of it all. 'I have to admit, I'm not a great one for game hunting of any kind, but I'll eat it just the same. I just don't see the necessity to kill small birds.'

  'Yes, what's the point when there are so many other things to eat?' I ask.

  'Well, you can apply that to anything,' grunts Pep.

  Juana, Pep's sturdy Mallorcan wife who is bustling about the kitchen preparing coffee, wipes her hands on her pinny and shakes her head. 'You can debate all night on the subject but at the end of the day, we eat them because they taste good and it's a tradition, although it's not so popular now. As they say, when in Rome…'

  'Absolutely,' says Alan, with some relief. 'We've moved here to be part of Mallorcan life, and that means embracing all the traditions.'

  'Good,' says Pep, mischievously. 'Then I'll pick you up for a spot of
tord
shooting in the morning.'

  Alan's face expresses momentary discomfort before he registers that his leg is being well and truly pulled.

  'Very funny,' he says, narrowing his eyes.

  Juana gives a husky chuckle and places a tray of cheeses and bread on the table and sits down. A pot of coffee simmers on the stove.

  'Ah, there's nothing like good Mallorcan
yeso,'
says Alan eyeing the cheeses with satisfaction.

  Pep and Juana share a smile at this while Alan looks on helplessly.

  'Be careful,' says Pep, unable to control his facial muscles. 'If you go into restaurants asking for
yeso,
you might get more than you bargained for.
Yeso
, means plaster. I think you meant
queso,
cheese.'

  Juana and I are already giggling inanely as Alan fights to maintain a little dignity. 'Well, it's damned similar,' he protests. 'Sometimes I think I'm too old in the tooth for learning a new language.'

  'Not at all,' says Pep kindly. 'You do admirably well. Think of all the lazy English living for years in Mallorca who don't bother to learn a word. You should be proud of yourself,
mi amic
.'

  He jumps up and rumbles about in an old cupboard. There's a clinking of bottles and he returns to the table with cognac and Herbes, the local Mallorcan liqueur.

  'Let's drink to new friends!' he says heartily. 'Juana! Go and get the glasses.'

  She obediently ambles over to a wooden sideboard and fishes out four small tumblers which she dumps on the table. Then, before sitting down, she unceremoniously whacks Pep round the ear with a tea towel. He yelps in shock. 'Next time, remember to ask nicely,' she says with a warning smile.

  Alan's eyebrows rise a slither as he catches my eye. Pep may be a cool customer but he certainly met his match when he married Juana.

Our local Banca March is throbbing with people as we push against the glass front doors and enter the throng. The new look bank is now open plan with a light marble floor, shiny polished wooden counters and gleaming white paintwork. The manager still retains his own office but, in the refurbishment, one wall has been fitted with a large glass panel so that he is now exposed to the customer. Alan seems to disapprove of this.

  'The poor chap won't have much privacy, will he?' he says above the din as we squeeze towards the drinks table.

  'You mean he can't sneak a quick cigar if he wants one,' I reply crisply.

  'Exactly,' he says.

  Someone touches my arm and there is Tolo, the deputy bank manager, bearing two glasses of chilled cava.

  'Here,' he beams. 'I am so happy you have come to toast our new refurbishment. What do you think?'

  'Jolly nice. It's very open.'

  '
Si, si,
it's much more friendly and bright. Come, let me introduce you to some clients.' He leads us towards a group of suited men quaffing drinks and apparently sharing a private joke. They halt their huddling and turn politely to greet us.

  'This is Senyor Rivas,
el Batle
, the mayor, and Senyor Marco Arbono, one of his councillors, and finally Senyor…'

  The senyor in question is Xavier, owner of Colmado La Luna, my favourite local grocery store.

  '
Hola guapa!
' he says, kissing me on both cheeks and shaking Alan's hand warmly. The mayor and the others relax, pleased that we are known to at least one of them.

  'This senyora is one of my best customers,' Xavier says in Spanish.

  The mayor smiles. 'So you are helping the town's economy?'

  'Single-handedly,' I say.

  Alan leans over to Tolo and says dryly. 'Maybe now is the time to freeze our account?'

  'If she runs your account into the ground, we'd be happy to give you a loan,' replies Tolo with a broad smile.

  Alan punches him on the arm. 'No doubt.'

  We pass a few pleasantries with
el Batle
and decide to take our leave.

  'Wait,' says Tolo. 'I want you to meet Victoria Duvall, she's a local celebrity – a film director.'

  We dutifully trail behind him until we come face to face with a tall, striking woman, who is hastily bidding farewell to another guest.

  'Senyora Duvall,' says Tolo with gravitas. 'May I present…'

  Impatiently she whips out a card from her handbag and places it firmly in my hand. 'Nice to meet you, but I really must be off. Call me some time.'

  And with that she glides through the crowds and disappears into the street. I peer at the thick cream card which has the words, 'Victoria Duvall, Film Director' embossed on its surface in rich, black ink.

  Tolo shrugs his shoulders. 'I apologise. She is a busy woman but at least now she knows who you are.'

  Hardly. She didn't even wait to be introduced. Nevertheless, I have her card and also a strange feeling that we shall be meeting the elusive Victoria Duvall again before too long.

The alarm clock bellows in my ear. It's seven o'clock. I turn to awaken Alan but he's not there. The pillow is plumped up which indicates that he hasn't been to bed at all. The previous night he and Pep had agreed to meet in the town's
plaça to
discuss their secret business scheme, and I had been warned by Alan that it could be a late night. Late indeed. I hope nothing untoward has happened to him but have a vague memory of hearing the front door slam at some stage in the night. Maybe he never made it as far as the staircase.

  I wake Ollie and get him washed and dressed before pottering into the kitchen for my morning cup of tea. An intriguing sight greets me. Alan is slumped in a chair, his head resting heavily on his crossed arms on the kitchen table. He snores loudly and contentedly, blissfully unaware that I have entered the room. It's only then that I notice the debris littered on the table – an assortment of empty and half drained bottles of specialist whiskies together with empty cigar boxes, a gasping ashtray and two small grubby tumblers.

  Ollie walks in and stares calmly at his father as if he's examining a laboratory rat. 'What's he doing?' he asks as he places a chocolate croissant on a plate and sits down at the table.

  'Sleeping,' I say while filling the kettle.

  'I can see that,' he replies disdainfully. 'Can I wake him up?'

  'Sure.'

  He strides over to Alan and pounces on him like a rather zealous cat with a gecko, and then begins shaking him violently. Alan gives a deep groan and raises his head, his eyes blearily scanning the room.

  'What am I doing down here?'

  'Good question.' I am savouring the moment.

  'Looks like you've had lots of naughty drinks and
puros
,' says Ollie helpfully.

  Sadistically I place a cup of black coffee in front of him. 'It seems to me that you and Pep had quite a long business meeting.'

  He surveys the bottles and winces. 'Well, Pep wanted to try some of my rare Scottish malts so we came back and had a few drams.'

  'So I see. And then what?'

  'Well, Pep walked home…'

  'Staggered more like.'

  He glares at me. 'We were doing some important research for our business scheme actually.'

  'Really? And what might that be?'

  He looks defeated. 'I suppose I might as well tell you. We're thinking of opening a specialist whisky shop.'

  It's difficult to suppress an urge to snort out loud.

  'Don't tell me, it will also sell rare
puros
?'

  He brightens a little and regards me with admiration. 'Well funny you should say that. We were just thinking along those lines.'

  I leave him nursing a sore head, shower, dress and rush Ollie out of the door ready for school. As I jump in the car, engine humming, Catalina drives into the courtyard. She beams from behind her window, parks and comes over. I lower my window.

  'Hey,' she says with a huge grin. 'A little bird tell me two bad men were out on the town last night. They were drinking in Café Paris until very late.'