A Lizard In My Luggage (22 page)

  'Don't apologise, I was just day dreaming that I was chatting with a, how d'you say it in Mallorcan, er
calàpet?
' I say as chirpily as possible.

  '
Un calàpet? Doncs, perquè no?
'

  A toad? Well, why not? he says. I'm relieved that Pere is obviously unfazed by such things although I imagine that the tale of a mad English woman talking with toads will be half way around the town by tonight. I accompany him into the house and down to the bathroom where he has dismantled the taps and has spread out the contents of his toolkit. He clicks his teeth and shows me the snapped valve indicating that this isn't a straightforward job. It never is, after all plumbing is a serious business around here.

The sun is shining bravely in a cool blue sky as we arrive at the home of Pep and Juana. It is an important day in the calendar for a Mallorcan, being 11 November, the day of Sant Marti, when locals officially start celebrating Matances. As far as pigs are concerned, this date is about as favourable as 25 December is for turkeys, and there can't be a pig in the land that isn't shaking in its trotters come this inauspicious day. Matances means 'pig slaying' and whole households are involved in killing, gutting and preparing different parts of a local pig around this time. It's a jolly affair – unless you're a pig and if you don't mind the sight of blood and guts – with everyone rolling up their sleeves and making mincemeat out of the poor little devil. These days Matances can happen anytime in the cold months from November through to February and is a way of keeping rural traditions alive. In the Middle Ages it served a critical purpose, supplying families with cured meat for a whole year. Later in the eighteenth century paprika arrived from America and suddenly Mallorcan
sobrassada
was born. The main product of the occasion is sausage and boy, don't the Mallorcans know how to make sausage! There are so many different varieties, so
brassada
being king of them all, which is made of pork cured with paprika and salt, though honey and other ingredients are often added. There are
llonganisses
, narrow sausages for grilling,
botifarrons
, a blood pudding variety,
varia negra
, made from offal and
camaiot
, a plump black pork sausage which is stuffed into ham skin.

  Pep is holding a
puro
and looking pleased with himself as he greets us in the spacious drive in front of his
finca
.

  'Good timing,' he says. 'We are about to kill the pig. Do you want to watch?'

  I pull a face. 'Hm. Think I might pass, if that's OK. Ollie?'

  Ollie is curious but apparently not enough to see an animal killed. 'Er, I'll wait with Mummy.'

  Pep punches my shoulder. 'I am disappointed in you. I thought nothing would faze you.'

  'Apparently so,' I say flatly. 'Where are Angel and Juana?'

  'In the garden with the pig, of course.'

  He takes Alan's arm. 'Come, let's get the slaying over with and these two can join us in a few minutes.'

  I notice that Alan appears none to eager to set off. He manages a smile. 'I thought it would all be over before we arrived.'

  'No, we waited for you,' says Pep cheerfully. 'The local guy from the abattoir has come with the stun gun.'

  'Great,' says Alan without conviction as he slowly follows Pep inside.

  'Do they zap the pig with a gun?' asks Ollie when they've left.

  'Yes, it's very quick and then the pig wakes up in animal heaven.'

  He shakes his head. 'Give me a break. The poor pig just dies.'

  'No, he goes to heaven.'

  'How do you know?'

  'Well, everyone knows flying pigs exist and so there must be angel pigs, in which case there has to be some kind of animal heaven.'

  He frowns while he absorbs this nonsense. 'Maybe you're right.'

  We sit on the grass in our heavy jackets and jeans until Pep saunters out to us with an encouraging grin.

  'All over! Come and have some wine. Now the family is starting to clean and gut the pig.'

  He gives me a glass of wine as we pass through the kitchen and out into the beautiful garden. Angel rushes over to meet Ollie and takes him off to inspect the pig gore. I see a pale-faced Alan talking to Juana as she hovers over the carcass, clutching a bloody knife. I come over and give her a kiss and am introduced to four other women, her two sisters, mother and grandmother. All of them are busily preparing the pig for sausages.

  'Why is it black?' asks Ollie.

  'Because it's a Mallorcan black pig,' says Pep. 'It's very special. One day I'll take you to see them in Sineu market.'

  'Can we buy one?' asks Ollie eagerly.

  'I'm sure your mother would like a black piglet around the house,' he chuckles, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

  We spend the rest of the day eating and drinking. Once the gory business of sausage making is over, Pep chases Angel and Ollie around the garden with the pig's tail and teeth which he tells me, are the only inedible parts. The boys screech and run around before setting off into the field for a game of football. Alan is sitting in the kitchen, happily replete and talking in stilted Spanish to Juana's mother and sisters. They talk animatedly, laboriously describing the sausage making processes while Juana fusses round him with cognac and cheeses. I pull up my collar and walk into the garden for some fresh air. Pep joins me,
puro
in hand.

  'Let me show you our vegetable patch,' he says.

  'Now there's an invitation I can't refuse.'

  We stroll along the gravel path and down into the adjoining field. The boys are running about at the far end.

  'So, how's your business scheme coming on,' I ask Pep.

  He shrugs his shoulders. 'OK but you know these things take time. Alan and I are off to see some retail outlets in Palma. It's all a question of viability.'

  'Absolutely,' I say a tad sternly.

  He sits on a stone bench to catch his breath and indicates for me to join him. 'So, how is your business going in London?'

  'It's fine. I'm back and forth, as you know.'

  'How much longer are you going to do that?' He fixes me with a long stare.

  I'm rather taken aback. 'Well, we've got to earn money. I can't just give it up.'

  He doesn't reply for a second, then he gives a long sigh. 'Why not just sell your business and the flat in London and do something more fun over here.'

  'Like what?'

  'You're a business woman. Think about it.'

  Old Pep is a shrewd customer. He knows that I get stressed with my frequent trips back and forth to London and there's no point in my hiding it from him now.

  'I suppose, selling the flat would clear the mortgage and then we could invest any money from the sale of the business in some new enterprise.'

  He slaps me on the back. 'Now you're talking.'

  I narrow my eyes. 'I hope you're not imagining for a second that I want any part of your whisky shop scheme.'

  He rolls his head back and laughs. 'Of course not. I know that you're far too proper and English to consider such vulgarity. Alan being a Scotsman is different.'

  It is suddenly chilly and the sky begins to darken. 'Come on,' he says, 'Let's visit the vegetables before it's too late.'

  I get up and follow him down through the long grass and towards the plot. He shows me around the potatoes and sprouts and plucks up some cabbages which he thrusts in my arms. We make our way back up into the garden and are about to enter the house when he catches my arm. 'Remember, life's for living. Don't spend your life on a plane.'

  The boys race up behind us before I have time to reply. He gives me a wink and steps into the warm and cosy kitchen.

Christmas is nearly upon us but I have two more glorious, hermitic weeks of hiding out in the hills before I need to return to London for my last round of meetings before downing tools for the festive season.

  There's a haze of ice on the office windows and a white sun, as smooth and round as a peppermint drop, is hovering above the trees, spreading sharp, cool light across the valley. Snow covers the tips of the grey Tramuntana mountains and cascades down from the peaks in soft waves as if the whole range has been dunked in hot white chocolate. It is nine in the morning and Alan is bustling about in the courtyard, chopping up firewood and clearing weeds from the pond. A car rumbles up the drive and a door slams. I peer out of the window, and see Miquel, our
siquier
, the Valley's professional irrigator, heading for the sluice gate in our field with Alan at his side. They descend into the orchard to examine the orange and lemon trees and to open the lid of our irrigation channel which delivers free water to the
safareig
, our water tank, from the mountains. This is a weekly ritual much prized by the Scotsman when he and Miquel commune on horticultural matters. There's a great deal of head nodding,
si si
-ing and sighs, finger pointing and grunting, but few words pass their lips.

  I skip down the stairs and join them outside. Miquel isn't much of a woman's man but he acknowledges me with a gruff '
Bon Dia!
' as he fumbles with the large wrought-iron key which opens the sluice gate. Once opened, he diverts the flowing water from a communal channel directly into our water tank. Although excluded from the action, I am permitted to observe their toings and froings from the sidelines, providing I don't interrupt. The concept of water rights is based on an ancient Arabic system adopted by the islanders hundreds of years ago when collective water was distributed to smallholders each week through a myriad of stone channels running across the rural landscape. Nowadays, a
siquier
tootles round in his car or on his bike opening the channels on private land, allowing the owners a preordained amount of free water to use for agricultural purposes. In times of drought, the system can be quite literally a lifesaver and in the summertime a
siquier
is in great demand. When we acquired the house, it stated in our es
criptura,
the title deeds, that we would be entitled to one hour of irrigation water each week, and so Alan basks in this regular ritual of water play when Miquel arrives like a munificent priest administering
aigua
, water in Mallorcan, to the sick and dying of the plant world.

  Today Miquel is frowning down into the channel of fast moving water and sucking his teeth with disapproval. He beckons both of us over. I peer in and espy the cause of his distress; a large, bloated, drowned rat that has become wedged across the channel. Its eyes, blinded by a milky white film, bulge horribly and its sharp incisors are clenched shut, although water manages to penetrate the side of its mouth, giving the impression that it is still twitching or making a stealthy wisecrack. Its pink paws appear to be clapping manically like those of a born-again preacher as the water speeds past, squeezing them together and then apart.

  'What shall we do with it?' Miquel is staring into my face.

  Why ask me? I suggest pulling it out and burying it in the field. Miquel dismisses me with a brusque shake of the head, saying it is far better just to leave it there. It will disintegrate in time. I wonder why he bothered to seek my opinion in the first place. He sneezes loudly, wipes his nose on the sleeve of his jacket and strides off in the direction of the orange trees. The first of our oranges are beginning to appear and he pinches one suspiciously, then sniffs the skin and walks on wordlessly. Alan, his silent shadow, does likewise. I trail along behind them. Suddenly aware of their irritation that I'm still in tow, I slope off back upstairs and sit down at the computer. It has taken several months of perseverance but finally I have ADSL installed in my office so the e-mails effortlessly flow in. Now I'm beginning to wish that I too had some sort of sluice gate device so that I am only able to receive an hour's worth per day.