A Lizard In My Luggage (34 page)

The room is cocooned in darkness although it is already seven o'clock. Beyond the window, the sky, like a unwinding roll of soft black silk, gives no hint that morning has arrived. Only the persistent crowing of Rafael's cockerel and the low restless barks of Franco and neighbouring farm dogs, herald the new day. Light suddenly floods in from the doorway and Alan appears bearing a tray of tea, boiled eggs and toast. Ollie follows up the rear, clutching his own mug of hot chocolate. I struggle to unearth myself from the bedcovers to switch on the lamp by my side. We sit together munching toast and watching the sky transform from soot to slate until a deep fissure appears in the gloom revealing a vivid turquoise heart. Within a short while, the heavens are a rich azure and the sun has stumbled into view, showering gold light on our orchard and field.

  Alan sighs contentedly. 'What a glorious day! By the way, good old Rafael left us a bag of kindling twigs on the porch.'

  I drain my cup. 'Maybe it's a goodwill token in return for the hours of mirth he's had at my expense.'

  Half an hour later and a roaring fire burns in the hearth. Armed with a wicker basket, I leave the warm kitchen and set off to the field with Ollie to pick the new season's crop of oranges and lemons that hang heavy and succulent from the trees. He carries the secateurs with a sense of importance, passing them up to me as I clamber on to a rickety wooden ladder, reaching with my hands into the upper branches to clip off the fruit. We are nearing the end of our task when a loud rumbling fills the courtyard and a huge, grubby blue pick-up truck lurches into view, brakes sharply and stops. I leave the basket overflowing with oranges and stride up the path, Ollie in my train, towards the front of the house. Alan has arrived moments before us and now stands with hands on hips, talking heatedly with the driver whose head pokes through his lowered window. Nearing the truck, I see to my irritation that it is Senyor Coll, the rogue builder whom we had originally hired to reform our
finca an
d who had left us in the lurch. Senyor Coll is grinning horribly and shouting loudly in Mallorcan. The Scotsman counters in bad Spanish.

  'What's going on?' I demand, approaching them both.

  He offers me an ingratiating smile and extends a damp, plump paw through the lowered car window. I decline to take it. Alan glares darkly at him and then turns to me.

  'He insists that some years back he left a pile of terracotta tiles in our field. He's come to reclaim them.' He points crossly towards a tarpaulin covered heap lying beneath a pear tree.

  'Nonsense! We bought those tiles,' I remonstrate.

  Indeed the tiles had been purchased by this unscrupulous builder on our behalf at an over inflated price before being unceremoniously dumped in our field when he jumped ship. Never sure where he had really meant for them to be laid, they have remained there ever since, until such time as we might find a use for them. So, filled with rightful indignation, we demand of Senyor Coll how he can dare to show his face at our house given his disgraceful past behaviour. He puffs heavily on a
puro
and shrugs his shoulders, refusing to budge until he has collected what he claims is his property. Keen to despatch with him once and for all, Alan brusquely tells him to take the tiles and never to set foot on our premises again. Obsequiously he mutters, '
Gracies,
' and with a triumphant leer begins driving his jalopy down the steep ramp into our field. I walk slowly back into the house with Alan.

  'They don't belong to him, you know,' I say with fervour.

  'I know, but let's just get shot of him. As you always say, he'll have no luck.'

  He's right and what does it matter? Life's all about letting things go and moving on.

  Ollie listens keenly. 'So he's a naughty man, then?'

  'Yep. He sure is.' I plod up the stairs, evilly fantasising about buying a box of sharp pins and candles to fashion into a wax effigy of him. Before I've even reached the top step there is an enormous crash followed by the sound of grating metal outside. Shocked, we all race into the courtyard in time to see Senyor Coll crawling out from beneath his overturned vehicle. So voluminous is his stomach that it wedges momentarily under the chassis and I am immediately reminded of a honey-sated Pooh Bear stuck ignominiously down a rabbit hole. Senyor Coll wheezes up the small slope and faces us belligerently as if we are in some way responsible for the dire circumstances in which he finds himself. Although unhurt, he wears the expression of a hunted man, looking fearfully about him as if a posse of secret adversaries is lying low among the long grasses and boulders. Reluctantly he lets us help him up into the courtyard whereupon we fetch him a glass of cold water. He sits by the well, running a nicotine-stained hand over his forehead and coughing into his cotton handkerchief. He is morose and even his big moustache sags at the corners.

  'It's ruined,' he cries, his beady eyes darting angrily from side to side. 'The truck is a write off. Look at it!'

  'Well, whatever happened?' I ask quietly.

  'A wheel went over the side of your accursed slope. Didn't you see it?'

  'It all happened so fast. We were in the house.'

  He kicks a stone irritably at the wall and curses in local dialect.

  'What did you need the tiles for anyway?'

  He doesn't answer at first and then fixes me with an unrepentant stare. 'I don't need them. I just want what's mine.'

  'But they're not yours,' I say simply.

  His eyes simmer with resentment. 'You foreigners always want something for nothing, don't you?'

  I observe Senyor Coll thoughtfully, and decide that since he is obviously delusional, it is probably best to leave him to mutter his dark and menacing incantations alone in the courtyard. So, ignoring him, I join Alan and together we scramble down the steep, narrow slope that links the courtyard to the field. It declines sharply and drops about three feet on either side into the field below. It is easy to see how, if driven slovenly, a large truck could lose control and flip sideways over the edge several feet into the mud. Given the severity of the accident, it is miraculous that Senyor Coll escaped injury. Maybe even the damned have guardian angels.

  Alan reaches into the truck and manages to switch off the engine, retrieving Senyor Coll's mobile phone at the same time which has fallen from the upturned front seat on to a patch of grass.

  'Well he's made quite a dent in the soil,' whispers Alan naughtily to me, as we survey the wreckage. 'Maybe planting the fruit trees won't be so difficult.'

  I stifle a giggle and prod him in the ribs. We make our way back up into the courtyard where Senyor Coll petulantly snatches the mobile from Alan, stabbing at the digits whereupon a furious conversation ensues. Then he waits impatiently and in utter humiliation at the gate for his son.

  'I've organised a crane,' says his brawny offspring when he arrives in a clapped out old van, 'It will cost a fair whack.'

  I notice that the son is developing his father's girth and that two small, shifty eyes puncture his moist, flaccid face like sunken berries in dough.

  'Oh dear,' I say. 'That's awful.'

  'Get me my
puros!
' steams the father as he laboriously climbs up into the passenger seat of his son's vehicle. I watch his cowed son amble down into the field, squeeze under the wreckage and retrieve what is left of Senyor Coll's packet of cigars. Together they drive miserably away from the house and for a fleeting second I almost feel a stab of pity for naughty Senyor Coll.

Someone is frantically knocking on the door. It is Rafael. He bounds cheerfully into our
entrada
and sniffs loudly.

  'I hear about the accident! Terrible,' he says with irony.

  'Yes, dreadful,' I reply.

  'Everyone is talking about it in the town. What did old Coll want in your field?'

  I feel defensive, worried that the locals will side with this vile man who left us in the lurch and ripped us off. After all, he is one of their own kinsmen.

  'Our tiles,' I say stiffly.

  He clicks his teeth impatiently and pats my shoulder. 'Everyone knows this man. Remember you have many friends here.'

  Rafael heads for the hearth and warms himself at the fire. He refuses a drink and says he is just popping by to see the senyor. At the sound of his voice, Alan hurries down the stair and gives him a warm handshake.

  'I can't stop,' Rafael says. 'I just want to know you find my rose cuttings this morning OK?'

  Alan looks mystified.

  'Yes, I leave them in a bag on your porch this morning. A little present for
el jardiner –
the gardener. You no find?'

  I exchange horrified looks with my Scottish
jardiner
, whose gardening prowess has obviously failed to make the distinction between kindling twigs and rose cuttings. We both turn to face the raging fire.

  'I'm afraid I've made a bit of a blunder...' begins Alan.

It's mid-February and carnival night has arrived. In great excitement we drive up to Catalina's village at about ten in the evening and make our way to Es Turo Restaurant. It is dark outside, and a cool wind whips up the leaves and dust along the cobbled street. Clumsily, like a slapstick comedy trio, we emerge from our car with painted faces and grotesque attire. Alan has two enormous blond plaits dangling from either side of his head, a Viking helmet and a copious yellow beard that has somehow become ensnared in the Velcro fastening of his brown felt costume. His face is covered in boot polish and leather laces run criss-cross up each of his legs. Ollie, in scarlet tights and green bodice, grips a bow and arrow, and is a cross between Peter Pan and Robin Hood. As for me, I'm a hybrid. Korean bride meets gaudy geisha. Back in my twenties, when I worked for a publishing house, I had been sent to Korea on business, returning with a gift of a
Hanbok
, a traditional wedding outfit in pea green and cyclamen pink silk. For good reason, it never left its packing case, but tonight it has come into its own.

  As we walk boldly up the street, clamping wigs firmly to our heads in the wind, there is stifled laughter and looks of bemusement from passing locals who greet us enthusiastically but have no idea who we are. It's so wonderfully therapeutic to make a complete fool of oneself and know that nobody gives a damn. We enter the restaurant to the cheers of similarly ridiculously attired friends who have arrived ahead of us. Catalina, Ramon and our Australian friends, Jack and Sarah, have cunningly attired themselves in yashmaks and flowing black gowns while a group of young girls dressed as
bruixes
sit cackling together at the next table, swaddled in black and wearing trademark knobbly noses, pointed black hats and blood red finger nails. Weekend trippers and foreign visitors not accustomed to Carnival mayhem, observe us nervously from their tables, desperately trying not to catch our attention. Xisca emerges from the kitchen and lets out a howl of bawdy laughter, calling her husband to come and view the odd-balls gathering under their roof. Mischievously, Catalina gets up and runs into the kitchen like a wild black ghoul, arms outspread, and causes havoc among the backroom staff as they scream and drop saucepans at the sudden apparition in their midst. Peals of hysterical laughter can be heard from within when they see that it is their very own chef. As the hour gets later, more and more heavily disguised locals enter, nonchalantly sitting down at tables and ordering their food. Locals don't give them a second glance. There are Elvis look-alikes, transvestites, popes and vicars, vampires and a good smattering of prostitutes whom we assume are fakes. As we settle our bill and are ready to leave, an earnest, preppy American diner braves approaching our table and whispers confidentially, 'Excuse me, is this what normally happens up here on a Saturday night?'

  I keep my face deadpan, although the others have also listened and spoil the effect by bursting into giggles. 'Oh yes, it's just a slice of mountain life. Saturday night is always party night.'