A Lizard In My Luggage (35 page)

  He politely thanks me and heads back to his table, faithfully repeating my words to his unnerved partner. They pay their bill hurriedly, wave goodbye and make a speedy exit. The restaurant erupts into laughter.

  Some time after, we make our way in the cold to the underground garage on the outskirts of the village where the Carnival party is being held. It is nearly midnight and the place is already packed with unrecognisable locals. Paper chains and bunting have been strung from walls and ceiling, and large gas heaters now blaze along one side of the dank building. Small fairy lights hang from a flex that has been slung from one end of the garage to the other, but afford little light. Against the far back wall, a jazz band is belting out music and by the entrance a makeshift bar has been rigged up from which three local volunteers battle to take drink orders from the jostling throng pressing against the counter. I see Juan, the village
batle
, leaning against a wall and rush over to greet him. He rears back for a moment, flustered by the vision of a tall black wig, white face and pea green and pink silk swimming towards him. With relief etched on his face, he suddenly twigs it's me when he sees Ollie holding my hand, and gives me a hug.

  'Heavens!' he chuckles, 'I can't believe it's you.'

  I upbraid him for not having dressed up himself but he tuts and gives me a little frown. 'But I'm the
batle!
'

  I am, of course, forgetting village protocol which would probably regard a costume-clad mayor with the same derision as it would a middle-aged senyora wearing a miniskirt and fishnets.

  I spy the local traffic warden sitting on a chair by the bar, who, with a nice touch of irony, has dressed as an angel. She puffs on a cigarette, her fluffy wings squashed back behind her, and talks closely with a chunky Julius Caesar who blows me a kiss, but I can't for the life of me think who it is.

  Catalina's mother and father, Marta and Paco, now make their appearance at the party. Both are wearing thick jumpers, jackets and scarves and grinning broadly. Paco greets Alan and shakes his head with mirth when he sees me standing behind him. I greet him and his wife, trying not to smother them with white face paint as I bend to kiss them.

  Marta gives a little laugh. 'I hope everyone makes the most of tonight because they've got forty days of
Cuaresma
to look forward to now.'

  The end of the Carnival always signifies the beginning of Lent. A distant childhood memory floods back to me when my sister and I were banned sweets for what seemed like an eternity, all in the name of Lent.

  'Does everyone fast in the village?' I ask with surprise.

  'Heavens no!' cuts in Paco, 'Things have changed, few people fast now. Many years ago we all used to give up meat for Lent but the wealthy in our village gave a backhander to the priest and carried on as normal.' He finds this amusing and tips his head back and laughs raucously.

  There's a sudden cry of joy and a frisson of excitement as a tall, ample bosomed woman appears dramatically in the garage doorway wearing a Marilyn Monroe blond wig, a devilishly figure-clinging red dress and a pair of lethally high black stilettos. Her lips are lavishly coated red and she dangles a cigarette holder between two exquisitely manicured fingers. Despite the perfectly applied make-up and disguise, the villagers are not fooled, for this is clever, quick-witted Cati, mother of three, owner of a local
bodega
, wine store, and one of the liveliest
personatges
in the area for whom chutzpah is a byword. To my delight I got to know the voluptuous Cati through the village holiday school attended by Ollie in the summer. With great aplomb, she struts to the centre of the garage, hand on hip, haughtily surveying her audience. The crowds gape at her in awe and there is a sudden hush when she raises her hand for attention.

  'Well,' she drawls with a wicked grin. 'I take it I'm just in time to win the best costume award, or is there,' she purrs provocatively, 'anyone who'd like to challenge me this year?'

  There is applause and wolf whistles but no one dares step forward. 'Good,' she says crisply.

  Satisfied that she is to remain Carnival Queen for another year, Cati takes a bow and with a flash of white teeth, saunters off to talk to some friends.

Up in Catalina's village, we sit drinking coffees in Aina's cosy bar by the square. Several wooden tables and chairs have been set up outside but, despite the blue skies, it is chilly and everyone huddles inside. As always the place is a hub of activity with children running noisily up to the counter for packets of crisps and sweets while Aina attempts to dish out coffees and plates of
pa amb oli
, a traditional Mallorcan plate of bread, rubbed with garlic and olive oil, to various regulars. Catalina pushes open the door, engages in a lengthy and animated conversation, punctuated by gales of laughter with a table full of villagers by the window, and then comes over to join us.

  'What was all that about?' I ask.

  'Everyone is talking about the English man who bought the restaurant on the other side of the square. I told you about this man.'

  'The one who everyone hates?'

  'Well, he doesn't like any of us. Anyway, yesterday he closes his bar forever so everyone is very happy.'

  The tale of the snooty Englishman and his fanciful Polish wife who, the previous year, took over the running of a local restaurant and then proceeded to alienate everyone in the village, is a story which has done the rounds. This couple, like a pair of lost aliens, had landed, unannounced, in the village one balmy summer's day and taken up residence at the erstwhile abandoned restaurant. They had previously, so rumour has it, run a small bistro in the Home Counties, and decided to bring their interpretation of cordon bleu to the mountains probably in the same way that missionaries attempted to bring Christianity to remote Amerindian tribes. At their opening party, they had exclusively invited only English speaking residents, dismissed the local clientele as a bunch of
pagès
and disastrously attempted to launch an English-speaking residents' club. Not only did this have the effect of enraging all the locals but also the long established English-speaking residents – American, British and Australians – who were utterly appalled at their boorish behaviour, having for many years been assimilated into the local community themselves. From that moment onwards the restaurant was doomed to failure. No one set foot in the place except the odd unsuspecting tourist and soon it was obvious it would have to close. The villagers went about their business, listening with satisfaction to the gossip of the delivery men who, privy to the dwindling orders placed by the restaurant, predicted that it would soon be on its uppers.

  'So, if the restaurant's closed down, does that mean the couple will leave the village?'

  Catalina regards me thoughtfully. 'Of course. There is nothing for them here. They have no friends. Yes, they will go.'

  'What about the restaurant?'

  She shakes her head. 'Another foreigner will buy it and lose money and then another. It has always been like this. No Mallorcan will touch it.'

  Given its ill-fated past, I find it peculiar that outsiders are willing to jack in their life's savings to buy the place.

  'The thing is,' says Catalina, using her most endearing of favoured English expressions, 'Foreigners come here wanting to live their dream. They open bars and restaurants and they behave as if they're on holiday. But they're not. Work is work and bills are bills wherever you are. We work hard but these people, they believe it's all sitting in the sun, drinking
vino.
Look at Aina,' she tilts her head towards the bar. I watch Aina cleaning down the laminate work surface by the sink. She seems tired and careworn, but still manages to share a joke with a customer hunched over the bar. How she juggles running the bar with family life and caring for her children, I will never know.

  'She hasn't had a holiday for years. She takes maybe two mornings off a week. This is real life not a holiday.'

  Alan puts down his copy of
Ultima Hora
, gives Catalina's arm a squeeze and says jokingly, 'So you don't think it's worth our making them an offer, then?'

  She looks momentarily confused, and then with a growl of laughter, elbows him in the ribs.

Alan is standing in the garden, sleeves rolled up with his nose in the air and his eye fixed on the verdant hills. There is a sniff of spring and the
burros
are braying madly from a nearby field while Rafael's cockerels, with their harems of hens, strut up and down on the track having made an earlier bid for freedom and just squeezed their way through a hole in his orchard fence. One comes to inspect our courtyard, goosestepping around its perimeter, sniffing at the gravel in apparent disapproval and cocking its head from side to side. It squawks at Inko who surveys it with disdain before slinking off to the back terrace in search of a good spot for sunbathing. It is already warm enough to don shorts and sunglasses and so it isn't long before Alan finds an excuse to appear in the kitchen for a glass of water. Catalina regards him harshly.

  'Water already? You've only been digging for an hour. When are you planting the vegetables?'

  'That a girl!' I taunt.

  'If you must know, I'm finishing weeding in the garden then I'm off to plant the summer veg. I never get a break around here.'

  'It's a hard life!' chuckles Catalina. 'Anyway out of my way or I'll brand you with the iron.'

  Alan skips around the flex as water sizzles and steam rises as she pounds at the ironing board.

  'It's a good day for drying,' she murmurs to herself. 'This afternoon I pick up the girls from my mum's house and we go to the Fira de Fang.'

  I wonder if this is some Dracula Fest for kids.

  'What on earth's that?' I ask in trepidation.

  'It's the annual pottery fair in Marratxi. You should go. They sell wonderful handmade plates and cups.'

  'Don't encourage her to spend money,' growls Alan. 'We'll visit next year. Let's just get the house straight first.'

  He has a point. We still have work to do even though we've got used to wires spewing from walls and exposed light sockets. I've stopped dreaming about owning a dishwasher. We can't have one because its designated place is currently home to the washing machine and we have nowhere else to put that. Stefan is going to build a small
casita
off the patio which will house all our washing paraphernalia and the dratted machine and dryer but until then, it must stay in the kitchen. As for the swimming pool, it's possible we can start work on it next month if we can squeeze a little more goodwill money out of our indulgent local bank.

  '
Poc a poc
', says Catalina cheerfully.

  A car draws up to the house and we look at each other in puzzlement.

  'Were you expecting anyone?' asks Catalina.

  'Ah!' says Alan in a state of angst. 'I forgot… my lesson with Paula. She's having her flat repainted so asked if we could do it here instead. Damnation!'

  Paula, clad in a floaty red floral dress which covers her rather ample girth, wafts into the kitchen and studies Alan carefully.

  'You haven't forgotten our lesson?' she says sternly in Castilian Spanish.

  'No! Of course not. I was looking forward to it Paula.'

  He plants a kiss on her cheeks and at the same time shares a surreptitious grimace with me. Paula shakes hands with Catalina and gives me a peck on both cheeks. She is wearing bright red lipstick and I feel a sticky layer deposited on my skin. I smile and offer her a coffee.

  'A
café solo
. No milk,' she barks, running her pink talons through her mane of thick grey hair.