A Lizard In My Luggage (39 page)

  'Now wait for the final BING in a moment,' I say cheerfully.

  It comes a minute later. The air hostess unclips her seat belt and the lights go on.

  'What's happening?' he gasps.

  'She's getting out of her seat.'

  The sheer stupidity of the questions we nervous fliers ask, never ceases to amaze me.

  'What now?' says the wreck next to me.

  'Hopefully we can order a drink.'

  He sighs deeply and runs a shaky hand over his face. 'I used to be as relaxed as you until I was on a plane that had engine failure.'

  'What happened?'

  'We had to return to the airport. It was terrifying.'

  'Did everyone survive?'

  'Miraculously, yes.'

  'That's the point then.'

  The drinks trolley arrives and I order a vodka and tonic. 'What would you like? My treat.'

  He opts for a red wine and thanking me, tells me his name is Mike and that he is coming over to Mallorca for a job interview with a hotel group.

  'I'm on the final shortlist, but if I get the job, I'll have to commute back and forth each month,' he says dejectedly. 'If I tell them I'm a nervous flier, I won't stand a chance.'

  'Do you really want the job?'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, don't tell them anything. If I can commute each month, so can you.'

  'But you can't possibly understand,' he pleads.

  'Hey, listen,' I whisper, 'I'm going to give you a little gift because I'm about to graduate.'

  'From what?'

  'The Fearless Fliers Club.'

  I hand him the book. He opens it in surprise and gawps at me.

  I slap my plastic glass against his. 'Here's to happy landings.'

The two men are sitting in the kitchen drinking dark coffee shots with whisky. Catalina observes them critically despite their having dutifully deposited their muddy boots and gardening tools outside the back door. Alan licks his lips and salutes Catalina's father in Spanish.

  'Well, that should be it for another year,' he says contentedly, warming his hands on the hot mug.

  '
Si, si
,' nods Paco, his weathered face breaking into a smile. 'The oranges should grow well now but you need to put fertilizer down.'

  'Of course. I'll get some in the town later.' Alan is reverential to this shaman of the soil, who can coax dry earth to breathe new life with just the touch of his hands.

  'So,' says Catalina, 'Have you pruned every tree?'

  'More or less,' enthuses Alan. 'I'll just have to do a little more trimming later. Your father has done a fantastic job in the field. You won't recognise the trees.'

  She looks at them both and tuts loudly. 'OK then, maybe you deserve your whisky.'

  I walk into the kitchen, my feet muffled in sheepskin slippers bought from the local market.

  'Ah!' cries Paco, 'Here comes the senyora.'

  I bend down to kiss his cheeks. 'Sorry, I didn't hear you come in. I've been up in the office sorting out emails.'

  'Better to be in the kitchen sorting out hungry stomachs,' he says with a chummy wink at Alan.

  'Oh, but that's my relaxation at the end of the working day,' I say warningly.

  'Your husband has been telling me about his idea to start a whisky business,' Paco says. 'But you know, I think he'd be better doing garden design. He's very good.'

  I shoot a look at Alan, impressed with Paco that he's speaking his mind. I have been keen to encourage Alan's horticultural leanings rather than his and Pep's madcap whisky shop caper. During our last two years in London, Alan had masterfully juggled consultancy work with studying for a landscape gardening diploma, and for the last six months, has been quietly cementing his plans down in his garden
abajo
. Well, at least I think that's what he's been doing in between
puro
smoking and dreaming about whisky shops with Pep.

  'What do you think?' I say archly.

  'I'm exploring a few things at the moment,' Alan rejoins with a secretive smile.

'I think the gardening idea's got huge potential as long as you get on with it,' I say with meaning.

  Paco takes this as a quite unintended hint for him to leave and slaps his mug down on the table. 'OK. I must go. Work to be done.'

  Alan lets out a wail of disappointment like a child at a birthday party watching the magician perform his last trick. 'You can't go yet! Go on, have another drink.'

  Paco casts a furtive glance at his daughter who raises her eyebrows sternly and continues to scrub at the interior of the oven.

'Oh, well, maybe one for the road,' he says, nudging Alan.

  Despite his years, Paco is as strong and wiry as a man half his age and has a handsome profile. Of the generation when women were manacled to the kitchen and the children, he manages with disarming charm to hark back nostalgically to the old days while fervently supporting the notion of young women's emancipation as far as his daughter is concerned. I wonder what he really thinks.

  I leave them discussing the merits of manure over compost, and walk out to the pond. The air is warm now and the sun penetrates a fallen mass of mimosa flowers floating on the surface casting golden light into the watery depths. I bend over the edge and with delight see huge drifting bubbles of frogspawn. Tiny fish flit around the rocks and the water quivers and throbs with the excited exertion of the many insects and hidden creatures going about their frenzied business in minute movements between plants, water lilies and deep fissures in the rocks. The frogs have withdrawn to their waterside cave and my companionable toad is nowhere to be seen. I can only surmise that he's off on important business of an amphibian kind. I linger for a moment by the water's edge and with some irritation rise when I hear the phone bleating plaintively in the kitchen. Is nothing sacred?

This is as close as Mallorca gets to London. Palma, Mallorca's capital. The traffic is stationary, exhausts are panting heavily in the midday sun and the horns have already started to blast. Smugly, for I am on foot, I skip along the cobbled pavement and past the town hall en route to lunch at La Cuchara, a favourite haunt, with Jason Moore. I'm having a day in town and for once I've abandoned jeans and am wearing city garb. It still feels strange clopping along in dressy shoes and a fine wool suit, for they are dressing up clothes normally strictly reserved for London. I pass the
sobrassada
sausage shop, a small cave of a place whose large interior belies its minute frontage. It is impossible to resist the sweet aroma of fat juicy tomatoes piled up by the front door and peering into the depths of the shop at the plump, red garlicky sausages and threaded red and yellow chilli peppers hanging from the roof's wooden beams.

  'Can I help you, senyora?' enquires the cheery shopkeeper rather primly until, peering into my face, she quickly realises that I am a regular visitor and a gourmand to boot. 'Ah! I recognise you now. What's happened? Look how chic you are today.'

  She is entitled to express incredulity since I am usually attired in clothes more suited to the countryside. This is a curious phenomenon since I am most particular about my wardrobe when in London. Perhaps it's just that I am happily always in a state of dressing down while in Mallorca. I explain to her that I'm on my way to a restaurant but that a small package of garlic sausage might just squeeze in to my handbag. She gives a throaty laugh and begins slicing me some rich tomato chorizo.

  Out in the street, I breeze along until a deep rumbling sounds from above and a spot of rain kisses my hand. Have I brought an umbrella? Well of course not. This is Mallorca in April, for heavens sake. The sky is suddenly in an ugly mood, the clouds swarm together in shades of grey, thunder growls and water reigns down. I leap off the pavement and into a linen shop just as the electricity and street lights die. Torrents of rainwater now spew from the drains forming two rivulets that gush down both sides of the street. The senyora behind the counter welcomes me in and shakes her head at the sudden inclement shower. A few minutes later three clucking women with shopping baskets burst into the shop, followed shortly by a middle-aged business man. We are now a party of damp individuals not in the slightest bit interested in purchasing linen tablecloths or pillowcases. I feel somewhat guilty about clogging up this hospitable lady's shop but when I make a move towards the door, she shoos me back in with a frown and points to the torrential rain hitting the narrow street outside. I smile weakly and huddle with the others. Soon, jokes break out and the waggish businessman suggests we wear pillowcases as hats. The owner takes a frilly one from the window and places it on his head. This causes general merriment all round. Two ladies from the flamenco-wear shop opposite watch what's going on from their window and in response, take a giant mantilla from a showcase and drape it over their heads and begin dancing. Our lady giggles, opens the door and yells out '
Olé',
while a young man from the chemist shop next-door gallantly pops by with a paraffin light for our gloomy interior.

  'We should all be dancing in the street!' announces our senyora, flinging open the front door again. There's a general titter.

  'Or perhaps singing in the rain?' I suggest.

  She squeezes my arm. 'I like that tune. You are English,
si?
Sing us the song.'

  I try and imagine this scene unfolding in Mayfair knowing that in reality it never could. Everyone turns to me.

  'Well come on!' shouts the businessman good-naturedly stepping into the rain splattered street. 'What are you waiting for?'

  My Spanish isn't proficient enough to explain that I am far too embarrassed to start singing in front of a bunch of strangers in a linen shop, so in small voice I begin humming the tune.

  'What about the words?' says the robust senyora.

  'Louder,' chirps one of the matronly women.

  'OK, OK…' I say quietly.

  And that was how I spent the next ten minutes prior to arriving at my luncheon appointment – singing and dancing in a rainy street with a bunch of Mallorcan shopkeepers, a chemist, a businessman and three housewives. Would I ever have done this back in England? In a nutshell, no, but now I'm not so sure. The spontaneity of life here is addictive and compelling, more so because gregarious behaviour is positively encouraged. So could this scene be reciprocated in London perhaps? With a little artful persuasion I am sure I could have half of Bond Street on its feet, doing the conga. On second thoughts…

  It's still spitting outside but the sun is out and as I walk down Passeig Mallorca towards La Cuchara, I can just glimpse the port and a pinch of turquoise sea. I arrive at my destination in good spirits albeit a bit damp, and carrying a pillowcase above my head. The maître d' leads me to a table. Jason eyes me quizzically from his seat and, as if needing fortification, takes a sip of beer.

  'Novel umbrella,' he says, indicating the pillowcase with his eyebrows.

  I squeeze it into my handbag where the smell of garlic sausage has become overwhelming.

  'Yes, it's the latest trend,' I reply, pecking him on the cheek, 'A gift from a shopkeeper for services rendered.'

  He smirks, 'Oh yes?'

  'For entertaining the troops.' I whisper.

  'I don't think I want to know.'

  'Best not.'

  Jason narrows his eyes and tilting his head back a touch, surveys me with wry suspicion. He says nothing. A waiter bustles over and offers me an aperitif. And why not? A Martini
rojo
on the rocks would do nicely. Approvingly, the man saunters off, arriving moments later with a fat glass crammed with ice and a slice of lemon over which he pours a lake of dark red liquor from a full bottle. He gives a little bow, smiles and passes me a menu. I peer round the restaurant at the tables full of relaxed looking diners clutching menus like prayer books. Several share jokes with the waiters as they discuss the menu
del dia
and the extensive wine list. For most Mallorcans a menu holds the same thrill as an action-packed blockbuster and small talk and niceties are put aside until the food has been selected with great care. Wine lists are treated with equal reverence and a lively debate about the merits of a particular
vin negre
can absorb much of the meal. In Mallorca, business can always wait. The tables are filling up fast and at intervals a gust of cool air from the front door heralds the arrival of more diners. All are welcomed graciously on arrival by the avuncular maître d'. There's no ticking of names on lists in here. Mallorcan restaurateurs know their customers by sight.