A Lizard In My Luggage (6 page)

  As I bend to lift my case, two bats rustle overhead and suddenly I am aware of a fine gossamer sky, light pewter in hue and sprinkled with what seems like thousands of miniscule shards of shiny white glass. Mesmerised, I sink to the ground and lie face up to the sky. These stars are so dazzling that everything around me seems flooded with light as if the darkness is just a figment of my own limited imagination. With a stab of regret I realise that until moving to Mallorca, I rarely stopped to reflect on the infinite beauty of nature. Come to think of it, I rarely stopped to reflect full stop. A gecko darts up a stone pillar close by, unnerved perhaps by this dotty English woman stretched out on the ground in the early hours of the morning. The very thought has me giggling to myself. I put a hand to my mouth to silence any release of laughter. The sharp stones and gravel dig into my back. A door bursts open and the porch light flashes on. Alan, unkempt and clad in cotton pyjama bottoms, is straining to see in the gloom. He calls out my name anxiously, but before I can rise he has glimpsed me lying like a corpse on the ground and rushes down the steps.

  'My God! Are you all right? Speak to me!'

  I roll over, paralytic with laughter, incapable of speech.

I'm sitting against the wall on the half-built
terrassa
, staring out over small heaps of rubble at the hills beyond. The builders have left for the weekend but semi-full bottles of water and unfinished packets of biscuits wedged beneath rocks are sure signs that they'll be back on Monday. I'm longing for a juice from oranges freshly collected from our own trees but it will have to wait for a while. First I must make an effort to don my running gear and tackle a few well-trodden Mallorcan tracks on foot. I only have myself to blame. In a moment of hubris back in London I foolishly agreed to run the London Marathon for The Scientific Exploration Society, a charity close to my heart. Even though friends warned me that it was a serious slog, I didn't believe them until, after my first two-mile run in Hyde Park, I returned home like a cartoon dog, with tongue lolling and my uncoordinated legs skating in all directions.

  The temperature is already more than 30˚C as I amble lazily along the track in shorts and T-shirt. I feel an irresistible urge to slope back to the garden to curl up in the haphazardly erected hammock under the olive tree but know that would be a real cop out. Thirty minutes later, with a face the colour of ketchup, I limp back, my skin seeping sweat from every pore. I hear a shout and a man, mid-thirties, appears from a house near the mouth of our track. He is munching on a fresh fig and beaming at me. 'Ah!
Una corredora!
'

  He switches from local dialect to English. 'Runner, you say in English,
si?
'

  Runner? The man's a diplomat. I feel like a doughnut that's been left to fry in the sun.

  'How did you know I was English?'

  'News travels fast here.' He smiles cordially, ruffling his dark mane of curls with a bronzed hand. Then he bounds over to a nearby fig tree and plucks me off a fruit. 'Here,
un regal
, a little gift.
Benvinguts!
That means, "Welcome!"'

  A very nice welcome indeed. I lift up the succulent fruit with its heady aroma and brush its downy skin against my cheek. Can it be true that I've discovered a friendly, welcoming neighbour so soon? This definitely isn't London.

  'You like to run? I am runner too. We go together. I am Rafael.'

  I'm winded and still contemplating the purchase of a respirator for the rest of my training, so this invitation hits me like a tram.

'Thanks, but I'm really not very good. I need lots of practice. I don't think you and I…'

  '
Poc a poc
,' he says, slamming a muscular arm on my back. That's the other lethal Mallorcan expression, like '
No problema',
that I'm getting to dread. Little by little. What that really, really means is that you haven't got a hope in hell of achieving whatever it is you're aiming for. In fact, you'll probably go quietly mad first. In between gasps for breath, I tell him my name and attempt an introduction.

  'So we're living here, but I'm commuting to England each month.'

  He chews on this nugget thoughtfully. 'You like to travel, me too. This is good, but why you move in hottest month? You crazy English!'

  'Well, our son has to start his new school in September or there won't be a place. We had to move here now.'

  He looks confused. '
Home!
He can go to my son's school! There are many schools. Is not so important.'

  
Home
literally means 'man' in Mallorcan, and is used, I quickly discover, as a general exclamation.

  I take a sharp intake of breath. 'Oh well, it's a British school, you know. Not many places.'

  'What? You going to drive to Palma every day?
Estas boja?!
'

  I agree wholeheartedly with him. Yes, madness is a family trait.

  'So now we are friends,' he says brightly.

  I sincerely hope so. Besides, he is incredibly cheerful and welcoming, a tad manic and also, I discover, owns the main
pastisseria
, the cake shop, in the town. An irresistible combination of factors.

  'You must come up for a drink,' I encourage. 'Meet the family.'

  He nods enthusiastically. One day soon, yes, he will visit us. We too must meet Cristian, his nine-year-old son who, he tells me, is in the park walking his boxer, Franco. There's no sign of a wife. He also promises to give me details of a half marathon race which is coming up in Palma soon. It will be such fun and we can compete together, he insists. As I stagger back down the track I ponder on this curious trick of fate that finds my nearest neighbour, in the middle of nowhere, a fervent disciple of running.

We have been here barely a month and yet despite the on-going adversity, I have already grown accustomed to the scene of pine-clad mountains from my window at the top of the house. In no time at all I have exchanged a view of grubby concrete blocks and an unremitting grey London sky for one of breathtaking beauty. And yet chaos reigns around us. From dawn till dusk we share our home with a pack of swarthy, tool-wielding strangers yelling good-naturedly and interminably in a foreign tongue who clomp around the house and grounds in boots which exude enough sand and grit to fill a new Kalahari Desert. In every room, yawning sockets disgorge tufts of gaudy wires, concrete floors remain un-tiled, walls unpainted, plaster crumbles, flatulent bathroom taps expel nothing but hot air, and ants and lizards run rampant throughout the house, but do I care? Somehow one glimpse of the verdant paradise unfurling from my office window makes it all seem OK. I can cope with the sawing and gnawing, the banging and clanging, the plaster disasters, and lack of furniture and amenities. One day, I tell myself, we will look back on this period and laugh. Maybe we'll be strait-jacketed at the time and in the high security psychiatric wing of a mountain hospital, but we'll be laughing.

  Sitting at my desk each morning, gazing over the valley in wonder, I sometimes have to pinch myself to believe it's real. Beneath the high ridges and soaring peaks a chain of brawny, squat hills, like small plump Buddhas, curl around our small market town in a firm and, one hopes, everlasting embrace. The sunlight moves mysteriously along the peaks and by mid morning a white film envelops the higher ridges and clouds settle on the lower plains like candy floss. By early evening, streaks of rich vermilion light spread across the entire Tramuntana range so that its face is suffused with a rosy hue like a happy imbiber of good red wine.

  It's already sizzling hot as I sit in an old white T-shirt and shorts, tapping slowly on the computer keys. I take childish glee in not having to wear a suit, make-up, jewellery or even shoes and wonder what on earth my clients in London would make of my dishevelled state. More to the point, am I really bothered? The sense of personal freedom is palpable. The builders, clad in faded shorts and battered trainers, are singing outside in the courtyard, not pop songs but ballads in their native Mallorcan tongue. Everyday this small contingent of workmen arrives at the house to tile a bathroom, fix a door, lay some paving or repair a wall. These are not just cosmetic challenges; some are structural and we will have to grit our teeth and live in a certain amount of turmoil until the
finca
is truly completed.

  Although it was five years ago that we acquired the
finca
, it had lain abandoned for half that time awaiting the completion of architectural drawings, planning consent from the local council and permission to upgrade its utilities. Having been recommended a talented local architect through our estate agent – albeit one who didn't speak English – we tried to straddle Mallorca and London, taking it in turn every month to visit him on the island in order to move the project forward. We didn't speak any Spanish or the local dialect so communication involved spirited charades, enthusiastic nodding and
si si's
, and hand-drawn diagrams. The
finca
had no running water and the electricity ran weakly to 115 volts so on our architect's advice we applied to go on mains water, which would involve running pipes underground from the village to our house, and upping the electricity supply to 230 volts. This was no mean feat and in order to get things moving we enlisted the help of a buildercum-supervisor named Senyor Coll. This wealthy builder from Palma advertised in a local newspaper and, bewitched by his impressive client list and chummy and solicitous ways, we had entrusted him with the task of reforming our ruin. As it transpired, Senyor Coll was a man so devoid of principles as to make my client Greedy George seem like Gandhi. Within a year it had become abundantly clear that he was nothing more than a wily con artist when, having drained us of funds, he abandoned the project halfway through, leaving us to pick up the pieces with an honest and hardworking local builder named Stefan. Did we bear a grudge? Yes, until, that is, we came to accept that there are prowling wolves even in Utopia.

  So with a new roof, wooden beams, staircase, bathrooms, doors and windows we have at last been able to move in to our new home. Shutters have been fitted, mains water now brought up to the house and we have a decent electricity supply. The kitchen is without work surfaces, cupboards or tiles on the floor but at least we have a plumbed-in washing machine and working hob, fridge and sink. When the newly installed plumbing isn't playing up, we even get some hot water in the guest bathroom, although the other two still aren't usable and taps lie dust-laden in their wrappers aloft heaps of tiles waiting to be attached to walls. The once gloomy
botega
, cellar, has been transformed into a guest en suite and the ancient stone walls of the
finca
have been re-pointed and made secure. There is still a long way to go and a huge amount of structural work to be done outside such as terracing, creating walls and the laying of paths. We have also set aside an area beyond the kitchen for a swimming pool but, given the cost, we shan't be able to make that a reality for some time. As they say in Mallorca, '
Poc a poc
…'

  Having arrived half an hour ago, our workmen will sweat it out until nine and then stop for their breakfast, a fat
entrepà
, a crusty white roll, filled with Serrano ham or chorizo sausage and tomato. I've got into the habit of following their routine, pottering downstairs when they down tools to make some tea. Alan likes to greet them on arrival, standing with crossed arms in the front doorway, his tall frame blocking out the sun, until he hears the pop pop of the
motos
as they gnaw up the lane. Then with a huge beam on his face, he strides into the sunny courtyard and in his rich Scottish brogue exchanges hearty '
Holas'
with them as they gather under our porch. But my greatest entertainment is listening to Alan attempting to converse with them in Spanish. He's a master of the weighty '
Si'. No
matter what the topic, Alan can find a way to deliver the simple, delicious monosyllable. Sometimes he manages an '
Ah si
' with huge gusto and enthusiasm, usually when discussing the performance of the Real Mallorca football club. At other times, if conversation moves to summer water shortages, he looks thoughtful, nods his head sagely and mutters '
Si, si si
' with sad conviction. Then there's the questioning '
Si?
' when he furrows his brow as some revelatory information is imparted to him, and exclaims '
Si?
' as in 'Really?' This male bonding of an Anglo-Mallorcan kind can carry on fruitfully for half an hour or so with the builders hanging on Alan's every '
Si
', clapping him on the back and offering him broad smiles of encouragement. It can only be a matter of time before he conquers '
Non
' and then there's no knowing where the conversation may lead.