Driving Over Lemons: An Optimist in Spain (21 page)

This was not an empty boast since Baltasar’s family have the highest farm on the mountain above Lanjarón, a spot that enjoys truly gargantuan weather, and Manuel has spent most of his life working there. But the man in the beret looked dubious. He wouldn’t do the exercises, I could see that. He hobbled off to get another brandy. Manuel set off to do a tour of the bar and see what other interesting afflictions he could find.

Domingo and I, leaving Baltasar to watch out for Kiki and make sure he didn’t pull some stunt in the market bar, went to pen up the lambs and cast an eye over the opposition. Our pen seemed to be a long way from all the others. The action, such as it was, was taking place at the bottom end of the market. Here there were larger lots of lambs, a hundred, two hundred to a pen. My forty lambs were good, but a little smaller than most, and the fact of their being huddled up in a corner of the pen didn’t show them off to their best advantage.

In the pen next to mine was a mixed bag of old goats, and on the other side a smelly billygoat milling about amongst a small bunch of ill-favoured lambs. Apart from us, all the other pens up our end were empty. It didn’t take a lot of thought to work out that this was where they put the punters who didn’t know the ropes. My neighbours were certainly not out of the top drawer of modern-thinking shepherds.

My five hundred pesetas had rented a concrete pen beneath a huge open shed. Here I displayed my wares to their best advantage, leaning on the door nonchalantly as if it were a matter of complete indifference whether I sold them or not. The dealers moved around the pens with an entourage of note-takers, purveyors of unsolicited advice, toadies and desperate shepherds. The vendors made their own deals with the buyers on the basis of whatever information they could pick up by listening in to the dealing at the other pens.

By six, the lower end of the market was seething with activity. It was the darkest and coldest hour of the night. I thought I had dressed warmly but it wasn’t enough for this. Frozen solid from my toes to my ears, I could hardly talk – I certainly couldn’t get my mouth around sheep-dealing Andaluz. Domingo wandered up from the pens below.

‘Bad news, the prices are getting lower. One of the shepherds in the big pens down there has just accepted seven thousand and his lambs are the biggest and best here. Smaller lambs are going for nothing. Also Luís Vazquez is down there and unless I’m much mistaken he has spread the word that nobody should take any interest in your lambs.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘He was angry because you didn’t sell him your lambs when he came to see you . . . ’

‘Of course I didn’t, not at the ridiculous price he was offering!’

‘Well anyway, he and the other dealers of the Alpujarras are not pleased with the prospect of more shepherds bringing their own lambs to market. It’ll put them out of business.’

‘Good thing too.’

‘Yes, but they’re not going to take it lying down. Luís has been talking to all the dealers here in the market. They’ll want to teach us all a lesson.’

Occasionally, as if to lend weight to Domingo’s words, a dealer and his entourage would break away from the melee at the lower end of the market and saunter up past my pen, look at the lambs with a sneer and pass on without a word. Domingo did his best to engage them in conversation and draw attention to the advantages of my lambs, but to no avail.

I leaned forlornly on the wall, looking at the poor frightened creatures in the pen. How much longer would this ghastly ordeal go on? Everywhere I could see batches of lambs being shoved down the corridors to the loading-bays. Fat-bellied dealers were climbing into their Mercedes and sweeping away through the gates. It looked like I would have to endure the humiliation of taking the lambs home again, a wretched double journey as well as a night of cold and misery for them.

‘We won’t go yet, though,’ said Domingo. ‘It often happens that prices get better towards the end of the market. Perhaps some dealers won’t have made up their quota and there’ll be fewer lambs to choose from. We may be lucky yet!’

We weren’t. The spasm of buying and selling had climaxed and ebbed. A feeble white sun crept up from behind the horizon and illuminated that horrid place with rays devoid of warmth. The big pens of lambs emptied and the big dealers disappeared one by one. In the carpark beside the shed, the village dealers and small-time operators cruised up and down the lines where those too canny to pay the five hundred pesetas for a pen plied their wares. Here were battered Renault 4s, their windows steamed with the breath of a dozen lambs, a goat trussed up and lashed to the back of a tractor, an old man standing forlornly with a couple of thin sheep on a rope. But nobody came even to look at my lambs. I felt lost and lonely, like a new boy at school.

I had a coffee with Baltasar, leaving Domingo to try and drum up some interest among the remaining buyers.

‘It doesn’t look like you’re going to sell them today.’

‘Yes, I suppose I’ll have to take them home again.’

‘You should be a little careful, you know; you’ve made some enemies among the dealers, and they’re bad people to cross. You never know what they might try, not in broad daylight like this but on a dark night on a lonely mountain road . . .’

He left the sentence unfinished. I thought he was being a little dramatic, but maybe it was serious. I was breaking the mould, sticking my neck out. It was a foolhardy failure. We loaded up the lambs again and headed for home. As we passed through Lanjarón and Órgiva we made frequent stops to satisfy the curiosity of passers-by. Some of them had already spoken to the dealers and they seemed to know already the minutest detail of our humiliating journey.

Predictably enough there was a flurry of interest among the dealers to see if they could get the unsold lambs for nothing. I would have to sell them; it wouldn’t be long before they went past their best, and then I really would have to give them away. The man who gave me the most reasonable deal was a gypsy from Órgiva called Francisco. He was such a small operator that he hadn’t the wherewithal to go to the market in Baza. Domingo told me to watch him, as he was known to be a bad payer, but he paid me in advance as he took the lambs away in four batches of ten over the next month.

I have sold to Francisco ever since, and so far he has not let me down. Now I’ve come to like selling the lambs locally. It’s by far the most ecological option; it saves the lambs a stressful journey, saves on transport costs, and it pleases me to be supplying the community in which we live. Occasionally people will come up to me and compliment me on the quality of lamb they buy at Francisco’s stall in the market. Francisco himself is a firm believer in the superior quality of
carne campero
.

‘No, this bringing the lambs up on high-protein feed in the dark is a modern notion. In my father’s time as a butcher, a lamb wasn’t considered fit to eat until it had grazed for a summer in the high pasture. The lambs were bigger and older then but the flavour was superb. My older customers complain that they can’t get any good meat any more. The stuff they buy just shrivels to nothing in the pan. So I’m really pleased to see you producing
carne campero
. I’ll buy whatever you produce.’

It was no October Revolution, leading the shepherds of the Alpujarras to cast away their chains, but for me, perhaps, things had turned out again for the best.

CHLOË’S CHRISTENING

WHEN CHLOË WAS BORN WE PLANNED A PARTY TO CELEBRATE her arrival and thought we might combine it with a christening. Ana, having spent some of her school years at a convent, was convinced of the importance of baptism. I live in a state of confusion about the mysteries of the universe and was not so sure, but there was one advantage to having a christening that settled my doubts. We could ask Domingo to be Chloë’s godfather.

Domingo is the sort of friend who hates to be thanked for anything. He carries his generosity lightly and dismisses the time and energy he unstintingly gives us as not worth mentioning. If I try to press the issue he grows brusque and severe. So to have a formal token at hand, one that would imply our appreciation and regard, was just too good an opportunity to be missed. I raised the godfather business with him the very day that we decided one might be necessary.

‘What do I have to do?’ he asked doubtfully.

‘Well, not much. I think you just hold Chloë when the priest splashes the water.’

‘I might just about manage that.’

‘And then of course you have to see to her spiritual upbringing.’

‘I’ll be good at that too,’ he grinned.

‘Well then, will you do it?’

‘I don’t mind,’ he said, seeming to mull it over. ‘That’s if I’m not doing anything else on that day.’

Domingo certainly knows how to take the wind from your sails. Still, he was clearly pleased with the idea, and Expira and Old Man Domingo were delighted. So, having sown the seeds, I set about bringing our plan to fruition. The first thing to do was to seek out the parish priest.

Don Manuel was usually to be found, outside the hours of Mass or siesta, in a murky little office beside the church. His house-keeper opened the door with a broom in her hand and on hearing my mission ushered me into his presence. He stopped shuffling the papers around his desk and got to his feet as I entered. He was a thin, dry sort of a man in slippers and a shabby grey suit and his hand seemed so small and delicate when I shook it that I wondered if he had really offered me all of its fingers.

‘I’d like to know if you could christen my daughter?’ I began.

‘Are you a Catholic?’ he asked, eyeing me up suspiciously.

‘No, but I don’t at all mind my daughter being christened a Catholic.’

‘What religion do you belong to, then?’

‘I suppose I was christened an Anglican, but I’m of an ecumenical turn of mind.’

‘Oh so am I, so am I. But this christening – I’m not exactly sure what the procedure is in these cases.’

He seemed to be addressing himself more to the bits of paper on his desk than to me, giving the impression that he was not overcome with enthusiasm for the project. It could well cause a lot more inconvenience than one small soul was worth. But for now he could be content with delaying tactics. ‘I’m going to Granada on Friday,’ he assured me, ‘and I shall bring the matter up with the bishop then. Come and see me again next week.’ So I went to see Don Manuel the next week, but he hadn’t made it to see the bishop, and the week after that he forgot to mention the business, and the week after that the bishop was going to think the matter over and the week after that I forgot all about it. So we somehow let it slide.

What I was conjuring in my mind was, in any case, not quite Don Manuel’s way of doing things. I had an idea of a romantic little ceremony at an isolated country
ermita
or hermitage: Nuestra Señora de Fatima is a particularly pretty one, overlooking El Valero from the top of a steep cliff. I imagined a christening party setting out for the long climb to the
ermita
on a procession of gaily-caparisoned mules with flowers in their manes. Arriving at the chapel there would be a brief but charming service with candles and incense and the contented gurgling of the baby Chloë, then home again to gather around a long table with snow-white cloths, laden with glimmering glasses and mountains of mouthwatering food and wine.

The lugubrious deliberations of the bishop in his Granada fastness and Don Manuel’s earnest profession of ecumenicism in his dark little office by the church seemed to be heading in the wrong direction. So Chloë started off her life without the help of orthodox religion and seemed to flourish reasonably well in its absence. Expira and Old Man Domingo, however, were clearly disappointed and for months would steer the conversation round to the deferred christening in the hopes of discovering a new date. And then it slipped from their minds as well.

Almost three years had passed when, one beautiful May morning, I found myself far from the known world on a botanising expedition, looking for plants from which to collect seeds in the summer. It was over towards Ventas de Zafarraya, wonderful seed-collecting country, miles from anywhere and locked in by soaring cliffs. I clambered and scrambled up and up along a goat-path, suicidally close to the fearful drop.

It was high, the air was thin and difficult to breathe, and it was as hot as a baking mountain can be in Andalucía in May. Reaching a spot where surely no man had ever trod before me, I was surprised, not to say a little piqued, to see a white-haired figure crouched in silent enchantment at the beauty of an iris. So lost in adoration was he that he didn’t even hear me as I gasped and scuffled my way towards him.

At last he looked up from his reverie and, seeing me, slowly unfurled to his full six-feet-four. ‘Buenos dias,’ I said.

‘Oh . . . do you speak English?’

‘Not only that but I am English.’

‘Marvellous. How delightful it is to meet fellow Englishmen in faraway places. Richard, Richard Blakeway-Phillips, and very pleased to meet you.’

We shook hands.

‘Perhaps you saw me, but I’ve been admiring a most beautiful iris. It’s either
xiphium
or
filifolia
; it’s often quite difficult to tell them apart.’

‘Well, we’ll soon sort that out. I just happen to have Polunin with me.’

‘Ah, Polunin. Thank heavens for that, we’re saved.’

Anybody who has ever looked up a flower in a botany book will know the name of Oleg Polunin. Even the most accomplished botanist would consider it foolish to venture outside their front door without one of Polunin’s tomes beneath their arm. No matter where you go in the world, Polunin will have been there before you and identified, catalogued and described in meticulous detail the indigenous flora. He is one of the most prodigious and respected botanists of the twentieth century. He was also my biology teacher at school, where he was known as Ollie Pollie. I regret to say that I was not a natural biologist and, having no notion of just what an honour it was to be taught by the great man, frittered away the privilege by horsing around at the back of the lab. Now that through almost daily use I’ve come to know Polunin’s work, I am suitably wracked with remorse.

Richard flipped with practised skill through the countless pages of the book and mumbled as he ran his finger along the relevant entry.

‘Of course, the gold centre blotches on the falls –
chamaeiris
– silly of us. I suppose it was rather foolish of me to come up here unarmed so to speak . . .’

‘Unarmed?’

‘I mean with no Polunin.’

I chatted on about the botanist and my early school experiences, ending wistfully with my wish of meeting him again, though I could hardly suppose this would be mutual.

‘I think it would be a little difficult for you to meet him now,’ said Richard with what I thought was a censorious look. ‘He died several years ago.’

So we fell to lamenting this loss, high among the tutubias and the genista and the cistus, and the
Iris xiphium
, no,
filifolia
, while poring over Polunin. At such moments I love being English. I almost expected Richard to say, ‘Would you care for a cup of tea? I just happen to have with me my tea-service and some Lapsang Souchong.’ But he didn’t, and it was the wrong time of day for tea anyway. I kept my sweaty leather wine-bottle out of sight. It seemed somehow to be letting the side down.

Richard, or more properly the Reverend Richard Blakeway-Phillips, had been a vicar in the Midlands, but now he was retired and his great love was wandering the world botanising. That got me thinking, and as I darted to and fro, beelike, among the flowers and bushes, gathering specimens for identification and stuffing them unscientifically into my bag, my thoughts returned to the all but forgotten business of the christening.

I steered the conversation in the general direction of retired vicars and home christenings, and then enthused about the interesting botany to be found in the Alpujarras.

‘We have a guest cottage on our farm. Maybe you’d like to come and stay, and while you were there perhaps you could christen our daughter.’

‘Well, I must say,’ said Richard, loosening his tie a little to combat the heat. ‘It does sound very tempting – and I should be delighted to christen your daughter.’

So the deal was done and I hurried home to tell Ana, feeling pretty pleased with myself.

Within a fortnight Richard arrived on the bus from Granada with his wife Eleanor. He folded himself neatly into the back of the Landrover like a huge grasshopper, while Eleanor sat in the front and did the talking. She had accompanied Richard halfway around the world on his botanising adventures and had a habit of competently and discreetly taking care of each new situation they found themselves in. Without Richard’s realising it, she acted as a forerunner, smoothing mountains into molehills and thus making possible such interesting undertakings as botanising in anarchic Albania, travelling on the local buses.

Eleanor was elegant, too. Whereas Richard did not place his appearance high on his list of priorities – he would wear a huge pair of tennis shoes, long shorts and a shirt with the collar askew and a tie draped somewhere between neck and breastbone – Eleanor achieved quite unconsciously an air of natural grace, as if instead of slogging up some dusty mountain track, she was hostessing a party on the vicarage lawn.

Chloë, for some reason better known perhaps to three-yearolds, had taken against the idea of the holy water and oil when we had explained it to her. This of course is the problem with leaving the business until the child has a will of its own. She flicked her head ominously and made it clear she didn’t want to hear another word on the subject. Ana wrung her hands and looked at me appealingly. ‘It’ll probably be alright on the night,’ I assured her. ‘You know the way these things are.’ I took refuge in my habitual optimism.

Introduced at lunch, Chloë regarded Richard and Eleanor with suspicion. They were, after all, very tall and imposing, and when they tried to weaken her defences by treating her as if she were a fellow human and by being nice to her, she sought refuge in silence. The next day, however, she was persuaded to accompany our guests down to the valley to give them a botanical tour. She was good at this; it gave her an opportunity to regurgitate the litany of botanical names she had learned on our seed-picking expeditions. But quite apart from revelling in sing-song Latin, she had a real love of plants and a good knowledge of the poisonous ones, which Ana had instilled in her before she could walk. To non-botanists, the sound of a three-year-old trilling out names like
Adenocarpus decorticans
,
Euphorbia characias or Anthyllis cytisusoides
might seem monstrously precocious – though city children are just as fluent with the names of favourite dinosaurs. In any case, we doting parents thought it was marvellous, and Richard and Eleanor, to whom such names were as bread and milk, were roundly impressed. The discovery of their shared enthusiasm for plants broke the ice, and when they returned to the house both factions seemed charmed by one another. I was dispatched to buy the ingredients for a giant paella and to inform the previously warned guests that all was in readiness for the following Saturday.

Susanne, a friend from the other side of town, was to be the godmother. She, like Domingo, was another person we wanted to draw into our family orbit. She had come to be a neighbour of ours as a result, so she said, of sticking a pin in a map of Europe and then moving lock, stock and barrel to the point thus decided upon. Like Georgina, she is one of those formidable young Englishwomen who steer their chosen course through the world quite oblivious of navigational hazards. Susanne is a gifted artist; she wanders the Alpujarra in her reprehensible wreck of a car, doing landscapes in pen and watercolour. As with astrologers, there is no shortage of artists in the Alpujarras, but Susanne’s work, in its originality and the exquisite skill of its execution, holds its own with the best.

For the last few years Susanne has been confined to a wheelchair, due to crippling rheumatoid arthritis, but along with a disarming sultriness, she manages to maintain her unshakeable good humour. In her dark smoky voice she explained to me how the wretched disease was the result of unspeakable transgressions in earlier lives, something to do with supplying cosmetics containing white lead to the ladies of Minoan Crete, in the full knowledge of its harmful properties. Her eyes twinkled with delight as she growled out this singular story.