Under a Croatian Sun (27 page)

Despite Bozo's dog-deprived childhood, he seemed to be making up for it with two yappy West Highland Terriers (unless he kept them to drown out the sound of Nora's raucous voice). Pets were in fact something of a rarity, and the locals didn't seem too fond of them. Most island dogs had to sleep outside, and the sight of children having their faces licked by one would send mothers into a flurry of flannels and soap. This approach to dogs had already given us trouble, and on one occasion we'd had to physically restrain some of our guests from staging a midnight dog-rescue operation on the half-starved dogs of Komiza – our guests, of course, being English. We really are hopeless cases.

But there was one dog in the village that could do no wrong – Baldo, who belonged to Vinka, the widow who owned the corner store. He was a large, shaggy wolfhound who did nothing except lie snuffling gormlessly outside the shop all day, but at least he had served a useful purpose by giving Vinka someone to fuss over.

One morning in September, she appeared at our door to tell
me her Baldo had died. I couldn't think why she wanted to tell me, but summoning up all my linguistic powers I started to commiserate (not easy – many subjunctives). I got so carried away with the linguistics that I didn't realise that she was trying to get me to bury Baldo.

No trouble at all, I told her, once I'd understood. I'd come round later with Marin.

But no. It had to be done immediately. Baldo had expired in the store and the government health inspector was arriving off the ferry that morning. She couldn't conceal Baldo by throwing a blanket over him and passing him off as a sack of potatoes as he took up half the floor, and, if the inspector saw him, he'd look round the rest of the premises and find out about all the cats she fed in the backyard. He would close her down!

How could I refuse to be a knight in shining armour? And, besides, I ought to encourage this image of me as the kind of neighbour who'll help out with day-to-day problems such as dealing with your dead animals.

I jumped into the Renault like Charlton Heston into his chariot, and a minute later I was reversing up to the shop ready for some dead-dog action. Stretched out as stiff as a board between the carousels, Baldo looked even bigger in death than he had in life, but I hauled him out and crammed him into the back of the car with as much of a show of gentleness as I could. He only just fitted in and, when I shut the hatch door, his face was squashed against the back window in a particularly goofy expression. Dewy eyed at the sight of her Baldo's face against the window, Vinka thanked me profusely and said she knew I'd find a suitable place for his grave. I hadn't yet given the matter of a grave any thought, but, now that I did, just the thought of digging made the small of my back twinge. Also, the entire island was rocky terrain except for the vineyards, and I didn't
fancy being caught by an irate winegrower digging a hole in his vineyard and polluting his next year's crop with essence of wolfhound. And the hole would have to be huge. Baldo was the size of a doe.

A solution suddenly occurred to me. The corporation dustbins. Why not? Vinka would never know. I quickly reined in the Renault and headed for the refuse site. Once there, I parked in the shadows, and as soon as the coast was clear I hauled the old fellow out and pushed him up the side of a circular container. But, when I got him up to the edge, the damn dog wouldn't fit in. He lay rigidly across the top, looking at me with his stupid grin. The only way to get him into it was to break his legs (I quailed at the thought) or to get up there and jump on him (I felt a bit queasy about that one, too).

I was standing there wondering what to do, when to my horror I saw the lower class of the school, shepherded by two nuns, coming towards me. Panic! I could see the newspaper headlines: ‘Englishman Mutilates Dead Dog!' or ‘Is Nothing Safe from British Necrophiliacs?' and how would I ever face Vinka again once she knew I'd tried to stuff her beloved Baldo into a corporation dustbin? I shoved him off the top and crammed him back into the boot as quickly as I could, but, when I slammed the hatch door on him, his face ended up squashed against the side window with his teeth bared in a hideous grin. There was no time to rearrange him, and, seeing a magazine on the ground, I picked it up, put it over the window and pretended to be avidly reading it. Because in a place as small as this everyone knows everyone, the nuns said, ‘Good morning, Mr Anthony!' as they passed and then each child repeated it in turn. Having to turn round and trying to keep my back against Baldo's face in the window, I stood there smiling foolishly and saying, ‘Good morning, Good morning,' until the
little blighters had all filed past – several of them craning their necks as they went down the street in case the funny Englishman wearing the panama and reading the Croatian version of
Hello!
might reveal what he was really up to.

Phew! That was a close one. I jumped back into the car and, hunched over the steering wheel like Mr Magoo, I gunned the engine and shot off, the wheels spinning up the dirt and the exhaust puffing out some quite aggressive-looking smoke rings, in the direction of the island landfill dump. Enclosed in a hot car, Baldo smelled even worse in death than he had in life, and when we got to the top of the tip, not wanting anyone to witness
this
foul deed, I quickly yanked the old chap out and swung him up into the air. Sailing majestically down over sofas, mattresses, fridges and broken TVs with his tongue hanging out and a goofy expression on his face, he looked like he was having the time of his life until, with an undignified bump, he came to his final resting place on top of a pile of beer crates, an old motorcycle and someone's collection of orange G-Plan furniture.

Thus, Baldo came to find his peace and the operation turned out to be our greatest PR success to date. Vinka became our greatest fan and spent the rest of the week telling everyone who came into the shop how lucky they were to have such wonderful neighbours.

I was just a bit nervous in case she asked me where to put the flowers.

I
t was Harvest Festival so we went to the Sunday service, and, when it came to the communion, Ivana went up to the rail. I, as usual, stayed in the pew pondering on matters of importance, and had just about worked out where to put my new navigation system on the boat when I was jolted from my calculations by the sound of the gravelly voice of Don Romolo, the village priest. I looked up and saw Ivana kneeling in an unusually contrite position on the steps beneath him, her mouth still open for the holy biscuit like a supplicant halibut. Wagging his finger at her, Don Romolo rasped, ‘Look at your naked shoulders! Don’t come to Mass if you can’t dress properly. We can’t allow this sort of carrying on! It’s indecent!’ And, after sticking the wafer in her mouth, he passed on to the next supplicant. Ivana got to her feet blushing madly and came down the aisle as every head turned and whispered.

Afterwards, in the square, half the female congregation
gathered around her like a cluster of pelicans, and, to my surprise, they took her side.

‘How could Don Romolo humiliate Mrs Ivana like that?’

‘He shouldn’t speak to any of us in that kind of tone!’

‘He certainly shouldn’t.’

‘And in front of the whole congregation!’

‘He certainly shouldn’t treat one of
us
like that!’

This was bold talk. The village priest was usually above reproach, but, even more significantly, this implied that Ivana should be accorded the same respect as them. This was a surprising turn. It might have had something to do with several of them being mothers of club members, but, whatever the reason, I felt it was some kind of a milestone.

In the course of the discussion, I learned the reason for Don Romolo’s outburst. A month ago, the Bishop of Hvar had decided that the amount of indecently dressed women coming into his churches was reaching epidemic level, and this had to be stopped before women in fishnet stockings and garters were traipsing down his aisles. So he printed up a batch of dress-code posters at his local Prontaprint and sent them out to all his parishes, and, lo, Don Romolo went forth with tacks in his mouth and a hammer in his hand and nailed one up to the church door of Vis like Martin Luther nailing his articles to the church door of Wittenberg. We just hadn’t noticed it.

Actually, Ivana usually dressed in rather more demure attire for church, but, because the temperature was 35 degrees, she had put on a rather wispy gypsy skirt and a shoulder-less top. As usual, however, it was my fault. As we walked back home, I was foolish enough to tell her that when she had come out of her bedroom to ask ‘How do I look?’ I had thought the outfit a touch on the provocative side, but, as another change of clothes would have made us late, I gave her the usual ‘You-look-simply-lovely-my-sweet’
reply. I now got the ‘it’s-all-your-fault-you-should-have-told-me’ reply. (I’d like to know if men do really exist who actually tell their wives their bottom
does
look big in whatever they’ve put on.)

Luckily, I was saved from any further mauling by seeing Marin sitting outside Marko’s and laughing with some friends. It was the first time we’d seen him looking so cheery for weeks. We went over and he got up, beaming, as soon as he saw us.

‘On Friday, I went to Split like you told me to and I asked her.’

‘And?’

‘She said yes!’

Ivana wrapped her arms round his middle and gave him a big hug. From under his arms she smiled up at me. ‘You see! True love always has its way!’

‘Hmm. Maybe it was more a case of true persistence having its way.’

‘Oh, you’re such a killjoy! You and Oliver Cromwell!’

Marin couldn’t have cared what anyone said. He was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

That evening, the lovers were at the promenade. In a short white chiffon dress, Tanya looked as adorable as one of the angels behind God’s arm on the Sistine ceiling. She ran over when she saw us.

‘I’m so happy to be back. We’re having the engagement party soon and you must come.’ Lowering her voice, she said, ‘I don’t know why I left when my parents told me to. It hurt Marin so much. No one is as good and kind as he is. I must have been out of my mind.’ She hugged Ivana. ‘Thank you for telling him to make up his mind.’ She then turned to me and said hesitantly, ‘Does Marin know about the boy you saw me with?’

I assured her he didn’t and she flashed me such a heart-melting
look of unutterable gratitude that my knees nearly collapsed.

We walked home with that wonderful feeling you get when you’ve been part of a winning team effort.

I was still thinking about the happy conclusion as I had my breakfast. The world was a rosy place once again, and, however many times I looked out over the bay, I realised, I never failed to feel massively blessed. What a delight it was to live with a new theatrical backdrop in front of me. Each day the bay presented me a different
mise en scene
; sometimes a bright-blue sky, green hills and sparkling azure water dotted with billowing white sails; sometimes the storm scene from
The Tempest
with white crested waves roaring in and black clouds scudding over the hills. Today, the bay was as calm as a millpond and the water so clear that I could see the stones on the seabed thirty feet below.

I suddenly looked at my watch. Why, I don’t know, but, like a Pavlovian hound, some nerve had twitched and I had checked in case I might be late for something. It must have been a reflex left over from years of working. My heart rate had even accelerated. Ridiculous! I told myself and went back to the contemplation of the bay. The flagstones under my feet were warm, the scent of the herbs in the courtyard drifted up to where I stood and muffled sounds from the waterfront percolated up over the courtyard wall. Surely life couldn’t get much better than this.

I ought to ring Kaes to let him know my decision, I thought as I went inside. I should have done it already, but I’d kept putting it off. So I went down to get a coffee from Marko’s and sat on a bollard to think about it one more time. Did I really want to go back to the old business? Look at what I had around me now. The day’s work had begun on the waterfront, fishing
craft were chuntering in and unloading their night’s catches, the market was in full swing and the villagers were going about their business. Island life might be a bit spotted at times and some of our neighbours might not be exactly welcoming, but there were certainly a lot of compensations.

I took a deep breath and rang Kaes.

I shut the phone with a huge feeling of relief and went home to tell Ivana. She was in the kitchen putting away the breakfast plates.

‘I have just taken an important decision,’ I announced with suitable bathos, ‘I have turned down the trappings of wealth, position and honour to devote myself to the life I have and the one I love’ – a pretty impressive turn of phrase, I thought.

‘Oh good,’ she answered distractedly, as she put away the plates. ‘Now, we’re having tomato and mozzarella salad for lunch today. Should we have hardboiled eggs or anchovies with it?’

In need of some consolation, I went down to the courtyard to contemplate the mimosa tree – or rather sit there and sulk – and I was still sitting there when I heard the courtyard door creak shut as Ivana left for the market. I stayed there consoling myself with the contemplation of the mimosa’s exquisitely sculpted, soft parasol shape, and slowly my furrowed brow was beginning to unfurrow when the phone rang. I ran upstairs to get it, but by the time I got to the drawing room it had stopped ringing. One of us had forgotten to put the answer machine on. Oddly, I didn’t feel annoyed. A few months ago, I would have been highly irritated, but now things like that didn’t bother me at all. So what if I missed a call? Whoever it was would call again if it mattered. I then remembered how angry I’d been when the air-conditioning part had stayed on the ferry for a week and I’d had to wait for it. How could I have made such a fuss about such
a trivial thing? What an impossible sort of person I must have been for so many years. The island must have had a mellowing effect. I had even begun to get more philosophical about how long it was taking to become fully accepted as part of the village. Perhaps Ivana was right and it really didn’t matter so much. I wasn’t even that worried about the prospect of not having enough to do – and that really surprised me. I never thought I had it in me to become that laid-back.

Halfway through September, the villagers started rolling all their wine barrels out into the street to wash them out and get them ready for the coming harvest. A faintly sour but comforting smell pervaded the streets and there was a sense of expectancy in the air as the village waited for the oenologist to say when the grapes were at their fullest, the acidity level right and the sugar content high enough for the harvesting to start.

As the grapes had to be picked in the optimum week, many hands were needed, and by tradition every able-bodied person in the family was expected to join in, even those who lived on the mainland. It was in everyone’s interest to lend a hand, as families relied on the harvest for income as well as for their wine during the year – and if the harvesting was not done speedily the quality would suffer.

We had offered our services as pickers to Zvonko, so, the day the oenologist told him his vines were ready, we donned sensible hats, put on stout footwear and piled into his van with the rest of the family. Once in the vineyard, panniers were issued, we fanned out along the rows and began to pick – and, I must say, stooping to lift the leaves, separating the clusters, cutting the stems, putting the bunches into the pannier and then lugging it over to the trailer was knackering work. Ivana still looked quite spry, but, after three hours of back-breaking work in the sun, I
was drenched in sweat and suffering horribly. Let me count the ways: my back was hurting, my arms were aching, my neck was stiff, my fingers were sore and something very worrying was happening to my breathing.

Mercifully, at one o’clock, Zvonko’s wife and sisters arrived at the bottom of the fields with our lunch, and, trying hard not to appear in an ill-mannered haste, I downed tools and was the first in line. What a delight it is to fall on to food and drink when you’re dog tired, hungry and thirsty. Everything tastes simply wonderful, and half an hour later, having devoured a life-affirming amount of salami, ham, cheese, pickles and the local pizza-cum-pasty that they make, and washing it down with some cool lemonade, I felt on terrific form again.

We lay chatting and joking for a while in the shade of the trees, but eventually Zvonko got us back to the vines, and, by three o’clock, every muscle in my body was complaining again. By then, every ten minutes seemed like an hour, but the blessed hour of five eventually arrived and we bundled into the vans groaning vociferously and comparing our sore backs, necks, arms and thumbs. But those who had come over from the mainland were in holiday mood and it was infectious. By the time we were halfway to the village, the aches and pains were side-lined and the talk turned to the parties they were all going to that evening.

Zvonko dropped us off at home and we collapsed into a bath, vowing never to volunteer again (and at that point the last thing on our minds was singing and dancing), but the recuperative power of a gin and tonic never ceases to amaze. By nine o’clock, our aching limbs forgotten, we were out taking part in the festivities, and by midnight I was whirling Ivana around the floor at Asija’s to screeching violins, frenzied mandolins and some feverish accordion playing by the diminutive man with a
Hitler moustache who sells the ferry tickets. Reeling about in circles with one’s fellow beings must be yet another of life’s great pleasures, and, as we careered around the room in the galloping throng, I felt an intoxicating herd-like oneness with my fellow harvesters and wanted the night to go on forever.