Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (4 page)

  'Why not? It's Saturday night, let's live dangerously.'

  We pull on jackets and wellies, and make a dash for the car, driving carefully along our dark, water-logged track.

  In the wind and lashing rain, I strain to see out of my window as we slowly pass Rafael's
finca
. It seems hardly possible, but I could almost swear that there in the heart of his orchard two blurry spectres are gambolling amongst the trees. I blink and look again. Nothing. Just a sea of swaying branches and, high above, a ghost of a moon.

A sliver of light penetrates a crack in the wooden shutter as the dawn chorus strikes up. It's a raggedy crew led by Rafael's histrionic cockerel whose mournful cry pierces the air, prompting a low clucking and crooning from his feathery female backing group. Rather like the crescendo of a grand musical opus, shrill little sounds peck the air, followed by melodious tweeting and louder trills, extravagant cawing, and the deep-throated quacking – yes they really do quack – of the frogs in our pond. The final drum call is the deep braying of the farmer's
burro
, his donkey, combined with the persistent buzz of a quartet of passing hornets and the feverish deep barking of the village dogs. Like a conductor, I am sensitive to every sound and puzzled that today the cat's choir has failed to take its cue. Inko, together with our German neighbour's trio, Fury, Fritz and Tiger, always strike up at the end of the symphony, a brief discordant requiem for empty stomachs. Where are the furry felines?

  I lie in bed for a few more moments until I can barely hear myself think with the cacophony beyond the pane. The Scotsman is deep in slumber, his head partly enveloped by a pillow. Carefully, I release the door handle, and tiptoe down the stairs. All is dark and still. As I open the huge creaking shutters that mask the French doors and windows of the
entrada,
tart lemon light suffuses the room, causing me to wince under the glare.

  Slipping out onto the porch barefooted in my old white T-shirt, I survey the shadowy Tramuntanas. Suspended in a hazy, powder-blue sky, coppery mists of pine pollen await a soft and urgent breeze to lure them far away to a new and fertile valley. To the east and west, long plumes of smoke rise up into the still air, the last of the early morning bonfires permitted before the summer ban begins. A car starts up on the track and Rafael's booming voice can be heard echoing across the valley. A woman is engaging in cheerful, Spanish repartee with him. This is Isabella, Rafael's new girlfriend from Barcelona, who has been single-handedly responsible for the recent spruce appearance of his
finca
. The outside walls have been re-pointed, the window frames coated a rich olive-green hue, and a small garden created beyond the porch where once a dull concrete yard yawned onto the
horta
, the orchard. A fence is being erected around the corral to stop the flighty hens and skittish rabbits from escaping, and a dog kennel has been installed in the pen now housing canine newcomer, Llamp. In six months she has turned this bachelor pad into a home and I can only imagine her next task being to tame the wild ways of her boyfriend, an interesting challenge. Rafael's departure for work has reminded me to waken the boys. The school run beckons, a traffic snarled slog in to Palma, Mallorca's capital.

  Ollie is already up and sleepily throwing on his school uniform while Inko remains sprawled on his bed. Even in such blissful repose, one lazy eye monitors his every move so that when Ollie steps towards the door, she leaps to the floor, racing ahead of him to the kitchen.

  'Greedy old Inko,' he says softly, picking up her food dish and carefully filling it with her favourite, foulsmelling, fishy breakfast. He potters around the cupboards, preparing his habitual breakfast of fat black olives, olive oil and salt on home-made bread and a glass of water. What else could one expect a boy named Oliver to eat? Half an hour later and Alan has set off to Ollie's international school. I run upstairs to my office and fire off some emails before Catalina arrives. The sun is now up, and below my window young frogs bask on lily pads and large rocks jutting from the pond's surface. Occasionally there's a small plop as one dives into the murky depths to cool off or nibble at some unfortunate insect. They're singing at the tops of their voices and I'm sorely tempted to join in, but whenever I've tried, they blank me. Entry to this machismo boy band is by invitation only. A car skids into the courtyard and brakes abruptly. I skip downstairs to find Catalina, my guardian angel of household chores, bustling into the house.

  'What you doing, you lazy woman? In the office?'

  This is a normal Catalina refrain, always delivered with a radiant smile. Unlike many of her contemporaries in the valley, Catalina speaks fluent English, having spent some years as an au pair in both England and the States. She breezes into the kitchen and fills the kettle, noisily banging cupboard doors, and examining the gaping mouth and dark empty interior of the washing machine like a disappointed dentist.

  'No washing?'

  'Oh, it's in the laundry bin. I haven't had a minute.'

  She clicks her teeth and stomps up the stairs, reappearing with a mountain of crumpled clothes which she brutally sifts through. Shovelling all the whites into the machine, she slams its door shut, starts the programme and begins her assault on the ironing. I slap a cup of black tea in front of her and sit down to munch some toast. This is our twice weekly ritual.

  'When you go back to London?'

  'Soon, I'm afraid.'

  'It won't go on forever.'

  I fleetingly consider the business idea I've been nurturing. Should it ever see the light of day, I would no longer need to make regular trips back to London.

  Catalina holds the iron aloft. 'Don't forget
Moros i Cristiàs
next week.'

  'How could I? It's all Ollie talks about.'

  The Moors and Christians event is part of
Sa Fira I Es Firó,
a four day fiesta which includes
sa fira,
a livestock market, and
es firó,
a mock fight. It commemorates the famed battle which raged between the
moros
, marauding Moorish pirates, and the
cristiàs
, the Sóller locals, on 11 May 1561. The
cristiàs,
who successfully beat off their attackers, are assured victory annually. It's a one day, non-politically-correct marathon and a lethal assault on the ear drums.

  'Is Stefan a Moor this year?'

  'Stefan is always a Moor. Is more fun.'

  Catalina's brother, Stefan, the builder who renovated our ruin of a
finca
, always throws himself wholeheartedly into the local fiestas or
festes
as they are known locally. His sister is just as enthusiastic. She eyes me through a puff of steam. 'By the way, Stefan wants to know when to put up the front gate?'

  'Is it ready?'

  She shrugs her shoulders and folds another shirt.
'Mes o manco.'

  More or less. Well, that sounds hopeful. The local blacksmith is making us a simple black iron gate to replace the old wooden effort we currently have propped up at the front entrance. We may not be able to fund walls all round the property yet, but the courtyard is a priority, as is the installation of a decent gate to prevent phantom sheep from popping up all over the place.

  'He can come whenever he wants.'

  The phone rings. It's Alan asking me to collect our mail from the post office. I trace a note of anxiety in his voice as if he's expecting something important. What can that be, I wonder? Apparently he won't be back until the afternoon because he and Pep, his partner in crime, have decided to meet for lunch in Palma. That doesn't bode well. The only reason these two meet away from our local town is so that they can hatch hair-brained business schemes away from prying eyes. In fairness, when the Scotsman learns what sort of venture I am contemplating, he'll be quite entitled to incarcerate himself in his
abajo
with a large
puro
and a bottle of Lagavulin.

  Catalina offers to drive me in to the town to collect the mail but I tell her I'd prefer to go on foot. This is the season when the heavy and intoxicating fragrance of jasmine hangs in the air and rich clusters of lavender fill the hedgerows. Lemons, as common a sight as oranges in our valley, fatten and turn golden with the spring rains and wild baby asparagus shoots up along the banks. It's a good time to walk.

  On reaching Sóller
plaça
, the main square, I head off to the post office only to find a mountain of mail and a rather cumbersome box with a New York stamp awaiting me. Somehow I manage to squeeze it all in to a large carrier bag proffered by one of the staff, and walk slowly up the main street. Remembering that my photocopier's out of ink, I pop into HiBit, the local computer shop which is owned by Antonia, a fast-talking
Mallorquina
with fluent English, and her American husband, Albert, a computer boffin. From the moment we arrived in the valley, this duo guided us through the technical and bureaucratic labyrinth necessary to get us connected to the Internet at our old
finca
. Several times during severe storms, our entire computer system crashed, and it was always thanks to Albert that we found ourselves up and running again, albeit some weeks later. Behind the counter with ear to the phone, Antonia beckons to me. I set my bag down and wait patiently for her to finish the call. After much
si-si
ing, she props the receiver back on its perch.

  'Hey,' she says, 'Exciting news! We have a new postman.'

  'He's from Argentina.'

  She looks astonished. 'Really? How do you know?'

  'My neighbour, Margalida, told me. I haven't even clapped eyes on him yet.'

  She grabs a half-finished cigarette from an ash tray in front of her and inhales deeply. 'He's a bit of a Don Juan – long hair, good muscles. I could tell he wasn't from around here.'

  There's a groan from the office at the back of the shop and in a trice, Albert's tall and robust frame appears in the doorway.

  'She's not on about the postman again?'

  'It's a hot topic, Albert.' I give him a wink.

  'I guess,' he drawls, 'Just that I've heard it about ten times already.'

  Antonia wafts her cigarette at him. 'Don't exaggerate.'

  'What is it about this guy?' Albert quizzes me. 'Even your chum, Juana, came by yesterday waxing lyrical about him.'

  That's intriguing. I could never imagine Pep's inscrutable wife betraying a soft spot for anyone publicly. I buy a new ink cartridge and head for the door. 'Are you joining in the battle this year?'

  'No way! It's too crazy. I'll be watching from the side, but Albert and the boys will take part,' Antonia gestures at her husband.

  Albert holds up his hands in protest. 'Not this boy. I'll be safely in a bar discussing Argentinean barbers with the new postman.'

  By the time I reach Cafè Paris for my habitual espresso, it's nigh on midday. The square is awash with German hikers in sturdy boots, and groups of cyclists clad in gaudy Lycra all-in-ones. They sprawl lazily on wicker chairs in the sunshine, sipping freshly squeezed orange juice and studying route maps. Waiters weave in and out of the tables, refilling glasses and occasionally stopping to share a joke with a passing local. In the raised bandstand opposite the lofty, ornate church, toddlers on tricycles career around the flagstones while their young mothers huddle around the old fountain chatting and smoking. There's the familiar toot
toot
and creaking of the vintage Sóller
tramvia
as it rumbles along the iron rails that carve an uneven, meandering path through the centre of the square to the station. I wait till the wheezing veteran with its wood-panelled carriages slowly passes by, and skip over the road to Cafè Paris. Within its cool, marbled interior I spy the usual suspects scattered at various small, round tables. A few heads bob out from behind
Ultima Hora
or
Diario de Mallorca
newspapers as I enter, clocking that I too am a regular. José, the young owner, greets me with a wave from behind the bar and plonks a small cup of steaming coffee and a bottle of mineral water down on my table. I wonder what would happen if I changed my order one day, just for the hell of it.

  Across the room, I receive a furtive smile from Gaspar, the paper delivery man. He's looking rather hot and bothered and is in deep discussion with Senyor Bisbal, a tall and distinguished Mallorcan in his late seventies who has recently taken to greeting me. Rumour has it that he is one of the wealthiest and shrewdest businessmen in the valley, and I wouldn't doubt it. If there's one thing I've learned since living here, it's that well-heeled Mallorcans abhor outward signs of wealth and showiness of any kind. They would rather spend their money on acquiring land or property, or failing that, squirreling it away for a rainy day. The hallmarks of serious Mallorcan wealth in the rural areas include: