by Alan Laycock
“Something wrong with the lamp, dear?”
“No, I’m looking through the ceiling.”
“Ah, yes,” I said, as I knew she hadn’t gone mad or acquired X-ray vision, but was subtly referring to my projected patio project. At midnight on New Year’s Eve after we’d each eaten twelve grapes, as is the custom, neither of us had thought about making resolutions, mainly because we were tired out and soon fell into bed, but you may remember that before Christmas I’d resolved to retile Zefe’s crummy living room to limber up for the rooftop patio I meant to construct, along with steps up the slope between the house and Zefe’s… our annex.
“Yes, I guess there’s nothing to stop me putting my new skills into practice now. I think Zefe’s in residence from tomorrow, so I’ll take him to buy the tiles and also have a look at some for the patio.”
“And the steps.”
“And the steps?”
“Yes, we don’t want ugly concrete steps, do we? Bring a few samples and have a look at railings too. Are you all right, Alan?”
My head must have drooped due to the increasing weightiness of the job. I mean, making a decent set of steps would test me to the limit, let alone tiling the tricky devils.
“Yes, I’m… hmm, it’s a pity that Arturo’s tied up now, as he could have… lent me a hand.”
She chuckled and ruffled my hair. “Look, tile Zefe’s floor, because you did promise to, and then think carefully about the work here. If it’s too difficult I’m sure we’ll be able to find someone who can… lend you a hand.”
I smiled sheepishly. “I’m not a very handy man, am I?”
“But you’re willing to learn, and I’m sure you’re capable of greater things than building anyway. What’s for dinner?”
“Goulash Madrileño.”
She raised her hands to her ears. “Oh, don’t remind me of that awful little man,” she said, referring, of course, to Natalia’s ex. “What have you really made?”
“Er, Goulash Alicantino then. His dish did inspire it, I’m afraid.”
She wrinkled her cute little nose. “I can’t smell it.”
“I made it hours ago. It improves with age, I think. Would you like it with rice?”
“Doesn’t it have potatoes?”
“Er, not the Alicantino version.”
“Oh.”
“No, I forgot to put them in.”
“Ah. Rice then.”
I jumped up and within a minute two packets of microwaveable rice were on the go, such is my idea of culinary excellence. The goulash was rather good though, I must say.
3
“Those will do,” Zefe said the next morning at the builders’ merchant’s after I’d intercepted him between the annex and Álvaro’s house and bundled him into the car.
“They’re the first ones you’ve seen, Zefe. There are loads more to choose from.”
“Bah, who cares? It’s only a floor.”
“Do you want me to tile it, or not?” I asked, refraining from crossing my fingers behind my back, as the floor was a crumbling eyesore and had to be replaced.
“Yes, but how long will it take you?”
“That I don’t know. It’ll be my first solo tiling job, so it might take a while. Three days, perhaps.”
He raised his sharp brown eyes to meet mine. “What, during the week?”
“That’s when work is normally done, yes,” I said, but I knew what he was getting at. His usual days in the annex were from Tuesday to Thursday or Wednesday to Friday, as Inma had insisted that he mustn’t get used to staying for more than two nights at a time, not because she didn’t like him, but because had it been up to him he’d have moved in permanently in order to be near his history buddy. We rarely saw him anyway, and both felt philanthropic about giving the old devil a new lease of life, but it wouldn’t do to let him get too used to it, as Natalia would stay there in the holidays and other guests would appear by and by, such as my sister Christine’s brood from Canada.
Zefe looked at my watch, as he didn’t wear one himself, claiming to be too old to wish to observe the passing of time.
“For heaven’s sake, Zefe, you’ll be with your beloved Álvaro within the hour.”
“Beloved?” he snapped.
“Your good friend, I mean. Look, we’ll arrange your visits around the tiling.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“All right then. The two nights you allow me to stay in the country are precious to me, you know. I think they’re what are keeping me alive.”
“What? Spending hours on end in Álvaro’s musty living room?”
“No more than five or six hours a day, Alan. I also sit in my doorway looking out across the countryside, reflecting on my long and varied life.”
Yes, and getting through gas bottles like there’s no tomorrow, I thought but didn’t say.
“Take your time choosing the tiles while I go and look for some for the annex patio,” I said.
He beamed. “Ah, yes, a patio above the annex will be lovely, but you mustn’t make the steps too steep for my old legs, Alan.”
“No, Zefe.”
Half an hour later a young assistant helped me to load my old Clio with the beige tiles which Zefe had chosen, plus two big tubs of special mortar and four sample tiles for our patio.
“Gracias,” I said to the lad, handing him a €5 note, me being a rich foreigner.
“Muchas gracias. Er, do you already have the rodapié to go with the tiles?”
“Ah, yes, the rodapié… yes,” I said, stalling for time while I tried to remember what it was, as by then I hated to admit not knowing an essential word, and the lad’s tone suggested it was important.
“Oh, we don’t need to bother with a rodapié, Alan,” said Zefe.
I smiled. “Why not?”
“Well, the old one isn’t so different, and only a few bits are loose. You can just stick them back on.”
I clicked. Rodapié meant skirting board, or in the case of Zefe’s antiquated living room, skirting tiles. I turned to the expectant lad. “Do you have… er, wooden rodapiés?”
“Of course.”
I slammed the boot. “Come on, Zefe.”
“Oh, Alan, Álvaro will be worri… waiting for me.”
“He can wait. You’ll be there for a long time anyway, as you’re staying over Reyes, remember?”
His face lit up. “Oh, yes, I forgot. I’ll need to buy some more food then.”
“First the rodapié, then food,” I said as the lad looked on, probably wondering how or why the gangly guiri had adopted this trying old man.
After buying cream skirting boards that I hoped would be a little higher than the existing tiles, plus a suitable adhesive, we headed to his flat, where Zefe offered words of encouragement while I made repeated trips up the stairs, first from my car and then from the builders’ merchant’s delivery van. Once I’d stacked the materials in the corner of the room, I opened his biography of Peter the Great and withdrew several notes.
“I owe you nine euros, Zefe.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Alan. It is I who owe you. Oh, and take some money for the gas I’m using.”
I slid out a twenty.
“Take a fifty too.”
“No…”
“Take it! Why the devil should it cost you to have a useless old man staying in your beautiful annex?”
I took a fifty instead of the twenty.
“I worry about you, Alan,” he said when I’d slid his current account back into place on the shelf.
“Why’s that?”
“You’re too soft. I worry that people will exploit your generosity.”
“Yes, well, I doubt Inma will allow that to happen.”
“That’s true. At least she has her head in its place. You must marry her, Alan, while she still loves you.”
“We haven’t talked about that yet.”
“Why not?” he said, before sitting in his armchair and pointing his stick at the other one.
“Hmm, but if you live together it’s best to be united in the eyes of the law, especially you, Alan, as the house is hers and you might find yourself out on the street one day.”
“Ha.”
He tutted. “Women can be temperamental creatures, Alan. I should know. Once in… Bolivia I had a young–”
“Oh, no, Zefe.” I cried. “Don’t start one of your stories after what you’ve just said.”
“All right, but propose to her soon.”
“No, Zefe. Due to the fact that the house is hers, as you so subtly pointed out, I’ll wait for her to decide if she wants to marry me,” I said, surprised to find myself articulating thoughts that I’d scarcely had, at least not in my conscious mind.
“A Spanish woman expects her man to propose to her.”
“Yes, well, we’ll see about that. It’s early days.”
“I too must think about tying up some legal loose ends in my life,” he said, or words to that effect.
“Oh, what?”
“My will, of course. I was thinking of leaving everything to you, Alan.”
I gulped. “Don’t be daft, Zefe.”
“Daft? Why daft? If I don’t my bastardo of a son will get everything.”
“Er, it’s not very nice to call your son a bastard, Zefe.”
“No, I suppose not, and we did marry shortly before he was born, but what else should I call a son who is incapable of travelling from Cataluña to see his old father?”
“Neglectful.”
“Yes, well, the neglectful bastard isn’t getting a single peseta from me. As I say, I was thinking of leaving it all to you, but now I feel I should provide for my friend Álvaro too.”
“Yes, you ought to do that,” I said, before looking around the brightly painted living room and through the door to the crummy kitchen.
“I’m not a rich man, Alan.”
“No.”
“But I’m not so poor either. Don’t let this place deceive you.”
“I won’t, but look, I hope you don’t think for a minute that I befriended you with any ulterior motive in mind.”
“Of course not.”
“Good.”
“You’re far too guileless to think in that way.”
“Yes, I am. If you really don’t want to leave your son anything, leave it to Álvaro, as I think the money would be helpful to him.”
“I know, but he’s an old man, Alan.”
“He’s about fifteen years younger than you.”
“True.” He sighed. “When I stopped pretending to be ninety-odd and became eighty-four once more I felt younger for a while, but now that I’m eighty-five I feel old again.”
“You’re in good health. As long as you don’t drink too much wine, you’ll live for a long time yet.”
“I drink less now, as Álvaro drinks little.”
“Good, and we’ll get back to our swimming after Reyes.”
“Ah, yes. You know, I could happily die in the pool.”
“Hmm, but it might be unpleasant for the rest of the people in it.”
“True. Oh, I hope I don’t die in your lovely annex. That could be very inconvenient for you.”
The morbid turn our conversation had taken disturbed me less than you might imagine, as I could sense that the old rogue was leading up to something wicked, imaginary, or both.
“Why? I’d just have you carted off in an ambulance and think no more of it.”
He grinned. “Ah, yes, but when they discover you to be my heir, they’ll probably think you murdered me.”
I nodded and scratched my head. “Hmm, good point. If you do put me in your will, the temptation will certainly be there. As you say, Inma could throw me out at any time, so once you’ve made it I’ll probably keep you up there and somehow speed your demise. Arsenic might be the thing.”
He waved his finger and tutted. “No, no, Alan, far too obvious. The autopsy would incriminate you straight away. You could try using polonium, but no, that too would probably be detected these days. Ha, I know! Have you ever been to the woods to collect wild mushrooms in autumn?”
“Not yet, but I’d like to.”
He rubbed his hands together. “Right, well, most edible mushrooms are white, but one can also find a similar one which is white but with a yellow-green hue, a bit like these walls that you painted.”
“Hmm, that would be ironic and somehow fitting, yes.”
“The poisonous ones are called oronja verde, or sometimes oronja mortal, as they are indeed deadly.”
“I’ll look them up on the computer.”
“You do that. The good thing about mushrooms is that I could have collected them myself.”
“Yes, so I’d better wear gloves when I pick them.”
He shuffled on his chair. “Yes, be sure to do that. Once when I was logging in the Amazon rainforest, on the Peruvian side, I had a tiresome colleague called Julio César.”
“Like the emperor?”
“Yes, and he too had delusions of grandeur and wished to take more than his share of our profits, so one day I set out with my mule and after crossing a raging torrent I…” and he was off, telling me his first tall tale for a while, having forgotten that he was eager to meet up with Álvaro, so I happily heard him out. “… so the autopsy in Lima proved nothing and I kept his earnings too.”
“I’m glad. Shall we go now?”
“Yes, we’d better call at the supermarket.”
“Oh, there’s plenty of food in the cave and Álvaro can fetch bread from town.”
On driving up the track I saw that Inma had arrived home early, her and Rosa now having dependable staff, including Randi, who cooked four or five days a week.
“I’ll give you a key to the cave when we leave on Friday, Zefe.”
“All right, I’ll keep an eye on things.”
“Thanks.”
“Ask Inma to marry you before she gets bored of you, Alan.”
“Bye, Zefe.”
Of the four sample tiles I’d brought, Inma preferred a thick, reddish one, providing they had smaller ones available for the steps too.
“I forgot to ask, but I’m sure they’ll be able to get them.”
“I was up on the roof earlier having a look. It would be nice to make the patio sort of curve towards the steps rather than having a gap in between.”
“Yes,” I said, picturing the nifty tile cutter that I’d only ever used for cutting straight lines, under Arturo’s supervision.
She smiled. “Have you seen your friend Juan lately?”
“Not for a while, no. I’ll call him soon.”
“Is he still doing trips for the furniture company?”
“I don’t think he’s done any for a while. I expect they’ll call him when they need him.”
“Hmm, he might be getting bored at home then, or in the bar.”
“Yes, he might. What are you getting at, love?”
“Well, he knows a lot about building, doesn’t he?”
“Quite a lot, yes.”
“Well then, when you get round to doing the patio – and there’s no hurry at all – you could ask him to come up to give you a bit of advice.” She grasped my not entirely unbeefy bicep. “You’ve got the muscles to do the job, and if he’s got the know-how, you’ll have a nice time up there together.”
“Brilliant,” I cried, grasping her slender arm. “Yes, I bet he’d enjoy that and I would like to see more of him. I haven’t been to Vicente’s much because I don’t think I’m a bar person,” I said, immediately picturing Reggie Perrin’s bearded son-in-law in that wonderful series.
“Una persona de bar?” she asked, nonplussed.
“A person who likes going to them.”
“Ah.”
“I prefer to see people one-to-one, really. I find that the more people there are, the less interesting the conversation
tends to be.”
“Yes, we might find that’s the case at my parents’ house on Saturday.”
I inhaled sharply. “I’d prefer to meet them quietly one day. Oh, are we not going until Saturday?”
She put her arms around my waist and gazed into my perturbed eyes.
“Yes, I’ll spare you Friday night, and we’ll come back on Saturday evening.”
“Right, so Zefe won’t have to look after the house for long,” I said, striving to hide my pleasure at the brevity of our visit.
“It’ll seem odd if you don’t come, as I’ve told them all about you.”
“Oh, if we’re only there for a few hours I’ll be the life and soul of the party.”
“We just say the soul of the party.”
“Then I’ll be that then,” I said, giving her a grateful squeeze.
4
As I sat squeezed between Inma’s auntie and cousin on her parent’s sofa at 1.30pm on Saturday, I’d not yet had the chance to become the soul of the party, as during the hour we’d been there I’d scarcely spoken. After being introduced to her mother, father, two aunts, one uncle, three cousins and a small mongrel called Duke (pronounced ‘Dook’), I’d done more smiling than talking, as the volume of chatter was far too high for me to get a word in edgeways. This did allow me to observe the progenitors of my beloved, however, who seemed like a steady, well-bred couple who took care of themselves, as they were both fairly trim and looked young for their ages of sixty-nine (father) and sixty-seven (mother). He’d worked in a bank and she in a haberdashery, and their flat was a spacious one in the Infante area to the south of the sluggish River Segura.
Murcia is a city of some 400,000 souls and as we drove in it seemed like a vast metropolis to a person who had only visited cities when it had been unavoidable, and the countless blocks of flats didn’t appeal to me at all. Inma promised to show me the charming squares in the centre another day, but just then, beaming inanely from the sofa and faced with several hours of irksome social intercourse, I was looking forward to leaving the place.
“Where’s Natalia?” I called to Inma as she passed by with two glasses of wine.
“Late.”
At the time it felt like a minor consolation that her darling daughter would be unlikely to be able to give me the third degree among that buzzing throng, but in the event it was her who smoothed the way to a passably pleasant day for me. No sooner had she arrived at 1.55pm – having come by train from her father’s flat in Alicante – than she pulled me up and dragged me into the adjoining dining room, where the table was already crammed with festive nibbles.
