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by Twead, Victoria

  “That is good,” said Pancho, his eyes never leaving me.

  “Muy bien,” said Felipe Frog, nodding enthusiastically.

  There was an awkward silence. I was about to offer them a drink, really as an excuse to escape the Mayor’s relentless gaze, when he spoke again.

  “People are telling me you have chickens,” said Pancho. Beside him, Felipe Frog nodded.

  “Yes,” I said. “We keep a few chickens.”

  “My wife likes fresh eggs.”

  “Oh, really?” I asked.

  “Yes, she was saying this morning. She said eggs from the supermarket in town are not the same. She prefers eggs that are so fresh and tasty.” His stare had become intense.

  I took the hint and shot into the kitchen to bag up a dozen eggs. I was delighted to have a pretext to break free from Pancho’s unflagging stare. I returned and presented him with the eggs.

  “Very kind,” said the Mayor, and, like royalty, handed the eggs to Felipe Frog to carry. “And now we will go. I will see you tomorrow at the Town Hall. Also, I have called a political meeting in the village square next month. I hope you will come.” His tone left us in no doubt that he had issued an order.

  Joe shook hands, and I extended mine for shaking. Pancho clasped my hand and raised it gallantly to his lips.

  “Smarmy old git,” said Joe, when they had gone.

  I agreed with him but chose not to speak. It does a relationship no harm to remind one’s partner one is still attractive to others.

  The next morning, we drove to the Town Hall in Judith’s village and signed the required papers. It was quite exciting to know that we now had a voting voice, one step closer to becoming part of the village. However, as usual, it was not going to be quite as straightforward as we had imagined.

  22 Supporting Pancho

  Marinated Anchovies

  A month sped by, and the night of Pancho’s campaign meeting in the square arrived. Posters had appeared both in Judith’s village, and ours, advertising the event. I was furious with Joe who refused to come with me, preferring to watch football on TV instead. I walked the few steps to the village square and was greeted by Felipe Frog and a couple of helpers.

  “Buenas noches,” said Felipe Frog, grinning broadly, and handed me a disposable cigarette lighter and a pen.

  I thanked him and took the gifts which were printed with party slogans. There were plenty of people gathered around, so I looked for a familiar face to stand with. However, before I could head in any direction, a figure detached itself from a knot of people and strode towards me.

  “Ah, the beautiful señora Twead,” said the Mayor as he approached. He lifted my hand and brushed it with his lips. “I am most contented to see you here. And your husband?”

  “Er, Joe’s very sorry not to be here, he’s busy tonight.”

  “No pasa nada,” he said, then leaned in close. “You, Veectoria, are a special guest, very special. And I have gifts for you.” He felt in a pocket and drew out another party political lighter and pen. He pressed them into my hand and closed my fingers around them, one by one.

  “Thank you very much,” I said, thoroughly uncomfortable. “Er, please call me Vicky.”

  “Ah, Veeky… Such a beautiful name…” He had the Andalucían’s usual problem with the letter ‘v’, so my name sounded more like ‘Beaky’.

  “Is that you, Vicky?” shouted a voice. Never had I been more pleased to hear Judith’s stentorian voice.

  “Judith, how lovely to see you here!” I meant it from the bottom of my heart. My relief was palpable.

  “Pancho, you old devil!” roared Judith, joining us. “Put Vicky down, and tell me, how’s that lovely wife of yours? And those strapping sons? Lord! How many grandchildren have you got now?”

  The Mayor released my hand as though it had become red hot. He muttered something under his breath, turned on his heel and melted back into the crowd.

  “Ghastly old sleaze bag, isn’t he?” said Judith. “Now, come and stand over here with me and Mother.”

  Mother had clearly made a big effort for the occasion. She wore a floor length floral affair, topped by a jaunty hat trimmed with artificial flowers. She clutched a tiny silver handbag, her crimson fingernails like painted talons. As usual, a haze of Chanel No.5 surrounded her. I kissed her powdery cheek.

  “Brought the old gal a folding chair to sit on, don’t you know,” said Judith. “Pancho’s not renowned for short speeches, m’dear. Could be here a bloody long time.”

  “Are you going to vote for Pancho?” I asked, curious.

  “Bless you, m’dear! Pancho Pinochet? Of course not! He’s made a bloody pig’s ear of his last term of office. Shan’t be voting for him again. Mother won’t either.” Mother’s artificial flowers nodded in agreement.

  “Well, he seems to have a lot of supporters here tonight,” I said, looking around at the milling crowd.

  “Good Lord, dear. They’re not here to support Pancho! They’re here for the free food and drink. Bloody Spaniards can’t resist a free meal, don’t you know.”

  While we were speaking, Felipe Frog dragged up the customary wooden box and his master stepped up. Felipe Frog rapped on a table and gradually the crowd silenced and wheeled round to face the Mayor. Pancho cleared his throat and launched into his election speech. I understood very little of the meaning, but the tone and cadence were familiar. It could have been a political speech delivered anywhere in the world. The same rhetoric, the same repetitions, the same delivery. Felipe Frog’s head bobbed up and down with each point made. I allowed Pancho’s words to wash over me, just picking out a few key words now and then. Did I hear him mention that old promise of a proper sewage disposal plant? I noticed Mother had dozed off.

  “Beaky? You understand what I am saying?” The Mayor had broken into English and was addressing me over the crowd.

  I jumped, appalled that he was singling me out. One hundred heads swivelled in my direction. I nodded frantically, and Pancho continued with his speech, satisfied that I had appreciated the finer points of Sewage Management. I tried to shrink myself, but I was taller than most of the Spanish present.

  “Beaky, you agree with my point?” Pancho’s thunderous voice assailed me again. My face glowed crimson. Again, a hundred pairs of eyes turned and bored into me. Again, I nodded like a piston, willing him to leave me alone.

  Judith saved me this time. In Spanish, she shouted, “Pancho, never mind all that! What about the swimming pool you promised us three years ago? Still waiting, you know!”

  The resulting murmers of assent deflected the crowd’s interest away from me for just long enough. There were four ornamental trees planted in the square, and I slid behind the nearest. The crowd had settled down again, and Pancho relaunched, his voice echoing around the square. All too soon, I heard him break into English again.

  “Beaky? BEAKY?” Alas, there was no escape. “Beaky, it is important to keep the roads into both villages mended, no?” I poked my burning face out from behind the tree and nodded furiously.

  Mercifully, the speech ended soon after. Pancho gathered himself up and delivered his final punchline, a rousing question that I understood and rang in all the listeners’ ears.

  “So, would YOU trust the other Party to make these CRUCIAL decisions?” Silence. Then Uncle Felix’s mule who was tethered nearby, lifted her head and brayed, perfectly on cue.

  The crowd erupted, united in laughter. Pancho gave up and stepped off his box. The Smart Ladies took this as a signal and whisked off the covers from plates of tapas laid out on tables. Politics already forgotten, the villagers surged to the tables, chattering happily amongst themselves.

  I took my leave of Judith and Mother and slipped away home. I would be attending no more political meetings.

  Another official looking brown envelope arrived for us. We were being invited back to the Oficina de Extranjeros to collect our brand new Residencia cards. We had been accepted.

  This time, we knew the
route, and also knew the exact appointment time was not in the slightest bit important. The appointment was for 11 o’clock, but we weren’t fooled. We could take our time. We had a café con leche at a nearby cafe. We didn’t hurry ourselves and turned up the side street, heading for the building.

  But where was the long queue of people waiting to be allowed through the gates? Nowhere. There was nobody waiting, not a soul in sight. Just the same stony-faced security guard on duty at the gate.

  We approached him as before, and Joe showed him our letter. He glanced at the paper, then at the clock on the building.

  “You are late,” he said. “Nearly an hour late.” Then he shrugged and unlocked the gates allowing us through.

  The place was deserted. We found the office we needed and tapped on the door.

  “Come in,” said a flat, female voice.

  We pushed the door open. Behind a large desk sat a dark, middle-aged lady filing her nails. She didn’t look up, far too absorbed in her task.

  “Buenos dias,” said Joe, and held out the letter. “We’ve come to collect our Residencia cards.”

  Reluctantly, she put the nail file down and took the proffered letter. Her eyes flicked from it to us.

  “You are late,” she said. “Nearly an hour late.”

  “But…” I started to protest, then subsided in the knowledge that my argument was futile.

  The woman flicked through a bank of cards and located ours. She checked our photographs and handed the cards over. Her displeasure was obvious. It manifested itself by the way she slammed shut the filing cabinet drawer and kept her thin lips pressed tightly together. Her dark moustache bristled with annoyance.

  We thanked her and turned for the door.

  “Next time,” she said through pursed lips, “make sure you arrive on time for official appointments.”

  The days running up to the Local Election were colourful and noisy. Colourful because so many posters had appeared. ‘Vote for Pancho!’ they shouted silently. Pancho’s eyes seemed to follow us wherever we went, his ever present face with hooked nose pasted on every available surface.

  And noisy because of the frequent electioneering vehicles passing through the village. Small white vans with loudspeakers fixed to their roofs crawled through the streets blaring out their campaign messages. All three mayoral candidates’ vehicles appeared daily, sometimes together, and the noise was awesome as they fought to gather support. Pancho waved to me as he passed our house, Felipe Frog barely visible over the steering wheel as he chauffeured his beloved master.

  On Voting Day, Joe and I drove to Judith’s village, eager to vote for the very first time in Spain. I still wasn’t sure I wanted to vote for Pancho, or for Angelo Covas Sanchez who seemed a fairly promising candidate. I had decided to make up my mind at the voting booth. We parked, and climbed the steps of the Town Hall. Clutched in our hands were our shiny new Residencia cards.

  On the doors of the Town Hall was pinned a long list of names. Apparently, these were the people eligible to place a vote. I ran my finger down the list, recognising many names from both our village and Judith’s. We checked it twice. Then once more to be sure. Unbelievably, both Joe’s and my name were missing.

  Inside the Town Hall, everybody was very apologetic. It seemed that a few names had inadvertently been left off the electoral roll, ours included. Never mind, we could vote next time, they said.

  So we drove home again, disappointed, not having had the chance to post a vote in any Spanish ballot box.

  When the votes were counted, to everybody’s surprise, Pancho and Angelo were dead level, even after a recount. We heard that they had decided to forget their differences. They would share the mayoral duties and work together. However, we then heard on the village grapevine that an almighty row had exploded in Grumpy’s bar. Chairs were thrown, parentage questioned. Felipe Frog needed several stitches. Angelo resigned. He relinquished all mayoral duties, refusing to work another day with ‘that dictator - Pinochet’.

  And so Pancho ‘Pinochet’ Marcos Martinez happily continued to reign as Mayor for another term, his fourth in a row.

  In spite of the odd diversion provided by Mayors, meetings and officialdom we needed to concentrate on working on the house. It was hard work, day after day, week after week. Sometimes it was overwhelming and a change was needed. Then we’d abandon everything and take the jeep for a drive in the mountains. With the roof down, these trips never failed to blow away the cobwebs and cement dust and invigorate us. Refreshed, we would return home from our ‘Away-Day’ to continue with our toils.

  Occasionally, if we were lucky, we’d see shy Spanish ibex, or mountain goats, negotiating sheer crags. We never had any success photographing them; either they were too distant, or melted away too fast. One memorable day, we spotted a single mountain goat quite close to the road. Joe slammed on the brakes and reversed while I fumbled with the camera, fully expecting it to vanish before I could snap. But no, this particular goat was a consummate showman. He spotted us, studied us haughtily, then hopped onto a large boulder.

  “Quick!” hissed Joe. “Take the pic while you’ve got the chance!”

  But he needn’t have worried, this goat evidently craved media attention. He posed on the rock, head erect, handsome horns aloft, a haughty expression in his yellow eyes. Then he changed position, bouncing from left to right, freezing in more, equally photogenic poses. Finally he presented his rump, coyly looking back at us over his shoulder, like a professional glamour model.

  “Did you get it?” breathed Joe, when the goat eventually skipped away.

  “Of course I did,” I answered.

  But I hadn’t. In my excitement, the camera had jammed and I hadn’t taken a single shot.

  Although we used nothing more lethal than a digital camera to shoot the wildlife, Paco had no such scruples. He adored hunting. He didn’t target mountain goats but concentrated instead on pointing his laser-sighted rifle at game birds. Sometimes, however, his quarry was far larger and fiercer than a quail...

  23 Away-Days and Animals

  Gazpacho (Cold Tomato Soup)

  Early one morning Paco nearly beat down our door in his excitement.

  “English! Come and see!”

  We stepped out into the street and the sight that met our eyes filled us with horror. Strapped to the roof of his old white van was the carcass of a magnificent wild boar. It stretched the full length of the van, its blood still running in rivulets down the windscreen and dripping onto the road. Its eyes were open, glazed and sightless.

  “Un animal magnífico, no?” said Paco, bursting with pride.

  “It was,” muttered Joe in English.

  Much as we loved Paco, we could never agree with his attitude towards the unnecessary killing of animals. Neither could we share the Andalucían passion for bull fighting. We never attended a bullfight and switched the TV channel if one was shown. However, I’m ashamed to say we did eat some delicious steak that Carmen-Bethina cooked, only to be told that it came from a prize bull slaughtered in the bullring.

  On our Away-Days, we were always on the lookout for snakes. Not because we were afraid of them. On the contrary, we were both fascinated by these ancient beguiling creatures. In fact there is only one ‘dangerous’ poisonous snake to be found in Spain - the viper. These snakes have instantly recognisable triangular heads and zigzags down the body, but they are so timid they are rarely seen.

  Unfortunately, snakes have a silly habit of basking on the road, absorbing the heat from the tarmac. So we always drove carefully, not wishing to squash one inadvertently.

  Snake sightings reminded me of the day we were having coffee with Carmen-Bethina and some of her female relatives. Paco came in from outside, carrying something. To our delight, it was a beautiful, three-foot long snake. It took a few seconds for the ladies round the table to realise what he was holding. Then they reacted. Ear-piercing shrieks tore the air. The ladies bolted into corners of the room, as far from Paco as p
ossible. They crouched, hands to their faces, eyes enormous with horror. Paco grinned and held the snake up, allowing it to test the air with its forked tongue. The ladies became hysterical.

  “¡Una serpiente!”

  “Paco! Take it away!”

  “Get that thing out!”

  “¡Madre Mia!”

  Paco clearly revelled in the reaction he was getting. He threw his head back and roared with laughter. Little Paco had no fear and stood beside his father, his face a mirror of his father’s mischievousness. Joe and I approached to admire the snake. The snake wound itself tighter around Paco’s arm.

  “What a beautiful creature,” I said, and extended fingertips to touch its shiny skin.

  “Get it OUT!” screamed the women, clutching each other.

  Paco had the devil in him that day. He took a few more steps into the room, stooped and held the snake out, as though he was going to place it on the floor. This was too much.

  “Aaaaaaah!” screamed the women in one voice, and bolted en masse for the doorway.

  The doorway was small, the ladies large and panic-stricken. Their terror resulted in a jumble of flailing arms, legs and bodies jammed in the doorway. At last they catapulted into the street, one by one in quick succession, like ping-pong balls spat out of a toy gun.

  Tears of laughter ran down Paco’s weather-beaten face. He passed the snake to Joe and plonked himself down in a chair, hands gripping the table edge, shoulders shaking with mirth. Joe and I, with Little Paco trailing along, took the snake outside. The street was deserted, no sign of any of the women. We headed for the wasteland behind the cemetery and admired the exquisite reptile one last time before we set it free. It slid away gracefully, invisible in seconds.

  Later we saw Little Paco and his cousins searching for it again, but the snake had wisely vanished.

  The Spanish had a very different attitude to animals than we were used to. In Britain it is normal practice to neuter or spay pet cats and dogs. In Spain, puppies and kittens abound. I suppose it was inevitable that villages were overrun by cats and dogs, and strays roamed the mountains.