Inma's stretching proved successful. Refreshed, she called Ana to arrange to meet. She must pop the partnership question. Could Ana refuse?
Wednesday: Úbeda
Enrique was happy. The olive groves flourished, led as always by those that had received their biennial pruning. A delicious smell of burning rose from the fields, from fires consuming the smaller olive branches not big enough to act as fire wood for the house or for sale.
Today, the first of the three or four ground clearance operations had begun. Enrique could hear the tractors and weed-whackers at work, providing a brutal but necessary collection of ugly modern noises.
He meandered towards his Super High Density trellises. The trained olive plants – he wasn't sure he could call them trees – had flowered. If the weather behaved, the preliminary signs indicated a bumper crop. Nevertheless, he and Lili would have to wait to find out whether the trellises contributed quality sufficient for EVOO in this their first production year. In his bones the auguries were good.
The one downside was hiring that harvester. Lili screamed at the cost for just three days hire. Making matters worse for her was being unable to predict which week in late October or early November they would need the contraption. That meant paying a premium to ensure top priority when the time came.
Despite her anguish, Lili was a much nicer person to be around now she'd taken the initiative to re-establish her own suite. They still did nearly everything together, except sleep in the same bed. She had committed to remaining at Olivos Ramos y Tremblay at least until the following Easter. Her rationale was to participate in this autumn's harvest and sell it afterwards.
She had, though, confessed to him that the likelihood of the appointment at the American bank looked shakier by the month. Scheduled bank investments were being strangled by endless compliance and regulation scandals. The fines that followed had bled misbehaved financial institutions dry.
Enrique sounded Lili out to see if she minded. Her response was negative. He wasn't so sure. Life was good while the peace lasted.
His one source of frustration was Ana. He'd thought, after Lili's graceful stepping aside, he would form a bond with her. It hadn't happened and for no reason he could pinpoint. That was until she showed up as guide to a bunch of the Estonian re-insurance investors including a certain Toomas Kirsipuu. On first meeting, without knowing anything about him, Enrique disliked the man. Too handsome, too smooth. He was sure Toomas was drawn to Ana. Her keeping him at the same length as Enrique was no comfort.
Sharing his frustration with Lili was fruitless. She expressed no interest whatsoever. Being like brother and sister went only so deep.
He'd contemplated talking to Inma. But while she might no longer be Opus, he couldn't forget her background. Besides, she always preferred to push Ana his way rather than be alone with him. He supposed he should be grateful, not paranoid. At least Lili and Inma communicated well. The savings from POPIC's renegotiated insurance were welcome, making the income from their slice of the re-insurance more so. It would have paid for the Super High Density Harvester rental had not Lili elected to add more reinsurance risk. Yes, they were being paid for this but she insisted on keeping the receipts as a reserve not to be spent on day to day agricultural needs. Financiers!
He remembered. Today was another of their obligation days when he had to play talking-monkey. One of the side attractions for their insurers and re-insurers, so Inma and Ana had argued, was the once a quarter opportunity to 'visit'. In practice this meant showing those who arrived round the Olivos Ramos y Tremblay operation.
Lili normally took the lead, except for describing the intricacies of olive growing and production and the oil tasting. This was where Enrique came in to his own. But she was in Madrid and he would have to do it all.
He'd tried fobbing the task off onto another of the POPIC growers but, not unexpectedly, the two others who were capable of putting on a good show declined, claiming it was too short notice. Part of the difficulty was that the setting of Olivos Ramos y Tremblay, by the Guadalquivir with its fresh shod pueblo and production facilities, impressed.
At least Ana would be there. Glancing at the guest list, Toomas would not be, though Reelika was mentioned as a possible attendee. Lili had organised everything in advance, including the highlight, namely the lunch amongst the groves. This was a speciality. It enabled their visitors to pretend they participated in the olive growing. It was also easier for him to discuss olives and olive tree growing by having his arboreal friends around him.
To personalise these experiences Lili had commissioned olive wood benches and tables. These were placed in the middle of a particular grove where a couple of trees had died and opened up space. Enrique had wanted to replant. Lili had bulldozed him.
He conceded to himself that it worked well. The punters liked it. Most commented on how much fun it was to sit in the sun surrounded by olive trees and their fruits and how much better this was than being stuck in air-conditioned offices with charmless colleagues.
An additional plus factor was that most visitors were Northern Europeans. They could not stand the sun too long before turning a beetroot-colour. Despite Lili's sun umbrellas this meant lunches were almost always short by Spanish standards. For Enrique this meant release back to his trees, to be with the people who tended them.
Today would be different. He had to host from start to finish.
Wednesday: Córdoba, then Úbeda
The AVE from Malaga drew into Córdoba station. Ana watched it slow before grinding to a halt. On a normal day she liked these 'tours'. They had been one of Inma's cleverer concepts – building on an original idea of Lili's. The premise: enable your clients to inspect 'their' insured olives grow.
All knew that both insurers and re-insurers regarded these trips as freebies. She guessed that most invitees came because it was their employers who paid for the travel and a generous fee for each conducted tour. Olivos Ramos y Tremblay earned a handsome sum per head each time.
That none of POPIC's other members showed anything other than reluctance to host these 'tours' troubled Ana. Perhaps the explanation was as simple as Lili's and Enrique's ability to explain everything in Spanish and English, or Italian in Enrique's case and Quebecois for Lili, though every French participant so far had groaned at Lili's pronunciation, claiming it bore no resemblance to anything spoken in France.
Today Ana wasn't happy. The reason: Reelika. Since the meeting in Madrid, and despite bringing the added re-insurance capacity, Reelika sought to rile Ana at every opportunity. Sometimes it was about Toomas behind his back. Sometimes it was about Enrique or Lili. Once it was about Inma, until Ana closed that down with a curt refusal to discuss her colleague 'and cousin, if Reelika didn't know'. That quietened her for a day, but not since.
On the first of these tours both Toomas, Reelika and Inma had attended. Reelika had tried again to ensnare Inma, without success.
For Ana, that original tour had been awkward. Not only were Toomas and Enrique together but Inma had provided a constant stream of acid asides to Ana speculating about which one should she go off with, while Toomas and Enrique did their best to corner her to the exclusion of the other. It was ridiculous. Men! To think she could have moaned to Davide about missing male attentions.
This brought to mind the email printout she'd seen yesterday on Inma's desk – from Davide. It contained nothing personal and was business-oriented. But why had Inma not told her? Was Inma holding something back? How long had he and Inma been in contact?
Questions and fears bred faster than Australian rabbits. Ouch!
She thought she recognised Reelika leading a group of three men and a woman. She'd expected seven, plus Reelika. Reelika was different. She had cut her long hair short and changed from a light blonde to a dark brown. It suited her. Ana would not have recognised Reelika if she had not been expecting her.
If the numbers were less than anticipated she hoped Reelika had bothered to give Lili or Enrique notice
. Probably not, she reflected sourly. She marched up to Reelika, painting the welcome expression of the hypocrite on her face. Reelika reciprocated before failing to introduce the husband and wife pair and the other two men. All looked like pasty office people let out of their cages for a couple of days. Ana was left holding the proverbial bag as Reelika stalked off, saying she would see everyone back here in Córdoba that evening.
The tour formula was simple. The 'guests' flew to Malaga to stay the night before. The next morning they boarded the train to Córdoba to transfer to Olivos Ramos y Tremblay until late afternoon. Later they returned to Córdoba for dinner, sleep and to admire the Cathedral and surroundings the next day before heading home via Madrid or Malaga. As an investor-complementing formula it worked well.
Just as Ana introduced herself to the three men and one woman another man joined the group, asking if this was the tour to Olivos Ramos y Tremblay. He explained how his expected host had missed his flight and wouldn't make it. He apologised for any trouble caused. After this, all climbed into the luxury mini-bus hired for these occasions. Luxury in deepest Andalucía meant having coffee, but not olive tea, or chilled beer available.
Ana sat beside the latecomer, just as anonymous as the others. He made one desultory attempt at conversation before staring out the windows at the passing countryside. Ana didn't object.
Her focus returned to that email. What was Inma doing?
On arrival, Enrique gathered everyone around and talked. He guided them through the village, showed them the presses and the ancillary production. Always it was the biggest of the three presses that inspired. To Ana, the smallest one was far more interesting but that was because she knew it was where Enrique and Lili produced their personal Extra Virgin Olive Oil, from Enrique's selection of the best olives.
From the presses Enrique headed towards the olive groves, explaining as he proceeded about cultivar types as well as the different grades of olive oil. He did not once use EVOO, VOO or POO, though in her head those were what Ana heard.
She watched their guests. Two of them paid desultory attention, asking the occasional question. It was only when Enrique explained why supermarket Extra Virgin Olive Oil was unlikely to be true Extra Virgin Olive Oil that their attention returned. He went through the checklist. Unless a half-litre cost over ten or more euros and came with a best before date within two years, it was probably not what it claimed.
This assertion revived the woman's interest. She was incredulous. Her raucous voice protested. She claimed she always bought the very best Italian Extra Virgin Olive Oil. It never cost more than ten Euros for a two-litre can.
Enrique winced yet managed to convey good humour before describing how he would demonstrate the differences before they had lunch. He did enquire if anybody had brought samples of what they used in their own kitchens. Of course the doughty housewife had, triumphantly extracting a smallish bottle from her suitcase-sized handbag.
Enrique shuddered afresh. Ana knew what would happen. She savoured the anticipation. It might even be the high point of the day.
Inspecting her charges she noticed her taciturn minibus companion. She knew he was a guest whose host had missed his plane out. Perhaps that explained why he was so remote. He knew nobody. Or perhaps he was shy.
On the other hand he was paying Enrique close attention when he spoke about the trees, the groves and how they tried to prevent pests, most notably the human sort stealing ripe olives. Enrique outlined how trip wires and cameras were installed before the harvesting season arrived. He gestured to the high metal fences surrounding the best groves, expressing sadness that the old ways of having open fields were disappearing. One of the other men confirmed it was similar in Northern Europe, though more applicable to animals than fruit where he lived.
When they arrived at the tables Lili's forethought stood out. The meal was laid along with chilled whites and reds plus Jerez, plus still and sparkling water. The lady's husband wanted a beer. She stamped on his foot. He recognised the signal and opted for a Manzanilla.
Enrique let Ana serve water and an initial light drink. All started to relax. While she did this he approached the lady guest and begged her olive oil. Going behind a large weaved basket he filled a selection of small glasses, on coloured stems, with different olive oils for each type, including hers.
He brought these out. Before each person he placed a small tray holding five glasses. Once equipped, he invited everyone to smell the red-stemmed glass before tasting a little from it. The common first reaction was some muttering, with mild disgust, at the notion of drinking neat olive oil. Nevertheless, they obeyed.
He suggested they write a note on the cards provided of the score, out of ten, they thought each oil merited, plus any comments. After clearing his own palate with some fizzy water and a slice of raw carrot, which everyone copied, they moved through the other four glasses. It did not take long.
After the last glass he went round everyone requesting their cards. Doing a quick calculation he cleared his throat to attract attention. All had agreed, he announced. The third was best. The last was worst, even drawing one comment that it was 'downright horrible'. About the other three oils there were differing opinions.
Enrique removed the hamper to reveal a bottle standing behind a colour-coded glass. He beamed and congratulated them. They were unanimous in selecting the Olivos Ramos y Tremblay Premium Extra Virgin Olive Oil as number one, while with equal unanimity all had condemned the 'very best Italian Extra Virgin Olive Oil, which never cost more than ten Euros for a two-litre can', as by far the worst. Everyone except the woman laughed.
Ana let her shoulders drop with relief. It usually worked out like this but not always. In fact it was safer if no one brought what they consumed at home because no offence could be taken. Today, the woman was visibly offended, even as her husband ordered ten cases of Enrique's best for delivery to his office. He proclaimed that he could dine out on this tale for months. Ana suspected he might not be dining at home during those months.
Wednesday: Córdoba and Úbeda
Oleg wasn't sure if he'd made a mistake. Before meeting Andrei he experienced an acute credibility loss. He needed to confirm he had understood how an olive plantation worked, in case he'd missed some key detail. It was all well and good to do desk research; sometimes you had to use your eyes and feet.
During the time spent with his computer he'd filed away several web references to olive oil grower visits. He'd sorted through these before deciding on one in somewhere called Úbeda. It sounded the best. The challenge was he needed to pull strings to obtain a place on a tour. Access was not available to Joe Public. He agreed with his nominal host that the host need not be present, to be explained by his failing to make the flight.
With this he was sure he'd covered his tracks. Yet he may not have. This remained a risk but it was necessary if he was to re-establish his confidence.
Oleg joined the group in Córdoba, thereby avoiding the need to socialise in Málaga or on the AVE from Málaga. That prevented too many questions on the way to Úbeda. On the minibus a pretty woman, whom he'd heard introduce herself as Ana, had sat down next to him and tried to talk. His response was minimal. She lost interest. He preferred the windows.
His desk analysis was coming to life in front of his eyes. Nothing could have impressed or pleased him more. Never had he seen such concentrated rows of olive trees, many marching up the sides of hills and even mountains. It was staggering. Now he could comprehend how Andalucía was able to grow 40 per cent of global production in 2009. It was probably higher now. It was visible. By itself this justified his visit.
At the olive grower's estate he followed along, making the right noises when required. He was little interested in the presses, the largest with its massive crushing wheels. The separation machines were equally uninteresting.
Far more relevant to Oleg was the state of the olive tree groves. These were neat and tidy, or being neatened and tidied. He could hear tractors and
see people clearing away weeds and other plants from beneath and between the olive trees. He also saw that, while 95 per cent might be cleared away, there were always some from last season's olives either on the trees or on the ground at the edges of the groves along the access tracks or roads.
This is what Andrei had thought so important. Oleg hadn't been convinced. Andrei was right. Excellent!
What did impress him was the owner's enthusiasm. The description of the joy he experienced when the first Extra Virgin Olive Oil from his own fields emerged from the pressing was infectious. Oleg drank in statistics and information as fast as the owner dished these out while ambling between the trees.
Not paying much attention except to the owner, he was startled to find a clearing with tables set for lunch. He was hungry. Satisfying his thirst for validation had excited his stomach. Before they ate the owner performed what started out like a party trick. He had had everybody drink five different olive oils and rate them.
Oleg did as instructed. If he was honest he could taste the middle and last one and he liked neither. He considered the middle one as the best so he gave it seven. The last was horrible. He rated it zero. But he hadn't a clue and didn't care. Butter tasted better. When the owner revealed which oils were which Oleg was amused, along with everybody else except the woman.
They started eating. Ana joined him and again tried to initiate conversation. His response was weak, endeavouring to seem polite and interested without giving away how much he knew from his and Andrei's researches. He concentrated his conversation on the last oil, the one the woman had brought. He persuaded Ana to find out where she had found it. It was funny. It seemed it had been purchased from a reputable and expensive chain of supermarkets where she had paid rather more than she'd admitted yet it was still disgusting.
Virginity Despoiled Page 14
