‘But we did all that stuff,’ he said, ‘and they accepted it and there was not going to be a problem …’ And then he exploded. ‘It’s that hijo de puta of a Búlgaro. The bastard is trying to fuck us over … So what are we going to do about it? What the hell can we do about it?’
He put the phone down and stared at the windscreen, seething in silence. ‘What’s going down, primo?’ I asked. ‘Who’s the Bulgarian?’
The Búlgaro, it appeared, was the biggest pez gordo (fat fish) in Spanish sheepshearing, and a man you didn’t cross lightly. José told me of the dastardly stunt the Búlgaro had just pulled, which had something to do with persuading some crony in a high place to insist on a minute inspection of every aspect of Guerrero’s Uruguayans’ paperwork. José was certain that everything was in order, but it would involve him and his people in a mountain of useless administrative work.
We both watched the road for a while and then José shook out another cigarette and lit it, and reached over to turn the cassette. ‘Just you wait, Crease,’ he said. ‘That cabrón is going to wake up one of these days with a red-hot poker stuffed right up his Bulgarian arse and on the other end of it will be none other than José Antonio Guerrero.’
We had been driving for nearly an hour through the ocean of olive trees to the north of Jaén. We zoomed across the muddy Guadalquivir on its long journey down to Sevilla and the sea, and finally left Andalucía through the pass at Despeñaperros, not, as in days gone by, winding down and up amongst the organ-pipe rock formations and the forests, but hurtling across the top of it all on a road supported on towering concrete pillars. It was quicker, of course, and less dangerous, but you couldn’t help but feel that something fundamentally important had been lost in Spain’s headlong dash to replace every country road with an autovía.
And then we were high on the endless plains of La Mancha, stretching all the way to Toledo. We hammered down the slip road into the city, and my hopes of a less headlong rush were dashed as José, still angrily preoccupied with the machinations of the Búlgaro, weaved a lunatic course amongst the traffic. We were here, apparently, to visit yet another pez gordo, Javier, a man who, as president of one of the biggest sheep cooperatives in the country, held the destiny of a hundred thousand sheep and more in his hand.
‘I know this guy a little,’ said José, ‘but we’ve got to make a big impression on him today. I’ve more or less got the job in the bag for my boys, but you never know with that goddam Búlgaro trying to poke his nose in. Still,’ he said trying to shrug off these dark thoughts, ‘Javier’s going to buy us lunch and if I know the food in this town it should be a good one.’
We parked where we could, and clumped up the stairs to an office full of files and books, the walls hung with oil paintings of eminent sheep. Nice-looking sheep they were, too – Merinos mostly. Spain’s medieval economy was largely based upon Merino wool, and it is still the finest of any sheep on earth.
Behind the desk sat a smooth young man in an impeccable suit. He rose to greet us. This, then, was Javier.
‘This is my friend the Eenglish writer,’ announced Guerrero unctuously, poking me in the back. ‘I told you I was going to bring him to meet you. You’ve heard of Genesis?’
Javier had heard of Genesis.
‘Well, Crease was the drummer of Genesis.’
Javier looked a little bemused, wondering no doubt why I didn’t look more like Phil Collins. (Phil Collins had more famously taken my role after I’d been ejected from the group as a schoolboy.) I felt a bit of a berk.
‘Did you bring that book from the car, Crease? The one I’m in …’
I handed it over. José handed it to Javier. Javier looked at the back cover. ‘You must dedicate it to me,’ he said, brandishing a biro.
I wrote in the book, something along the lines of ‘To my esteemed and admired friend, Javier. I hope you enjoy this book.’ Then I handed it back to Javier, who studied the dedication with a nonplussed air. Perhaps it was my writing. Anyway I figured that that was about all that he would ever read of the book. He thanked me.
‘It’s not me you should thank, it’s Guerrero. It’s from him. I just signed it.’
Next there was some business to attend to, and while José and Javier were deep in discussion I tried to immerse myself in the only other piece of literature in the room, the co-operative’s yearbook. Now, although I’m as keen as the next farmer on the minutiae of the ovine world, you can only get a certain, limited amount of mileage from a sheep co-op’s yearbook. I had, moreover, begun to feel decidedly peckish but reckoned this was no bad thing, as there was bound to be a spectacularly good feed to follow, with all the culinary sophistication one expects from Spain’s ancient capital.
At last the tedious business was over and Javier ushered us out and round the corner to a small restaurant. It looked a touch unpromising: in fact, it looked like the typical bog-standard eatery you find on almost any street corner. But the incongruity of this served only to heighten my anticipation. Often (but perhaps, if one is truthful, not that often) you find the most exquisite fare in the most unexpected places. We were shown to a formica table and I winced as the waiter, a large smelly man in a grubby nylon shirt, brushed past me, smacking me in the ear with a stack of dirty plates. The noise from the television, which was perched on a bracket just above Javier’s head, was so deafening that I was unable to hear a word of what my companions were saying. More promisingly, though, Javier had begun conferring confidentially with the slob of a waiter.
At length, he turned to me and shouted at the top of his voice: ‘Apparently the hamburguesas are off. There’s only macaroni for starters. The main course is albóndigas or pollo al ajillo.’
Jeezus, I thought, what sort of a lunch was this to be treated to? Those unspeakable albóndigas would be out of a catering tin, chemically salvaged meatballs … and the chicken would be slathered in garlic and fifth-rate olive oil. It filled me with nothing but the deepest dread.
Guerrero stared fixedly at the television. The waiter looked expectantly at me for my order.
‘Well, I guess it had better be the macaroni and the meatballs,’ I said, attempting just the faintest hint of irony.
The waiter shrugged, then hurried off in answer to an imperious ping from the microwave.
I was thinking by now that Javier was less estimable and admirable than I had suggested. I also figured that José was laying me on the line with this pan-Iberian road trip.
I had it out with José as we hurtled a little later through the horrible traffic on the ring road, during one of the cricket’s silent spells.
‘But of course I’m using you,’ he replied with surprising candour. ‘It’s because you’re famous, and you owe it to me, your old mate, to help me out a bit with this, your famousness. After all, you didn’t ask for it – and it doesn’t cost you anything, does it? – and look what you’re getting: the benefit of my company on this trip across the country you’ve chosen to live in but never get off your arse to see. You can’t ask for fairer than that, can you? And me? Well, I need to put my name about and keep it up there in the minds of all my customers. Now generally they’ll remember me because I work it that way and I’m a pretty memorable sort of a bloke. But when I’ve got Mister Famous in tow, and they’ve got a dedicated book in their office or to give to their mistress, well, they’re going to think of nobody but José Antonio Guerrero when it comes to handing out those contracts. You wait and see, Eenglish. It’s going to be pan comido. So just loosen up.’
To congratulate himself on this subtle mix of sophistry and marketing cunning, he lit another cigarette. I pondered his words a while. Perhaps he was right. Why shouldn’t he make some use, if he could, out of my low-key fame? I’ve been lucky, so why not ‘loosen up’ and enjoy spreading it about a bit. José’s reasonable and matter-of-fact attitude went some way towards restoring my spirits. And so I settled to the task of helping my friend with his winter activity of consolidating gains, muscling in on the B
úlgaro’s territory, and keeping himself in the shepherds’ eyes. I, in my dubious incarnation as Mister Famous, had become the new tool in his kit.
‘So where are we off to next?’ I asked.
‘Just you wait … We’ve got the best part of the day to come yet: we’re going to see your fans, Jesús and Eugenia, in Aranda. You’re going to love ’em. Oh, and just before we get to Aranda we’re paying a visit to Rafael. Rafael is important. He’s got a thousand sheep. I sheared them already, but he’s a member of a huge cooperative with flocks ten times that size. I really need to get my boys in on it.’
We raced on up the long, long autovía, the pale winter sun slipping beneath the hills, the temperature dropping like a stone. Now my purpose had been defined, I was starting to enjoy the journey a little more. An hour north of Madrid we pulled off the motorway and almost immediately into the village of Pardilla.
Rafael’s operation was modernity and enlightenment itself. He welcomed us in a great stone-walled restaurant that, beneath mighty beams of oak, served wine from his vine-yards alongside milk-fed lamb from his sheep, and the odd suckling pig. It was a temple to carnivorosity that each weekend draws hordes of devotees from Burgos and Madrid. The farm itself was on the edge of one of those tiny villages of Castilla where nothing happens from one year to the next and all the young people head for the cities in search of work and life. Rafael, with his restaurant, kitchen and ornamental gardens, slaughterhouse and distribution operations, employed just about everybody who stayed.
Rafael was about thirty, a driven man, bouncing with enthusiasm. He had just been nominated for an EC award for business innovation. Proudly he showed me the brochure and the papers he was about to submit to the judges. It was written in an unusually lyrical style, aimed at conveying not just the objectives but the very passion of the enterprise. Opposite each page was what purported to be an English translation. ‘To visit us’, it declared, ‘is to wake the bug of livestock and fight with it, to dignify and publicize a career so forgotten, as it is to be livestock.’ I could sort of catch his drift, and it was a nice, almost poetic, line of thought. But when he asked, I had to admit: ‘It’s not quite there yet, Rafael, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
He watched anxiously as I read on. The next bit had a slightly sinister, biblical, tone: ‘The production is semi-extensive with a pastor who draws the livestock from the beginning, ours is only “flesh”.’ Pastor means ‘shepherd’ in Spanish and it had clearly slipped through the net of whatever electronic translation service he was using. ‘Flesh’ seemed to refer to the fact that the lambs were reared purely for the table. There was some succinct culinary advice to follow on the proper utensils and method for preparing his lamb: ‘If not used mud pie, we recommend adding a little water. Instructions are for one room.’
‘¿Qué te pasa?’ asked Guerrero, seeing my consternation.
‘It’s the English. You can’t let it go like this, Rafael.’
Rafael seemed crestfallen.
‘Don’t worry,’ beamed Guerrero, ‘Crease can sort it all out for you. He’s a writer, that’s what he does,’ and he nodded at me conspiratorially. This would be a tough act for the Búlgaro to follow.
‘Well, OK. I should be able to do something about it …’ I agreed, a little hesitantly.
‘Good,’ said Guerrero. ‘My friend here will put it into perfect English for you while we discuss a bit of business.’ Like many of my Alpujarran friends, he had no concept of translating or writing being work at all. An hour and a half later, feeling a little befuddled by all the linguistic tangles I’d been unravelling, I joined José and Rafael for some coffee at the bar. ‘Come and see the farm,’ suggested Rafael.
So we stepped outside, where dark was falling into an icy cold night. The sheep shed was enormous, like an aircraft hangar, but graceful, with soaring arches of laminated wood, a deep bed of clean golden straw, and in the hay-racks the sweetest-smelling hay. There would be worse places, I thought, to be a sheep. As we wandered through these perfumed halls the great door at the end opened and in trooped the flock, eight hundred strong. They ambled in contentedly, their bellies full from the day’s grazing out in the fields. José and I sighed as one with deep admiration for such a fine flock of well-kept and beautiful sheep. For all of our differences, this really did it for the both of us. The fractiousness of the day disappeared as we grinned inanely at each other, united in honest admiration of the ewes. Churras they were, with black and white faces, much like a Kerry Hill, but with fine long, almost bouclé, fleeces. We sighed together again.
‘They’ll be lambing in January,’ said Rafael. ‘And we wean and slaughter the lambs at around twenty days.’
Twenty days?! That’s not even three weeks. I was astounded. We sell our lambs at nine months to a year.
‘It’s what the market wants,’ explained Rafael. ‘It’s lechazo – suckling lamb. If the lamb has ingested anything other than its mother’s milk, then it’s disqualified; it won’t have that delicate flavour and tender texture people want.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s true, Rafael, but it seems to me such a terrible waste, and even a little barbaric, to slaughter lambs at three weeks old.’
‘Depends how you look at it, Crease. They’re going to be killed anyway; probably doesn’t make that much difference to them when.’
This is a big debate and I wasn’t about to go that deep into it right then, so I let it go.
Guerrero nudged me. ‘Give him a book,’ he said. ‘You know, the one with me in it …’
Rafael thanked me for the book and looked warily at it.
‘I’m afraid I don’t have much time for reading – I’m just too busy. I never seem to stop. I’m just going to grab a bocadillo now and then I’m off ploughing. I’ll probably be out half the night. Thanks very much, though; it’s very good of you, but I’m afraid’, he admitted with an apologetic sigh, ‘I can’t see myself reading it.’
It was dark when we crossed the river bridge into Aranda de Duero. We parked the car and walked into the old town, which, even at nine o’clock on a cold November night, was thronged with people. José was looking for a particular bar, where, presumably, we were going to meet Jesús and Eugenia. The cold night air and the prospect of a good meal perked me up and, if I was to be honest, I had begun to look forward to the company of people who were readers. I couldn’t help but have a sneaking interest in what they had enjoyed so much about my books and felt it would make a welcome change to shift the discussion from the omnipresent sheep. We traipsed back and forth searching for the right place.
‘Ah, this is it,’ said José, and we burst from the dark into the bright warmth of a big noisy bar. The Asador de Aranda was a temple to good eating and drinking, with serried ranks of glittering wineglasses, great dark barrels of wine, dishes of indescribable beauty being hurried to and fro, and a hubbub of conviviality and bonhomie; there pervaded a sense of eager and guiltless anticipation of pleasure. This is how it is in the north: they take their food and wine seriously; the waiters and bartenders wear white shirts, waistcoats and bow ties, and are respected professionals.
The torpor that the long hours on the motorway had induced simply sloughed away as I was drawn in by the brightness. ‘Ah, there they are,’ announced Guerrero, pointing to a couple standing wreathed in expectant smiles by the bar, who I rightly took to be Jesús and Eugenia. They were with a group of friends, and we all kissed and shook hands and bobbed about a bit in the customary quadrille that attends such occasions. A glittering schooner of darkest red wine appeared as if by magic in my hand and the conversation rolled away.
‘So, Crease,’ began Eugenia. ‘Where do you live?’ It seemed an odd question. My books are, after all, memoirs about my life in the Alpujarras.
‘The Alpujarras, near Granada, like in the books,’ I replied, trying not to make it sound too pointed. She accepted the information without comment and, before we could continue, the first tapa arrived. It was a potato, a small ex
quisite potato with a salty crust, and it was followed by more wines and more tapas, each more exquisite than the last. Guerrero began holding forth on our day’s drive and his latest campaign to put one over on the Búlgaro, so it was a little while before I could resume my conversation with my greatest fans.
‘Looks like a beautiful town,’ I said. ‘And the food and wine are terrific. I wish Ana had been able to come and enjoy it, too.’
Eugenia, who oddly enough is not a wine drinker, took a sip of her beer; Jesús finished his wine. They both nodded.
There was a pause, then Jesús asked, ‘Who’s Ana?’
Eugenia was all eagerness to know, too.
It was my first inkling that Guerrero had been a bit liberal with the truth.
Neither of them, it transpired, had actually got round to reading the book that José had given them. But in the event it mattered not a jot. There was something right about Jesús and Eugenia that I recognised the minute I saw them: an immediate welcoming warmth, which I basked in and returned. And they made wonderful wines. Maybe there is some subtle alchemy that flows through the winemaker, their vines and wine. I like to think so and, if there is, then it is one more persuasive argument to drink wines from small-scale producers rather than the big operators, in which all trace of alchemy is obfuscated by the industrial chemical process.
So why the gift of wine, then? To cut a long story short, they had read about me in an article in El Pais. Guerrero had filled them in and told them that we were friends, and they were thinking of selling their wines down in Andalucía. They were also, quite simply, extremely generous.
The next day, having stacked the car with crates of wine till it groaned and sank down on its haunches, we began our journey west. I wanted to stay behind and hang out with my new friends Jesús and Eugenia, but Guerrero wouldn’t hear of it; he needed me and my famousness to clinch his deals, keep one step ahead of that cabrón búlgaro. That was OK: I had loosened up. And besides, there was still a lot of Spain I wanted to see … even at 160 kilometres an hour with all the goddamn windows open.
Last Days of the Bus Club Page 17
