“Where do I start?”
***
Flying over the island into the airport he felt excited to be having a break from the stress of his work and family life. He’d sorted cover out at the farm and with the promise of significantly enhancing their financial position, Leesa agreed to him going for a few weeks.
“Bloody hell, you look like a vagrant!” Kurt rubbed his mate’s mahogany coloured baldness.
“Don’t you like it. It’s taken a lot of effort to create an image like this?” Dirk held out his arms, indicating sarcastically to the cutoff jeans held up by a colourfully braided rope belt.
“What’s that?” Kurt pointed to the battered SEAT car Dirk was leading him to.
“Why what’s up with it man?”
“Looks like it belongs in a breakers yard. That’s what.”
“It goes ok.”
“Well it certainly doesn’t look legal.”
“We don’t have any hassle from the island Polizia. It’s got British plates so they just leave us alone. No-one at the commune would claim ownership anyway.”
Kurt chuckled, “And don’t think I’m staying in that hippy-hole. I’ve got standards you know. I’m not running the risk of ending up like you!”
“So where are we staying then?”
“At the record label studio. Well it’s a villa really with a basement studio, and it’s not actually owned by the record label. It belongs to one of their artists but we’re ok to use it. They’ll pretty much do whatever they can to get us recording.” “
Cool! Where is it?”
“Dunno.” Kurt handed over the card of the agent the villa was managed by Island Properties. “If we go to their office they’ll take us there. Mind you God knows what they’ll think of us turning up in this pile of shit!” As he kicked the car.
“Hey! She’ll hear you. She’s very sensitive you know. Anyway, we’ll go to the commune first. I’ll get changed - so I don’t offend anyone - then we can get a taxi to their office.”
Entering under the rusted gateway that hinted at the former land use as a finca, the commune was pretty much as Kurt had imagined. In a more depressing climate it would have looked scruffy, but on this sun lavished island it was enchanting. Small buildings were dotted around, constructed with a lattice of wood and stuck together with white painted daub. Roofs of palm leaves held in place by threaded rope. Goats, chickens and geese roamed the space in between the stick fenced enclosures.
Dirk introduced Kurt to an all-female group at the meeting space. They were sat on the carved wooden benches at each side of the weathered twelve foot long table, that served as a work bench, food preparation counter, meal table and meeting desk. An old yacht sail strung up between some nearby trees providing much needed shade. Dozens of brightly coloured yarns had been shared out between them and they were all deftly braiding them into friendship bracelets. Delving into a basket full of beads at regular intervals to intertwine them into their design.
Dirk left him to the mercy of the group, promising to be five minutes, which as Kurt and everyone really knows is never the case. At least half an hour can disappear during those five minutes.
Although they didn’t accost him or make a move to brainwash him into their harem, he wasn’t at ease. Having only just got off a plane he wasn’t quite in chilled holiday mode. Their laid back demeanour and Stepford Wives’ smiles seemed too weird for him. He made a feeble excuse and wandered off in the direction he thought Dirk had gone in.
A vegetable plot bursting with ripe tomatoes and runner beans with bright orange flower tops, lead onto a heavily scented herb garden. Mediterranean rosemary growing out of parched earth. Thyme growing between the stone laid path releasing heady fragrance as Kurt trampled over it. He ducked underneath a vine, laden with bunches of grapes that were turning from opaque green to red. Stopping when he heard water splashing; he couldn’t work out where it was coming from until he recognised a distinct vocal percussion emanating from behind a grove of lemon trees. He headed in the direction of the human beat-box and emerging from underneath the branches spotted a corrugated iron structure encasing an outside shower; Dirk’s leatherette cranium bouncing up and down and in and out of the trickle of water.
“Come on Doug E. Fresh!” Kurt hollered over the noise of the water and Dirk’s beat-boxing, “before these hippie nutters recruit me into their sect.”
Dirk yanked the metal chain that cut off the flow of water to the shower head and emerged into the sunlight.
“Jeez man! Put it away!” Kurt turning away from the exhibitionist.
“You’re only jealous.” Dirk laughed, grabbing his package in defiance. “Go get some clothes on and show me the secret escape route.”
“Escape route?”
“Yeah. Escape route. Right little cult you’ve got yourself involved in here.”
“Nah. There’s nothing like that going on here.”
“That’s when you know they’ve got you. When you don’t even realise it.”
Kurt followed Dirk behind the shower cubicle and into one of the daub and wattle huts. This one was larger than the rest and was accessed through a rush woven door. He side stepped a couple of mattresses on the floor and followed Dirk behind a handmade four poster wooden bed which had curtains tied with ribbons around the top supports.
Dirk stooped at a painted wooden box beneath a hammock strung up from the rafters and pulled out some shorts and a t-shirt. He sniffed the t-shirt, nodded to himself and got dressed. He then unlocked a padlock on an inner compartment inside the box and filled a leather pouch with some cash, sunglasses and his passport. Looking as if he was considering the rest of the contents of the box for a moment before shutting the lid on them.
“That’s a lot of cash.” Kurt eyeing up the wad of bank notes Dirk had stuffed into his bag.
“It’s just the good old Spanish Pesetas. You need hundreds of these things just to buy an orange. Do you know they’re on about a common currency across Europe? Just another a load of political bullshit if you ask me. A way of ripping off the common masses. Do you know this was all agreed in Maastricht? So technically it’s all our fault.”
“Yeah well hurry up.” Kurt not keen to get into some political debate. He wanted to retreat to the luxury of the villa they had been promised, ring his family and then have a proper catch up with Dirk.
“Shoes?” Pointing at Dirk’s bare feet. Dirk rubbed his chin.
“Dunno where I put my boots. Not seen them for a while.”
“Jeez. You’ve properly gone native. You hippy.”
“S’pose I better borrow some from the basket.”
Kurt waited outside whilst Dirk foraged in what was obviously a communal basket for a pair of espadrilles.
***
“Here we go.” The Island Property agent drove her small white hatchback through the still opening electric gates. “Villa Solimar.”
Kurt jumped out of the passenger seat, excited with the promise of luxury, following the agent through the wooden door to the villa.
“Woah. Leesa would lurrvvv this.”
Pushing his way past her and through to the full length windows leading out to the sun terrace and infinity pool.
“I’ll show you how everything works and leave you to it.”
She proceeded to instruct them on operating everything apart from the studio equipment, knowing they would have far more knowledge on that gadgetry than her.
“There’s even beer in the fridge, and a welcome pack from Island Properties on the counter. Should see you through the next day or so.”
“Cool,” shouted Dirk who had started winding away the insulated cover on the salt water pool.
“It’s up for sale you know.” She handed over the keys to Kurt.
“What is?”
“This place. Villa Solimar. If you can’t bear to leave at the end of your time here, you can always buy it. The owner is open to offers.”
“Hmmm. Worth thinking about. We’ll let yo
u know.”
Dirk let out an involuntary gasp, which lead to Kurt giving him a painful thump on his arm.
“There’s even some San Miguel in the fridge. Do you want one?” Dirk shouted out in the empty room. Kurt having gone to explore the bedrooms and bathrooms.
“Yeah, sure.”
Dirk flicked off the bottle tops with his disposable cigarette lighter and followed Kurt down the hallway from the living area. The first door lead into a bedroom that had patio doors opening onto a small terrace containing a white painted ironwork table and two chairs. It was screened on three sides by trellis with clematis happily growing up it. The second revealed a bathroom and in the next room Kurt threw his bag on the king size bed.
“You claiming this one then?”
“Yeah. We’ve not been in the third bedroom yet, but this has got an ensuite shower room, and, no offence, but I’m not in a hurry to share a bathroom with you. This’ll do nicely.”
“No offence taken mate. In fact, I think that’s fair enough. You coming outside then and you can tell me what’s going down with all this record deal shit.”
“Yeah. And you can tell me what’s happened to Jonny and Eliza.”
They lounged on the padded sun beds set out on the terrace, emptying the fridge of all the beer and exchanging stories about the last six months. Eventually coming up with a plan to make the most of the opportunity that had landed at their feet.
After the first day in the small basement studio it was evident they would be ready for Eliza to lay over the vocals in little over a week. They could live without Jonny for longer, if not for ever. Kurt could always make up for Jonny’s absence on the bass. Samsara could just be re-mixed if need be from their Amsterdam studio recording. Eliza, though, they couldn’t do without. They needed her. Now.
Dirk had gone back to the commune and put up a notice on the board. It was the usual way for anyone to relay any sort of message on to the many travellers that passed through the commune. If anyone heard from Eliza or Greta at the commune, he was fairly confident his message would be passed on.
Kurt had asked the record company to ring Jonny’s family. Not sure whether Jonny had gone home after what Dirk had described as a traumatic break up with Eliza he didn’t want to have to answer any questions if he rang them personally. They agreed to act similarly with Eliza’s aunt.
A brief visit to the Buddhist centre in town gained them the promise of passing a message onto the Tibet monastery, but in reality there was little hope of it getting there. They left feeling quite depressed when the monks tried to convince them it was unlikely that after enduring the thousands of miles it would take to reach the Tibetan monastery that the girls would not decide to go all in and become ordained as monks. The path to enlightenment is a long one, as is the journey to Tibet they had said.
Sat on the terrace, watching the sun sink into the Mediterranean Sea. Kurt moved to the edge of the sun bed. It rocked forward threatening to plunge him into the pool.
“What was you thinking of? Letting her go and get herself into this nonsense,” exasperated, Kurt blamed Dirk for the situation.
Dirk shrugged his shoulders in disdain. “Didn’t really think she would go through with it. The German girl she went with… well you couldn’t really say she was stable. I can’t imagine Eliza staying with her on such a long journey. She’s not very good company.”
“I thought you said you were getting it on with her?”
“Well you overlook certain things when you’re getting good head, don’t you.”
“This is serious man. You know, I’m worried about her, to be honest. She acts like the tough cookie, but when it comes down to it she’s like anyone else. She needs her mates.”
“Yeah I know man. I’m sorry. I just didn’t think she would go and when she did I thought she’d be back in a couple of days,” he shifted on the sun bed, laid his head back and smiled, “back, but wanting an alibi ‘cos she’d stabbed that lunatic Greta.”
Dirk dived off the sun bed just in time to miss the beer can Kurt launched at his head.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Eliza sat up all night waiting for a train to come by. Hugging her knees with feet up on the bench away from any rats that might care to nibble on her sandal exposed toes. Fervently looking around her at the slightest noise. And there were a lot of noises.
An intermittent hissing, she finally worked out was something to do with steam she could see spurting out of a tall narrow steel chimney that was glinting in the moonlight way off in the distance. An owl hooting. Rats scurrying around on the tracks below her. Leaves rustling in the crop of trees to her left. Hedgehogs snaffling amongst the undergrowth, emitting a noise louder than their small bodies should ever be able to make.
All those sounds and not a single one promised the hope of a train in the distance.
She could however hear traffic on a road that seemed to be just beyond the rustling tree line. It was pretty constant throughout the night which lead her to surmise it was a major route. Contemplating whether she dare venture through the trees to the road, but she was scared enough as it was. Trying to recount how many movies she had watched were the hitch hiker was the psychopath compared with how many where it was the driver. Either way it just made her shudder and draw her legs in tighter.
Just before sunrise she was startled by a faint rumbling on the tracks. Struggling to hear it above the dawn chorus she peered down the track. There were lights from a train and it was heading west.
She wrestled with her skirt, finally freeing her feet from the hem. Determined to get on this train even if it only went to the next station. Even if it didn’t stop. In that case she decided she’d run down the platform and grab on to the railing at the back of the last carriage. It must be possible. It wasn’t going too fast. Stunt women did it in the movies and their life didn’t depend on it.
Fortunately, she didn’t have to prove if she was a stunt woman in the making or not. The train juddered to a halt in front of her and she alighted one of the carriages.
There was a damp musty smell about it, as if the carriage had been taken from the sidings after being forgotten about for a year. Closed up before the toilet at the end of the carriage was cleaned.
She held her scarf to her mouth and nose. The faint smell of ylang-ylang, which she regularly doused it with, comforting her. The scarf had been one of the most useful things she had brought with her. So far she had used it to cover her head from rain; to carry off their bounty from a raid on a plum orchard in France; to shield her eyes, nose and mouth in a dust storm and now to stop her from gagging at the revolting smell that was emanating from this compartment.
There were only three people in the carriage she chose. A couple and a single passenger. They were all very still and she fleetingly wondered if they were dead and contributing to the foul odour on the train.
The single passenger looked around at her as she shifted onto a seat. She smiled at him, which she decided really wasn’t a good idea when he responded by moving around the fixed table in his little four seat arrangement to face towards her.
She looked away through the window, in the vain attempt to signify she didn’t want to have anything to do with him. That didn’t put him off. In the reflection of the window she could see he was rubbing himself.
What the fuck! she screamed inside her head. She couldn’t look to the window and certainly couldn’t look to the front. She couldn’t closer her eyes either, afraid of what he might do. What if he had a knife and decided to stab, or threaten to rape her? Why in a different country did she feel so vulnerable? If this was the Netherlands she felt sure she would confront him or at least report him to someone. Here she felt helpless. There was no choice other than to move seats before the situation got worse.
She advanced to the front of the carriage, past the pervert and nearer to the couple. They stopped talking when she sat down near them. Looking around the carriage as if to say "Why are you sitting near us? Can’t yo
u see we’re having a private conversation? There’s loads of spare seats away from us so bugger off!" Their indignation was easier to endure than the weirdo’s private show.
It was twenty minutes before they stopped at the next station. She couldn’t read the name of it, looking like it was some form of Russian, but it was definitely one they had passed through going the other way.
Her moment of comfort was short lived though as the couple she had decided were her surrogate bodyguards, stood up and got off the train. She was now alone with the pervert. In a split second she had to decide to either stay on the train or get off.
She got off. Just as the train was about to pull away, she leapt back on to a different carriage. There was no way she was spending another night waiting for the next train. Hoping the pervert didn’t see her, or if he did he didn’t have the inclination to do anything about it. Making his way through the carriage and over the open platform to the next one and again through to the one she was now in would have required bigger balls than the ones he had exposed to her.
She sat down next to an old woman, tears welling up in her eyes at the situation she had bestowed upon herself. How could she be so stupid?
The woman smiled at her. A toothless smile but a smile none the less. Eliza returned the gesture hoping she didn’t have anything to fear from this local woman. She pulled back the white cloth covering the wicker basket balanced on her lap. Extracting what looked like a dark red sausage and offering it to Eliza.
“Churchkhela,” her hoarse voice declared, forcing the sausage towards Eliza.
Eliza took it and held it up nervously to her mouth.
The woman nodded, “Diakh, churchkhela.”
Eliza nibbled a small piece off the end of the sausage. Her taste buds told her it was sweet and nutty. Not meaty like her vegetarian eyes had convinced her. She smiled and nodded back to the woman. “It’s good. Thank you.”
The toothless grin signifying she was satisfied that she had done her bit to comfort this skinny golden haired foreigner. Her good deed done she tucked the cloth back into the wicker basket.
Falling for his ANGEL_A Rock Star Romance Page 19
