'Bon dia!' shouts Guillem. Good day. So far so good. He gives me an encouraging smile. 'Va Bé?'
Be. I'm sure be rostit is roast lamb. Maybe he's heard about my sheep encounters or am I just becoming paranoid?
'No tenc un be.' I don't have a sheep, I say.
Guillem looks puzzled. Then the penny seems to drop. He chuckles to himself while the mystified class look on.
'You mean "be!" I'm talking about "bé".'
Well that's as clear as mud. He shakes his head with mirth and removes his glasses, wiping his eyes with a hankie. 'We are both right. You see an accented "bé" means well and "be" unaccented means lamb. It all comes down to correct pronunciation.'
The class enjoys the confusion and various would-be lambs begin baa-ing loudly. We reach the end of the lesson on a wave of laughter and Guillem, undaunted by the huge task ahead of him, energetically picks up his books and bids us farewell until next week. 'Bon vespre!' he yells cheerfully. Good evening.
In some exhaustion, I leave the music school with two of my fellow students in tow, Jutta and Julia, a largerthan-life Venezuelan. We weave along the street, lamenting our dismal first serious attempt at conquering the local lingo and decide to pop into a local bar for a well earned nightcap.
I walk home through the dark country lanes, the shiny new Catalan file and grammar book in my arms. A screech owl circles overhead and a few scurrying rats crash around the hedgerows. I reach my track and in the sootiness of night vaguely make out the shape of Llamp in his run. He barks when he sees me and snuffles up to the fence, wagging his tail. In the obscurity I see the Scotsman striding towards me across the courtyard, a puro, its tip smouldering orange, gripped in one hand and a limp hose in the other.
'I've just been watering the vines.'
'I got a bit waylaid.'
He grins. 'Well, I was on the point of calling out a search party. So how was it?'
'It's going to be quite a challenge, but you know Guillem. He's such a character.'
He smiles. 'That's why his restaurant's always full. Here, I want you to see something.'
I follow him into the front garden where, between dark rocks and leaves, there is a huge flare of white light. Alan crouches down and slowly pulls back a leaf to reveal a glow worm snuggled within an earthy hollow, the first I've ever seen in our garden. As soon as it is exposed, the light dims.
'Extraordinary,' I muse. 'Quite beautiful.'
We stand in the stillness of the garden, listening to the methodical trickle of water from the pond's fountain. Alan yawns loudly.
'I'm off to check on the hens.'
As if in anticipation of his visit, Salvador crows discordantly and there's a sudden low braying from a distant donkey. Llamp howls mournfully and the nocturnal creatures of our valley seem to suddenly come alive. I sit on my favourite rock by the pond, lulled by the music of the water and the creaky croaking of the frogs. On a jagged rock, obscured on one side by wild rushes, I see the lumpy silhouette of Johnny the toad.
'Are you still angry with me?'
He puffs up his throat and blinks at me, before crashing with a loud burp and a huge plop into the treacly black depths below.
Someone's tooting at the front gate. Catalina wipes her hands on a cloth and strides over to the entry phone.
'It's Llorenç,' she tells me. 'You ordered more wood?'
'We're getting a bit low.'
'Yes, good idea to stock up now. Winter will be here soon enough.'
'It's only October.'
She breathes heavily. 'They say next month will be very cold.'
'Just as well I'll be in New York for half of it then.'
Llorenç mischievously slams his hand on the horn until we come out to greet him. Catalina swipes him with her tea cloth.
'You're a bad man.'
He grins at her and gives me a cheeky wink.
'Where's Alan?'
'He's gone to welcome some new holidaymakers at Pep's flat. He should be back soon.'
'Always an excuse not to help me with carrying the wood.'
'We'll help you.'
He gives a snort. 'I'd be quicker on my own. A cup of coffee would be more useful.'
'Another macho.'
'Si,' he smiles. 'Mallorca's full of them.'
I slip back into the kitchen and put on the espresso machine while Catalina resumes her ironing.
'Are you going to Nancy's exhibition tonight?' she asks.
'Yes, after Ollie's football practice. I have my eye on a painting.'
'Me too. I love her work. She's amazing to be painting at her age.'
Llorenç ambles into the kitchen and watches as I pour him a cup of coffee. He pulls up a chair and observes us both.
'So, how's the Catalan coming on?'
'Poc a poc,' I reply facetiously.
'Of course, lessons are one thing, but the real test will be trying it out in the town.'
'Just you wait and see, Llorenç.'
A car draws up in the courtyard.
'Perfect timing,' says Llorenç, slapping his empty cup down on the table.
'Now your Senyor can give me a hand with the wood.'
Pueblo Español in Palma, the venue for Nancy Golding's exhibition, is a vast complex of buildings which replicate some of the most famous landmarks in Spain. It has a lavish exterior with turrets, towers and spires and has the look of a medieval castle, although it's really no more than a glorified convention centre. Parking the car in one of the steep and unprepossessing side streets, we cross the cobbled front entrance and descend sweeping steps to the courtyard. A local estate agent has sponsored Nancy's show and its logo is prominently displayed on flags and posters. Twinkling candles brighten the dark courtyard and amidst the throng we see Pep and Juana waving to us. Ollie runs towards them, only interested in catching up with Angel who is hanging back by one of the tables gobbling olives and drinking Coca-Cola.
'You're late!' yells Pep.
'No they're not,' quips Juana, helping herself to some canapés from a passing waiter.
'Thank heavens you didn't dress up either,' I say, noting that she's in jeans and a red sweater.
She shrugs. 'Nancy wouldn't expect me to. Mind you, the moneyed set from Portals is here tonight.'
Puerto Portals hugs the bay a polite distance along the coast from Palma. It's the yachties' dream hang-out and a must zone for designer babes who pose and pout on the terraces of chic cafes fronting the marina.
Juana views the pretty courtyard with a critical eye. 'Lots of foreigners.'
Catalina and Ramon join us, together with her parents, Paco and Marta. I take in Catalina's stylish ensemble of tailored black trousers and exotic Moroccan jacket. Her short dark hair is streaked with henna and a stunning amber stone rests on her neck.
'You look amazing,' I tell her.
She gives a little grin. 'That's only because you always see me behind an ironing board.'
'True,' says Alan. 'You're a real Cinderella.'
Ramon shrugs his shoulders. 'Women will find any excuse to buy new clothes.'
I give him a poke in the ribs. 'Watch it, or I'll set a genet on your chickens.'
'What news of your cattery?' says Marta with a sweet smile.
I wince as Alan gives an involuntary frown.
'Oh, we're getting there slowly. We need to wait for the council to come back to us about planning permits.'
'Is it taking up a lot of your time?' she says.
'To be honest, I'm frantic with new clients and some big projects so I haven't had time to give it much thought of late.'
'She's organising a big even with Prince Charles!' blurts out Catalina.
'Really?' Marta looks impressed. 'Did you hear that, Paco?' she says to her husband. Paco nods impatiently.
'And how is the worm hotel these days?' he asks quickly, keen to get back to agricultural matters.
Alan cheers up. 'Touch wood, the Mallorcan worms are settling in well. I've had some wonderful compost this month
.'
Paco smiles and nods. 'It's important to be patient in life.'
'Indeed,' says Alan. 'Where's that wretched waiter gone? I could murder a drink.'
I grab two flutes of cava as a waiter floats past, and push one into the Scotsman's hand. Coming towards our group is a stream of local friends from our valley.
'It's a Sóller invasion,' yells Pep. 'Where's Nancy? We need her here too.'
'She's showing some clients round the gallery. Wait a minute,' I tell him.
Ollie has already found Nancy in the interior of the building and holding her hand leads her over to us.
'If it's not all my favourite friends hanging out together! What is this, a private meeting of Sóllerics?'
Pep gives her a robust hug. 'We don't want to mix with too many wealthy foreigners. It's bad enough being infiltrated by the Scots,' he gives a pointed stare at Alan, 'without this Palma mob.'
Juana elbows him hard. 'Keep your voice down or we'll all be thrown out.'
There's a wave of raucous laughter from the group and we find ourselves being studied curiously by several elegant guests, all in expensive cocktail attire.
'Hopefully some of these ricos will cough up for some paintings,' says Catalina.
'I've kept back your favourite,' Nancy whispers in my ear.
'I may have to pay you in instalments.'
She giggles. 'It's not that much. Special price for special friends.'
The main sponsor, a tall German, now stands in our midst and delivers a welcome speech. Nancy, smiling sublimely, waits until he's finished and then makes a simple yet moving address which is greeted with thunderous applause. I accompany Pep and Catalina into the gallery where we are greeted by Tolo from our local Banca March, Xavier and Teresa from Colmado sa Lluna and a whole host of locals. Our Australian friends Jack and Sarah from Fornalutx are great art lovers and are considering a purchase, while Victoria and Robert Duvall talk with our two local mayors, from Sóller and Fornalutx. I find it touching that so many from our valley have come to support Nancy on her big night. Judging by the number of confirmed sales, it appears that she will be able to survive another cold winter in Sóller.
'Don't spend it all at once, Nancy,' cautions Pep.
'Life's for living, my friend. I'm not a hoarder.'
'Well, I believe in living and hoarding,' jokes Pep.
The evening rolls on until gone midnight at which point the Sóllerics begin to wend their way back to their cars, happy to be heading out of Palma and into the hills.
It's a cool day in the valley and across the Tramuntanas the harsh, resonating sound of gunfire can be heard, indicating that it's the start of the hunting season. I am never comfortable with the hunting of tords, the thrushes that are highly prized by Mallorcans and used in soups and arròs brut, a popular and hearty local rice dish. Still, as Pep always reminds me, it is not for us foreign residents to interfere with local customs and I agree with him wholeheartedly. Alan is down in the field planting broad beans and peas and shaking his worm compost over the soil. I watch as clouds of grey smoke rise from the forests up in the mountains and my heart goes out to the unsuspecting birds whose lives are to be snuffed out so unceremoniously. Sighing, I jog over to the open front gate and head off for a run. It's Saturday and at this early hour of the morning the roads are peaceful and the valley is quiet and swathed in soft cloud. Margalida is sitting outside her chalet praying to herself but as I approach she drops the wooden rosary to her lap and calls me to her.
'When are you off to America?'
'Next month.'
She holds my hands between hers and lets out a small cry.
'Are you sure it's safe? I've heard that everyone has a gun.'
'Don't worry, I'll be running too fast to get shot.'
She doesn't laugh.
'I shall pray.'
I shudder with the sudden chill. 'I'm relying on you.'
She brightens. 'At my age that's all I can do – watch the world go by and pray.' She pats my hand and rises. 'You go. I'm waiting for Jorge.'
'The postman?'
'Pues, he's such a nice young man. I promised to pick him some oranges.'
A bulging bag of fruit lies at her feet. I hear a toot toot at the end of the road and there, in a state of excitement is Gaspar with a huge pile of newspapers strapped to the back of his bike ready for delivery.
'Aha, thought I'd see you! Hurry up and I'll give you a race to the Puerto,' he yells.
As I set off along the road with Gaspar tootling along next to me, I ponder on Jorge's latest conquest. The man must surely be a god to win over my elderly neighbour, Margalida. Perhaps it's to do with his smile and the length of his hair.
Catalina and her brother, Stefan, are in my office poring over the architectural drawings in wonderment.
'You mean this is the actual size of the cattery?' asks Stefan flatly.
'Yes, but this is the one I visited. Ours can be much smaller.'
He exhales deeply. 'There is a new planning law coming in which could affect horta land.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, I doubt you'd be able to build something this big in an orchard.'
My heart sinks.
'In fact, the mayor has warned me that the new law might prohibit all buildings in orchards, even nonpermanent structures like this.'
Catalina tries to be positive. 'Let's wait and see. The most important thing is to look at what is possible. You must remember, we don't have catteries here. Cats usually live off the land.'
'There are Brits running kennels and catteries all over the island,' I argue.
'I know, but for us it's a strange British concept so it's hard to explain to the planners at the town hall.'
I tap my fingers fretfully on the desk. Having passed my cattery course with flying colours and worked on a preliminary business plan, I'd be sad if it all came to nought. My time at The Cat's Whiskers has convinced me that it could be an enjoyable little business to run from home. The problem I have at present is trying to juggle all my PR work and journalistic assignments while keeping the cattery idea afloat. I rub my eyes and yawn.
'Sleepy?' asks Catalina with a smile.
'Oh, I was up till gone midnight doing client work for Rachel and I've still got heaps more to do on the Crown jewels event, so I'm a bit the worse for wear today.'
She jumps up from her seat. 'I'll go and make us some strong coffee.'
She stops at the office door.
'Stefan, what about if we visited the cattery in England and worked out how we might create a smaller version here? You know, more manageable.'
He gives a tentative nod. 'OK, but I'm flat out with building projects until January. Anyway, by that time we may have news on the planning situation.'
'That suits me,' I say. 'I'd rather get my Crown jewels event over with in January before concentrating on cattery business.'
The door opens and Alan strides in.
'So, how's it going? Is it feasible?'
Stefan shrugs. 'In truth, I don't know. There's a new law stopping the building of any structures on orchard land. We may be unlucky.'
I give the Scotsman a sardonic smile.
'So, are you happy now?'
His face drops. 'Actually, no. I've studied your initial business plan and decided that it really is a workable idea. I totally support you.'
Despite the gloomy silence, I study his face and in that moment feel a huge swell of gratitude.
He puts his hand on my shoulder. 'Come on, chin up. You're not one to give up.'
'Yes, we know nothing yet,' says Catalina.
'After all,' the Scotsman rejoins. 'This is just round one. There's plenty of time to put up a fight.'
'In the meantime, I've got plenty of work to keep me occupied.'
'You can say that again,' says the Scotsman. 'And let's not even mention all the work I have to do, what with filming, chickens and keeping an eye on Pep's flat.'
Catalina laughs. 'That's not
work. That's fun!'
He attempts to remonstrate just as Inko strolls in followed by Minky and Orlando. They look up at me expectantly.
'Ah,' says Stefan. 'Here's the planning committee. They envisage no problems.'
We all troop downstairs for some coffee. For now there's nothing more any of us can do but wait. Que será será. In the interim I shall just keep busy and take counsel from Stefan and my eminent committee of cats until such time as a decision by the council is made.
Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof Page 21
