From all sides of the sunny square come donkeys, bulls, pigs, goats, small yappy ca rater dogs with their spindly legs and quivering black coats, cats in baskets, horses, exotic birds and mice in cages, reptiles and fish in glass containers and, oh no, ewes too. Their owners wait patiently in turn as the holy man in his black cassock raises his hand and makes the sign of the cross above the head of each and every creature. With closed eyes he utters a prayer while the animals neigh, honk, tweet, bark, yowl and splutter, some pounding the paved floor with their hooves but all showing remarkable restraint on this most celebrated of holy days.
This morning we have spent precious time trying to persuade Inko and the grey twins, Orlando and Minky, to attend the event. With some bad grace all three wriggled under Ollie's bed and refused to be unearthed until drastic measures were taken. With one blast of the vacuum cleaner they shot out from under the bed and, quick as a flash, we had them snapped inside carrying baskets ready for the brief car journey into town.
So, this morning the cafes are bulging and a throng of locals pour into the plaça with their pets and livestock. At long wooden trestle tables, red and white wine is served in plastic cups and huge platters of coca are spread out for all to share. As a general rule, coca, one of Mallorca's best loved pastries, is served at every fiesta in squared slices. It's the Mallorcan equivalent of pizza and is topped with peppers, onions, spinach and other vegetables. As with the ensaïmada spiral shaped pastries, it's easy to become a little coca-d out given that both are served liberally at most events, so it's often wise to have a break from it in between celebrations. At another table a swarm of guests cluster like excited bees, tucking into sobrasada sausage which is offered on slices of dense, locally baked brown bread. This meaty Mallorcan delicacy is made from pork cured with paprika and salt, although other local ingredients such as honey are often added.
Like one of Cleopatra's slaves, Ollie struggles to carry the Empress Inko up the cobbled street to the square. Supine within her carriage she allows her head to tilt occasionally towards her subjects in the street with eyes that denote total disdain and ennui. Meanwhile, I wrestle with the twins' basket. Inside they huddle together emitting little meows whenever a passer-by dares to peep inside their den.
We wait to receive blessings from the priest and all is well until Alan suggests opening the baskets to allow the anointing of our captives' heads. We reach the front of the queue, watched on by many a beatific, furry face. Tentatively, Ollie opens Inko's cage. She rolls over onto her front and allows the priest to touch her forehead before inching back into the safer recesses of her basket. Carefully, I undo the catch of the twins' cage but just as the priest bends to touch them a very unholy ca rater breaks rank and comes snarling up by my side. The priest and I swerve to avoid his tight little jaws while his owner lunges forward and secures him with a lead. It's too late. Opportunistically, the twins leap from the basket and slink off at speed across the plaça in the direction of Calle sa Lluna. The priest looks helplessly on and shrugs while a grubby Rasta sheep with long matted dreadlocks kicks at one of the pigs. In all the brouhaha, Ollie yells for me to find the twins while Alan stands with hands on hips tutting at the unholy din around him.
'Hurry! We must get them back,' cries Ollie.
Indeed we must. Hastily handing Inko's basket to his father, Ollie grabs my hand and off we dash in pursuit of
our dynamic duo. It is Sunday so the shops in Calle sa Lluna are closed but lots of happy families are ambling along the narrow street to join in the festivities.
'Have you seen two grey kittens?' calls out my son as he runs along the street. People shake their heads and look about them in confusion. There isn't a meow or a streak of grey fur to be seen. Out of breath, we stop in our tracks mid street and begin yelling their names. Nothing.
'I know,' says Ollie in a burst of sudden hope. 'Why not sing their favourite song? You know, the one they like.'
I gather my thoughts. 'Ah', I whisper, 'You mean, "Oh we'll drink, we'll drink, we'll drink, to Inko the pink, the pink, the pink, the mistress of the feline race…"'
He holds up his hands in frustration.
'That's Inko's song. They're hardly going to like that. No, the one you sing about Slinky Minky and Orlando the fattest cat in Sóller town.'
A small group of children has gathered around us, all helpfully looking in doorways and bins for our beloved moggies.
I hiss at Ollie, 'We're in a crowded street. People will have me certified if I start singing the communists anthem.'
'Sing it!' he commands.
'Well, you join in then.'
He views me with impatience. 'OK, OK.'
So, feeling more than a little silly, I begin singing a ridiculous and rather irreverent version of The Red Flag while local children view me with a mixture of pity and humour. Ollie plucks up the courage to join in and soon, with much giggling, our young onlookers attempt the tune too. I'm concerned that it might be misconstrued as a young communist rally. We do several repeats to a small applause from some parents who seem to mistake us for child entertainers, but it's to no avail. The kittens appear to have gone.
'Don't give up,' says one of our small backing group. 'I lost my dog a week ago, but he showed up last night.'
Ollie nods bravely, but he is full of despair. We slump against a wall considering our options when a little girl screams out, 'Moix! Moix!'
We follow her pointed finger and there surveying us from a tiled roof are the twins. The children give a cheer and so with finger to lips I tell everyone to be as quiet as mice while I try to lure them down. After much coaxing both cats at last descend and stand at my feet. Ollie gathers Orlando up in his arms while I clutch hold of Minky.
'Well, thank you everyone for your fantastic help.'
The children step forward to stroke the miscreants.
'Es un miracle!' squeaks a little girl.
'Si, es Sant Antoni!' says another with gravitas.
'Are they right?' asks Ollie. 'Is it really a miracle that we found them?'
'Who can say, Ollie, but God does seem to work in mysterious ways.'
We head back to the square where the Scotsman is deep in conversation with Albert and Antonia from HiBit. I notice he has a large cup of red wine in his hand and a piece of coca in the other.
'Ah, there you are!' he beams. 'Put the little devils in their basket before they run off again.'
We pop the kittens into one of the baskets at his feet.
'I guess this is the last time you'll be taking them to a blessing,' laughs Antonia.
'Yes, I think we might just be spectators next year,' I reply.
'Here, have some wine,' says Albert with a grin.
I gratefully take the cup from him. I look around me, at the same time exchanging greetings with various acquaintances. The plaça is full of locals enjoying the warm sun and delicious fare provided by our town council. Most of the animals have been led away and those that haven't find themselves the centre of attention with children who fondle their ears and slip them leftovers from the tables in the square. The old priest is sitting on a bench in deep conversation with a couple of farmers who stand with their backs to their donkeys. What a scene of bucolic bliss. It's at times like this that I realise there's really nowhere else I'd rather be.
The Scotsman is down in the field digging his vegetable patch. It's the end of January and yet the heavens display no ill humour and the sun smiles weakly through the kitchen window as I finish preparing lunch. As it's the weekend we are entertaining some Mallorcan friends, Inès and Jaume from Palma and their two children, Lluc and Neus. Lluc is one of Ollie's buddies from school, an impish boy who spends much of his free time conducting quasi-scientific experiments – much to his parents' dismay – and playing football. While our son regards him as the epitome of cool the same cannot be said for his poor sister Neus, whom he largely ignores because she's a girl. Their father, Jaume, is a lawyer and his wife, Ines, a civil servant. They speak ex
cellent English, although insist that we practice our Spanish and Catalan with them which invariably has them guffawing with laughter when one of us makes some linguistic howler.
Ollie sits up on the work surface and with concentration draws his finger around a discarded mixing bowl, licking up the remnants of chocolate mouse until there's hardly a trace remaining. It's gone half one, but I'm not the least perturbed. It's unusual for Spanish friends to turn up much before two at lunchtime. Alan appears at the kitchen door with a muddy trowel.
'The soil's rock hard. It's going to be a few days before I can loosen it up.'
'Let's hope it rains.'
'No way!' cries Ollie. 'I've got football practice tomorrow, thank you very much.'
I scan Alan's attire. 'You'd better get changed out of your Boy Scout shorts. They'll be here in a minute.'
'All right,' mumbles the Scotsman. 'Give me a second.'
He places the trowel outside the back door and sets off up the stairs to change. Some time later a car toots. I open the gates via the intercom and am slightly confused to hear two vehicles crunch in to the courtyard. Ollie frowns.
'That's odd. Why would they come in two cars?'
The awkward answer soon presents itself. Ollie and I skip over to the porch and find our four friends emerging from their blue jeep. From the second car appears another quartet I've never seen in my life. Jaume rushes to greet me.
'Hola! It's so good to be here. The air is so fantastic. Please let me introduce you to my mother and father and two of my sister's children, Ignasi and Llora.'
I grit my teeth into a manic smile. 'Hola! Lovely to meet you all.'
Inès wanders over with the party and we exchange kisses. 'It's OK we all come, si? I nearly rang, but it's only a few more people.'
'When I told my mother about you, she said she'd like to visit too but my sister's kids were staying with her so I thought they could all come,' says Jaume without the slightest embarrassment.
'No problema! I'm sure we'll manage somehow. I'll just get Alan.'
I lead them into the garden and fix drinks. Ollie takes the four children up to his room while the adults walk around the gardens marvelling at Alan's horticultural prowess. I scurry upstairs.
'Alan, we've got a problem. They've brought four more people.'
'What? That's all we need.'
'I know. I can rustle up a big pasta for the kids, but I've not got enough chicken pieces for the adults.'
'What about the starter?'
'I'll just have to give them lots of garnish with the prawns. Listen, I'll call Pep and see if he can lend me some chicken breasts.'
He looks horrified. 'Poor Pep! You can't do that. He's probably in the middle of lunch.'
'I can drive round. You keep the troops plied with drink.'
Alan dashes downstairs to play host while I call Pep. He listens in some bemusement.
'You never learn. Why do you think we Mallorcans always cook everything in a big pot?'
'To save on washing up?'
'No. So that we can feed endless guests. You never know how many people will ever turn up so make sure you over cater.'
'It's not quite like that in England,' I grumble.
'Of course, you British are so civilised,' he says, mimicking a snooty English accent.
'So can you lend me some chicken breasts?'
'You could always kill your cockerel. Live entertainment.'
'Don't be horrid.'
'All right, as it happens we do have some frozen chicken breasts. I'll come round.'
'No, don't worry, I'll pick them up.'
'It's easier for me. Juana's at her brother's house so I've got nothing to do.'
'Have you had lunch?' I ask warily.
'As it happens, no.'
I give a groan. 'Would you like to join us?'
'Well, with such a gracious invitation, how could I refuse?'
Alan and Pep are smoking puros and drinking herbes on the patio while I huddle opposite them warming my hands on a mug of freshly picked mint tea. We are wearing jackets because the sun is waning and a light chill descends on the valley as early evening approaches. The Tramuntana range still holds the glow of the departing sun, its craggy features displaying a rosy sheen while the verdant forests pepper its rocky surface like dark stubble on a chin. Alan's gaze rests on the landscape before him and then returns to Pep.
'We can't thank you enough. It was like feeding the five thousand.'
Pep sniggers. 'My pleasure. Don't forget I got a free lunch out of it.'
'The chocolate mousse didn't go very far though.'
He gives me a smile. 'No one noticed. Besides, it was better for our waist lines.'
Despite my initial misgivings, the day turned out to be a great success. Everyone mucked in, serving out the food and clearing up while the children, rosy cheeked, careered around the garden and field, climbing trees and yabbering to one another in a mix of English, Spanish and Catalan. Jaume's mother insisted on my giving her the chocolate mousse recipe, which I took as a great compliment, and then patiently described how to make the perfect tortilla, the potato omelette that is part of the staple diet here. Jaume spent time discussing the parcel of land we want to buy, and on his departure offered to oversee the final contract. All in all, it was a wonderfully relaxing and spontaneous day.
'So, how are the German walkers staying at my flat?' Pep exhales a long plume of smoke into the cold air.
'Nice, quiet people. I wish all your clients were as easy.'
'Luckily, we've got a lull for a few months. You can concentrate on your acting career.'
Alan puffs at his puro. 'After the shampoo debacle it's amazing they've offered me this latest insurance ad.'
'Don't blame me. You shouldn't have made that joke.'
The Scotsman's film career was nearly cut short some months ago when he tried to be jocular with a member of the Focus Films team. When asked if he'd mind kissing his co-star in the shampoo advert he retorted that it depended what age she was, what she looked like and where he had to kiss her. The young executive was rather po-faced about it and Alan found himself dropped from the ad, much to Pep's relief.
'They thought you were a sexist pig, Alan.'
'I think you're more deserving of that title, Pep,' I say.
He kicks my foot under the table. 'How can you say that when I gave up my Sunday to help you cook?'
'Remind me which bit of the meal you prepared?'
'Offering moral support is as good as performing the actual deed.'
The Scotsman throws the stub of his expired puro into the bushes and stretches.
'Time to water and feed the chickens. Salvador's making a racket.'
Ollie runs out of the kitchen, depositing his book on the table.
'I'm coming too.'
Pep rises and with alarm looks at his watch. 'I'd better get back before Juana calls. If she gets home and finds the chickens aren't fed, she'll be mad. Then I'll have to walk the damned dog.'
The two men exchange martyred looks.
'It's a hard life being a male,' says Alan.
'It certainly is, mon amic. We never stop working.'
I don't bother to stifle a guffaw. 'Send Juana my best.'
'I will.' Pep just about reaches the porch when his mobile begins bleating.
He hands it to me wearily. 'Better still, why don't you tell her yourself?'
It's early morning and I have just returned from dropping Ollie off at school. It's a bright cold day and the wind rattles the doors and sends gusts of icy wind down the chimney. Catalina sits opposite me at the kitchen table munching a monster muffin. Her hair has been cut very short and streaks of henna run through it like flashes of amber.
Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof Page 27
