Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (17 page)

Booming voices greet me as I stagger into Cafè Paris following an early morning run. I've managed more than an hour on my feet but the pain in my right leg has been worsening all the time. Stubbornly, I've refused to seek medical advice but now I'm beginning to think self-imposed martyrdom isn't necessarily the way forward. It is Saturday and Alan and Ollie have agreed to join me for a leisurely breakfast. Through the haze of cigar smoke I head for a vacant table at the far end of the room and scan my watch. We agreed to meet at ten o'clock so they should be here any minute. José gives me a nod while continuing to talk animatedly to an elderly man seated at the bar. I notice the old chap is drinking a glass of red wine which isn't an unusual sight at this time of the morning. A woman at a nearby table suddenly rises to her feet, hands on hips, and shouts something at José. Several regulars begin joining in, calling out to one another in fast flowing local dialect. Senyor Bisbal walks in and is barely seated before he too is sounding off. He gives me a courteous little wave while he's mid flow.

  I find myself smiling, remembering the first time I entered this rowdy cafe in some awe believing that a fierce argument had broken out between the local patrons. In time I learned that this was normal morning banter up here in the mountains and that shouting loudly and thumping your glass down on the table was part and parcel of a lively discussion about anything from the price of petrol to the dates of the next fiesta. José shrugs his shoulders and begins laughing. Others join in. My Catalan isn't good enough to catch the joke but I'm working on it. Give me time. José comes over with a double espresso and a croissant and sets them down in front of me.

  'Where are the men folk?' he asks.

  'Probably still in bed.'

  He clicks his teeth and raises his eyebrows as Alan and Ollie walk briskly into the cafe.

  'The usual? Americano? Chocolate?'

  They nod enthusiastically.

  'How was the run?' Ollie asks, pulling off his jumper and sprawling in a chair next to me.

  'Pretty good.'

  'What about the leg problem?' quizzes Alan.

  'Nothing amputation won't cure.'

  He taps my arm. 'We picked up the post. There's a letter for you from Sri Lanka.'

  He pulls a crumpled grey envelope from his trouser pocket. The dog-eared stamps run in a colourful row along the top.

  'Can I have those?' Ollie asks.

  He waits until I've drawn the flimsy sheet of paper from within and then pounces on the empty envelope. While I'm reading the letter José brings over a plate of croissants and hot drinks. Alan and Ollie dive for the plate like a pair of gannets.

  'Who's it from?' Ollie asks impatiently, wiping crumbs from his lips.

  I fold the sheet and place it in front of me.

  'Well, it's from Teresa, the nun who runs the Sri Lankan orphanage. She says she and the children are very grateful that I'm running the marathon for them and that they are looking forward to our visit.'

  'Eh?' says Alan, mid mouthful. 'We're not going to Sri Lanka, are we?'

  'Of course not, but she says that Noel at my club says we shall be.'

  'There must be some mistake,' he says casually.

  'Let's go!' says Ollie excitedly. 'They've got monkeys and one of the most poisonous snakes in the world.'

  'Oh, what joy!' says Alan.

  'Actually, I read an article about Sri Lanka's tea plantations and a wonderful elephant orphanage up in the hills,' I add.

  Alan slaps his coffee cup down in some exasperation. 'Look, we're not going so don't start…'

  'I love elephants,' says Ollie.

  'Don't we all, but that doesn't mean jumping on a plane to visit them,' retorts his father.

  'I think I'll give Noel a call tonight and find out what's going on,' I say.

  Ollie slurps the last of his hot chocolate and licks his lips. 'When I get home I'll dig out my book on venomous snakes,' he says, and then with a shrug.

  'Just in case.'

It's late on Monday evening when I finally get round to calling Noel in London. I know he'll be doing the night shift at my club so wait until I'm sure he'll be on duty. The phone purrs and then Noel's soft voice fills the void. He seems delighted to hear from me.

  'Is everything well with you?'

  'Fine, Noel, but I've just had a letter from the Colombo orphanage…'

  'As I expected,' he says cheerfully. 'Sister Teresa said she would be in touch directly. I hope you don't mind my having given her your details.'

  'Not at all, but she seems to think I'll be visiting her in Sri Lanka.'

  'Ah, yes, that would be best.'

  There's a pause while I try to think of a fitting response. I look at the moon for inspiration but it stares blankly back at me through my office window. There's a chill in the air and I pull my dressing gown closely around me.

  'Noel, why would I go to Sri Lanka when I can just send them a cheque?'

  He gives a little giggle, probably at my naivety.

  'It's not that easy. Many things get lost in the post and it really would be the only safe way of ensuring the money reaches the orphanage.'

  'I see.'

  'Your son would like it. My country is beautiful and we have a wonderful elephant orphanage…'

  'Yes, I know all that. It's just a big commitment.'

  'Why not make it your next holiday? Easter time is lovely. Think of the good you would do.' Noel's enthusiasm is dangerously catching.

  'It would certainly be nice to meet the children and nuns in person.'

  'Exactly.'

  'Apart from the money, I suppose we could bring out toys and books.'

  'Precisely,' says Noel, ever the gracious salesman.

  Five minutes later I hang up the phone. Alan walks into the office with Inko in his arms.

  'She's just killed a rat.'

  'Oh dear.'

  'That's what cats do. They kill vermin. Good old Inko, I say.'

  I find rats rather repellent but still can't bear it when our cats play catch ball with them. I lighten the tone.

  'I've just spoken to Noel.'

  'Ah, good,' says the Scotsman. 'You sorted out the misunderstanding?'

  'Absolutely. We
are
going to Sri Lanka.'

  He narrows his eyes. 'You are joking?'

  'No. Apparently we have little choice if we want the money to reach the orphanage safely. Noel suggests next Easter.'

  'Does he indeed?'

  'We've got bags of time to sort everything out.'

  The door opens a fraction and Ollie stumbles half asleep into the room.

  'I had a nightmare.'

  'Poor old chap,' says Alan dropping Inko to the floor and whisking him up for a hug instead.

  A devious thought hits me. 'I'll tell you something that'll cheer you up, Ollie. Your father's agreed that we can go to Sri Lanka next Easter.'

  His eyes widen and with gusto he gives Alan a chummy punch on the arm.

  'Really? You're the best!'

  Alan exhales deeply. 'Now why didn't I see that coming?'

  With a shake of the head he plods out of the room, one arm slung over Ollie's shoulder and with Inko, ever the faithful shadow, at his heels.

I am at the counter of Can Matarino, my favourite butcher's in the town. Like many of the shopkeepers in Sóller, the three Graces standing before me bearing hatchets and bloody knives spend considerable time patiently trying to make head or tail of my embryonic Catalan. Ordering cuts of meat in Castilian Spanish can be tricky enough, but in Catalan, it's a meaty minefield. Chicken,
pollo
becomes
pollastre
, cutlet,
chuleta,
transforms into
costella,
and a drumstick,
muslo,
is the more challenging
cuixa.
If that isn't confusing enough, Mallorcans put their own special twist on Catalan words which do not appear in any dictionary so for example, lamb,
be
in Catalan, becomes
xot
in Mallorcan. The wonderful thing about Can Matarino is that it exists at all. In London our local butcher wearily packed up his stripy apron and hung up his meat cleaver, unable to cope with the soaring shop rent. In his place came a huge, shiny supermarket with cellophane wrapped meat and vegetables suffocating in tightly packaged polystyrene. By contrast, regulars at Can Matarino can handpick bones and off-cuts for making stock or even to feed their dogs, and choose the organic fresh lamb, pork or beef that they wish to be minced. Handmade sausages, chicken
croquetes
and stuffed pork rolls are house specialities and there isn't the flash of a clingwrap package in sight.

  Antonia, one of the feisty women, hands me a bag of meat.

  'The sooner you start those Catalan lessons the better,' she says with mock sobriety.

  'Then we'll teach you our own Mallorcan version,' adds Catalina, one of her accomplices, wiping her hands on her gore-smeared white apron.

  Across the street at the grocer's, Colmado Sa Lluna, Xavier is mopping his brow.

  'It's a scorcher today.'

  His girlfriend, Teresa, is now working with him in the shop and nervously studies him as he finely carves a hulk of
Serrano
ham on the slicing machine.

  'There's nothing to it. Come on, you try.'

  She takes my order and, with an anxious expression, begins slicing some chorizo. The meat disintegrates into minute slivers.

  '
Non!
Here, hold it like this.'

  She stands back and shakes her head. 'This is going to take forever.'

  He looks at me. 'What do you think of my new apprentice?'

  'She's a natural.'

  Teresa jerks her finger at her grinning boyfriend. 'Can you imagine having to take lessons from him?'

  'No, it's bad enough having him correct my Catalan all the time.'

  'Talking of which, why are we chatting in Castiliano?

  'Can't I have a break?'

  He hunches his shoulders. 'Just today. By the way, Ramon tells me you've bought some chickens. That'll keep Alan busy.'

  'He's out there every day with Ollie, fussing around the corral.'

  'Watch the genets and rats. They've carried off some of my hens.'

  I can cope with the concept of running into a spotted, furry genet in the corral, after all, these cat-like creatures with their bushy tails are rather beautiful, but I'm not sure about a rat. While eating supper al fresco the night before, we watched as a rat scuttled across the garden in front of us, its long grey tail slithering over the cobbles, and began scampering up the facade of the house, a feat I never imagined possible. When I quizzed Rafael on the matter, he shrugged dismissively, telling me that it was quite normal for a rat to climb a wall but that it would rarely enter a house even with the windows or doors opened. I remain unconvinced.

  I collect my goods and amble up Calle Sa Lluna which is predictably awash with locals and summer holidaymakers. For Sa Mostra, the international folk dancing fiesta, has officially begun, turning Sóller's
plaça
into a veritable paradise for
Come Dancing
fans. Musical and dancing groups travel from as far away as Easter Island and Berundi to perform to appreciative audiences across Mallorca, using Sóller as their base. I pop into Art I Mans, the local art and picture framing shop, to buy Ollie some new pencils. The owners greet me like a longlost friend, keen to direct me to those which they know are Ollie's favourites. Clutching the small paper bag of purchases, I arrive in the busy
plaça
just as dancers from Asturias in brightly coloured folk costumes start cavorting around the bandstand. Crowds whistle and clap while local children get to their feet and mimic the dance moves on the pavements to rapturous applause. I am entranced by the grace and confidence with which these small boys and girls follow the movements of the dancers. Somewhat distractedly, with eyes straining to keep pace with the dancers, I pass by the bandstand and in the process collide with Tolo, our deputy bank manager. He kisses me on both cheeks and exclaims incredulously that he has just seen Alan in the gym. This sweat shop for the masochistic is run by Jaume, a popular and incredibly sporty Mallorcan whose cycling prowess has won him many trophies. When I first plucked up courage to duck through the heavy metal chains hanging in front of the entrance, I expected to alight upon a group of sultry macho hulks with names like Rocky, but I had a surprise. The majority of the patrons were quiet, middle-aged and dressed in unpretentious sportswear.