Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (28 page)

Sóller's
plaça
is dark save for the yellow haze cast from the dim street lamps and the soft glow emanating from Cafè Paris and other bars nestling around the square. Huddled together by the stone wall of the bandstand a group of teenagers chat and idly kick at a discarded coke can while thin and mangy cats lie curled up at the side of the town hall, their eyes ever watchful as I stride past. It is nearly eight o'clock and I am on my way to my first free Catalan lesson. Thanks to the goodwill of Sóller town council, foreign residents are offered complimentary lessons in the local dialect. The lean, cobbled streets are deserted as I hurry along. I don't want to be late for the class and I am yet to find its location within the town's music school. Before long the silhouette of the school rises before me, a rather fanciful filigree stone edifice on three floors with a Gaudiesque spire and row upon row of small windows. Beyond spiky black railings and a paved yard a set of stone steps lead down to a glass-fronted, arched door. The wood is scuffed and a dreary light beckons from within. Pushing it ajar I find myself in a sparsely decorated hallway from which there are flights of concrete stairs running upwards and downwards. Beyond are thin white corridors peeling off to both right and left. There are no signs or notices so I stand gormlessly at the intersection trying to decide which to take when a cheerful, booming voice greets me.

  'You've finally arrived! What kept you?'

  The face is round and full of fun, the dark hair razor spiked. Behind thick lenses a pair of chocolate brown eyes sparkle, studying me with some bemusement. It is Guillem, owner of Can Gata restaurant in Calle sa Lluna, who also doubles up as the local Catalan teacher.

  'I've had one of those days.' I give him a grimace. 'Don't tell me I'm the last to arrive?'

  He chortles merrily. '
Si
, you are the last, so now you can make a dramatic entrance.'

  'I was planning on slithering in, actually.'

  'Come on. Let's get cracking!'

  I follow him down the corridor and through a labyrinth of classrooms until we reach a small cell in which desks are tightly packed practically one on top of the other. I view the sea of faces, about twenty in all, and with some relief spot Judy, an Australian friend from my Pilates class, who is waving from the back of the room. I squeeze into one of the only available seats near the front of the class next to a smiling woman of about my age. While Guillem busies himself at the blackboard she tells me in Spanish that her name is Jutta and that she is from Germany and can only speak faltering Catalan. I tell her mine is almost non-existent. We giggle in complicity. Guillem now claps his hands together and begins passing round individual folders and books. He tells us that we should each introduce ourselves in Catalan and patiently acts as a guide telling us that
'Jo sóc'
in Catalan or
'Jo som'
in Catalan Mallorcan dialect both mean 'I am' and conjugate from the verb to be,
ésser.
Now, to complicate matters one can't just say, 'I am Frank' or 'I am Jenny' but must add
'en'
or
'na'
in front, hence
'Sóc en Frank'
or
'Sóc na Jenny'.
In the case of a name starting with a vowel such as Anne, it becomes
'Sóc n'Anne'
.

  
'Qui ets?'
he says loudly. Who are you?

  
'Sóc en Helmut,'
bleats his first German victim, a tall blonde man with a deep voice.

  
'Sóc en Marc,'
says the man in the first row sitting next to him.

  He continues questioning each of us in turn, explaining grammatical points as he goes. We move on to where we live and come from. We're a motley crew of Bosnians, Germans, Australians, British, Spanish, Argentineans, French and Belgians, not to mention the talkative Venezuelan contingent.

  Guillem turns to me
. 'Ets anglesa?'
Are you English?

  
'Som d'anglaterra,'
I reply, sheep like.

  Jutta gives me the thumbs up. A meek woman sitting directly in front of me makes a complete bish of things and has to start again. My heart misses a beat for her. I look at the clock. Another hour to go. Guillem spends a considerable time trying to help us get to grips with Catalan vowls. This is no meant feat given that they sound completely different from their British equivalent.

  'Ahhhhhhh,' he intones loudly, 'ehhhhhhhhh… oooooohhh… urghhhhhhhhhhh.'

  There's an enormous temptation to yell back impertinently 'Bahhhhhhhh…' but I'm trying to keep my ewe preoccupation under control, so keep shtum. We are given screeds of vocabulary sheets which would give hope to any aspiring British yob with linguistic ambitions. Next to some of the Catalan words and their English translation, I decide to add my own unofficial puerile list of British Yob Equivalents. Here's my hot list:

The Venezuelan party at the back of the room are breaking out into giggles as they attempt to pronounce Catalan greetings on the first page of the text book we've all been given. Guillem claps loudly and says in Spanish.

  'OK, now we will learn how to greet each other.'

  A young woman in front of me doesn't seem to understand. '
En Français?'
she pleads.

  I dredge up some rusty French. '
Regard le livre. Maintenant apprendrons salutations.'

  She turns to face me. 'Ah
, d'accord! Merci. Je suis Florence
.'

  I wonder how Guillem is going to cope with us. It's not as if he's just dealing with a bunch of Brits or Germans. This class is a United Nations all on its own and not everyone can speak Castilian Spanish, let alone Catalan.

  
'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.'