Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (6 page)

I am approaching the port, sun in my eyes, and wondering whether this was such a good decision. As I pound along the main esplanade, I am aware of blunderbusses and muskets booming from the beach. Groups of tipsy youths in costume loll around the bars and block the pavements, guns dangling by their sides. One of them topples onto the road, flagging me down with a vodka bottle. I grind to a halt and peer at him. It is one of the tilers who worked on our house and a friend of Catalina's brother. He offers me a slurp and for a mad moment I nearly take him up on his offer. Young women clad in headscarves and wearing long, black cotton dresses stand in clusters, laughing loudly and swigging on bottles of warm beer. Catalina is amongst them and hurtles towards me with a huge grin on her face.

  'What are you doing running along here, you mad woman?' she screams.

  I pat her arm as I run by. 'You know I like to live dangerously.'

  The air is laced with the peppery tang of cordite and a veil of smoke like pale muslin hovers over the port. It's hot enough to singe skin and spectators are splashing bottles of mineral water over their heads to stave off the rays of the sun. The smell of brine wriggles through the hot musty air as I weave a path along the esplanade. Finally, I reach the car park and am about to head back when there is a massive explosion from the sea and several small boats burst into flames. I peer across the water just in time to see the defiant chin of a large black pirate vessel jutting out from behind steep cliffs in the distance. The ship hovers on the far rim of the bay, its frame resplendent in the glowing rays of the sun. Slowly and steadily it forges a menacing path towards Platja d'en Repic, the beach on the south side of the port. I stop to gulp some water and am aware of a woman calling hysterically in English from her open car window. I jog over to the vehicle as firecrackers snap and guns blaze. Inside, a pale-faced, elderly couple sit strapped in their seats, a tartan flask resting between them. Can they seriously be drinking tea in this heat? She's wearing a head scarf while her partner's diminutive frame is buried inside a beige quilted jacket.

  'What's going on?' the woman shrieks at me. 'Is it some kind of riot? We've locked ourselves in the car, but it seems to be getting worse.'

  'It's just a fiesta,' I yell as cheerfully as possible with rockets whizzing and whirring overhead. I crouch by her window as I wait for the ensuing BOOM and flash of white light as they explode.

  She gapes at me in disbelief. 'Fiesta? It's more like Iraq! Our rep in Magaluf told us Sóller would make a nice day trip. I'll have words with her when we get back.'

  I'm about to reply when there's a sudden whoosh and thunderous thud as a nearby blunderbuss unleashes its charge. We hold our ears and scrunch our eyes shut as the scorched air is filled with dust and grey acrid smoke.

  'The road will be clear in about an hour. Why not just enjoy yourselves until then,' I hear myself shouting above the din.

  'We're not leaving the car,' she quivers and hurriedly winds up the window.

  As I beat a retreat I see, appearing out of the haze, the towering hull of the pirate ship approaching the beach. With a united war cry, swarthy, sabre-rattling Moors leap into the shallow water and up onto the sandy shore. Guns blaze and swords whip the air as they join battle with the awaiting Christians. I leave the scene, relieved that this lively pageant distracted me from the gnawing pain in my leg. As I reach our track the only sound to be heard is the distant braying of a donkey. Peace at last.

It is ten o'clock and the sky is ablaze with stars. Tightly packed in the leafy
plaça
, singing and swaying forms raise a cheer as El Capità Angelats, Captain of the Christians, wrestles victory from El Rei Moro, the King of the Moors. He stands aloft on the first floor verandah of the town hall and thrusting his sword in the air leads the town in song. Around the square, defeated Moors link arms with their vanquishers to sing the Mallorcan national song, 'La Balanguera'. Firecrackers thrown into the throng by mischievous boys sizzle and splutter, their bright flares briefly illuminating the dark earth.

  We sit at a quiet cafe just off the
plaça
with our friends, Pep and Juana. Ollie and their son, Angel, have commandeered another small table and sit playing cards and sipping cola. The waiter bustles over and places glasses of cold cava in front of us. In characteristic mode, Pep is smoking a
puro
and wearing a wide-brimmed panama which obscures his grey wavy locks.

  'Did you know,' he says, fixing his bright blue eyes on me, 'that "La Balanguera" only became the national anthem in 1996.'

  'Who exactly is
la balanguera
?' I ask.

  'Who indeed?' sighs Pep, inhaling deeply.

  'It's just a bit of Mallorcan folklore,' says Juana.

  Pep gives her a frown. With some impatience he taps his cigar against the table, grinding the ash under his foot. 'The words were written by Joan Alcover I Maspons, a friend of my grandfather. He had a tragic life.'

  'Why?'

  He slips me a smile. 'Probably because
la balanguera
decreed he should.'

  'Oh well, at least he'll be remembered,' says Juana, taking a gulp of cava and fidgeting in her chair.

  'Cold comfort,' Pep replies.

  'Let's raise a toast to
la balanguera
, whoever she is,' Alan says.

  We are clinking glasses when a confident young woman strides towards us. She smiles indulgently at Alan.

  'Do you live here?'

  'Thankfully, yes.'

  'Great! I wonder if you'd mind doing a brief piece to camera? I'm filming with Channel Four. Be good to get a resident Brit's perspective on the fiesta.'

  A gaunt man trails behind her in the gloom, gripping a large furry object to his chest, indicating that he's either a sound engineer or a rodent fetishist.

  Alan rises from his seat.

  'How much are you paying him?' quips Pep.

  'Nothing, I'm afraid, but he'll be on TV.'

  'Ha! Your brief moment of fame,' he cries, patting Alan on the back.

  'I must see this,' says Juana, with a certain irony in her voice.

  They walk off in the direction of the floodlit town hall, leaving Pep and me slouching lazily in our wicker chairs.

  'I'm back to London soon.'

  He yawns softly. 'So much for all your talk about starting a business over here.'

  'I'm working on something.'

  He takes a sip of cava. 'I'm listening.'

  'It's a bit complicated.'

  'The best things in life are.'

  I call over the waiter and ask for some olives and crisps.

  'I'll tell you when I'm ready.'

  He shrugs. 'By the way, I've completed the deal on that holiday flat in the port. Now that it's mine, I can start renting it next month.'

  'Congratulations.'

  We clink glasses.

  He taps my arm. 'Actually, I've asked Alan to manage the rentals. We discussed it over lunch the other day.'

  'He hasn't mentioned it yet.'

  Pep fans the air with his hand. 'It could be a lucrative little business for him. I'm too busy working on other things.'

  'What markets will you go for?'

  'Brits, Germans and Swedes, mostly.'

  I'm not sure how Alan will cope with juggling bookings for a holiday flat, but he'll no doubt enjoy greeting clients, especially Swedish hen parties. I munch on the olives brought to the table by our waiter while the boys snaffle the plate of crisps for themselves. A few minutes later Alan and Juana return, talking animatedly.

  'That producer thought Alan was a natural for TV. She's taken his details.' Juana sounds breathless.

  Pep and I share a smirk.

  'She was probably just being nice,' says the Scotsman modestly. 'Mind you, stranger things have happened.'

  We drain our glasses and Pep settles the bill before we can remonstrate.

  Pulling back his chair, he slots his old leather wallet back into his trouser pocket. 'Come on, let's leave before the stampede. Juana will prepare a light supper.'

  'Who says?' she simmers.

  'I can cook something,' I say quickly, desperate to avoid one of their bickering sessions.

  'I'm only joking,' says Juana throwing Pep a cautionary glance. 'This time.' We set off as the
plaça
begins to clear and overhead a stray firework crackles and splutters, unleashing a thin plume of bright fuchsia smoke into the raven black sky.

Ollie is shaking me awake. I peer, bleary eyed, at my alarm clock. Thankfully, I haven't overslept. Light is streaming in from the window.

  'What is it?'

  'Jorge's here.'

  'Who?'

  'He says he's the new postman. He knocked at the front door.'

  I belly flip out of bed, grab a bathrobe and hop over to the mirror. Late-night celebrations at Juana and Pep's house have taken their toll. Alan is laid out on the bed like a corpse, although his lungs still appear to have life. I tiptoe downstairs to the front door and there, like a heavenly seraph bathed in primrose light, is the Argentinean Adonis. He smiles shyly, his long mane of chestnut hair fastened loosely behind him, his eyes as blue and mesmeric as the Indian Ocean. I extend a hand.

  'You're Jorge, the new postman?'

  His eyes widen in surprise as he addresses me in formal Spanish. 'You know my name? News travels fast in this town.'

  'It certainly does.'

  'I'm sorry to arrive so early, but I wanted to introduce myself before going to the depot. Time won't permit me to deliver to your house every day, but I'll do my best.'

  'Well, that's better than in the past.'

  As he passes me the mail, I stealthily notice a small black tattoo of what looks like a letter 'R' on his bronzed wrist.

  'You are British?'

  Well, even by a long stretch of the imagination, he can hardly think me a native.

  'That's right.'

  He smiles apologetically. 'Ah, I speak German, Russian and French, but no English. I will have to learn.'

  Why a quadra-lingual Argentinean deity is delivering post in the Sóller Valley, I'll never know.

  'Perhaps you can give me lessons,' he says, with a beatific smile.

  Like a shot.

  'Maybe one day.'

  He shakes my hand and, with a slight nod of his head, saunters off down the track, his tall, muscular frame undaunted by the heavy mailbag slung over his shoulder. Ollie hovers behind me.

  'He's really cool. I told him one of my jokes.'

  'That's nice.'

  Ollie's blue eyes follow the fast-moving figure, now just a blurry silhouette devoured by the sun.

  'I do hope we'll see him again.'

  Indeed, let's hope we will.