A Long Walk in the High Hills Read online

  Jake is growing into a glossy young cat and, I notice, has started casing the hoopoe birds nesting in the hedge. His lurking is getting him into trouble. He doesn’t like it when an adult swoops out screeching at him to clear off. They’re big birds for a little cat, with bright plumage and sharp, piercing beaks, so he’ll somersault and turn inside out, do anything, to duck and race back up to the house. He’s on one of these fast getaways when Lauren arrives to talk about bringing electricity to the valley. She’s desperate to have power so she can rent out her house for more money and have an easier life. As I’m still smarting over the saga of the drilling I’m not in the best frame of mind to discuss another problem. She however is conciliatory and wants me to come in with her if she can put a project together. It will mean her researching the line the electricity will take from the main transformer and getting permission from the owners of the land where the line will cross. It sounds like a lot of work. She is also going to insist, she tells me, on pinewood poles to carry the line rather than ugly concrete ones, so that electricity won’t despoil our valley. I want to know if everyone else is in agreement. Lauren says she knows Gunther won’t want it, he won’t pay, neither will Emmy Lou, so we will have to continue to put up with the noise pollution from their generators but there are others who want this as much as we do so we won’t be on our own.

  The prospect of ending my relationship with my new generator is enough for me. Yes, I say. Count me in. ‘And by the way,’ I ask as Lauren heads to the gate, ‘have you seen Kendi recently?’

  Lauren looks pained. ‘Yes, unfortunately she’s locked up in the shed.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘She’s on heat,’ says Lauren, ‘and to stop dogs getting to her, they’ve shut her in.’ Lauren quietly closes the gate and leaves.

  That night Joe’s on the phone again, wanting to know if he can come and stay in August. It’s impossible – I am in the middle of filming my documentary with King Juan Carlos -so Joe rings off saying he’ll contact me again after it’s finished. Which is a big relief.

  Next morning, I do as I’m told and prime the generator before pulling the cord to let it run for at least a couple of hours to pump water. I’m not in the mood to hang around so, keeping fingers crossed it won’t blow up in my absence, I set off for the village. There’s a joy to tripping along dry dusty tracks in sandals and Jake is of the same frame of mind. He has begun accompanying me, striding along like a little dog, sometimes accidentally catching my heel with his paw, but he’s not for going far. He’ll stick with me to the third bend and leap on the bank, loitering there until I return. His kittenish ways always make me smile.

  Three old men who once worked the fields are in Sancho’s bar at their favourite table. I guess they’re in their eighties: José with his rakish black beret is small and puckish, Mateo sports a red baseball cap while Juan always looks as though he’s preparing himself for bad news. They seem content with one another’s company although I gather they live alone in homes along the main road and have little money to spend. Apart from their bright hats, they’re usually dressed in shabby grey trousers and grubby shirts but Sancho keeps an eye on them, not minding that they commandeer one of his best tables at the back of the bar. Sometimes they talk about the Franco years and get very animated, at others, like now, they sit quietly and watch the regulars come and go. José raises a glass of San Miguel beer, which he’ll spin out all morning, and smiles, wishing me a Mallorquín Bon Dia. He is cheery but then Spain still includes its old people in daily life, which means old men and the odd dog are welcome to sit for hours in village bars.

  Dottie is talking to a young man with a walking stick whose hand is wrapped in a woollen mitten. She introduces him as Nico. I know immediately who he is. ‘You’re Kendi’s owner.’

  ‘Yes,’ he asserts, proudly.

  He is a good-looking boy who is keen to show off his English.

  ‘She is a lovely dog,’ I say.

  He agrees. ‘Yes, yes, she’s super, a super dog.’

  ‘Where is she? She wasn’t there this morning.’

  Sombrely he nods and says, ‘Sí, Kendi, she quiet because of the machos.’

  ‘But she’s cooped up, isn’t it too hot for her?’

  ‘No. Kendi, she comprende,’ he tells me authoritatively.

  ‘You mean, she knows she’s on heat and has to be shut up?’ I try not to sound challenging.

  ‘Sí:’

  Dottie is grimacing and starts talking about how the summer is ‘mucho calor’, very hot, until Nico decides to go, waving happily. This is impossible, and Dottie agrees, but says it’s no use criticising as it will only get his back up and make it worse. Wonderful.

  I have to go to the bank to pick up some pesetas, trying to work out how I can communicate better with Nico. The bank has a notice outside saying ‘Caja de Ahorros’, which actually means savings bank, but is known locally as ‘The Cage of Horrors’. Inside, the manager, a plump pleasant fellow in his late fifties, counts thousand-peseta banknotes with long, dirty fingernails. He looks a bit down on his luck, but in fact he’s up on everyone’s affairs and nods knowingly before pronouncing on important financial transactions to those perched on benches, waiting. He is always pleased to see me, enunciating ‘Selina’ carefully as though he’s picked up a whole new language with just the one word.

  This morning, luckily, I don’t have to spend long because there’s no one in before me: like the shop the bank is maddening if other customers nip in especially as no one ever gets round to money matters straight away, finding out first how wives, daughters, granddaughters and cousins several times removed are faring before commenting on the state of one another’s health.

  In any case the generator is beginning to bother me. It worries me to leave an engine running when I’m not there to check up on it, although everyone else, it seems, leaves theirs while they get on with the rest of their day. A genny will splutter and soon a dozen more will join in, seemingly on the principle that a rattling ear splitter is better than a low just-audible rumble, so at least we’re all in the same noisy boat together.

  By the time I reach the road to the house, Jake’s already been waiting for more than an hour and is cross, leaping out in front of me, as if to say, come on, what’s kept you? I’m relieved to hear the genny has stopped because it’s run out of fuel but until it’s cooled down I’m terrified to touch it in case I spark the petrol. Oh, what heaven it would be to have electricity.

  As my camera crews are about to descend to resume filming the Royals, it’s a good excuse to go to Palma. I’ve booked a table at the Parlement, a restaurant close to the cathedral, so we can all catch up and be briefed. The Parlement is a favourite, a restaurant where paella, normally a lunch dish, is served for dinner on white linen tablecloths under crystal chandeliers in the grand Spanish tradition. The owner, Bernardo, is behind the long liquor-filled mahogany bar when we arrive and greets us warmly before nodding over to his waiters, all middle-aged, to show us to our table. There’s an opaque glass panel at the back of the restaurant where a long table is laid for a dozen or more. A phalanx of severe-looking men in black suits arrive, trailing cigar smoke as they’re ushered through. They’re probably only local politi-cos here to hatch a deal, but the restaurant falls silent as they process past. It is all very melodramatic. So too, as it turns out, is my Spanish producer, Nacho, who has suddenly come over all pensive.

  While the rest of the crew gobble plump fresh radishes and bread before cruising into gazpacho and then a platter of paella, Nacho continues to brood. He still hasn’t lightened up by the pudding so now no one is in any doubt that Nacho, with his big brown eyes, is very troubled indeed.

  He’s under pressure, he says, because his bosses want the King to do some interviews in Spanish. They know we’ve got special access and are determined to get a bigger, Spanish piece of the action. I tell Nacho that this isn’t on, it is certainly not part of the deal, and his bosses knew it when they signed up. Nac
ho then says if they don’t get an interview they will walk away from the deal and he will lose face. Can’t I just ask the King again if he will grant an interview in Spanish with him, before we leave Mallorca?

  The last thing I need is a crew walk-out now so close to the finish of the film, so after a second or two I concur. ‘Of course, Nacho, I will ask the King again,’ I say knowing as we leave the restaurant and say goodnight, Nacho will never get what he wants.

  We’re all to meet at 9 a.m. at the Marivent Palace in a suburb of Palma. The gates are grand enough, set between two stone pillars in a long wall ringed with barbed wire close to the main road. It’s easy to miss, there’s a busy garage on the corner and a tattoo parlour close by, but once through the gates and along the curving drive it becomes more royal by the minute. There’s uniformed staff everywhere. And security guards. A fine mist of water pulses over tropical plants in the grounds, leaving random refreshing puddles on the road as we arrive to begin work.

  The Marivent is simple. A coolly tiled entrance hall leads straight into a large sunroom where a veranda with spectacular views of the Bay of Palma is furnished with sofas and photos and memorabilia. Amidst the many family pictures there’s one of Diana and Charles and their two young sons happily smiling on the steps of the Marivent. The room is modern, designed for a slip-on way of life.

  Queen Sofia in polo shirt, trousers and deck shoes dashes off to organise orange juice because it is very warm and she guesses our camera crews must be thirsty. Sofia is a Greek princess who, like her husband, spent her formative years in exile worrying how to make ends meet and dependent on friends and relatives to offer a home. This perhaps helps explain her unaffected empathy. Sofia couldn’t speak a word of Spanish when she married Juan Carlos but she has worked hard to win over the Spanish people with her warmth and dedication. Certainly the guys think she’s the bee’s knees to look after them like this.

  Soon Juan Carlos is with us, and then their daughters, the Infantas Cristina and Elena. Both girls are obviously happy to have this family down-time after the Olympics but, still suffused with the excitement of Barcelona, they are keen to start prepping for another competition, the local Copa del Rey, The King’s Cup yacht race, a sailing fixture staged every summer in the waters off Mallorca. Already there’s feverish activity down the road in the Royal Yacht Club, the Real Club Náutico de Palma, as crews and boats make ready for the race. It’s become a family affair, the King in competition with his son and two daughters, who spice up the opposition by skippering boats of their own. The King has a habit, however, of winning.

  Our first filming gig is aboard the Fortuna, King Juan Carlos’s speedboat, which is tied up in the naval yard close to one of Palma’s busiest roads. Juan Carlos is keen to get going. The Fortuna is a sleek dark machine with its own skipper who has been with the King for years and knows where to go and how to get there fast.

  Royal Standard flying, the skipper is at the wheel, the King next to him as Fortuna glides out from its berth using up a river of fuel. It never enters our minds how vulnerable we are as we surge out to sea. A few years from now, in 1995, a Basque sniper will be put on trial, captured by police as he prepared to kill Juan Carlos from an apartment overlooking the naval yard. On that morning, identical to this, Juan Carlos will be in the Fortuna as an assassin does a dummy run aiming to kill not just him but also the future Prime Minister José María Aznar. Juan Carlos was in the terrorist’s telescopic gun sight three times that day. It was the closest ETA came to ending the life of the Spanish monarch.

  We’re speeding round the south coast of the island when the King decides he wants the wheel because we’re not going fast enough. He’s spotted a speedboat filled with paparazzi and wants to give them the slip. Soon two jagged rocks rear out of the water with a narrow gap between them. As the rocks get closer Juan Carlos opens the throttle, the boat lifts and, picking up speed, careers straight for them. I’m hoping my camera is focused because I’m not. Convinced he’s going to misjudge the space and crash, I brace myself for the impact, but we whistle through, a cliff in touching distance either side. The King and his skipper glance at one another and grin. And the photographers confronted with the fastest jet-powered vessel in the Med don’t stand an earthly.

  A day at sea with Juan Carlos is certainly a spirited experience and by the time we get back to base he’s still enthusiastically suggesting more. Would we like to take some shots of him on his motorbike, this time in Mallorca? I think it a good idea as we might then be able to dump the earlier, not so good, ones of him and me trying to start the machine. So after tea we progress to a quiet road on the coast, Juan Carlos on his bike, my cameraman riding pillion on another, hoping to follow the King and get a sequence on the move. It takes quite a time to load up the gear and for both bikes to get into synch but by then it’s too late; Juan Carlos on his racer is not a slow mode kinda guy, he is bored, he’s had enough. Next thing we know, the King shoots off leaving us to pack up and make our own way home.

  Next day, as the crews have been assigned to follow and film the Royals at various official functions in Mallorca and I’m not needed, I pop into Port d’Andratx to reassure myself that things are going to plan. I want to film a cosy supper with Juan Carlos and his family and I hope that the small Mallorquín fish restaurant I’ve picked will be perfect. Eating away from Palma without the usual protocol is a regular holiday treat for the Royals but this dinner will be different. It has to be cleared with security, who are concerned there’ll be a public scrum if word gets out. How to get cameras and lights into position without alerting the press will be a challenge, although I have asked that the Royal bodyguard be low-key when they check out the town. I’ve also sworn the restaurant to secrecy.

  Today Port d’Andratx is beguiling. The dozens of small rowing boats tied to makeshift jetties hidden in the reeds of the water meadow are busy being made ready for a day’s excursion. Juan St Juan, who owns the Miramar restaurant where the Royals will eat, knows the trawler fishermen well and so has the pick of the best fish, which he serves at smart tables under a colourful awning on the sea front. The Miramar is one of several fish restaurants in the port but Juan, who is Mallorquín, oversees an old established family enterprise that has been engaged in the business of cooking for generations.

  Juan is slim and tall and when we meet to discuss practicalities, he’s tense at being chosen to prepare supper for a king. His king. He’s been told it could all go very wrong if too many people hear about it so he conducts our meeting at a whisper, his eyes darting back and forth, sensing conspiracy round every corner. Security guards, he confides, have been all through his restaurant, the kitchen, upstairs, out along the harbour, to check their positions on the night. He hopes no one has seen them, but he can’t be certain; he’s told his staff and the band not to breathe a word. A group of local musicians have been booked to sing Mallorquín songs through dinner, which all sounds lovely but I’m not sure is going to work on the night. Juan Carlos doesn’t like music when he’s eating, especially if conversation is in danger of being drowned out. It will, however, give the film colour and movement and I’m keeping fingers crossed the King will approve, but the more I hear from Juan about who’s in the band and who they’re related to, the more convinced I am that the entire port is now in on our secret.

  We have several days more filming before we get to Juan and I’m worried that by the time we’re ready for him he’ll be done in by the strain of his subterfuge. Juan pulls himself up, however, straightens his shoulders and announces he will cope, ‘no problemas’ at all.

  Elena in the colmada back in the village has ripe watermelon, sandia, on the counter and slices me a delicious, dripping wedge for my walk home. There’s no Kendi, only a few squawking sparrows bathing in the dusty road as I trudge to the top.

  Lauren collars me just after I arrive home. She’s heard about the film because everyone is talking about it, she says. She suggests that I should use my newly minted celebrity to p
ressure the local mayor into giving us electricity. She says the state electricity company, Gesa, won’t speak to her; they don’t want to know about a project as small as ours, so the local council, the Ayuntamiento, is our only hope.

  I sigh. The thought of wading into local politics over electricity is too depressing. I knew I’d get landed with the job. ‘I promise I’ll try,’ I hear myself saying, ‘on one condition: that you help me free Kendi.’

  Lauren’s face tightens as she mutters something about how there is absolutely nothing she can think of which will get the dog out of the shed. It’s impossible, she declares, and even more so now because she’s also noticed that when the old man is out talking to his neighbours, Kendi, who used to be allowed off the chain to romp around with him, is never to be seen. She seems to be shut up the whole time. Something has happened, she solemnly intones. I am having none of it. Surely we can get a dog off a chain. This isn’t Colditz. ‘What I want you to do,’ I say, ‘is to ask Nico if I can take Kendi for a walk. You, after all, have known him for many years. Or, here’s a better suggestion, why don’t you bring him up here and I will ask him?’

  Lauren frowns. ‘I suppose I might be able to persuade Nico to come up and see you, but I don’t hold out any hope he’ll agree.’

  And with that, she takes her leave.

  It’s too hot to venture outdoors, and normally I’d shutter up to contain the coolness of the old stone walls but there’s an enticing breeze from the north and it seems a shame not to open the windows to the mountain air. Hundreds of years ago, those who built this house from rocks and boulders formed window openings perfectly placed to let in both the low winter sun and keep out the high rays of summer. Walking barefoot on the cold clay-tiled floors when the ground outside throbs in the heat is a real pleasure. For the rest of the day, I take it easy, reading and taking updates on the phone on the crew’s progress in Palma, filming the Royals as they inspect the yachts they’ll be skippering in the boat race.