Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues! Read online

  ‘So how you say mans sall-mon in Eengliss?’

  Right matey, time to get you back. Mans sall-mon indeed. I stare at him, deadpan. ‘John West.’

  ‘Jonneee, no! John West not mans sall-mon! John West he boy-cow. I see he on films Americano.’ And he draws two imaginary six-guns from his holsters, and shoots me dead. ‘The hell I will! You joke me, Jonneee, John West he boy-cow!’ The little old lady meanwhile has given up. She barks a few choice sentences in our direction although whether she means you are a pair of lunatics, or I’m just off to the post office, I am unable to say.

  Adopting my best John Wayne voice, and stance, I mimic a passable impression of a boy-cow. ‘Say pardner, do ya have any man sall-mon, for this hungry pilgrim?’

  My friend rapidly cottons on. ‘Jonneee, you want I show you mans sall-mon?’ I nod in the affirmative, so he turns on his heels, and disappears once again into the cold store. And returns, two seconds later. ‘Jonneee, I show mans sall-mon later, you want now I show you gold-feeesh?’

  Did he just say goldfish? Surely not. ‘Goldfish?’

  ‘Yees, gold-feeesh, delicioso!’ And he does the Frenchman thing again, with his fingers, and vanishes. Have I passed into some parallel universe here? Goldfish? They eat goldfish in this country? Wouldn’t surprise me, to be honest, with this lot. Sparrows, ox of the sea? So why not goldfish? In my mind I am transported back over fifty years, to my first ever pet, the day the funfair came to town. Dad won me a tiny goldfish, about two inches long, in a polythene bag. Whether it was hoopla, or knocking over a target I cannot remember, but I proudly clutched my puny prize on my sweaty knee, all the way home on the bus, silently cursing the driver every time he went over a bump. Mother, predictably, went mad, ‘we have nowhere to keep a goldfish, Raymond!’ but after ten minutes rummaging around in the back of the dresser, she emerged with an ancient glass punchbowl, a relic from Christmases gone by, which was where ‘Goldie’ spent his first night. So no way on God’s green earth I am eating one of his descendants. Anyway, you would need about three to even make up a tapas, wouldn’t you? Although I suppose Victor is about to emerge with something slightly longer, like one of those Koi you see lurking in the murky depths of ponds, or boating lakes? And how long to they take to grow to about a foot, anyway? Years, I imagine. I always thought they looked as tough as old boots, to be honest.

  And here he comes, carrying a silver specimen, about a foot long, plump and rounded, rather like a bass. But SILVER. Not a hint of gold anywhere to be seen, around the eyes, the fins, the tail. Is this payback time for John West? ‘VICTOR, THAT FISH IS SILVER!’ I bellow, starting to get rather cross, now. ‘You said goldfish. That fish is not gold. And actually’, I continue, wagging my finger in a very un-British way, ‘I recognise that, we have had it before. It is called a Dorada. A SILVER Dorada!’

  He smiles serenely. ‘Jonneee, yees! You are correct. Ees Dorada! But in Espanees, translate Dorada as gold-feeesh!’

  BUT IT’S NOT A BLOODY GOLDFISH! It’s the silveryest fish I have seen in my entire life. What an utterly, completely ridiculous country this is. Sea-ox. Goldfish. I shake my head, and puff out my cheeks, in exasperation. ‘Jonneee! Ess Espain!’ Don’t I know it…

  He carefully places his silver goldfish on the ice, and disappears out the back again, calling ‘mans sall-mon’ over his shoulder. Cannot wait. I only came in for a nice bit of cod. This time, there is a lot of crashing and banging, the sounds of rummaging, huffing and puffing, and general melee. Several other old women have entered the shop now, so I smile and shrug my shoulders in a non-committal way, unaware of the Spanish for ‘Victor’s just gone to fetch a mans sall-mon.’ I fact it sounds as if he is catching the thing, or possibly it is catching him, the noise he is making. What can it be, a slightly bigger cutlet possibly, being male? Suddenly, he staggers against the curtain, his back arched against a huge weight, and he lurches through the doorway with the biggest fish I have ever seen, in the flesh, in my entire life. His arms are surely a yard apart, and there must be eighteen inches of marine creature hanging out either side, a huge ugly head to the left, a massive flappy tail to the right. A veritable tree-trunk, with scales, and gills. I mean, we went to Sea World with the girls, years ago, and met ‘Shamu’ the orca, although whales are mammals, aren’t they? And dolphins? But this mans sall-mon is gigantic. Boggle-eyed, with a bead of perspiration trickling down his face, despite emerging from a cold-store, our crazy fishmonger hefts the mighty leviathan higher up his torso, then with a final grunt, heaves it on to the other end of the counter, to rapturous applause from half a dozen locals, no doubt attracted by the hullabaloo, and their uncanny knack of sniffing out a spectacle.

  Our friend produces a towel from beneath the counter, and mops his sweaty countenance. ‘So, Jonneee, do you like booey, womans sall-mon, gold-fees or mans sall-mon?

  Gone right off the whole seafood thing, to be quite honest. Still, after all his efforts it would be rude to just walk away, wouldn’t it? I smile sheepishly. ‘Got a nice bit of cod?’

  That evening, we are with Janie and Nigel for their final evening of their holiday, if it be so described, before their flight home tomorrow. Tapas and wine, on their terrace. They finally managed to gain access to Miguel’s, as some kindly soul came down with his angle grinder and cut away the iron bar across the front door, free of charge. Saint, aren’t I? New bolts inside, top and bottom, a hefty deadlock, wood all repaired, even the holes where the coach bolts went have been filled, the doors sanded down, and two coats of thick varnish. Looks fantastic, amazing what they have achieved, in only a few days. Just a shame about the rest of the house. Wisely, they have left the back door in its bricked-up state, in case any of the locals decide to go midnight walkabout, twenty feet up, along Mister Ugly’s chain-link, before crashing through the roof of the lean-to, not that there’s much left to crash through, to be honest. And Crazy Man? Disappeared from the face of the earth. Whether he is still banged-up, following the fire, we have no idea, and frankly I for one will not be enquiring, at the house of polices mans.

  Janie, meanwhile, is bubbling over with news. ‘Guess what, we paid that Ronan a visit last night!’ Oh blimey, am I in the dog-house again?

  Chrissie meanwhile is dying to find out what happened. ‘So how did that go? Get your painting of Benji back, did you?’

  Nigel takes up the story. ‘Did you actually study the painting of Benji, before GIVING IT AWAY TO THAT THEIVING COCKNEY?’ See, told you I was in the dog-house!

  We are all laughing now. We know, or rather hope, he is only joking. We are both nodding, ‘yes, we did!’ giggles Chrissie.

  ‘So what did you think?’ Janie smiles. ‘Come on, honest answers, please!’

  My wife is trying to be diplomatic. ‘Well, the actual dog was very good, I thought, but the background was, er, wrong somehow, made him look slightly too big, really.’

  ‘SLIGHTLY TOO BIG?’ Nigel splutters, ‘HE WAS THE SIZE OF A BLOODY TRACTOR!’

  ‘More like a seven-four-seven, I thought!’ I chip in.

  For a few seconds we are all rendered incapable of speaking, then Janie regains her composure. ‘We had a lucky escape, actually, Miguel must have completely lost his touch in the last few months of his life. We went into Ronan’s front room, and there is Benji, all ten-foot-six of him, propped up on the mantelpiece. I mean, we didn’t go up there with the intent of causing any trouble, grassing up the Londoner, but I actually had a copy of the original photo we gave Miguel, on my phone, in case it all kicked off. Two hundred, or thereabouts, Miguel quoted us, which we were happy with, but when we saw the final result on the Irishman’s wall, which he paid two-fifty for, well we could barely stop ourselves bursting out laughing!’

  I slip into my serious-face suddenly. ‘Well I reckon you are being extremely unfair on Miguel, you know.’ Silence round the table for a few seconds. They know something is coming, they are just not sure what. ‘Michelangelo. Heard of him, have you? Used to paint ceilings, a
few years ago? He had a lot in common with Miguel, I’ll have you know.’ Eyes narrow. ‘Miguel couldn’t paint dogs, you say? Well Michelangelo couldn’t paint cats, either.’

  Nigel, taking a sip of wine, almost chokes, and dissolves into a fit of coughing. ‘You steaming idiot. I almost got wine down the front of me shirt! Anyway, time for a reckoning up, for what we owe you for all your hard work!’ My ears prick up. I can save my Michelangelo pussy joke for some other time. ‘Right, ninety-five euros for the wall, you said, including the bricks?’ I nod my assent. ‘Then fifty for the door bricking-up, and all the bits? Call it one-fifty all-in. And then, we reckon we owe you the two hundred we would have paid for the painting, so call it three-fifty in total.’

  It is me who is spluttering now. ‘No no no! You don’t owe me anything for the painting, that is ridiculous. I cannot possibly accept that.’

  Our friend holds up both hands. ‘I have spoken. WE have spoken. Janie and I both agree, you worked over and beyond the call down there, what with the crazy fellow, and the poo, and everything else. We owe you three-fifty, and that is all there is to say about it.’

  I am flabbergasted, quite honestly. What an amazing gesture. They are such lovely people. I am truly moved. I blink away a tear. ‘Well, I still don’t agree, there really is no need for that, yes it was a difficult job in many ways, although I can laugh about it now of course. But thank you both very, very much. From us both.’ And I reach across the table and touch Chrissie’s open hand.

  Nigel hasn’t finished yet, however. ‘OK, so that is three-fifty we owe you, so if we deduct that from the five grand you owe us, for the paintings you gave away to the Cockney, I reckon you owe us…’ and he counts his fingers..’ four thousand, six hundred and fifty euros. We’ll take a cheque, if you don’t have the cash on you.’ And he sits back in his chair, arms folded. Complete silence round the table. Apart from the sound of me swallowing hard. Janie is looking down, Nigel has something in his eye, and Chrissie stares in complete disbelief. Another few seconds pass in acute, excruciating silence, before my wife’s mouth starts turning up at the corners, Janie’s shoulders take on a life of their own, and Nigel bursts into uncontrolled laughter. ‘GOT YOU SUNSHINE!’ he bellows, got you back for all that perving you did, at our neighbour! I have waited weeks for this moment, but it was worth every second! Every single second!’

  The three of them are splitting their sides. I jab an accusatory finger in Chrissie’s direction. ‘You knew about this, didn’t you? You were in on it all along. Well I reckon the whole lot of you are utter and complete BAAAST…….’

  CHAPTER 4. DYING, SPANISH STYLE.

  A few days later, we arrive home following our evening paseo to find a larger-than-usual collection of Spaniards standing around in the street, apparently doing nothing. If ‘Standing around in the street, apparently doing nothing’ were an Olympic sport…well you know the rest. It’s just that there are more than there would usually be, on any given night. And not all from our bit, either. Fag-Ash Lil, Dora the Explorers Granny and Grey-Woman all live down the bottom, so have no real need to come up this end, especially at this time of night. So what is going on? Is it a Neighbourhood Watch meeting, possibly? Don’t think they have that in Spain, actually. Anyway, nothing to do with us, they will disperse eventually. We smile and call out a few Buenas-Noches as appropriate, and head towards our front door.

  Just then Loli steps out from the crowd. ‘Carmelli, neighbour!’ she calls out, at half her usual volume, which would probably still be considered a holler in the UK. What about Carmelli, the dear old lady who lives just a few doors down from us, on the opposite side? Frail, wrinkled and walks with a stick, in her eighties at least, Carmelli loves sitting outside her front door of an evening, watching the world go by, and we always stop for a chat as we pass, winging it as we usually do, but we generally manage to get there in the end. Earlier this year, we were given a huge sack of almonds by Jose at the library, so we set about dividing them between the neighbours. Carmelli got her share of course, but was muttering something we couldn’t understand, so contrary to all advice, we nodded in the affirmative. Several nights later, grinning widely, she gave us a bag of something. Shelled almonds. She’d spent two days hammering away and was giving us about half back. ‘Got any more?’ she laughed. Apparently she loved shelling almonds, therapeutic or something like that, she said. Considering that using nutcrackers is just about the worst aspect of Christmas for me, Carmelli found herself gainfully employed over the summer. Payment in nuts, of course!

  ‘Carmelli, yes?’ Chrissie ponders.

  ‘She’s dead!’ comes the somewhat abrupt reply.

  Oh no. How terribly sad. Poor Carmelli. Such a lovely lady, always smiling. We only met her less than a year ago of course, but our days will be the poorer for her passing.

  ‘When was this?’ Chrissie enquires.

  ‘Oh, about twenty minutes ago.’ our neighbour casually imparts. ‘She fell backwards off her chair and hit her head. There she is, look.’ And she gestures towards Carmelli’s front door, where, through the milling Spaniards, we can just about make out an overturned chair, two feet sticking straight up, and a body lying flat out in the doorway.

  OH. MY. GOD. I am stunned. Chrissie’s hands have flown to her face, and we are both rooted to the spot, in sheer, utter disbelief. What are these people DOING? This is outrageous. The poor woman is lying stone dead and people are gathered around just gawping. I literally cannot believe this is happening. I lean against the wall, cover my face with my hands, head spinning. We are in someone else’s country of course, as we constantly have to remind ourselves, but surely in any culture this is a grotesque lack of respect? Kids are running about, cycling up and down the street, for pity’s sake. I assume a doctor or paramedic will need to come and pronounce life extinct, so the body cannot be moved until then, but surely someone could have covered her with a sheet, shepherded the onlookers away, put an end to this loathsome sideshow? People will always gravitate to a disaster of course, simple human nature, but her daughter and son-in-law live opposite. Couldn’t he have come out and taken charge?

  I turn to Chrissie. ‘Come on, home.’ I whisper, ‘I cannot stand here with these ghouls.’

  Suddenly, matters take a turn for the worse, if that were possible. Down the street marches Marie. Crazy Marie, utterly, barking mad. Around our age, bleached blonde hair which is constantly in curlers, a pink housecoat, slippers and a silver charm-bracelet around her wrist, which is tinkling in time with her strides. Her usual daywear, in fact. Ignoring the other neighbours, she steps right up next to Chrissie, grabs her arm, and tries to pull her towards Carmelli’s house. ‘Come on, we have to go inside, get a good seat!’

  WHAT? The look on my wife’s face is one of utter horror. Has someone just died here? Is there a body lying in the doorway? Or are we watching the latest box-set on Netflix? Chrissie is struggling to free her arm but Marie is having none of it. ‘Yes, we must stay with the body all night.’ Why on earth would anyone want us in there, with the body? We are not family, and we have only lived here for a year. We are not Spanish, can barely speak the language, and besides, just about the whole street is related, we believe. Surely there are better qualified people for this task?

  At that moment, Loli pipes up. ‘Look neighbour, here are the family’, and down the street come four middle-aged people, two men, two women, other sons/daughters, and their spouses, no doubt. The crowd parts like the Red Sea, and the ‘children’ step around the stricken corpse, and head inside. I am writhing with embarrassment, and none of this debacle is actually my fault. Maybe this is entirely normal here, the family certainly didn’t seem to bat an eyelid, but I cannot, in my wildest nightmares, imagine receiving this devastating news, and arriving at the house to find a disorderly crowd jostling for ringside seats.

  Marie meanwhile still has Chrissie firmly in her grip, so short of physically tearing the madwoman off, there is little I can do. We are stuck here. Altho
ugh one thing is for certain. No way is my wife maintaining a candle-lit vigil, tonight, or any other.

  Loli seems to have appointed herself as commentator. ‘Here come the ambulance, and police, neighbour!’ Sure enough, at the bottom of the street, blue lights are flashing. As far as they can possibly get of course, given the bottleneck that is our road. They will have to walk the rest of the way. And here he comes, the very, very extremely Ancient Bill, strolling casually up the cobblestones, accompanied by two paramedics of slightly younger vintage, but only slightly, carrying a stretcher between them, although whether this is for Carmelli, or in case Ancient-Bill suddenly drops dead, is impossible to say. As they approach, Fernando pushes his way through the motley throng. ‘Hey Paco! Que pasa? Did you see the football last night?’

  Paco rests his end of the burden against a wall. ‘Nando, you old dog! Yes, we were lucky! That Sergio Ramos is a right donkey!’

  Er hello? Is anyone actually doing any work here? You know, the body? Although Paco is correct. That Ramos is indeed a right donkey.

  Meanwhile Ancient-Bill stoops over our deceased neighbour. ‘Yes, she is dead!’ he proclaims. ‘Right, who wants to come in first? Kids?’ And pushing, jostling as they do, half a dozen little ones fight their way inside. Completely. And. Utterly. Unbelievable.

  At that moment, a number of things happen simultaneously. The ambulancemen stoop down to recover the body, a massive scrum forms around the front door of Carmelli’s cottage, Marie bursts into tears, and Chrissie is finally able to free herself from the madwoman’s clutches. We nip deftly towards our house, turning as we enter to witness a scene I could never have imagined in a thousand years. Two paramedics, with loaded stretcher, wrestling their way inside the house, through a mass of unruly Spaniards.

  Pouring myself a beer, I slump into my patio chair to reflect on the last half-hour of our lives in this impossibly crazy country. Quite frankly I found it hugely distasteful. Then again, those are my personal values, what right have I, as a guest, to apply those to another culture? People here are far more down-to-earth, qualities we have so far found hugely endearing. But tonight? I don’t know. I will need to sleep on it, I guess. And never mind that, what has happened to Chrissie? Where has she disappeared to? I head upstairs to find her peering around the wooden shutter of the bedroom window, gawping at the scenes below. ‘Why are you doing that, being very British, peeping out like a little mouse?’ I query, with a hint of sarcasm. ‘You turned down the chance of a ring-side seat earlier. If you want to know what is going on, why not take a chair outside like all the others?’