28 Red and Yellow
Judith leaned forward and switched the TV on, and instantly the room was filled with the buzz of South African vuvuzelas. All the dogs sprang up and started barking.
“Half! Tyson! Sinbad! Fluffy! Pipe down!”
But the dogs only barked harder. Cats lifted their heads in alarm, their ears pricked up, alert.
“Mother! The vulva-azaleas!”
Mother nodded and lifted her vuvuzela to her painted lips. In unison, Judith and her mother blew. The dogs exited the room en masse, almost falling over each other in their rush to evacuate. Mother cackled and took another deep draw of her herbal cigarette.
“Always works!” said Judith, refilling all our glasses and settling down again. “The dogs hate it. That’s what we do when they start being a bloody nuisance. They’ll go and lie down in the kitchen for a while and give us some peace now. Jolly good invention, those vulva-azalea thingies.”
The red wine and the company was a pleasure, but the game was not. By half-time, England’s lack-lustre performance had brought the score to Germany 2 - England 0.
“It’s not going frightfully well, is it, m’dears?” said Judith emptying her glass of wine down her throat. “Our boys really need to buck their ideas up if they want to win this match.”
We all agreed and dissected the match, finding it wanting. If England lost this game, they’d be out of the World Cup without even reaching the quarter finals. Unthinkable. Only Mother didn’t comment. She was on her third brandy and lying back on the chaise longue, gazing at the ceiling, humming quietly to herself.
We had a good laugh about Paul the Psychic Octopus. Paul lived in a German Sealife Centre and had become an oracle. His keepers had placed two tasty mussels in separate boxes marked with opposing teams’ flags. The box Paul first selected represented the team expected to win. So far, Paul had succeeded every time in choosing the winning flag and had correctly predicted all Germany’s results. He’d also predicted Germany to win this game against England.
Paul the Psychic Octopus predicting that ‘Chickens’ would become a bestseller (from Paul Hamilton)
“Good Lord!” said Judith. “What does a bloody calamari know about soccer?” We all agreed.
“Actually,” said Joe. “It’s next month I’m really looking forward to. The 11th, to be precise.”
“Why’s that, dear boy?”
“Lots of reasons. It’s my birthday, and it’s also the British Grand Prix, Moto GP and the World Cup final. All in one day. I’m going to watch all of them and Vicky’s promised to serve me tapas, naked.”
“I most certainly did not!”
Judith guffawed and Mother started cackling, but luckily the second half of the match started, drawing the attention away from me.
I’ll make no more observations on the sorry match, except to admit that Paul the Psychic Octopus was right yet again and the final score was Germany 4 - England 1. England was out of the World Cup.
Joe and I were in the kitchen. I was busy scraping away at two scratch-cards that Carrefour had given us on our last shopping trip while Joe was racking the eggs he’d just collected.
“Joe? Have a look at this! I think this means that if Spain win the World Cup, we win 130 euros!”
Joe snorted. “Huh! There’ll be a catch to it. Read the small print.”
I put the scratch-card away. Spain had to win the final before we could even think about claiming the prize. Actually, they were in with a very good chance. Spain had beaten both Portugal and Paraguay and were playing Germany next.
Spain and El Hoyo were crazy with World Cup fever. Nobody talked about anything else, and even Carmen-Bethina admitted praying in church for a Spanish victory. Paul the Psychic Octopus had predicted a German defeat which led to death threats from enraged German fans, calling upon Paul to be cooked and eaten. Paul had captured the world’s imagination and became a celebrity in his own right.
Somebody knocked on our door and Joe put the eggs down.
“That’ll be the Ufarte kids,” he said. “I promised the boys I’d come and watch them play football in the square.” He chuckled, “I think I’ll give them a bit of a fright.”
He tiptoed to the front door, grabbing a vuvuzela on the way. Then he crouched down. When the knock was repeated, he wrenched it open, lurched forward and blew lustily on the vuvuzela at child height. Except it wasn’t the Ufarte boys, it was the Mayor.
In an effort to blow as hard as he could, Joe had squeezed his eyes tight shut, so it was a bit of a shock when he finally opened them.
“Buenos días, señor Twead,” said the Mayor. “How are you? And how is your lovely wife, señora Beaky?” The Mayor was particularly nasal in his speech, and his Andalucían accent was thick, transforming his ‘v’s’ to ‘b’s’. I had come to terms with being called ‘Beaky’.
Joe blinked, recovered himself and lowered the vuvuzela. “Er, buenos días, we’re both fine, thank you. I’m sorry about the, er...” He switched the vuvuzela to his left hand and extended his right hand to shake. “Please come in, Pancho, Vicky will be pleased to see you.”
That was a blatant lie. I never felt comfortable with our Mayor. Perhaps I was imagining it, but I always felt Pancho was undressing me with his eyes.
“Today I will not enter,” said Pancho. “Today I am visiting everybody to invite them to a party to celebrate my new house. I would be pleased if you and señora Beaky would attend. It will be in two weeks.”
“Oh, thank you, we’d love to come...”
“Before I go, my wife asked me if you are still keeping chickens. She loves fresh eggs, you know. They are always so tasty.”
“Yes, we have six chickens, but they’re rather elderly. They don’t lay much any more...”
“I know my wife would really appreciate a few fresh eggs.” Pancho persisted. He was accustomed to getting what he wanted.
Joe held up a hand, indicating the Mayor should wait, and darted back into the kitchen to put six eggs in a paper bag.
“Very kind,” said the Mayor, accepting the bag. “I will see you at my party.” He left and headed toward the Ufartes.
“That’ll be nice,” I said to Joe as I searched through the fridge for something for supper as omelette was clearly no longer an option. “I’ll be interested to see the Mayor’s new house.”
“Huh,” grunted Joe. “At least we’ll see where our taxes are going.”
That evening, Joe and I sat on our roof terrace with a drink. Evenings are beautiful in El Hoyo. When the sun sinks, it paints the sky all shades of pastel pink and the distant ocean glimmers with rosy lights. The pink light bathes the mountain slopes lending mystery to the caves and contours. Squads of swallows wheel overhead, snatching insects on the fly.
MumCat had followed us up the outside staircase and all three kittens had joined us too. They were now big enough to manage the steps, and our roof terrace had become yet another playground for them. They were always more active in the evening, having snoozed most of the day.
As always, Chox shadowed us, while the two girls played together in another corner, pouncing on invisible mice and each other. I remember that particular evening because of Smut, the feisty, adventurous kitten who avoided handling at all costs.
Smut and Beauty played until they began to slow down, exhausted from the rough and tumble with each other. I picked Smut up and smoothed her silky fur, tinged pink by the sunset. I sat down with her and continued stroking, and to my delight, she began to purr. I experimented and lifted my hands away, allowing her to jump off my lap if she wanted, but she didn’t. Instead, she nuzzled me, asking for more strokes. Smut was learning to enjoy human company.
Beauty followed suit a few days later and became very insistent. She usually chose Joe’s lap, and she was a wriggler. If he stopped stroking her, she’d butt him with her hard little head and make puddings with her paws, kneading his legs and purring like a pneumatic drill.
Smut
As the sun sank lower in the darkening sky, we heard footsteps below us on the street. I put Smut down and leaned over the balcony wall to see whose feet were responsible. It was Nicolas, The Monstrosity’s crane operator.
“Hello, Nicolas, it’s a beautiful evening, isn’t it?” I called down.
Nicolas looked up, recognising me. “Hello! I was just taking a wander around the village. Our work on the apartments is almost finished. We are dismantling the crane tomorrow. In a few weeks we will all be gone.”
“I hear most of the apartments are already sold?”
“Yes, that is true. Even in this Credit Crisis, people want to live in El Hoyo. I have the keys, and the electricity is connected. Would you like to see inside one or two?”
“We’d love to! We’re coming down.” I turned to Joe. “Come on, I’m dying to see how horrible those apartments are inside!”
We ran down the stairs and met Nicolas in the street and together we walked over to The Monstrosity. Nicolas sorted through the massive bunch of keys on his ring, selected one and opened a front door, reaching in to switch on the light. Then he stepped back, allowing us to enter first.
The apartment was not poky and cramped as I had expected. On the contrary, it was spacious and well-designed with tasteful, modern fittings. The bedrooms were large and airy and the bathroom much bigger than our own. It even had a balcony looking out over the village and mountains.
“Oh!” I said to Joe. “It’s really nice! I thought it was going to be really small and cramped.”
Discussing it later, Joe and I decided that perhaps it was unfair to call the apartment block ‘The Monstrosity’ anymore. And perhaps it was a good thing that more people moved into El Hoyo. After all, the inhabitants are the life-blood of a village and ensure its survival. Yes, the yellow colour was decidedly awful, but we knew from experience that all colours fade under the Spanish sun.
Joe’s birthday, July the 11th, arrived. It was a hot and sticky day, full of promise. Hurrah! Spain’s Jorge Lorenzo won the Moto GP championship, and Britain’s Lewis Hamilton came second in the British Formula 1 Grand Prix. Unfortunately, Spain’s Alonso wasn’t placed. But now the World Cup final approached, Spain versus Holland...
Back in his German Sealife Centre, Paul the Psychic Octopus had been consulted and predicted that Spain would beat Holland. Paul was now much in demand. A businessman from Galicia, Spain, raised €30,000 as a ‘transfer fee’ to have Paul shipped over to Spain. The Germans refused, even though the Spanish prime minister promised to supply bodyguards to prevent Paul from being assassinated or eaten.
We’d noticed that the villagers had very little interest in Wimbledon, despite the winner that year being Nadal, a Spaniard. But soccer was a very different matter. All day, the excitement mounted. Crates of beer were chilled, tapas prepared, Spanish flags hoisted and by evening, every child and male was wearing a red David Villa shirt.
Marcia’s grown up sons climbed onto Marcia’s roof with wide paint brushes. Back in the spring they’d sprayed her roof with red waterproof foam, and now they used white paint to write ¡CAMPEONES! (champions) in huge letters big enough to be read by aeroplanes flying over. I only hoped the statement wasn’t premature.
Red and yellow bunting fluttered in the breeze, strung between the four trees in the square. More decorated the entrance to the village, and Spanish flags flapped lazily from hastily erected flagpoles on chimneys. Cars were parked around the square, flags tied to aerials.
Marcia and Uncle Felix sat side by side outside the shop. Marcia never dressed in any colour except black, but even she had made an effort. Uncle Felix had removed his flat cloth cap, and he and Marcia sported matching straw boaters decorated with red and yellow hatbands. Every few minutes, poor Marcia had to get up and hobble painfully up the steps into her shop to serve a steady stream of customers with beer, sweets and potato crisps.
Some prepared to watch the match in their own homes, others, including the Ufartes, joined with friends and relations and set up their televisions in the street. Once again the three-piece suite and extra chairs were hauled out, drinks poured and tables set.
Lola Ufarte was looking extremely patriotic, although I don’t believe Spain, or football, was the first thought on any red-blooded male’s mind who set eyes upon her. She was wearing a silky mini-dress of red and yellow stripes that clung to every curve and bodily undulation. The dress left little to the imagination, particularly when she leaned over the table she was setting out. Her long tanned legs gleamed as she walked, her hips swaying just a little more than most girls’ hips do. Red and yellow bracelets jangled at her wrists, and I noticed her fingernails and toenails were painted with tiny Spanish flags.
“Lola Ufarte is looking the part,” observed Joe. “Nice dress.”
“Behave yourself,” I said. “You’re probably three times her age.”
“I know, I was just saying...”
I pretended to trip and gave him a sharp enough kick on the ankle to make him hop.
“Ouch! That hurt!”
“Sorry,” I said, but I wasn’t.
Granny Ufarte sat in her chair, fast asleep, oblivious to the frenzy around her. Her sleeping fingers rested on a vuvuzela on her lap. The Ufarte baby’s stroller was parked beside her, whirring red and yellow windmills attached to the handlebars. Fifi’s hair had been bunched together out of her eyes and tied with red and yellow ribbons that fluttered as she scampered up and down the street, yapping.
“Tío Joe! Tía Veeky! Look at us!” yelled the twins as they raced past us. “Tía Lola has painted our faces!”
They stopped just long enough for us to admire their red and yellow striped faces, then pelted off again down the street.
People shouted to each other, children screamed and blew their vuvuzelas, dogs barked and weaved in and out of the furniture while the village cats chose high places to sit and watch the activity, wide-eyed.
Geronimo’s face was white with anticipation, his fingers gripping the neck of his beer bottle. Geronimo was ready. El Hoyo was ready. Spain was ready. The starting whistle shrilled on countless TV’s. The 2010 World Cup Final had begun.