THIRTEEN - CATALAN FOR BEGINNERS

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:

English translation	Catalan	British Yob Equivalent
to throw	git	git
night	nit	nit
woman	dona	donner (kebab)
to sting	punxar	punch her
puncture	punxada	punch harder
fire	foc	fuck
seal	foca	fucker
floor	pis	piss
cough	tosa	tosser
radish	rave	rave
let’s fight	lluitem	you-hit-’im
to place	poseur	poser
bang	bum	bum
naval dockyard	arsenal	Arsenal
beaks	becs	Becks

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.

He grins at her and gives me a cheeky wink.

'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.'

He gives a snort. 'I'd be quicker on my own. A cup of coffee would be more useful.'

'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.'

Pueblo Español in Palma, the venue for Nancy Golding's exhibition, is a vast complex of buildings which replicate some of the most famous landmarks in Spain. It has a lavish exterior with turrets, towers and spires and has the look of a medieval castle, although it's really no more than a glorified convention centre. Parking the car in one of the steep and unprepossessing side streets, we cross the cobbled front entrance and descend sweeping steps to the courtyard. A local estate agent has sponsored Nancy's show and its logo is prominently displayed on flags and posters. Twinkling candles brighten the dark courtyard and amidst the throng we see Pep and Juana waving to us. Ollie runs towards them, only interested in catching up with Angel who is hanging back by one of the tables gobbling olives and drinking Coca-Cola.

'You're late!' yells Pep.

'No they're not,' quips Juana, helping herself to some canapés from a passing waiter.

'Thank heavens you didn't dress up either,' I say, noting that she's in jeans and a red sweater.

She shrugs. 'Nancy wouldn't expect me to. Mind you, the moneyed set from Portals is here tonight.'

Puerto Portals hugs the bay a polite distance along the coast from Palma. It's the yachties' dream hang-out and a must zone for designer babes who pose and pout on the terraces of chic cafes fronting the marina.

Juana views the pretty courtyard with a critical eye. 'Lots of foreigners.'

Catalina and Ramon join us, together with her parents, Paco and Marta. I take in Catalina's stylish ensemble of tailored black trousers and exotic Moroccan jacket. Her short dark hair is streaked with henna and a stunning amber stone rests on her neck.

'You look amazing,' I tell her.

She gives a little grin. 'That's only because you always see me behind an ironing board.'

'True,' says Alan. 'You're a real Cinderella.'

Ramon shrugs his shoulders. 'Women will find any excuse to buy new clothes.'

I give him a poke in the ribs. 'Watch it, or I'll set a genet on your chickens.'

'What news of your cattery?' says Marta with a sweet smile.

I wince as Alan gives an involuntary frown.

'Oh, we're getting there slowly. We need to wait for the council to come back to us about planning permits.'

'Is it taking up a lot of your time?' she says.

'To be honest, I'm frantic with new clients and some big projects so I haven't had time to give it much thought of late.'

'She's organising a big even with Prince Charles!' blurts out Catalina.

'Really?' Marta looks impressed. 'Did you hear that, Paco?' she says to her husband. Paco nods impatiently.

'And how is the worm hotel these days?' he asks quickly, keen to get back to agricultural matters.

Alan cheers up. 'Touch wood, the Mallorcan worms are settling in well. I've had some wonderful compost this month.'

Paco smiles and nods. 'It's important to be patient in life.'

'Indeed,' says Alan. 'Where's that wretched waiter gone? I could murder a drink.'

I grab two flutes of cava as a waiter floats past, and push one into the Scotsman's hand. Coming towards our group is a stream of local friends from our valley.

'It's a Sóller invasion,' yells Pep. 'Where's Nancy? We need her here too.'

'She's showing some clients round the gallery. Wait a minute,' I tell him.

Ollie has already found Nancy in the interior of the building and holding her hand leads her over to us.

'If it's not all my favourite friends hanging out together! What is this, a private meeting of Sóllerics?'

Pep gives her a robust hug. 'We don't want to mix with too many wealthy foreigners. It's bad enough being infiltrated by the Scots,' he gives a pointed stare at Alan, 'without this Palma mob.'

Juana elbows him hard. 'Keep your voice down or we'll all be thrown out.'

There's a wave of raucous laughter from the group and we find ourselves being studied curiously by several elegant guests, all in expensive cocktail attire.

'Hopefully some of these ricos will cough up for some paintings,' says Catalina.

'I've kept back your favourite,' Nancy whispers in my ear.

'I may have to pay you in instalments.'

She giggles. 'It's not that much. Special price for special friends.'

The main sponsor, a tall German, now stands in our midst and delivers a welcome speech. Nancy, smiling sublimely, waits until he's finished and then makes a simple yet moving address which is greeted with thunderous applause. I accompany Pep and Catalina into the gallery where we are greeted by Tolo from our local Banca March, Xavier and Teresa from Colmado sa Lluna and a whole host of locals. Our Australian friends Jack and Sarah from Fornalutx are great art lovers and are considering a purchase, while Victoria and Robert Duvall talk with our two local mayors, from Sóller and Fornalutx. I find it touching that so many from our valley have come to support Nancy on her big night. Judging by the number of confirmed sales, it appears that she will be able to survive another cold winter in Sóller.

'Don't spend it all at once, Nancy,' cautions Pep.

'Life's for living, my friend. I'm not a hoarder.'

'Well, I believe in living and hoarding,' jokes Pep.

The evening rolls on until gone midnight at which point the Sóllerics begin to wend their way back to their cars, happy to be heading out of Palma and into the hills.

It's a cool day in the valley and across the Tramuntanas the harsh, resonating sound of gunfire can be heard, indicating that it's the start of the hunting season. I am never comfortable with the hunting of tords, the thrushes that are highly prized by Mallorcans and used in soups and arròs brut, a popular and hearty local rice dish. Still, as Pep always reminds me, it is not for us foreign residents to interfere with local customs and I agree with him wholeheartedly. Alan is down in the field planting broad beans and peas and shaking his worm compost over the soil. I watch as clouds of grey smoke rise from the forests up in the mountains and my heart goes out to the unsuspecting birds whose lives are to be snuffed out so unceremoniously. Sighing, I jog over to the open front gate and head off for a run. It's Saturday and at this early hour of the morning the roads are peaceful and the valley is quiet and swathed in soft cloud. Margalida is sitting outside her chalet praying to herself but as I approach she drops the wooden rosary to her lap and calls me to her.

'When are you off to America?'

She holds my hands between hers and lets out a small cry.

'Are you sure it's safe? I've heard that everyone has a gun.'

'Don't worry, I'll be running too fast to get shot.'

I shudder with the sudden chill. 'I'm relying on you.'

She brightens. 'At my age that's all I can do – watch the world go by and pray.' She pats my hand and rises. 'You go. I'm waiting for Jorge.'

'Pues, he's such a nice young man. I promised to pick him some oranges.'

A bulging bag of fruit lies at her feet. I hear a toot toot at the end of the road and there, in a state of excitement is Gaspar with a huge pile of newspapers strapped to the back of his bike ready for delivery.

'Aha, thought I'd see you! Hurry up and I'll give you a race to the Puerto,' he yells.

As I set off along the road with Gaspar tootling along next to me, I ponder on Jorge's latest conquest. The man must surely be a god to win over my elderly neighbour, Margalida. Perhaps it's to do with his smile and the length of his hair.

Catalina and her brother, Stefan, are in my office poring over the architectural drawings in wonderment.

'You mean this is the actual size of the cattery?' asks Stefan flatly.

'Yes, but this is the one I visited. Ours can be much smaller.'

He exhales deeply. 'There is a new planning law coming in which could affect horta land.'

'Well, I doubt you'd be able to build something this big in an orchard.'

'In fact, the mayor has warned me that the new law might prohibit all buildings in orchards, even nonpermanent structures like this.'

Catalina tries to be positive. 'Let's wait and see. The most important thing is to look at what is possible. You must remember, we don't have catteries here. Cats usually live off the land.'

'There are Brits running kennels and catteries all over the island,' I argue.

'I know, but for us it's a strange British concept so it's hard to explain to the planners at the town hall.'

I tap my fingers fretfully on the desk. Having passed my cattery course with flying colours and worked on a preliminary business plan, I'd be sad if it all came to nought. My time at The Cat's Whiskers has convinced me that it could be an enjoyable little business to run from home. The problem I have at present is trying to juggle all my PR work and journalistic assignments while keeping the cattery idea afloat. I rub my eyes and yawn.

'Sleepy?' asks Catalina with a smile.

'Oh, I was up till gone midnight doing client work for Rachel and I've still got heaps more to do on the Crown jewels event, so I'm a bit the worse for wear today.'

She jumps up from her seat. 'I'll go and make us some strong coffee.'

She stops at the office door.

'Stefan, what about if we visited the cattery in England and worked out how we might create a smaller version here? You know, more manageable.'

He gives a tentative nod. 'OK, but I'm flat out with building projects until January. Anyway, by that time we may have news on the planning situation.'

'That suits me,' I say. 'I'd rather get my Crown jewels event over with in January before concentrating on cattery business.'

The door opens and Alan strides in.

'So, how's it going? Is it feasible?'

Stefan shrugs. 'In truth, I don't know. There's a new law stopping the building of any structures on orchard land. We may be unlucky.'

I give the Scotsman a sardonic smile.

'So, are you happy now?'

His face drops. 'Actually, no. I've studied your initial business plan and decided that it really is a workable idea. I totally support you.'

Despite the gloomy silence, I study his face and in that moment feel a huge swell of gratitude.

He puts his hand on my shoulder. 'Come on, chin up. You're not one to give up.'

'Yes, we know nothing yet,' says Catalina.

'After all,' the Scotsman rejoins. 'This is just round one. There's plenty of time to put up a fight.'

'In the meantime, I've got plenty of work to keep me occupied.'

'You can say that again,' says the Scotsman. 'And let's not even mention all the work I have to do, what with filming, chickens and keeping an eye on Pep's flat.'

Catalina laughs. 'That's not work. That's fun!'

He attempts to remonstrate just as Inko strolls in followed by Minky and Orlando. They look up at me expectantly.

'Ah,' says Stefan. 'Here's the planning committee. They envisage no problems.'

We all troop downstairs for some coffee. For now there's nothing more any of us can do but wait. Que será será. In the interim I shall just keep busy and take counsel from Stefan and my eminent committee of cats until such time as a decision by the council is made.

I'm on a ladder under one of the lemon trees with mobile glued to ear.

'Anyway, what are you doing up a damned lemon tree?' Rachel is tutting.

'Oh, very funny. Don't you ever relax?'

'Actually, Rachel, I do. The other night I went to a wonderful exhibition and bought myself a painting.'

'Hallelujah!' she squawks. 'Good to know you're living dangerously.'

'I expect Alan gave you grief over the price?'

'Thankfully, the artist is a friend so it didn't break the bank. I've hung it right above the bed. Even the Scotsman thinks it looks fantastic.'

'Good, you should get out more.'

'Well, when you stop piling on the work, Rachel, I might.'

'Touché!' she gives a laugh. 'Anyway, where were we?'

'Discussing the number of guests for the Crown jewels event.'

'Ah yes, well I think we'll have three hundred in total,' Rachel drawls.

'What? But the events people at the Tower said two hundred and fifty, max.'

'I'm not sure, Rachel. Don't forget the guests won't just be in the White Tower. They've also got to visit Waterloo Barracks to have a quick look at the Crown jewels collection during the evening. It could be a logistical nightmare with so many guests.'

She yawns. 'We can't cut the list down. Besides there'll be no-shows on the night, as always.'

'I suppose we can do drinks in the White Tower with Prince Charles, then take guests to the Jewel house in small groups.'

'What does Jim at the Stationery Office think?'

'He's fairly laid back.'

'I hope you're right, Rachel.'

'Listen, don't get so stressed out. I really appreciate all the work you're putting in just now but we've still got plenty of time on our hands.'

'Maybe, but don't forget I'm juggling a lot of other projects at the moment so I'd like to think this one's on course.'

'It is, don't worry. By the way, Greedy George is thrilled with your marketing plan for his dog and cat wear range. That was fairly inspired.'

'You know my penchant for pets.'

'Hmm… well, I certainly know about your absurd preoccupation with moggies.'

I draw the conversation back to the Tower. 'By the way, can we display the Crown jewels book up in the White Tower?

'I'll make sure that'll be fine with the Palace.'

'OK, but please check back with the Tower as well.'

She gives a guffaw. 'You're like a mother hen over this event.'

'I want it to work like clockwork.'

'It will. Never fear.'

I have agreed to meet Sabine Ricard for a coffee at Cafè Paris. On a Saturday she likes to visit Sóller market with Veronique and, although making few purchases, believes that she is fundamental to the thriving economy of my local town.

'Tell me,' she says, as we sit at a table waiting to be served. 'What would these people do without us?'

'I think they'd survive fairly well, Sabine.'

'Rubbish! We are the life blood of the island economy and should be treated with respect.'

I wonder sometimes why people like Sabine choose to live in Mallorca. They rarely have a good thing to say about the island or its people. Veronique is playing with a hideous Barbie doll and twisting her golden curls with her chubby little fingers. José catches my eye and saunters over. I've been waiting for this moment. He asks if I want my usual order, but I stop him mid track.

'Jo vull un cafè tot sol i un aigua sensa gas.'

He claps his hands. 'Fantàstic!'

Sabine narrows her eyes. 'What did you say?'

'I asked for an espresso and a mineral water in Catalan.'

'Why?' she sniffs in disgust.

'Because I've started having lessons and need to practise.'

She looks horrified.

'I'm getting a lot of homework too, on top of all my other work stuff.'

'I can't believe what I'm hearing!' She gives me a pained expression.

José disappears, rushing over to Senyor Bisbal's table to tell him and some of his other regulars about my debut. They smile and applaud. José returns to take the rest of our order.

'I'm proud of you,' he says. 'Poc a poc.'

'Maman, I hate Catalan. It sounds so ugly,' Veronique whines in French, scowling unpleasantly and twirling her hideous, emaciated doll across the table. José looks affronted, given that he speaks excellent French, but smiles stiffly and heads for the bar.

'But you live here now so you should try to speak the local language,' I say.

'Maman says I shouldn't,' she replies in perfect English.

Sabine eyes me frostily. 'I have no intention of speaking Catalan, nor shall my daughter.'

'That seems a little silly.'

José places our coffees in front of us and gives Veronique her cola. He returns to Senyor Bisbal's table for a chat.

'It is my decision. Besides, like you, we will always send her to an international school so there is no need.'

I decide to bait her. 'To be honest, we're thinking of sending Ollie to a local school next year.'

She thumps down her cup so hard that the teaspoon cries out, a small rattle of protest in the saucer.

'Probably, but that has nothing to do with our decision.'

Senyor Bisbal stands like a vision before us, his tall, slightly hollowed frame blocking the few rays of sunlight that have found a path to our table. I attempt to rise, but he politely indicates that I should remain seated. He takes my hand in his.

'So now you can speak Catalan?'

'I can just about order a coffee, so don't get too excited.'

He laughs softly and smiles over at Sabine. Veronique talks to her mother in French.

'Ah, you are French. We Mallorcans have much in common with you.'

'Really?' she says, eyebrows haughtily raised.

'In Sóller we traded our oranges for years with France. I suppose that's why our languages are so similar.'

Sabine gives a little gasp as though he's squirted her with a water gun, but old Senyor Bisbal seems hardly to have noticed, bowing low and walking slowly to the door. For a brief second he glimpses back, a mischievous smile playing on his lips and then, with a little wink in my direction, he is gone.