SIXTEEN

A BLESSING IN DISGUISE

There's a cacophony of noise in the plaça. The big-hearted Saint Francis of Assisi, lover of all things whiskery and furry, and Noah, that noble architect of the great ark, would be proud. For today, 17 January, is Beneides de Sant Antoni, the day when animals everywhere are invited to be blessed in the presence of the local priest and an appreciative audience of townsfolk. Sant Antoni, who was born around AD 250, may not have enjoyed the same status over the centuries as good old Saint Francis, but a patron saint of animals he became nevertheless. In fact, his signs are a bell and a piglet. Now, in medieval times it was popularly believed that the bell warded off the devil, hence its popularity as a saintly symbol, but the piglet is a different matter. It seems that Sant Antoni adopted a starving piglet which he overfed to such a degree that it began waddling and soon became so utterly obese that it couldn't get up at all. Forever after Antoni was regarded as the patron saint of beasts, though animal lovers today might have taken him to task for not putting his beloved pig on a strict regime when it began to totter on its trotters. Aside from the annual animal blessings held in his name, Sant Antoni also presides over a series of public bonfires and spectacular displays of dancing devils presented during the same week across the island.

  From all sides of the sunny square come donkeys, bulls, pigs, goats, small yappy ca rater dogs with their spindly legs and quivering black coats, cats in baskets, horses, exotic birds and mice in cages, reptiles and fish in glass containers and, oh no, ewes too. Their owners wait patiently in turn as the holy man in his black cassock raises his hand and makes the sign of the cross above the head of each and every creature. With closed eyes he utters a prayer while the animals neigh, honk, tweet, bark, yowl and splutter, some pounding the paved floor with their hooves but all showing remarkable restraint on this most celebrated of holy days.

  This morning we have spent precious time trying to persuade Inko and the grey twins, Orlando and Minky, to attend the event. With some bad grace all three wriggled under Ollie's bed and refused to be unearthed until drastic measures were taken. With one blast of the vacuum cleaner they shot out from under the bed and, quick as a flash, we had them snapped inside carrying baskets ready for the brief car journey into town.

  So, this morning the cafes are bulging and a throng of locals pour into the plaça with their pets and livestock. At long wooden trestle tables, red and white wine is served in plastic cups and huge platters of coca are spread out for all to share. As a general rule, coca, one of Mallorca's best loved pastries, is served at every fiesta in squared slices. It's the Mallorcan equivalent of pizza and is topped with peppers, onions, spinach and other vegetables. As with the ensaïmada spiral shaped pastries, it's easy to become a little coca-d out given that both are served liberally at most events, so it's often wise to have a break from it in between celebrations. At another table a swarm of guests cluster like excited bees, tucking into sobrasada sausage which is offered on slices of dense, locally baked brown bread. This meaty Mallorcan delicacy is made from pork cured with paprika and salt, although other local ingredients such as honey are often added.

  Like one of Cleopatra's slaves, Ollie struggles to carry the Empress Inko up the cobbled street to the square. Supine within her carriage she allows her head to tilt occasionally towards her subjects in the street with eyes that denote total disdain and ennui. Meanwhile, I wrestle with the twins' basket. Inside they huddle together emitting little meows whenever a passer-by dares to peep inside their den.

  We wait to receive blessings from the priest and all is well until Alan suggests opening the baskets to allow the anointing of our captives' heads. We reach the front of the queue, watched on by many a beatific, furry face. Tentatively, Ollie opens Inko's cage. She rolls over onto her front and allows the priest to touch her forehead before inching back into the safer recesses of her basket. Carefully, I undo the catch of the twins' cage but just as the priest bends to touch them a very unholy ca rater breaks rank and comes snarling up by my side. The priest and I swerve to avoid his tight little jaws while his owner lunges forward and secures him with a lead. It's too late. Opportunistically, the twins leap from the basket and slink off at speed across the plaça in the direction of Calle sa Lluna. The priest looks helplessly on and shrugs while a grubby Rasta sheep with long matted dreadlocks kicks at one of the pigs. In all the brouhaha, Ollie yells for me to find the twins while Alan stands with hands on hips tutting at the unholy din around him.

  'Hurry! We must get them back,' cries Ollie.

  Indeed we must. Hastily handing Inko's basket to his father, Ollie grabs my hand and off we dash in pursuit of

our dynamic duo. It is Sunday so the shops in Calle sa Lluna are closed but lots of happy families are ambling along the narrow street to join in the festivities.

  'Have you seen two grey kittens?' calls out my son as he runs along the street. People shake their heads and look about them in confusion. There isn't a meow or a streak of grey fur to be seen. Out of breath, we stop in our tracks mid street and begin yelling their names. Nothing.

  'I know,' says Ollie in a burst of sudden hope. 'Why not sing their favourite song? You know, the one they like.'

  I gather my thoughts. 'Ah', I whisper, 'You mean, "Oh we'll drink, we'll drink, we'll drink, to Inko the pink, the pink, the pink, the mistress of the feline race…"'

  He holds up his hands in frustration.

  'That's Inko's song. They're hardly going to like that. No, the one you sing about Slinky Minky and Orlando the fattest cat in Sóller town.'

  A small group of children has gathered around us, all helpfully looking in doorways and bins for our beloved moggies.

  I hiss at Ollie, 'We're in a crowded street. People will have me certified if I start singing the communists anthem.'

  'Sing it!' he commands.

  'Well, you join in then.'

  He views me with impatience. 'OK, OK.'

  So, feeling more than a little silly, I begin singing a ridiculous and rather irreverent version of The Red Flag while local children view me with a mixture of pity and humour. Ollie plucks up the courage to join in and soon, with much giggling, our young onlookers attempt the tune too. I'm concerned that it might be misconstrued as a young communist rally. We do several repeats to a small applause from some parents who seem to mistake us for child entertainers, but it's to no avail. The kittens appear to have gone.

  'Don't give up,' says one of our small backing group. 'I lost my dog a week ago, but he showed up last night.'

  Ollie nods bravely, but he is full of despair. We slump against a wall considering our options when a little girl screams out, 'Moix! Moix!'

  We follow her pointed finger and there surveying us from a tiled roof are the twins. The children give a cheer and so with finger to lips I tell everyone to be as quiet as mice while I try to lure them down. After much coaxing both cats at last descend and stand at my feet. Ollie gathers Orlando up in his arms while I clutch hold of Minky.

  'Well, thank you everyone for your fantastic help.'

  The children step forward to stroke the miscreants.

  'Es un miracle!' squeaks a little girl.

  'Si, es Sant Antoni!' says another with gravitas.

  'Are they right?' asks Ollie. 'Is it really a miracle that we found them?'

  'Who can say, Ollie, but God does seem to work in mysterious ways.'

  We head back to the square where the Scotsman is deep in conversation with Albert and Antonia from HiBit. I notice he has a large cup of red wine in his hand and a piece of coca in the other.

  'Ah, there you are!' he beams. 'Put the little devils in their basket before they run off again.'

  We pop the kittens into one of the baskets at his feet.

  'I guess this is the last time you'll be taking them to a blessing,' laughs Antonia.

  'Yes, I think we might just be spectators next year,' I reply.

  'Here, have some wine,' says Albert with a grin.

  I gratefully take the cup from him. I look around me, at the same time exchanging greetings with various acquaintances. The plaça is full of locals enjoying the warm sun and delicious fare provided by our town council. Most of the animals have been led away and those that haven't find themselves the centre of attention with children who fondle their ears and slip them leftovers from the tables in the square. The old priest is sitting on a bench in deep conversation with a couple of farmers who stand with their backs to their donkeys. What a scene of bucolic bliss. It's at times like this that I realise there's really nowhere else I'd rather be.

The Scotsman is down in the field digging his vegetable patch. It's the end of January and yet the heavens display no ill humour and the sun smiles weakly through the kitchen window as I finish preparing lunch. As it's the weekend we are entertaining some Mallorcan friends, Inès and Jaume from Palma and their two children, Lluc and Neus. Lluc is one of Ollie's buddies from school, an impish boy who spends much of his free time conducting quasi-scientific experiments – much to his parents' dismay – and playing football. While our son regards him as the epitome of cool the same cannot be said for his poor sister Neus, whom he largely ignores because she's a girl. Their father, Jaume, is a lawyer and his wife, Ines, a civil servant. They speak excellent English, although insist that we practice our Spanish and Catalan with them which invariably has them guffawing with laughter when one of us makes some linguistic howler.

  Ollie sits up on the work surface and with concentration draws his finger around a discarded mixing bowl, licking up the remnants of chocolate mouse until there's hardly a trace remaining. It's gone half one, but I'm not the least perturbed. It's unusual for Spanish friends to turn up much before two at lunchtime. Alan appears at the kitchen door with a muddy trowel.

  'The soil's rock hard. It's going to be a few days before I can loosen it up.'

  'Let's hope it rains.'

  'No way!' cries Ollie. 'I've got football practice tomorrow, thank you very much.'

  I scan Alan's attire. 'You'd better get changed out of your Boy Scout shorts. They'll be here in a minute.'

  'All right,' mumbles the Scotsman. 'Give me a second.'

  He places the trowel outside the back door and sets off up the stairs to change. Some time later a car toots. I open the gates via the intercom and am slightly confused to hear two vehicles crunch in to the courtyard. Ollie frowns.

  'That's odd. Why would they come in two cars?'

  The awkward answer soon presents itself. Ollie and I skip over to the porch and find our four friends emerging from their blue jeep. From the second car appears another quartet I've never seen in my life. Jaume rushes to greet me.

  'Hola! It's so good to be here. The air is so fantastic. Please let me introduce you to my mother and father and two of my sister's children, Ignasi and Llora.'

  I grit my teeth into a manic smile. 'Hola! Lovely to meet you all.'

  Inès wanders over with the party and we exchange kisses. 'It's OK we all come, si? I nearly rang, but it's only a few more people.'

  'When I told my mother about you, she said she'd like to visit too but my sister's kids were staying with her so I thought they could all come,' says Jaume without the slightest embarrassment.

  'No problema! I'm sure we'll manage somehow. I'll just get Alan.'

  I lead them into the garden and fix drinks. Ollie takes the four children up to his room while the adults walk around the gardens marvelling at Alan's horticultural prowess. I scurry upstairs.

  'Alan, we've got a problem. They've brought four more people.'

  'What? That's all we need.'

  'I know. I can rustle up a big pasta for the kids, but I've not got enough chicken pieces for the adults.'

  'What about the starter?'

  'I'll just have to give them lots of garnish with the prawns. Listen, I'll call Pep and see if he can lend me some chicken breasts.'

  He looks horrified. 'Poor Pep! You can't do that. He's probably in the middle of lunch.'

  'I can drive round. You keep the troops plied with drink.'

  Alan dashes downstairs to play host while I call Pep. He listens in some bemusement.

  'You never learn. Why do you think we Mallorcans always cook everything in a big pot?'

  'To save on washing up?'

  'No. So that we can feed endless guests. You never know how many people will ever turn up so make sure you over cater.'

  'It's not quite like that in England,' I grumble.

  'Of course, you British are so civilised,' he says, mimicking a snooty English accent.

  'So can you lend me some chicken breasts?'

  'You could always kill your cockerel. Live entertainment.'

  'Don't be horrid.'

  'All right, as it happens we do have some frozen chicken breasts. I'll come round.'

  'No, don't worry, I'll pick them up.'

  'It's easier for me. Juana's at her brother's house so I've got nothing to do.'

  'Have you had lunch?' I ask warily.

  'As it happens, no.'

  I give a groan. 'Would you like to join us?'

  'Well, with such a gracious invitation, how could I refuse?'

Alan and Pep are smoking puros and drinking herbes on the patio while I huddle opposite them warming my hands on a mug of freshly picked mint tea. We are wearing jackets because the sun is waning and a light chill descends on the valley as early evening approaches. The Tramuntana range still holds the glow of the departing sun, its craggy features displaying a rosy sheen while the verdant forests pepper its rocky surface like dark stubble on a chin. Alan's gaze rests on the landscape before him and then returns to Pep.

  'We can't thank you enough. It was like feeding the five thousand.'

  Pep sniggers. 'My pleasure. Don't forget I got a free lunch out of it.'

  'The chocolate mousse didn't go very far though.'

  He gives me a smile. 'No one noticed. Besides, it was better for our waist lines.'

  Despite my initial misgivings, the day turned out to be a great success. Everyone mucked in, serving out the food and clearing up while the children, rosy cheeked, careered around the garden and field, climbing trees and yabbering to one another in a mix of English, Spanish and Catalan. Jaume's mother insisted on my giving her the chocolate mousse recipe, which I took as a great compliment, and then patiently described how to make the perfect tortilla, the potato omelette that is part of the staple diet here. Jaume spent time discussing the parcel of land we want to buy, and on his departure offered to oversee the final contract. All in all, it was a wonderfully relaxing and spontaneous day.

  'So, how are the German walkers staying at my flat?' Pep exhales a long plume of smoke into the cold air.

  'Nice, quiet people. I wish all your clients were as easy.'

  'Luckily, we've got a lull for a few months. You can concentrate on your acting career.'

  Alan puffs at his puro. 'After the shampoo debacle it's amazing they've offered me this latest insurance ad.'

  'Don't blame me. You shouldn't have made that joke.'

  The Scotsman's film career was nearly cut short some months ago when he tried to be jocular with a member of the Focus Films team. When asked if he'd mind kissing his co-star in the shampoo advert he retorted that it depended what age she was, what she looked like and where he had to kiss her. The young executive was rather po-faced about it and Alan found himself dropped from the ad, much to Pep's relief.

  'They thought you were a sexist pig, Alan.'

  'I think you're more deserving of that title, Pep,' I say.

  He kicks my foot under the table. 'How can you say that when I gave up my Sunday to help you cook?'

  'Remind me which bit of the meal you prepared?'

  'Offering moral support is as good as performing the actual deed.'

  The Scotsman throws the stub of his expired puro into the bushes and stretches.

  'Time to water and feed the chickens. Salvador's making a racket.'

  Ollie runs out of the kitchen, depositing his book on the table.

  'I'm coming too.'

  Pep rises and with alarm looks at his watch. 'I'd better get back before Juana calls. If she gets home and finds the chickens aren't fed, she'll be mad. Then I'll have to walk the damned dog.'

  The two men exchange martyred looks.

  'It's a hard life being a male,' says Alan.

  'It certainly is, mon amic. We never stop working.'

  I don't bother to stifle a guffaw. 'Send Juana my best.'

  'I will.' Pep just about reaches the porch when his mobile begins bleating.

  He hands it to me wearily. 'Better still, why don't you tell her yourself?'

It's early morning and I have just returned from dropping Ollie off at school. It's a bright cold day and the wind rattles the doors and sends gusts of icy wind down the chimney. Catalina sits opposite me at the kitchen table munching a monster muffin. Her hair has been cut very short and streaks of henna run through it like flashes of amber.

  'You sure you like my hair like this?'

  'I do. It's very hip.'

  She momentarily surveys her own hips.

  'Not that kind. What I mean is trendy, fun.'

  'Ah, OK. That is good, but Ramon says it's too short.'

  'Well, that's men for you. He'll get used to it.'

  She sighs and rises to her feet, stretching across the table to pick up a bundle of brightly coloured plastic strings.

  'What are these things? Ollie has them all over his room.'

  'They're called Scoubidou, the latest fad at his school. You weave them together to make bracelets and key rings.'

  She nods slowly. 'But he's got so many.'

  'Yes, he's decided to make a load of key rings to raise money for the Sri Lankan orphanage. The tricky part is that he's suggesting we hold a fete in our field and invite local kids to buy his wares.'

  She digests this information thoughtfully. 'Why tricky? I went to a fete in England when I au-paired for your sister. They had sack races and stalls with English cakes and tea. I loved it.'

  'I don't think I've got the energy to organise one here.'

  She begins filling a bucket with soapy water.

  'Don't be lazy! We can do it. Just think of all the money we could raise – I can help bake and we can have lots of stalls.'

  She has a point. It would be a great way of raising money and besides, it would be fun to stage an English fete in the Mallorcan mountains.

  'We'd need time to plan.'

  She nods. 'Let's do it in a few months before you go off to the orphanage in Sri Lanka. When do you leave?'

  With all that's been going on I haven't given too much thought to our impending trip. It's about time I did.

  'My friend, Noel, is organising our flights. I told him to get us the cheapest tickets in April.'

  'So we do the fete in March. A Sunday would be good.'

  I'm not too sure how I'm going to juggle this event on top of everything else. In the next month I have the Crown jewels launch, a pile of work to do for Rachel and my American-based clients and have just agreed to write a five-page feature on Mallorca for an in-flight magazine, aside from my weekly Majorca Daily Bulletin column, oh, and revising for my next Catalan exam. I must be mad. Catalina begins cleaning the kitchen windows. She turns to me, soapy sponge in hand.

  'You know, I banged into Rafael today. It's sad about the dog, but better he goes.'

  She is referring to the imminent departure of Llamp, Rafael's dog. Following the chicken killing episode my neighbour decided to find his Labrador pup another home and today the new owner will take him away.

  'I'll miss him.'

  She tuts at me. 'He'll get another dog, don't worry. Forget Llamp.'

  I take a gulp of tea, realising, not for the first time, how sentimental I have become about animals since living here.

  Catalina gets out a diary and pen from her capacious handbag.

  'Right, let's discuss our trip to Dorset.'

  Ah. The trip to Dorset, yet another thing on my agenda.

  'There's not much to sort out. I've booked our flights and we'll be staying with Jessie and Willie, the couple who own The Cat's Whiskers.'

  'Why they call it this? It means something?'

  'It's a double entendre. The cat's whiskers is just a way of saying something's the best. You know, like the bee's knees.'

  'I never hear this. Do bees have knees?'

  'I haven't the foggiest. Look, it's just a silly expression.'

  She regards me with some scepticism. 'So where will Stefan and I meet you when we arrive?'

  'Paddington Station, but don't worry. I'll find out the train times to Shaftsbury and we'll agree a time and place to meet.'

  She nods. 'And you'll spend some days in London beforehand?'

  'Don't forget that I have the Crown jewels event that week.'

  Her eyes fill with excitement. 'Will you meet Prince Charles?'

  'I doubt it. I'm just the event organiser.'

  'You never know. I'll keep my fingers crossed.'

  Alan strolls into the kitchen in a smart blue suit. Catalina and I exchange winks.

  'Oh, look at him! Are you off to meet the Prince too?'

  'Not today, Catalina. I'm going to Focus Films in Palma for this insurance ad.'

  'Well, it still sounds glamorous.'

  He straightens his tie and takes a seat next to her.

  'To be honest, all I have to do is pretend to be working at a desk in an insurance office. I don't get to utter a monosyllable.'

  'Your time will come,' I say chirpily.

  'Anyway, they pay me well and it gives me a break from gardening.'

  I get up and deposit a bag of chocolate muffins in front of him.

  'Drop these off at Margalida's on the way.'

  'How is she now?' asks Catalina.

  'In pretty good form, but I've noticed she's much more frail since the fall.'

  Catalina shakes her head. 'Old age can be hard to bear. And what about Nancy?'

  'I popped round yesterday to see her. God knows how she's going to sort out and pack all her stuff. She's such a magpie,' I reply.

  Alan rises and picks up the bag of cakes. His eyes stray to a forlorn, miniature, empty tank sitting by the sink.

  'What's happened to Ollie's sea monkeys?'

  I run a finger across my throat. 'All dead.'

  He picks up the plastic container and studies it. 'Is he disappointed?'

  'Not really, he seems to be happier catching minnows in his net.'

  He rests it back on the draining board and shrugs.

  'I'd better be off to Palma. Remember, I'm taking Ollie straight from school to tennis. Don't forget to feed the hens.'

  These days, on top of my mounting workload, I seem to spend my life cleaning out and feeding the hens, but they do at least oblige us with eggs. The only way I can get everything done is to rise at half six every morning and even then I run out of time. There just aren't enough hours in the day. Alan picks up the car keys and strides off. We hear the revving of the car engine.

  'What are you doing this afternoon?' Catalina asks, getting up to start on some ironing.

  'Working in my dugout of course.'

  'How about you come olive picking instead?'

  'Are you starting already?'

  'Segur. My mother and father will be up in the grove today.'

  It is always a jolly affair picking olives, hovering precariously aloft a wooden ladder, sharing jokes and a copa de vi negre, a glass of robust red wine, with Catalina's family and feeling huge satisfaction when a wicker basket is filled to the brim.

  'I shouldn't really. I've got a mountain of work.'

  She smiles. 'Work can wait, but the olive season can't.'

  'Good point.'

  'We can have a little wine and pa amb oli.'

  She sees a greedy sparkle in my eye. Pa amb oli, literally bread and oil, forms part of the staple diet of the Mallorcans and is one of my weaknesses. The magic lies in the additional ingredient of tomatiga de ramellet, a local tomato that is threaded with string and hung in rows in either the kitchen or cellar and used all year round. Rich olive oil, sea salt, tomato and a whisper of garlic on rich Mallorcan bread is the closest one might ever come to earthly heaven.

  'I'll come.'

  Well, that took a lot of convincing.

  'Five o'clock at my house,' she beams. 'And don't be late.'

  I rise to my feet and gather up my diary and pen. 'Right, that's my incentive to get cracking. I'm going up to the office to wade through all my work in peace.'

  'What if anyone calls?'

  'Just say I'm busy or better still that I'm up an olive tree somewhere and unavailable for comment.'

It is late January and we are experiencing what the Mallorcans term 'the January calm'. There is little wind and the weather is mild. As I sit outside Cafè Paris reading the Veu de Sóller, our local Sóller newspaper, I see Antonia from HiBit approaching.

  'Have you seen the postman lately?'

  'No, but he seems to be having secret trysts with my elderly neighbour Margalida.'

  'Really? Well, I haven't seen him for more than a week. Another man delivered the mail today.'

  'Don't lose sleep over it. I'm sure he'll tire of Margalida's sweet oranges and return to his duties.'

  She laughs. 'By the way, it looks like the new shop will be ready in a week's time.'

  'Fantastic. Will you have a little fiesta?'

  'Sure thing. Some wine and coca for all the clients.'

  Of course. Where would we be without coca?

  'You skiving off work this afternoon?'

  'Give me a break. I'm just reading the Veu to practice my Catalan. I've got an exam tomorrow.'

  'You poor thing. I don't think my written Catalan would be very good now. You know, under Franco we learned everything in Castilian Spanish in school.'

  'So Margalida tells me. At least you've got an excuse.'

  She laughs. 'So how's Ollie?'

  'Actually, I'm waiting to pick him up from football practice. Sometimes I think it might be easier to make up his bed on the pitch.'

  'I thought he was into tennis now?'

  'Both. In fact, he's sport mad. He obviously doesn't inherit it from me.'

  'I don't know, you did the marathon.'

  'My body was in protest, remember. I'm not a natural.'

  She gives me a grin and wanders off up the road. A moment later, Senyor Bisbal stands by my table. I jump up to greet him.

  'Tranquil.la, tranquil.la,' he says, patting my arm. 'I wonder if I could introduce you to a friend?'

  'Of course, please join me.'

  With a polite nod of the head he turns and beckons to a small troll of a man in battered brogues and worn attire. His snowy hair and withered skin denote that he must be well into his eighties. When they have sat down, Senyor Bisbal leans forward conspiratorially and takes my hand.

  'My friend is Xisco. He has a good eye for land.'

  He sits back and taps the forefinger of his right hand against his nose. Xisco shapes his mouth into an oblong smile, unveiling a set of blunted teeth, chipped and greying like ancient tombstones. When he opens his mouth to speak, I notice the two incisors are missing and that a gold filling is winking from somewhere at the back of his mouth.

  'I know of some good fields.'

  Unsure of exactly how I am supposed to respond to this riveting news, I give an enthusiastic nod.

  'Marvellous. Good for you.'

  Senyor Bisbal takes over.

  'I hear that you are looking to breed livestock.'

  'Not exactly, Senyor Bisbal. Un hotel pels moixes.'

  The snowy troll spits on the floor and clicks his teeth. He studies me in the way a lab technician might an alien species.

  'Moixes, you say? You joke, si?'

  Senyor Bisbal's face is clouded with confusion.

  'In England we have places where cats stay when their owners go away.'

  'Are you serious?'

  'Of course. They pay maybe twelve euros each night, sometimes more.'

  Xisco hunches his shoulders and honks loudly.

  'You English are completely loco!'

  Senyor Bisbal is utterly baffled. 'Why not just leave the cats to find their own food like we do?'

  I realise that nothing I say about cattery philosophy will ever make sense to these hoary, rural veterans so I give up.

  'Look, we just do things differently, that's all. Now, might you have some land if I needed it?'

  Xisco puffs out his bottom lip.

  'Pues, maybe, but how much land would this hotel need? Don't tell me the cats have beds?'

  He pulls a puro from his pocket and is laughing so much at his own wit that he's quite incapable of lighting a match. Senyor Bisbal throws him a warning scowl and offers his own lighter.

  'Excuse my friend. Per favor, if you give us the specification, we will try to help. What materials would you use?'

  'Timber.'

  He looks reassured. 'Good, because you'd never get planning for a concrete structure.'

  'And how many cats would you have?'

  'Maybe twenty.'

  Xisco erupts into hysterical laughter again, his small roly-poly form practically leaping from the chair. I sneak a look at my watch and call for the bill.

  'No,' says Senyor Bisbal, 'This is my treat. Next time we meet, give me the spec you need.'

  I thank him and get up to leave.

  'By the way, who told you I was looking for land?'

  Senyor Bisbal is inscrutable.

  'You must remember that nothing is secret in the Sóller Valley.'