Two Old Fools in Spain Again (8 page)
“Well, it’s a pity you don’t want to play again.”
“Enough, I don’t want to think or talk about golf anymore. What’s for dinner?”
Unfortunately, not everybody was willing to drop the subject. Whenever we saw Alejandro Senior, he delighted in talking about that golf day again and describing Joe’s unlucky shots in lurid detail. The time Joe’s ball hit the fence, the ball that plopped into the ornamental fountain, the ball that flew backwards and the ball dropped over the shoulder, vanishing into thin air.
Strangely, I solved the mystery of the disappearing golf ball. When I was tidying up and hanging Joe’s jacket back in the wardrobe, I found something. Nestled in the hood of his waterproof jacket was the golf ball he had dropped over his shoulder. I told Joe, but we didn’t share our knowledge with any of the Alejandros. No doubt we wouldn’t hear the end of it.
One day, we were invited to see the Alejandros’ grand family home in the village. The invitation came because we had been talking about our chickens and Alejandro (Alejandro Junior’s father) mentioned that they kept a lot of animals at their house in El Hoyo. Would we like to see their house and animals?
Of course we would!
8. A Village Secret
A
lejandro Junior and
Sofía
led the way, arms entwined, heads close to each other. Paco walked with his childhood friend, Alejandro, deep in conversation. Although I was chatting with Carmen and Alejandro’s wife, I could hear Joe and Alejandro Senior behind us, Alejandro Senior giving Joe some unwanted tips about the best choice of golf club in wet weather conditions on an uphill slope.
We walked past the village square and eventually came to a halt at the gates and massive walls of their house at the edge of the village. Joe and I had walked past the house many times before and the unseen guard dogs on the other side of the high walls had always barked and snarled a warning. It’s not hard to guess the size of a dog from its bark and the dogs behind these walls, we knew, were big. Alejandro’s wife caught my apprehensive expression.
“Don’t worry, they’re tied up during the day when we’re here in the village,” she said.
Alejandro tapped a code into the alarm system, then used two separate keys to unlock the gates. We all trooped in and I looked around.
The paved yard was big enough to park at least twenty cars. A mountain of firewood was stacked neatly against one of the far walls and, apart from a few large potted plants and a stone-built barbecue, there was little else to catch the eye. A wrought-iron gate, set into the far wall, overlooked what appeared to be tilled land.
Three huge dogs, part grizzly bear, part wolf, were chained to the wall, barking furiously, lips peeled back, straining to reach us. I felt very sorry for them, they probably didn’t have much of a life. Being permanently isolated and waiting to shred an intruder, was, I thought, not an ideal existence for a dog.
“Come into the house,” said Alejandro’s wife. “I will show you around.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the house wasn’t ostentatious. I reminded myself that although it belonged to millionaires, it was a village retreat, just one house of many.
The kitchen was huge, dominated by a massive fireplace so big that a whole family could warm themselves at once. Now I understood why they needed so much firewood. A vast table stood in the middle of the room, big enough to seat 16 people, but the room was homely in spite of its size.
As Carmen and Sofía had probably seen the house many times before, they didn’t accompany us on the guided tour. Alejandro Senior lit a fat cigar and also stayed behind with them in the kitchen. Paco, Joe and I followed Alejandro Junior, Alejandro and his wife.
“This is our bedroom and another two bedrooms and the bathroom...” said Alejandro’s wife.
Joe and I oohed and aahed. The rooms were nice, very Spanish but unremarkable. Each was modestly furnished, the bedrooms with crucifixes on the walls above ornate iron bedsteads, the bathrooms typical of bathrooms anywhere. Alejandro’s wife chattered on while her husband waited patiently. Paco looked bored and stole glances up the corridor.
When there were no more wardrobes to show off, Alejandro walked to the end of the corridor and tapped at another alarm box on the wall beside a heavy, locked door. A broad grin decorated Paco’s face.
“Now you will see something!” said Paco.
Fascinated but puzzled, Joe and I exchanged glances. Alejandro pushed the door open and stepped inside, beckoning us to follow.
More bedrooms?
I wondered.
But why should these be locked behind an alarmed door?
Alejandro groped for the light switch and an enormous room, the size of a barn, appeared in front of us. It was a bodega. Joe and I gaped at the polished-wood barrels, each neatly labelled stacked up on shelves that rose to the ceiling.
“My father, Alejandro Senior, started this collection,” said Alejandro waving his arm to take in the room.
“Wow...” said Joe. Words had failed us both.
Alejandro fussed with some meters fixed to the wall. “Humidity and temperature adjustments,” he explained.
In addition to the banks of wine barrels, racks of wine bottles, tilted slightly, lined the walls of the room. By now Paco was laughing at the expression on our faces.
“English! I bet you did not know this was here in the centre of El Hoyo,” he roared.
“No,” we said, shaking our heads in disbelief.
Paco laughed. “You are honoured! Most of the villagers do not know about this!”
“There are some very valuable wines here,” said Alejandro. “Rare labels, some very old wines, some wines that do not exist anywhere else.”
“Are they all valuable?” I asked.
“No, sometimes we buy them just because we like them. Sit down, I will show you.”
In the centre of the room was a round, wooden table, with stools pushed under it. Paco sat and we followed suit. Alejandro’s wife excused herself and retreated to the main part of the house.
“Hmm...” said Alejandro to himself, leaning in to read the labels on the barrels. “This one, I think... You will like this, it is a merry little wine with a hint of cranberry.” He turned the tap and ruby wine spurted into the glass held under it. “And maybe this one... Full-bodied, honest and earthy, a robust and courageous wine.”
Paco jumped up and took the full glasses from him, plonking them down on the table in front of us. Alejandro was still carefully inspecting each cask.
“Ah yes,” he said, “this amusing little wine has a bit of a kick... Oh and this one... Underestimated, rather young, but fragrant with a suggestion of almonds...”
Soon the table-top was covered with an alarming number of filled wine glasses.
“English!” roared Paco. “Try some! Tell Alejandro and his son what you think.”
What Joe and I knew about wine could be written on a thumbnail, we either liked a wine or we didn’t and that was the extent of our expertise. This was going to be a challenge.
“Er, do we taste it and spit it out?” I asked, looking around for a bucket.
“No, we already know they are good. Taste and enjoy them.”
“Pah!” said Paco, thumping the table. “This room holds the best wine collection in Andalucía, apart from the wine I make from my own grapes, of course.”
Joe and I exchanged nervous glances and I picked a glass from the dazzling display in front of us. I sipped as Alejandro hovered on one side and his son on the other.
“Take a proper taste!” roared Paco. “You cannot make a decision from a sip the size of a raindrop!”
Obediently, I took a healthy slurp.
“Mmm... Very nice,” I said.
“But what about the taste?” Alejandro wanted to know.
“Err...” I sipped again and tried to remember a few things Alejandro had said. “Unpretentious. Maybe a trace of almonds?”
I struck lucky.
“Excellent!” exclaimed our host. “That is precisely what I would have said. Joe, what do you think?”
I passed the glass to Joe and he sampled it as Alejandro’s eyes bored into him.
“Oh, I agree with Vicky.”
“Good, finish that off and we’ll discuss the next.” Alejandro was already pushing another glass towards me.
I swigged and racked my writer’s brain for some suitable comment to bestow upon this one. “A sunny little wine,” I tried. “A fresh, open-air taste.”
Alejandro nodded. “Indeed, a very good description,” he said.
I passed the glass to Joe, who was gaping at me. He raised it to his lips.
“Well? Your opinion, Joe?”
“Oh, I agree with Vicky.”
Satisfied, Alejandro handed me the next and the next. Each time I had to come up with a new description and as the wine took its inevitable hold, my verdicts became more flowery. It was beyond the limits of my Spanish vocabulary, but Alejandro Junior’s English was excellent and he interpreted for his father.
“Ah, a playful wine!” I said. “I sense a hint of irony with just a twist of summer twilight in the mountains.” I was talking complete rubbish, but Alejandro Junior dutifully translated and his father seemed impressed. Alejandro glanced at Joe, eyebrows raised in question.
“Oh, I agree with Vicky,” said Joe hurriedly.
“And this one?”
Sip, sip, pause.
I was getting into my swing now. “Um, a melodious blend with hidden depths, rather a witty little wine with a riddle in the aftertaste. This wine has a passion and a personality all of its own.”
Judging by the narrowing of Joe’s eyes, perhaps I was going a bit too far. Alejandro Junior translated.
“Good! Good!” nodded Alejandro. “Joe? I take it you agree with Vicky.”
“Oh, definitely,” said Joe. “What she said.”
At last the glasses were empty and Joe and I staggered out of Alejandro’s bodega. We’d spent half an hour tasting wine and I don’t believe Alejandro, Alejandro Junior or Paco had touched a single drop. Back in the kitchen, Alejandro Senior rose to meet us.
“Do you want to see the animals?” he asked.
“Yesh please,” we said.
Alejandro Senior led us past the three snarling monsters and through another gate to a field. Vegetables grew in neat rows and a worker was hoeing the soil. I had my camera with me and snapped it all. We skirted the cultivated land, heading for the barn at the end. Tethered to a fence was a young horse, pawing the ground with one front hoof.
“He’s not broken in yet,” said Alejandro Senior approaching him confidently.
The colt’s nostrils flared and his eyes rolled in warning, showing their whites. Alejandro Senior patted his neck and the horse stood still, accepting the attention but not enjoying it, still fearful. I fumbled with the camera, snapping pictures.
Just then, Joe sneezed. The young horse, startled, swung round and aimed a kick at Alejandro Senior. Alejandro Senior skipped back and aimed a kick at the front end of the horse.
Very rarely, one takes a photo that one knows is extraordinary and I knew I had just accomplished that by accident. The old man and the young horse formed a perfect circle, each aiming a kick at the other. The backdrop of rolling mountains, the field and the blue sky, contributed to what I was convinced would be an exceptional photo.
“Wait until you see this photo,” I said to Joe. “I think it’s a bit special.”
I didn’t enjoy the animal tour, although I tried hard to hide it. All the animals were provided with food and water but I silently deplored their living conditions. In one shed white rabbits were being reared for the pot. There was a huge white buck in one tiny cage and mothers with their babies in other equally small cages. I don’t think eating rabbit meat is wrong, but I do believe that every animal deserves a decent quality of life.
The chicken shed was no better. The hens were housed in small cages and had no opportunity to stretch their wings or scratch the ground. The shed was artificially lit and Alejandro Senior explained that the lights were left on to fool the chickens into thinking it was still daylight so they would lay more eggs.
After seeing terrified quails scattering in the last shed, I was ready to go home. We thanked our hosts and left soon after, heads still befuddled by the wine-tasting session.
“You certainly waxed lyrical in the bodega,” Joe said.
“Well, you weren’t much help with your ‘I agree with Vicky.’ Couldn’t you come up with anything better?”
“You seemed to be doing fine all by yourself.”
Halfway home, I remembered the photo I’d taken. I stopped and scrolled through the day’s photos, searching for it. And it was superb, even on the camera’s little digital display. I couldn’t wait to see it full-size.
“Here, let’s have a look,” said Joe grabbing the camera. “Where is it?”
“Click the button on the left and scroll through. It’s quite near the end.”
“I can’t see any photos.”
“Which button did you press?”
“This one.”
I craned forward to see which button he was indicating. It was clearly marked, although the print was tiny.
‘Eliminar todas’
.
“You’re joking?”
“No, why?”
“You’ve just deleted all the photos I took today.”
“Oh.”
I had lost my masterpiece and all the photos stored in the camera. We would have to rely on our wine-blurred memories to recapture that remarkable day.
One evening in October, much to my surprise, Joe answered the phone when it rang. He didn’t call me, so I didn’t bother to listen. He came back into the kitchen scratching himself furiously.
“That was Judith. She really should lock those dogs of hers away when she’s making a phone call, I could hardly hear a word she said.”
“How is she? How’s Mother? Is everything okay?”
“Yes, they’re all fine. She rang to ask us a favour. She’s invited some friends of hers from the UK to come and stay for a weekend. They’ve booked their flights and now she’s discovered that the wife is allergic to pet hair.”
“Don’t tell me she wants us to take all the dogs and cats!”
“No, but it’s nearly as bad...”
“What then?”
“She wants us to put her visitors up here.”
“What? Who are these people?”
“They’re the vicar and his wife from the village she used to live in.”
“You’re joking! I hope you made some excuse!”
“I couldn’t think quickly enough. I said it would be okay.”