Fines And Fiestas Chapter 1

Another Early Morning Call

 

The telephone began to ring at six on the dot, which meant it was either England or trouble. England had the decency to be one hour behind. Trouble rarely checked the clock.

“Hola,” I said, because in Spain one begins the day with good manners and low expectations.

“Perdón por la hora, Señor Steve.” Sergeant Alfonso. If the Guardia Civil called you at that time, you either had a problem or a story. With Alfonso, it was usually both.

“Everyone all right?” I asked, climbing from sleep to duty. Wife, office, clients, paperwork—the usual mental roll call.

“Todos bien,” he said. “Except… ‘Grandfather’.”

George again. In England he would have been “Mr. So-and-So.” In our village he’d long ago been promoted to a communal relative: Abuelo grandfather to the barman, the children, and—on mornings like this—the police.

“What’s he done?”

“A shortcut,” Alfonso said, with the regret of a man obliged to announce rain on a wedding day. “Through the cemetery. In the car.”

Only George would take a Fiat Panda called Doreen across consecrated ground. Only George would wedge her sideways on the church steps and fall asleep with the engine ticking like a clock in a quiet room.

“We have inspection at eight,” Alfonso went on. “If he is still here, I have regulations. I have to book him .”

“How much?”

“Diez mil pesetas.”

Fifty pounds to keep a legend out of a file and court . I was out of bed and into yesterday’s trousers before the receiver had settled.

The station smelt of polish and resignation. Alfonso met me in the corridor, immaculate as always, cap under his arm and a smile that said he’d seen worse and preferred not to.

“In there,” he nodded.

George was perched on a chair, three-piece suit, dancing shoes, and the air of a man briefly detained between parties. He was eating a ham roll with the piety of a saint.

“Steve, my boy!” He beamed as if I’d surprised him at his birthday. “You’re an angel.”

“Not today,” I said, signing where Alfonso pointed. “Today I’m your overdraft.”

George patted his pockets as if money might materialise by applause. “I’ll see you right,” he promised, the eternal IOU. We both knew he wouldn’t. The village got more from George than George ever took.

Alfonso slid the receipt across. “Please remove him,” he said in English, the way one might request the removal of a stray dog from a baker’s.

Outside, Doreen sulked at the curb, brought round by Ernesto one of the Guardia, left with her engine ticking over , blue smoke curling from the exhaust like an embarrassed curtain. The church steps bore a tyre mark and the faint smell of penance.

“How did you manage it?” I asked.

“Faith,” said George. “And first gear.”

We set off at a dignified crawl, Doreen protesting at every pious bump. I steered; George waved like a minor royal.

Bar Pueblo had opened its shutters to the morning. We installed George at a corner table with a coffee and a glass of water. He added a sliver of anise to both.

“You’ll kill the taste,” I said.

“That,” said George, “is the point.”

By eight the plaza had gathered its usual jury: the baker with his floury arms; Rosa with her clipboard; two pensioners who considered traffic an academic subject. Word travels quickly in a small town. The cemetery, the steps, the inspection, the fine—by pastry number three, the story had acquired orchestration.

“Shortcut?” asked the baker, delighted. “Through the holy ground?”

“Tradition,” said George. “Romans built straight roads. I merely followed precedent.”

Rosa sniffed. “You’re going to apologise to Father Miguel.”

“Already did,” said George. “He suggested I might like to confess.”

“And did you?” I asked.

“I did not,” said George. “Confession is for sins one regrets.”

Laughter loosened the air. The day settled on its rails. Alfonso passed by the window, caught my eye, and mimed coffee. I raised my cup. He touched his cap.

By ten I’d been to the office, reassured England, and discovered that two clients had decided not to buy their dream because their dog had taken against the plane. By noon the tyre mark on the steps had become a parable; by one the inspector had been and gone, and Alfonso’s paperwork was immaculate. Life, like a Spanish queue, had straightened itself without anyone admitting who’d been there first.

I walked back through the heat to Bar Pueblo and found George with a plate of tapas he hadn’t ordered and two children teaching him a card game he swore he didn’t understand. He looked up and grinned the grin of a man who had escaped consequences again by the narrowest of margins.

“You’re a hazard,” I told him.

“I,” said George, “am the local colour.”

And there, for the moment, we left it: the church unscathed, Doreen repentant, the village amused, and my day—inevitably—already two hours late.

Fines And Fiestas Chapter 2

Ambrosia (Food of the Gods) Hotel Ambrosia was the sort of place that could make a packet of crisps look expensive. The foyer had marble, the bar had mirrors, and the waiters had the patience of saints on performance bonuses. It was where we installed new arrivals when we wanted them impressed That night I had Eddie and June—E & J in my notes—a cheerful pair from Birmingham who thought Spain was a colour you could wear. Eddie had a tie broadcasting holiday; June had a laugh that improved the room. “Start as we mean to go on,” Eddie announced, lowering himself into the banquette as if docking a barge. “Two Sex on the Beach.” The waiter did not blink. He never did. “Sí, señor. Dos.” June went scarlet. “Edward.” “It’s a drink,” he said. “They do it in Solihull.” I liked them immediately. Ambrosia served a fixed menu that changed every night but rotated every week. The chef believed in repetition as a teaching aid. I could have recited the choices without looking: the soup that made no claims, the fish that denied bones, the beef that required persuasion. What I liked was the timing—plates arrived the moment conversation hit a lull, and the wine, though innocent, wore a clever label. “Here’s how tomorrow works,” I told them between starters and the moment Eddie realised gazpacho was served cold on purpose.  With a big smile and an exaggerated flourish of trust me hands like a second rate car salesman I explained how tomorrow would pan out. It was comedy time.   “I’ll show you three places. You’ll hate the first, tolerate the second, and fall in love with the third. The third will be out of your budget and still the one you buy.” Eddie grinned. “What if we love the first?” “Then I’ll panic,” I said with a laugh. June dabbed at her lips, the sort of gesture that suggests breeding or practice. “To be serious for a moment what about the paperwork? I’m told it can be a nightmare ” “We will treat it like a waltz,” I said. “I’ll lead, you won’t step on my toes, and we’ll end in the notary before anybody knows.” Their cocktails arrived wearing fruit unlikely to have known an orchard. Eddie raised his glass. “To sunshine, bargains, and the enjoyment that come with both.” “To not telling our children the price,” June added. “They think we’re thinking of buying a caravan.” The soup appeared. Eddie peered. “It’s cold.” “It’s Spanish,” I said. “So are siestas and honesty after the third drink.” By the time the fish conceded defeat, E & J had told me why they’d come—rain, the NHS, and neighbours who argued about bins. They wanted light and a terrace and a place where their grandchildren could point at lizards. They wanted a story they could tell in January. The beef arrived with fanfare and resisted all advances. Eddie wrestled; June negotiated; I recommended the knife at a different angle, the Spanish way—slow pressure, not force. It yielded, briefly civilised. Dessert was a decision masquerading as a trolley. June chose flan; Eddie chose everything; I chose the bill. “Let’s agree something tonight,” I said, as the coffee did its best to be coffee. “ Give me an idea of a price you’ll be delighted to have paid before we start trying to pay less.” Eddie nodded, a man who had worked overtime for most of his nouns. “If it’s the right one,” he said, “we’ll know. Just show us what you have. ” June leaned forward. “And if it isn’t right ?” “Then,” I said, “we admire the view and go to the next.” The barman appeared with a tray of blush-coloured diplomacy. “On the house,” he said. It never was. “For first night.” Eddie lifted his glass. “To Ambrosia,” he said solemnly. “Food of the gods.” June eyed the umbrella in hers. “The gods are welcome to mine if it comes with a straw.” Outside, the evening had settled into the warm hum of holiday—couples walking as if time had slowed, children being negotiated towards bed by parents who had lost the argument in advance. We stood in the doorway a moment, the three of us, watching a taxi choose a customer and a scooter choose a pavement. “Tomorrow,” I said. “Nine. Sensible shoes.” Eddie patted his pocket to check he still had the room key. June adjusted a bracelet that would have been more at home in a better class of casino. They looked like people who wanted to believe the best of a place and of themselves in it. If Spain had a type, they were it. “Steve,” said Eddie, as if trying out my name for weight. “Be straight with me. Do people regret it?” “Sometimes,” I said. “But not for the reasons you think.” “Why then?” “Because they forget what they came for,” I said. “And because they expect Spain to be England with sun.” He considered that, then nodded as if filing it under Good Advice He Might Ignore. “Nine o’clock,” he said. “Sensible shoes. And a pen.” “Bring your sense of humour,” I said. “The pen I can supply.” They walked away arm in arm, already arguing gently about whether they preferred white walls or stone. I watched them go and hoped tomorrow’s third house would be available at a price we could both defend. The gods might have their food. I had my work. At the bar, the waiter polished a glass that did not need polishing and raised an eyebrow that did. “¿Bien?” “Bien,” I said. “For now.” He nodded in the way people do when they’ve seen a hundred versions of your optimism and prefer not to rank them. Then he placed a small plate on the counter with the authority of a judge delivering sentence: two slices of tortilla, a few olives, a gesture towards mercy. “On the house,” he said. This time, I believed him.

Fines And Fiestas Chapter 3

A Traffic Jam? (The Blocked Village) The first sign that Jack was back was not visual, it was seismic. The café spoons began to rattle. A pigeon fell off the church roof. Then the monster rounded the corner like a ferry that had taken a wrong canal: a motorhome the size of a moral lesson, dragging a Mini on a trailer like a lifeboat clinging to hope. Jack leaned out of the driver’s window, one arm brown to the elbow. “Morning, Stevie boy! Make a bit of room.” There was, demonstrably, no room. Calle Mayor was a mediaeval afterthought—two donkeys wide on a generous day. The motorhome inhaled the street and held its breath. Shutters opened. Opinions formed. Behind me, Rosa closed her clipboard with the sound of a verdict. “No,” she said. “Yes,” Jack said, with the manic optimism that had sold more hopeless vehicles than gumption alone should allow. He eased forward until the wing mirror kissed the bakery’s awning and the trailer decided it would rather be married to the fountain than dragged past it. The procession stopped. So did the town. “What is it?” whispered a tourist, as if we had rehearsed for this. “A funeral,” I said. “Of traffic.” Jack attempted geometry. The motorhome laughed in rectangles. Two scooters misjudged their chances and became decorations. The air filled with the smell of diesel and speculation. Father Miguel appeared, black cassock moving at speed, an event in itself. He took in the scene: the giant vehicle; the trapped Mini; the fountain that had seen better allegories. He crossed himself with economy. “Señor Jack,” he said. “You have chosen a bad moment.” “Is there a good one?” Jack replied, smiling the smile that got him out of more problems than it got him into. The priest gestured up the street. “Funeral at eleven. Mrs. Delgado. We must pass.” We all looked at the clock above the town hall. Ten-twenty. Jack looked at the trailer’s bitter union with the fountain. He looked at me. “Easy,” he said. “We’ll unhitch the Mini and move it by hand.” “On the slope?” Rosa said. “Into the café? Excellent.” From the window above Bar Pueblo, Barbara—the Sunbed Queen out of uniform—declared, “He’ll never do it,” with the relish of a bookmaker. We assembled a committee in ten seconds: me, Rosa, two lads who would lift anything for a beer, and George, who appeared in jacket and tie as if he had been expecting a photo opportunity. Jack produced a spanner with the flourish of a magician pulling a dove from a hat. “On three,” he said. “One, two—” “Wait,” Rosa said. “Bricks.” We put stones under the Mini’s wheels because we liked the café windows. Jack undid the hitch. The Mini sighed like a character actor. We muscled it away from the fountain and onto the crown of the road, where it sat and considered destiny. “That way,” Jack pointed. “That way,” Rosa agreed, which meant that way or we’d all go the other way. We rolled. The Mini rolled. The slope took an interest. A boy shouted, “¡Cuidado!” because that is what Spanish people do. For a heart-stopping second the Mini considered the bakery as a new home. Then George, who ought not to have been agile, was. He dropped his heel behind the rear tyre, swore, and held like a saint preventing a miracle from becoming a disaster. The lads chocked the wheels. The village exhaled. “Next problem,” Rosa said. The motorhome was still in the street like a sofa jammed in a corridor. Jack, undeterred, reversed two inches, advanced one, and created a theatre of impossible angles. Drivers behind him began to applaud ironically. Father Miguel checked the time, found nothing useful there, and began to pray for guidance. Alfonso arrived with the look of a man who had seen worse and chosen to forget it. He surveyed the scene, placed his cap precisely under his arm, and said, “Señores, we have twenty minutes.” “Plenty,” Jack beamed. “Not plenty,” Alfonso corrected. “Enough.” He divided us like a sergeant-major dividing fools: two on one side, two on the other, Rosa on common sense, me on translation, Father Miguel on God. Jack was on the wheel, which is where he always was. On Alfonso’s count, we performed a manoeuvre so delicate that it should have had music: a shuffle, a pause, a whisper of rubber, the slightest lift. The motorhome edged past the bakery with a paper’s breadth to spare. The bakers resumed breathing. We all cheered. Jack bowed. Then the wing mirror found the iron gutter and declared a draw. Metal squealed. The mirror lost, and in losing, lodged itself like a cork. We froze. “Leave it,” Rosa said. “Sacrifice the mirror.” Jack winced as one might at a torn fingernail. He gritted his teeth and drove forward. The mirror surrendered its life with dignity. The motorhome cleared the gutter, and the street, five centimetres wider than it had been an hour before, discovered faith. At ten fifty-five the cortège formed at the top of the hill: pallbearers, family, the slow gravity of grief. The motorhome had just cleared the last pinch point. Alfonso stepped into the centre of the street with the easy authority that comes from a hat and a lifetime of practice. He lifted a hand. Traffic obeyed. Jack pulled over in front of Bar Pueblo, turned off the engine, and the town heard itself again. He climbed down, retrieved the broken mirror solemnly, and handed it to me as if it were a relic. “For your wall,” he said. “I’ll start a museum,” I replied. The coffin passed. Hats dipped. Conversations, even in the heads of those inclined to narrate, ceased. Mrs. Delgado had lived here eighty-five years and never blocked a street. The town took note. When the last mourner had gone by, life resumed—as it always does—with a gasp and a shrug. Alfonso shook Jack’s hand. Father Miguel laid a palm on the bonnet and blessed the motorhome, perhaps out of habit, perhaps out of relief before racing off to officiate at the funeral Rosa ticked something on her clipboard that probably read “miracles.” The boys asked if they could sit in the Mini. Barbara announced from her balcony that she had known all along it would be fine. The fountain pretended none of this concerned it. Jack looked at me. “See? Easy.” “It’s ten past eleven,” I said. “I said we’d make it,” he grinned. “I didn’t say when.” He pocketed the broken mirror, perhaps deciding it would look better on his wall than mine. Then he slapped the motorhome’s flank the way a man slaps a horse he suspects of a private joke. “Part II after lunch,” he said. “We’ll get the trailer out.” Rosa groaned. Alfonso closed his eyes for a second and, I think, counted to a number he keeps for us. I went to get a stiff drink because, in Spain, there is always a part two after lunch.