A Lizard In My Luggage (25 page)

  But back to tonight. Fransisca and Hans are hosting their pre-Christmas fiesta, an 'at home' which they have organised for clients and friends, and the place is buzzing with chatter. As we enter, engulfed in warm air and light from the small doorway, I notice out of the corner of my eye a piano and an assortment of musical instruments placed prominently in the centre of the room. What can be the significance of this? Fransisca, face glistening from the heat of the kitchen, greets us with hugs and kisses and shows us into the flat. The drinks are flowing and Hans emerges from the kitchen balancing a tray buried beneath platters of cold meats, rice dishes home-made pies and rich German cakes. He and his wife rig up two pine trestle tables on which they place dish upon dish of food. There is nothing over engineered and the simplicity and homeliness of the occasion takes me back to the buffets once organised by my elderly aunt when I was a child. Various friends dive into the kitchen and open bottles of Rioja which they share round the guests. Far across the valley, stars burn in the sky and the dull rumble of passing traffic can just be heard from the open doorway of the veranda. There's a warm hand on my back.

  '
Venga!
' says Fransisca, 'The fun is about to begin.'

  I espy Alan and Ollie at the other side of the room, chomping on large plates of paella and pie. At the mention of fun, Alan shoots me a wary look. To our joint astonishment, Hans takes to the piano and Fransisca to the guitar. I am immediately reminded of the singing duo, Peters and Lee. There's a hush as smiling Spanish guests gather round the piano quite obviously anticipating a sing-song. My eyes meet those of Alan and in a moment of self-consciousness of an urban kind, we both scuttle to the side of the room and sit down. Could this ever happen in London? Within minutes the room is filled with singing voices, frenzied guitar strumming and the tinkling of piano keys. Two Spaniards begin to shuffle to the sound of the music, clapping their hands dramatically and
Olé
-ing. Yes, it's true, the Spanish really do say
Olé
. An exotic Spanish woman in a slinky red dress with black hair that snakes down past her waist beckons to me to join her as she gyrates around the piano. Oh God, how do I get out of this one? I decline demurely and nod in the direction of Ollie, picking him up and pretending that he's sleepy. Indignantly, he gives me a shove and demands to be put down. There's nothing for it. I have to join the group. As I sway inelegantly with this happy crowd, clapping to the music, I see Rachel's horrified face swimming towards me as in a dream, her mouth hissing, 'For Christ's sake. What are you doing?' I shake myself out of my stupor and see Ollie watching me from his chair, a smug grin playing on his lips. Alan is to my left now, plucking at the strings of a guitar while a large man, his eyes dancing with excitement, claps him cheerfully on the back yelling, '
Bravo! Bravo!
'An hour later and we are all singing rowdily, Ollie is dancing with an elderly Spanish woman wearing a white caftan and hoop earrings and Alan is playing 'The Maple Leaf Rag' on the piano to rapturous applause.

  We leave at midnight, tipsy and warm with red wine and exertion and stroll off along the road back to the
finca
. Several partygoers call out raucously and toot us as they drive by, the tail lights of their cars glowing like cigarette butts in the dusk. Soon we are crunching up the gravel of our track, mutely, engulfed in darkness and the sounds of night in the country. The owls and bats soar overhead and as we reach the courtyard I am at once aware of a huge canopy of white stars blazing above us. There's a familiar scratchy cough coming from the pond and, as I peer closer, I see the silhouette of my portly toad observing me from a rock at the edge of the water. I thought he'd be gone by now. He creeps out of the shadows, his eyes glinting in the light of the stars, and then, with a sly wink and a full throttle croak, he disappears into the crevice of a rock.

Rafael's cockerel, like an over-excited town crier, is screeching at the top of his voice as Catalina drives, lights blazing, into the dim courtyard. Just in case anyone's still asleep in the house, she stabs at the hooter and yells out of the van's window. I jump in beside her, kitted in mountain gear and thick gloves.

  'They're still asleep,' I mutter.

  Catalina takes no prisoners. 'But it's half past six. They should be up by now.'

  We whiz off down the track and through the quiet country roads. The ghostly light of a
moto
comes towards us on the other side of the road and then I see the familiar frame of Gaspar, the paper delivery man. He gives us a toot and a thumbs up sign and rumbles off.

  He must be off to pick up the papers,' I turn to Catalina.

  'Yes, Gaspar gets up very early, but he's happy.'

  We climb up the mountain roads finally reaching a tranquil spot with wild terrain and forests where the road curves off to the left. Catalina flicks her indicator, although at this hour there isn't a soul on the road. Rumbling along a steep track for about a mile, thick forest land on both sides, we turn right into a narrow lane full of boulders and sharp rocks and jolt along for a few miles until we reach a small clearing.

  'Thank heavens I borrow Stefan's old van,' she shouts above the noise of the engine. The road widens slightly, enough for a car to park on one side. Catalina stops abruptly and we both get out. In the back of the van, she unearths two large trugs and some sharp little knives and torches.

  'OK, we meet my aunt Maria here and then we walk through the forests and up into the terraces. It will be light soon.'

  The air is cool and, like dragons, our breath is white. I look inside my trug. It's quite big. 'Do you reckon we'll find many
bolets?
'

  She shrugs. 'That's the thing about hunting for mushrooms. You never know what you will find until the day.'

  The sky is still dark and both of us jiggle about in the chill while we wait for Maria. A headlight hits us before the car struggles up the lane and jolts to a stop behind ours. The door flies open and Catalina's ebullient and energetic aunt jumps out, talking animatedly. I try to keep up but the stream of Mallorcan linguistic ping ponging between the two, finally defeats me.

  '
Molt bé!
' she gives me a big hug. 'Now we go searching for gold!'

  We take our trugs and set off across the damp field and into the woods. Maria is small and fit and exudes an air of confidence. Up in her local village she and her husband Jaime run an excellent restaurant called Canantuna which even the King of Spain has been rumoured to visit and heavenly fresh
bolets
are always on the menu when in season. She snaps off twigs and bends branches as she strides on, torch in hand, through the obscurity towards her goal. I scramble after her and Catalina, holding my torch in one hand and trug in the other. We're all huffing and puffing as we begin our ascent through the stone terraces where Maria's hidden treasure trove of
bolets
, the much prized local mushrooms, are to be found.

  'Do many people come up here for
bolets?
' I ask.

  They both swing round and give me a harsh look.

  'This is my private land! If anyone dared come here I'd chase them off,' says Maria spiritedly.

  'People go mad for them,' adds Catalina conspiratorially. 'You see them searching with torches in the hedgerows at the crack of dawn.'

  'Are they difficult to buy?' I'm mystified by the cult and wonder if they have the rarity of truffles.

  'You can buy them easily enough, but they cost a fortune and aren't always fresh,' explains Maria.

  The science of
bolets
is something unknown to me which is why Catalina and her aunt generously invited me to join them on one of their many seasonal mushroom hunts on Maria's private land. There's a trickle of light in the sky so we turn off our torches.

  'Now,' instructs Maria. 'Be careful what you pick and check back with me. There are many poisonous mushrooms around and some are deadly.'

  That's cheerful news. I shall certainly not be popping any finds in my mouth before first conferring with Maria.

  She takes out a sharp knife and begins scraping the soil beneath a tree. There appears to be nothing there so I'm not quite sure what she's doing.

  'Can you see any mushrooms?' she quizzes.

  'Not a thing,' I reply.

  She raises her eyebrows and like a magician tells me to step aside. With one quick move of the knife, she uncovers two enormous mushrooms on the place where I had been standing. I'm stunned.

  'But they looked like half-buried pebbles,' I stammer.

  She triumphantly hurls them in my trug. 'Don't be fooled!'

  Back under the tree where she was digging, she uncovers a patch of red
esclatasangs
, bloodbusters, so named because of their bright red juice. I fish around in the undergrowth but seem to find nothing but trouble. I hold up a small mushroom.

  '
Peu de rata
, rat feet. That one's no good. Throw it away!' she tuts.

  A clump of delicious looking grey mushrooms catch my eye. 'No, no,' Catalina yells. 'Those are
bolets verinosos
, very nasty toadstools.'

  I notice, a little petulantly, that both Catalina and Maria are filling their trugs effortlessly.

  'You develop an eye for
bolet
hunting,' says Catalina sympathetically, 'and my aunt knows exactly where to find them.'

  She beckons to me. 'See here? The sheep have beaten us to it. Normally there's a big patch under this tree but they have been eaten. This is why we come early morning.'

  An hour later, quite unexpectedly, I alight upon a large area of mushrooms. Excitedly as if I've discovered some rare archaeological find, I carefully scrape away the soil and holler for Catalina.

  '
Molt bé!
' she says. 'You've found your treasure. Dig carefully and remember to cut at the base of the stem or you'll destroy the next crop.'

  Heavens,
bolet
hunting is a tricky business and not for the impatient or faint-hearted. We plod on through the terraces, higher and higher, following in Maria's experienced foot steps. Some hours later we stop for a rest and examine our trugs. Theirs are groaning under the weight of various varieties of
bolet,
while mine is rather thin on substance.

  Catalina suddenly claps her hands. '
Bé,
the sun's up and it's time for an early lunch.'

  I look at my watch and am disorientated to see it's already nearly one o'clock. The time seems to have flown by and I'm feeling ravenous.

  We retrace our steps and head back for the car, rosy cheeked and full of energy. It's been a magical morning and one I will treasure.

  'Give me your
setas
,' says Catalina.

  'My what?'

  She shakes her head. 'Sorry, we switch all the time between Mallorcan and Castilian Spanish. It must confuse you.
Seta
in Castilian Spanish just means
bolet
in Mallorcan.'

  'I see,' I reply, realising once again that one day soon I am going to have to get to grips with both Mallorcan as well as Castilian Spanish if I am to enjoy local mountain life to the full.

  We head off by car to Balitx d'Avall, a beautiful seigneurial house set in the hills which offers hikers scrumptious Mallorcan fare. Typically, Maria and Catalina know the owners and all the kitchen staff so we are given the best indoor table overlooking the forests.

  'Now we cook our
bolets,'
enthuses Maria, patting her stomach. She bustles into the kitchen with one of the trugs and some minutes later, the mouth watering aroma of frying mushrooms, garlic and herbs wafts into the restaurant. I can hardly contain myself as I sit with Catalina quaffing robust red wine and snacking on home cured ham and olives. The platter duly arrives and we all tuck into our booty. I close my eyes and savour my first
bolet
. The taste is incomparable, divine, wonderful and a far cry from mushrooms back home.

  'Let's drink to our new apprentice,' yells Maria, with aplomb.

  Catalina is gracious. 'Yes, you did well for a beginner.'

  We chink glasses and savour the rich ruby wine. Somehow I think this fumbling apprentice will be on the
seta
trail again before long. That's if Maria and Catalina are willing to share their secret treasures once more.