Read Online Driving Over Lemons: An Optimist in Spain by Chris Stewart - Free Book Online Page B

device for applying rubber rings to the balls of lambs, a pepper-mill, a food-processor . . . a word-processor . . . ’ I felt more and more abashed as, with my explanations, I laid bare for him the fripperies of our existence. It seemed somehow wanting when compared with the elemental earthiness of his.
    Alpujarran man has no need of such dross. He makes do with what he has got or what he can find for nothing. Give him a plastic fizzy drink bottle and half a hank of baler-twine and he will create an object of delicate beauty that is also functional in that it keeps your water or wine cool – or just below the boil at any rate – in the heat of summer. An old car tyre will become a pair of sandals for irrigating. A bit of bone sees use as a doorstop. The plants that grow on the hillsides furnish just about everything the home needs.
    ‘And what in the name of the Host is that?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘That!’
    ‘It’s a bed.’
    ‘But it’s made of wood. You can’t have a wooden bed!’
    ‘Why ever not?’
    ‘It breeds chinches. Wood breeds chinches.’
    ‘Well, what might chinches be, then?’
    ‘They’re the
bichos
that sting and bite you at night. There’s enough of them here as it is. You don’t want to go encouraging them with a wooden bed!’
    I knew we’d never be able to get everything right in Pedro’s eyes. We liked the wooden bed, so the wooden bed stayed.
    ‘I’m making something to eat,’ said Pedro. ‘Come and join me. It’s
papas a lo pobre
.’
    Ana gave me a look.
    ‘It’s really very nice of him: I do think we should accept his invitation. Thanks Pedro. We’ll be down in ten minutes.’
    I banged some big nails into the arms and legs of the homemade wooden bed to cut down on the wobble. The floor of the room fell steeply away towards the goat-stable below, so I also stuffed some books and magazines under the feet to level it. Ana wiped every last speck of dust from the bedroom and then opened the window wide to let in the fast-moving night air and the ever present miasma of goat.
    Pedro still did his cooking in the lower part of the house. It was dark and starlit as we walked down the path, and the air was sweet with jasmine and woodsmoke. There was an electric light-bulb hanging in the middle of the room but Pedro was much too frugal to use it. The twig fire blazing beneath the black pot of potatoes illuminated the scene, aided by a skilfully adapted tuna-fish tin with old oil floating inside and a rag for a wick. Shadows and low light danced on Pedro’s big body as he crouched over the fire with his preferred stick, stirring the happy concoction. ‘Cristóbal, you lay the table and pour some wine for Ana.’
    I set the drum and poured Ana some
costa
. She took the glass, sat beside the makeshift table and gazed down at the river. It was a less fine wine than she might perhaps have wished for (Ana had, after all, named her favourite dog after a particularly delicious wine from Hospices de Beaune) but she sipped it without a murmur. I had hoped she would station herself by the cook and chat about recipes or the like, but no, it seemed that Ana was not quite so sure about Romero as I was.
    That first meal was not a success. I did my best to lubricate the wheels of sociability but the gulf was great. Pedro had decided on some whim that he couldn’t understand a word of what Ana was saying, despite the fact that she was at least as fluent as I was. Ana returned the favour by withdrawing from the conversation and the meal soon degenerated into an embarrassing exchange of grunts and sighs, punctuated by long silences.
    ‘Is he going to cook that for us every night?’ Ana whispered as soon as we were alone. ‘And how long do you think he intends to stay? He’s alright in his way, I suppose, but he’s rather an oppressive presence, don’t you think?’
    ‘Well, I can’t deny it would be nice to be alone,’ I had to agree. ‘But we have to remember that we are pushing the poor man