The misanthrope

Majorcan Tales and Other Stories

The Misanthrope

By John D Foot

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Majorcan Tales and Other Stories

The Misanthrope The fence separating Pedro’s orchard from the mountain track was in a bad state of repair. Rusty chain-link sagged where its supporting metal posts had buckled under the strain. The situation was worse in one particular spot, next to a magnificent and prolific pomegranate tree, where passers-by would reach over and help themselves to the ripe fruit. Some, indeed, demonstrating shameless cheek, had pushed a passage under the barrier, dropping down into the field from the low wall, in order to fill pockets and bags.

Pedro was incensed.

“But what does it matter?” replied his wife when he railed against the thieves.

“We have far more that we need. Most of the fruit just rots on the ground. You can only eat so many pomegranates!”

Her husband was not so easily placated and, before long, he was to be found reinforcing the road-side perimeter with strands of barbed wire, bought especially for the purpose.

“That will put a stop to it,” he thought.

And it did.

His efforts made further thefts impossible and sent a clear message to those, such as the numerous walkers who used the track when returning, often thirsty, from mountain hikes. They could only look longingly at the succulent yellow pomegranates.

Pedro was happy.

“The wire cost more than the fruit is worth,” complained his wife. “It wouldn’t hurt to show some generosity to the strangers who pass this way. Will you try to stop the birds from sitting in the trees?”

Time passed. Seasons arrived and departed more or less as predicted and the branches of the pomegranate tree stretched and extended, pushing out new fruits and flowers. And where there were flowers there were, of course, fruits.

Pedro surveyed the orchard with horror.

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Majorcan Tales and Other Stories

A proliferation of golden orbs had escaped his defences, hanging recklessly unprotected above the public path. And to make matters worse, each day, returning from his work among the olive trees, he was angered to see his crop gradually disappearing, no doubt to the grasping hands of thieves. But what could he do?

Eventually, only the two highest pomegranates remained. Possessively, Pedro gazed up at them, admiring their beauty - their perfection. And, indeed, they were perfect: the satiny lemon-yellow skin glowing in the sun; the brown, almost orange frill, at the base that looked for all the world like an upturned coronet; a form made to be cupped in the palm of a hand.

It was then that the idea came to him.

“I don’t like the grin on your face,” said his wife, as Pedro shuffled into the house at the end of the afternoon. “What have you done?”

Her husband said nothing, merely wheezed a suppressed self-satisfied chuckle as he thought about how he had taken his aluminium steps - just high enough to reach the pomegranates, and how he had painted each fruit with a poisonous glaze of agricultural insecticide. Punishment for the thieves, he had thought.

Justice!

“Wash yourself, Pedro,” grumbled his wife. “Enough of this sitting around! Get ready. Do you forget everything I tell you?

The grandchildren are coming today.”

Outside, the sun slipped slowly towards the horizon. Shadows lengthened.

Stones began to cool. The unseasonal wind which had whined and whimpered all day, tormenting souls all over the island, grew suddenly stronger, rocking the trees in the orchard.

And, as the two grandchildren approached along the mountain track, two pomegranates fell, temptingly, at their feet.

2011

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