Writes Abroad Anthology of Short Stories 2010

Writers Abroad Anthology of Short Stories 2010

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This collection copyright Š Writers Abroad 2010 Copyright in the text reproduced herein remains the property of the individual authors, and permission to publish is gratefully acknowledged by the editor and publisher.

All rights reserved No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form of any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the copyright owner.

ISBN 978-1-4461-7886-7

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Writers Abroad and National Short Story Week Writers Abroad is an online community for expat writers living in all corners of the world. We are committed to developing our craft through constructive criticism and feedback, encouragement and a meeting of minds. Writers Abroad is an active writing group which favours activity and input rather than hundreds of members who never visit.

As many members are using the craft of short story writing to perfect their technique, it seemed fitting that we should support National Short Story Week 22nd November – 28th November 2010.

National Short Story Week is an annual awareness event. Its aim is to focus the attentions of the public and the media on the short story and short story writers, publishers and events. It is intended as a framework for promoting literary events and publications at a national and local level. The aims of National Short Story Week are: 1) to get more people reading and listening to short stories; 2) to get more people writing short stories; 3) to develop creative and commercial opportunities for individuals and organisations involved in the short story form.

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Foreword by Lorraine Mace When I was asked to write the foreword for this anthology, it felt like a perfect fit. I‘m passionate about promoting short stories and always ready to do anything that encourages people to write and/or publish them. An expat for more than thirty years, I‘m a firm believer in the benefits of online writing groups – in fact, as with many expats unable to find enough local writers for a face to face group, the only way I‘ve been able to establish with other writers is through online groups.

Writers Abroad fulfils an important need. We all need encouragement when things go wrong, a pat on the back to celebrate hard won success, someone to tell us where our writing is going wrong – and also where it‘s going right! With a group such as Writers Abroad, there is an added bonus in that all the members know what it feels like to be expats with an addiction – that burning undeniable compulsion to write. If you recognise any symptoms in yourself, why not join the group? (www.writersabroad.spruz.com).

This anthology, with its theme of Expat Life, was compiled to support National Short Story Week in the UK. Containing a variety of fictional tales covering the highs and lows of living abroad, I‘m sure many of the stories will have been based on real life situations – often much stranger than the fictional versions found within these pages. Maybe that‘s one of the reasons so many expats pick up the pen (well, switch on the computer) and become writers. The experience of living abroad enriches our lives to such an extent that we feel the need to share, initially through letters and emails to friends and loved ones back home. One thing leads to another and, before you know where you are, another expat writer is born.

Lorraine Mace is a columnist with Writing Magazine and deputy editor and writing agony aunt for Words with JAM. A writing competition judge, she runs Flash 500, a quarterly flash fiction competition, www.flash500.com. Lorraine, a tutor for Writers Bureau, is the co-author of The Writer’s ABC Checklist (Accent Press). www.lorrainemace.com

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Table of Contents WRITERS ABROAD ANTHOLOGY OF SHORT STORIES 2010 ....................... 2 WRITERS ABROAD AND NATIONAL SHORT STORY WEEK ......................... 4 FOREWORD BY LORRAINE MACE ............................................................. 5 TABLE OF CONTENTS ............................................................................... 6 A MAGIC CARPET ..................................................................................... 8 A MOUND OF SAND, A SPLASH OF BOUGAINVILLEA .............................. 15 A TRIP TO THE BEACH: KUWAITI STYLE .................................................. 19 COUNTERFEIT GOODS ............................................................................ 26 DUMB ANIMALS .................................................................................... 30 EAST RISING SUN ................................................................................... 35 FORK HANDLES AND GOOD INTENTIONS ............................................... 40 GIRL ON THE COUCH .............................................................................. 42 HOWEVER DARK .................................................................................... 45 HUNGER ................................................................................................ 52 LA DOLCE VITA ....................................................................................... 59 LA GRISAILLE .......................................................................................... 64 MIDNIGHT WISHES ................................................................................ 66 NOT THE FRENCH WAY .......................................................................... 70 SUSTAINABLE DEVELOPMENT ................................................................ 74 THE BAD EXPATRIATE WIFE ................................................................... 78 THE BLUE CARPET TREATMENT .............................................................. 85 THE BROOD MARE BLUES ...................................................................... 89 6

THE CARNIVAL IS OVER .......................................................................... 94 THE GOOD NEIGHBOURS ....................................................................... 98 THE KING’S NEW THRONE .................................................................... 105 THE LIFE OF AN ERRANT EXPAT ............................................................ 109 THE MANCHESTER GOODS DEPARTMENT ............................................ 113 THE NEXT STEP ..................................................................................... 116 TWICE BITTEN ...................................................................................... 121 UNRELIABLE PARADISE ........................................................................ 128 WHEN IN FRANCE ................................................................................ 133 WITH A ROSE BETWEEN HER TEETH ..................................................... 137 ZAP ...................................................................................................... 141 INDEX OF AUTHORS ............................................................................. 143

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A Magic Carpet A dust storm began to blow the day that Julia's mother-in-law was due to arrive. It came unheralded, rolling over the horizon at midday, filling the sky with dirty yellow clouds, hiding the sun and bringing strong gusting winds with fine grey creeping dust. Dust that came silently through the window frames, sweeping under the doors, covering the freshly polished floors, and collecting in little wind-blown eddies in the corners of the shiny stone tiled windowsills.

Julia watched helplessly as the dust obliterated all the hard work that had gone into cleaning the house that morning, when the houseboy had scrubbed and polished with more than his usual vigour, anxious that the house should be at its best to welcome Sahib's mother.

Nothing she could do to stop the dust. Howard's mother would just have to put up with it.

She wondered what she was going to do with the old lady for three weeks. This part of the Middle East where she and Howard lived was hardly a place for a holiday. It was hot, sandy and quite primitive, untouched as yet by Western development. Entertainment was of the self made variety, a game of bridge with friends once or twice a week, coffee mornings with the other wives, and swimming and sunbathing beside the one hotel pool. Hardly the distractions that would suit Howard's mother, who was more used to the tranquil well-ordered life of a small English village, with evenings at the Women's Institute, outings to the local town for shopping and a bus trip to Rosemary, Howard's sister, once a week.

Howard had been totally unhelpful when Julia approached him for advice, blithely sidestepping the problems that she foresaw, supremely confident that they would get on together perfectly.

"Mother," he declared when finally pressed, "will be only too happy to help you in the house." He was taken aback by Julia's irritated response that their houseboy looked after the house and was in no need of help from his mother.

"Besides," she added, "surely your mother isn't expecting to fly halfway round the world just to do the housework."

Howard was nonplussed. His most vivid images were of his mother with a duster in her hand and a gleaming house. He thought for a moment, dredging up childhood memories.

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"She can cook," he decided. "She can bake cakes. She always used to make excellent cakes." He paused, recalling fleeting pictures of himself, a tousled schoolboy, rushing home from school, and the taste of warm, rich fruitcake, fresh and crumbling from the oven.

"Oh yes," he breathed. "One of mother's fruit cakes would be great."

The ensuing row took them both by surprise. Howard was astonished that such an innocent remark on his part could cause such outrage in Julia, and she was shaken by the force of fury that possessed her.

"Odious comparisons!" she hissed.

"On the contrary," he roared. "Merely a pleasant memory of my childhood."

"If this is how your mother's visit is going to be!" she cried.

The row ended as suddenly as it had begun. Julia apologised for her unwarranted bad temper and Howard apologised for his thoughtless remarks, both intent upon restoring the peace. It was their first major row in almost four years of marriage. Hitherto, they had strived for a sound, well-ordered marriage, where, as equal partners, they shared the decision-making, settled disputes with friendly discussion and reached amicable comprises where necessary.

Except that Howard's mother had proved to be too emotive a subject for reasoned discussion and amiable compromise. She had disturbed the equilibrium of their marriage and even though Howard hesitantly suggested planning an itinerary of entertainment during her stay, a dinner party or two at home, a couple of coffee mornings, Julia was not reassured.

The plane bringing Mrs Spencer was delayed by the dust storm. Howard agreed to go on his own to meet her whilst Julia prepared supper and cleaned up some of the dust.

The cats came skittering into the kitchen on long spindly legs as she peeled potatoes. They stationed themselves at the back door, calling harshly to her to let them out, heedless of the overcast sky and the stifling dust. They were desert cats, long and lean with thin pointed faces and enormous ears, pampered and cosseted and very used to the easy life they led with Julia and Howard, so that when the back door was opened and a gust of dusty air burst in they recoiled and withdrew, leaving smudged paw prints on the dusty floor.

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Julia smiled and began to close the door again, but hesitated, listening, thinking she heard a sound.

"Memsahib." The voice was low, urgent, its owner unseen. Julia opened the door wider, shielding her face against a blast of swirling gritty wind.

"Memsahib." The voice was clearer now, closer to the door. "I bring carpets. You like to buy my very nice Persian carpets. Very cheap, easy terms."

Howard and Julia had already bought two carpets and then agreed to save and invest in a silken prayer rug from Tabriz. So Julia prepared to shut the back door with an emphatic refusal but the carpet seller was already before her unrolling a carpet across the dusty kitchen floor.

"We aren't interested," began Julia firmly and then stopped when she saw the carpet.

It was a soft fresh inviting green, exquisitely designed with a large central medallion and four triangular spandrels spreading out in each corner. It was not a large carpet, barely covering the floor of the small kitchen, but it seemed to shine, dispelling the dust and the gloom, radiating light.

"But it's lovely," exclaimed Julia. "So beautiful."

"It is a special carpet," babbled the carpet seller slipping into his sales patter. "Green is a sacred colour. You must not walk on a green carpet. Alas," he sighed, "I cannot sell this carpet. No one will buy a green carpet. See how closely the knots are woven," he said, leaning over to turn a corner for Julia's inspection.

"No!" she cried, then more gently: "No, I will do it." And she knelt beside the carpet on the hard stone floor, stroking the soft green pile, turning the edge, dutifully inspecting the closely woven knots before turning back again to gaze upon the pale incandescent green carpet.

Then the front door opened and suddenly the hall was full of activity. Julia abandoned the carpet to greet her mother-in-law, kissing her cheek, taking her coat, offering her refreshment, enquiring about the journey, the weather in England, the family. Mrs Spencer relaxed in an armchair, gratefully accepting the cup of tea Julia brought.

She was a tall, well-built woman, firm and decisive.

"I had an excellent journey," she declared. "It was snowing when I left. Rosemary and the children couldn't get to the airport to 10

see me off because of the blizzards. Fortunately, Rosemary has the freezer well stocked. She's very well-organised and efficient. What dreadful dust everywhere, dear. Howard tells me you have an excellent servant, but it looks as though his dusting could with some improvement. Oh," she added distastefully. "Cats."

The two cats came tripping into the sitting room to greet the new visitor.

"I never liked cats," said Mrs Spencer. "But I expect you keep them outside don't you, dear? Such smelly creatures."

Since her row with Howard, Julia had decided to do her utmost to keep her mother-in-law amused and happy. She would, she had decided, become fond of her mother-in-law. She couldn't be all bad. She was Howard's mother after all. But her condemnation of the cats instantly defeated all Julia's good intentions.

"Madam." The carpet seller appeared from the kitchen. "I will come again next week. You must keep the carpet until then. For you, memsahib," he added, "special terms, very cheap."

"No," said Howard firmly when he and Julia were alone later that evening. "We agreed to buy a carpet from Tabriz. Not a green carpet from a carpet seller. We did discuss this very thoroughly if you remember."

He climbed into bed and Julia, crouched on the floor beside the carpet, thought how like his mother he was and how strange that she had never noticed before.

In the morning she took her mother-in-law to the vegetable market, a large covered area at the edge of the bazaar crammed with stalls piled high with fresh fruit and vegetables. Two small boys carrying huge loosely woven baskets hurried up to Julia and Mrs Spencer offering their services as bag boys. An old woman in a dusty, torn chadoor, touched Mrs Spencer on the arm to attract her attention, stretching out a dirty beseeching hand and mumbling hopefully. Julia handed her a coin, and the woman retreated while Mrs Spencer shuddered at the touch and glanced round anxiously to avoid any other beggars.

"How dirty everywhere is," she exclaimed, treading delicately over the discarded vegetation rotting at her feet. "How can you shop here?" she demanded. "And for food too. It's so unhygienic."

Julia concentrated on buying her vegetables, quickly filling one of the baskets that the small boys held out to her. She always enjoyed 11

the bazaar, the bustle and the colour. The noise and the busy people.

She enjoyed shopping in the little shops and stores finding unexpected treasures like fresh strawberries in the vegetable market or something special hidden in the dark corners of shops piled high with brasses and silver.

Mrs Spencer remained unimpressed.

"I always thought of this part of the world as being so romantic," she grumbled as they drove home. "It is one of the richest after all. But the squalor. My dear, how can you possibly live like this?

And Howard, of course. It can't be doing him any good. I'm not surprised you haven't started a family yet," she went on while Julia gripped the steering wheel and tried not to scream.

"Did I tell you Rosemary was expecting again? Of course, we're all hoping for a boy after the two girls. Lovely to have a grandson," she added, "though of course he won't be carrying on the family name."

Julia stopped listening, blotting out the large intrusive woman sitting beside her, concentrating instead on the green carpet waiting at home with its soft shining colours and majestic design. It was, she had discovered, a carpet from the ancient city of Yezda, home of the last of the fire-worshippers, whose carpets were destined to remain in the mosques of the country, rather than be sent for export to lie on the floors of foreign houses and be walked upon by uncaring feet.

The carpet seller was waiting as they arrived, greatly agitated as they climbed out of the car. "My father is ill and I must go at once and see him. It is a long journey, he needs a nurse and I must pay plenty money. You will buy the carpet?"

"I'm sorry," said Julia unhappily. "My husband doesn't want the carpet."

"My father will die," cried the carpet seller in anguish. "You must buy the carpet. I must find a nurse to care for him."

"Poppycock" said Mrs Spencer behind Julia. "He's having you on. Call his bluff, dear. Let him have the carpet. I know how to deal with these people. You're too soft, Julia, by far. Let him take the carpet.

I'll get it for you."

"No!" cried Julia. "No. I will keep the carpet." She turned impulsively to the carpet seller.

"I can find you a nurse," she said. "If I give you a nurse, will you let me keep the carpet?"

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"Anything, madam, anything."

"What on earth are you talking about?" asked Mrs Spencer.

"Where will you find a nurse in this part of the world to suit him?"

"Why not?" asked Julia mildly. "You were a nurse once weren't you?"

"You know I was," retorted Mrs Spencer. "After the children left home I went back to nursing, and very good at it I was too. Only turned down the job of matron because Howard's father was so ill...‖ She paused as realisation dawned and she found Julia looking at her speculatively and the carpet seller smiling hugely.

"Think how much local colour you'll see," said Julia, pushing a protesting Mrs. Spencer into the carpet seller's van. "The roads get bumpy further on, so I expect you'll have to change over to a mule, but you'll enjoy that mother. It will be so romantic."

She watched as the van skidded along the road, throwing up dust and gravel. She thought she saw a face in the window, and a hand held up, but she paid no heed, turning thoughtfully towards the house once again, to let the cats out of the spare bedroom. The carpet she laid in the sitting room where she could sit and gaze at it glowing against the polished ivory tiles of the floor. The house was restored to its former serenity, the cats chased sunbeams through the dust free rooms, and when Howard came home from work his smile was broad and cheerful, all resemblance to his mother vanished.

"What a beautiful carpet," he said. "What a lovely shade of green. Hello cats. Where's mother?"

"Your mother had to leave," said Julia vaguely. "Someone was ill. I saw her off. She was sorry to go," she explained.

"What a beautiful carpet," said Howard again bending down for a closer inspection, hardly aware it seemed of Julia's explanation for his mother's absence.

"It is lovely isn't it?" agreed Julia, watching as the carpet seemed to glow more and more brightly, the brilliant design of the medallion etched sharply against the deepening colour.

The carpet seller brought Mrs Spencer back a week later. He smiled happily at Julia and thanked her profusely. "My father," he said.

"Better now. Your nurse, she was wonderful."

Julia glanced at Mrs Spencer who beamed at her.

"Julia!" she exclaimed. "That was such a wonderful experience.

You really should get out, dear, and see how the local people live. It 13

was fascinating. I can't wait to get back and tell all the ladies what a wonderful time I've had."

She turned to the carpet seller.

"Goodbye, my dear man," she gushed. "So nice to have met you."

The carpet seller turned to Julia, thanking her yet again.

"The green carpet," he said. ―Look after it always. It saved the life of my father."

Mrs Spencer stood beside Julia as the carpet seller drove away, and then stepped back to admire the carpet.

"He's right you know. It is a lovely carpet."

"A magic carpet perhaps," said Julia.

"Absolutely," agreed her mother-in-law, and astonished Julia by giving her a hug.

"Wait until I tell Rosemary," she said. "A veritable magic carpet!"

Pamela Storey Lived and worked in Germany then South Iran, where story is set. To Dubai.

Articles published in local press. Back to UK with two children. Studied law.

Retired to Spain

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A Mound of Sand, a Splash of Bougainvillea ―Sue, what happened?‖ Karen‘s eyes were drawn to the thick bandage around her best friend‘s shin. The yellow mango in her hands, and the pawpaws, limes and avocado in her basket were forgotten. ―I couldn‘t bring myself to call you. I dropped some eggs off at your place yesterday when you were out, and Amani bit me. He just came at me when I was getting back into the Land Rover.‖ ―Oh no. Sue, I‘m so sorry. That‘s awful.‖ She‘d known something like this would happen sooner or later, but suddenly it hit home. ―I was pretty shaken,‖ Sue said. ―I told the hospital that I knew Amani had his rabies jab—they were concerned.‖ Karen was shaking. When she and James had moved to the sprawling, overcrowded Indian Ocean port of Dar es Salaam three years ago, Sue had been the first expat she‘d met. Everything had been so new then: the mixed smells of fragrant flowers, sweat and rotting fruit, the insects.

Sue had supported her, showing her round, comforting her when she felt homesick, talking her through when she seemed to be in a permanent whirlwind of confusion, helping her overcome her feelings of guilt at the injustice that lay all around her. ―Surely I don‘t need a cook and a housegirl and a gardener!‖ Karen had said to Sue. ―You‘ll see, one or other of them will be off most of the time.

Either with malaria, or going to a relative‘s funeral up-country.

Anyway, if you let them go, what will they do? How will they feed their families?‖ Karen had slowly got used to the place being constantly overrun with fundis —workmen fixing the generator, or repairing the mosquito screens torn by Amani. The huge water delivery truck rolling in twice a week no longer shocked her.

But now she had to face a problem that touched her deeply. It could have been much worse: a child, a serious injury, or even…

Her legs were weak; her heart pumped. ―I know what I have to do, Sue. I‘ve been putting it off too long. I‘ll call you.‖ She struggled to put her basket into the car, her hands trembling, oblivious of the soft 15

early morning light filtering through the palm-frond roof of the market, dappling the sandy ground.

Back home, she brought the staff together, and explained her decision. They stared at her silently, their hatred filling the humid air.

She knew they felt Amani was theirs: they‘d found him.

She sat under a frangipani tree on a bright cotton wrap, stroking Amani. She thought back to the day he had come into her life.

She‘d heard a whimper, and seen the too-young Alsatian pup nestled in Veneranda‘s arms. ―He is Amani, mama.‖ ―Amani?‖ ―Yes, mama, it means peace. He was on the beach. He had cuts. Someone beat him. We named him Amani because he will keep our house safe and peaceful.‖ Amani stayed, and as he grew into a tall, handsome dog, he became attached to Karen, and she to him. He followed her around the house, and when she sat on the veranda he lay beside her, ears pricked, growling at any passers-by beyond the security fence, guarding her.

At first, she walked him on the beach every day. She loved feeling the strong wind in her hair at high tide: at low tide, when a huge expanse of mud flats was exposed, she enjoyed exploring the marine life: starfish, seaslugs, shells.

Gradually, Amani became uncontrollable. He never turned against Karen, but on their walks, he tugged at the heavy chain till her hands hurt, and she had to let go. Loose, he would snap at children and chase the fishermen. If she left him at home he would snarl jealously from behind the fence, filling her with guilt and fear. She stopped going to the beach.

When visitors were expected, Amani was tied up outside: if anyone came unannounced, he growled and snapped and would not let them in. ―Karen, we can‘t keep him,‖ James said. ―You‘ll have to give him away.‖ ―I can‘t. That would just be passing the problem on. Anyway, he‘s an excellent guard dog.‖ ―Take him to a shelter.‖ ―For God‘s sake, James. There is no shelter here. And look at him. Look in his eyes. He loves me. I rescued him, and now he‘s protecting me. I can‘t abandon him.‖ 16

But several weeks before she‘d met Sue at the market she‘d finally admitted to herself that something had to be done. In a country where people were dying of AIDS and malaria every day, where stray dogs lay starving on street corners, Karen knew she only had one choice.

And now, the time had come. She knew she must not hesitate, or she would lose her nerve. She must be firm. She stroked Amani‘s huge head, and looked into his chocolate eyes. Her face was wet. ―I have to do this, Amani. You can‘t imagine how I feel. I can‘t pretend I am doing this for you. I am doing it, selfishly, for me.

You would never betray me. I will never forgive myself. I hate having this power, and I hate myself for using it. But I just can‘t cope. And I will always love you.‖ The vet arrived. He smelt of drink, but Karen could not turn back now. The staff scattered. She placed her head close to Amani‘s and held him tight as the needle went in. Amani shuddered, cried out, and at last was silent. The vet took his payment and stumbled away.

A hand touched her shoulder. It was Zeus, her gardener. ―The others have gone, mama, but I‘m here with you.‖ ―Thank you, Zeus.‖ She tried to sound in control. ―Now we will bury Amani on the beach.‖ Of course, she should have prepared the grave earlier.

They wrapped Amani in an old yellow curtain, carried him out through the gate in the security fence, and laid him under the lone palm tree on the beach. The tide was high. Karen felt dizzy: the mixed smells of seaweed and ylang-ylang filled her nostrils. The fishermen were a long way out, casting nets from their dhows. She heard a lone kingfisher‘s bouncing marble call.

Together she and Zeus dug, a white middle-aged woman in an orange and black tie-dye dress, and a tiny black gardener, in khaki trousers and a green T-shirt. The midday sun battled with the spray from the waves and the tears on her face.

Zeus spoke. ―Mama, what you are doing is right. In my religion they say that man must be master over all the animals. The animals must not have power over man.‖ ―But Zeus, he never did anything bad to me. He loved me, and now look at what I‘ve done.‖ ―It is right in the eyes of my God.‖ 17

Together they lifted the heavy bundle into the grave, and slowly covered it with sand. Karen plucked a sprig of pink bougainvillea from the hedge. ―Now, Zeus, you must say a prayer.‖ She did not believe, but somehow, this felt right.

“Mama, in my religion, we cannot pray for animals.‖ ―Pray for me, Zeus.‖ ―But mama, if I pray for you, I must hold you.‖ ―Then hold me.‖ He moved closer, the minuscule man, and placed one hand on her chest and the other on her back, clamping her tightly. No, this man is not small and fragile, she thought; he is a giant, a god, like his name, a powerful, gentle and comforting giant. And he stayed with me.

In a high-pitched voice he began to incant. Karen caught a few words: ―Lord, help mama at this difficult time, give her strength, make her understand that she took the right decision.‖ A force from deep inside left Karen‘s body and rose up, a might which from high above the palm tree looked down on the scene: the Indian Ocean, the beach, a man, a woman, a mound of sand, a splash of pink bougainvillea.

Paola Fornari Paola Fornari is a serial expat. Her articles have appeared in magazines as diverse as The Oldie and Practical Fishkeeping. She lives in Brussels, and will shortly be moving to Bangladesh. She is a member of Writers Abroad.

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A Trip to the Beach: Kuwaiti Style The warm, tranquil, blue waters of the Arabian Gulf, straight across the road from their apartment, glistened as Joe and Susan were finishing their breakfast.

They were in their early forties and were doing a stint in the Middle East to get away from Ireland‘s harsh tax regime and the poor economy of the mid eighties.

It was Friday, the weekend, and they were off to the beach.

As well as the usual clothes, towels and miscellaneous gear, they packed a cool box with Tang Orange mixed with water and an ice pack. They also took a camera and Joe put in a video from the rental shop to be exchanged on the way back.

They were idly listening to the local English language radio, which was normally just background noise, when they suddenly pricked up their ears. ―We now have a piece on ‗The Desert in Bloom‘,‖ said the announcer.

Another voice took over and described how the recent rains, a rare phenomenon in that region, had transformed the desert into a lush area of wild flowers and other vegetation. ―It won‘t last long. The sun will burn it all off again pretty quickly,‖ said the announcer at the end of the broadcast. ―Why don‘t we go to the sea via the desert?‖ Five minutes later, Joe had his head down looking at the map. ―That should be no problem; we‘ll just go out here, turn south here, and back east here, so we‘ll come out in the right spot just as if we went down the coast road. Great.‖ ―It‘s already ten o‘clock and that will take hours.‖ Susan was a sun worshipper and didn‘t want to waste valuable scorching time. ―No it won‘t and half an hour less in the sun won‘t harm you.‖ ―Well, I‘d go straight down, but you‘re driving.‖ Not long afterwards, they were outside the city and trying to follow the map when suddenly Joe said, ―Wow! What a sight.‖ There, in front of them, was a wall of electricity pylons. One stacked behind the other, like a forest, row upon row.

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―We‘re going home for a holiday in a few weeks and I‘d love to show this to the guys at the Electricity Board. They‘ll never believe it. I‘ll walk up the road a bit and you take a couple of shots with the pylons behind me.‖ Susan did as requested, taking three shots to be on the safe side before returning to the car. ―You know, these roads don‘t seem to correspond to the map.

I‘m not at all sure where we are, and I don‘t see much sign of any flowers. That piece on the radio was a load of rubbish,‖ said Joe. There were no features on the surrounding desert, just flat stony ground with some dunes visible in the distance. They were lost.

As they drove round a long curve, they saw a crossroads in front of them with a roadblock.

It was a very basic barrier, a small sentry box with barbed wire across one half of the road. ―Great. We‘ll get some directions.‖ Joe pulled in and parked on the right, reached for the map and started walking towards the sentry box.

The heat was tremendous, in the forties, and a stiff breeze was blowing. It was like walking into a hairdryer but Joe was bald so it was no benefit to him.

He had picked up enough Arabic to cope with polite greetings and request directions so he approached the roadblock intending to ask how to get to the sea. The sentry box was in the charge of two listless individuals in dusty uniforms and if Joe had been five minutes earlier, all might have been well.

However, as he walked forward, he noticed a camouflaged jeep coming towards them. Just as he was asking for directions it drew up and an officer and three soldiers jumped out. They certainly didn‘t look listless.

Now, technically, they had caused no offence. The car and Susan were back on the other, civilian, side of the crossroads. Joe had not passed the sentry box or the barbed wire so there was no incursion at all into the restricted area. But so what? It was much later when Joe realised that opportunities for promotion don‘t come up that often and the Lieutenant wasn‘t going to let this one pass him by.

The officer snapped out an order and the situation instantly transformed.

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Joe was immediately covered by three guns and marched back to his car and Susan was ordered out. ―What have you got us into now?‖ she said.

Both of them stood with their hands up in a state of shock.

The car was searched and the picnic stuff strewn around on the ground. ―What are you doing here?‖ barked the officer in perfect English. ―We‘re going to the sea for a picnic!‖ ―Don‘t be stupid. You‘re nowhere near the sea.‖ ―Honestly, we‘re going to the sea.‖ Joe tried to explain about the radio programme but the officer wouldn‘t have heard it and, anyway, it cut no ice. The officer took the map. ―Where do you live?‖ ―There,‖ Joe pointed to the Corniche in the city. ―Where are you going?‖ ―There,‖ Joe moved his finger down near the border. ―Then why are you here? Do you think I‘m stupid?‖ the officer tapped at a point on the map miles from where Joe thought they were.

Opening the cool box of Tang Orange, the officer dipped his finger in it and licked. ―Whiskey?‖ ―No. No. Orange. Tang.‖ He picked up the videotape. ―Porno?‖ ―No, no. Just a rental from the video shop.‖ ―You‘re coming with us! Both of you into the back of the jeep.‖ Joe and Susan, who hadn‘t said a word or been asked anything, were pushed into the back seat and driven off with one of the soldiers following in their car.

The officer drove the jeep and another soldier covered them with a sub-machine gun.

Joe had seen plenty of guns growing up in Northern Ireland but had never looked straight down a muzzle from about two feet away. His heart pumped way above the normal rate and sweat formed on his forehead and ran down his back.

21

They hadn‘t gone far when Susan said, ―I told you we should have gone straight to the beach.‖ Joe gritted his teeth. ―Anyhow, since when were you interested in flowers?‖ ―Shut up.‖ The Lieutenant turned from his wheel and snapped again. ―Shut up.‖ Susan inched backwards.

The situation was very serious but Joe had trouble keeping a smile off his face. ―Jesus. Wish I could talk to her like that.‖ ―What did you say?‖ she said glaring at him. ―Shut up!‖ the officer barked again from the front seat.

Soon they pulled into the parking area of a police station in the middle of nowhere.

It was just a concrete cube with few windows and bristling with aerials.

They were taken into a room with classic government metal filing cabinets and furniture and questioned by a new officer who went through the same set of questions.

Same. ―Whiskey?‖ Same ―Porno?‖ Same ―Where do you live?‖ Eventually, after much two-way communication on the radio, they were put into the same jeep and taken to another station.

The officer who had pounced on them first was still driving and he was trying to make small talk. ―Is this your wife?‖ ―Yes‖ ―Why don‘t you get a younger one? We can have four.‖ Not wanting to cause offence, Joe smiled but though she kept quiet, he could tell Susan wasn‘t impressed. The day seemed endless as a succession of officers arrived to question them, both together and individually.

Since they had been in the Middle East for a while they were familiar with the smells and sounds around them but the occasional staccato laugh was still very disturbing.

Eventually, what seemed to be a very senior officer arrived and after another bout of questioning he said, ―you can leave now, but you,‖ pointing at Joe, ―must come back in the morning at eight o‘clock.

22

In the meantime, we will develop these photographs, look at this video and test this liquid. Go.‖ As they got into the car Susan leant forward. ―Get me to a toilet NOW!‖ He didn‘t need to ask why as he accelerated away.

But the trouble was only beginning.

There was nothing harmful on the video. There was nothing harmful in the liquid but there was a long spell in jail in the camera.

There was no way he would be able to explain why the shots of the pylons were there and some of the other undeveloped photos, which were also potentially disastrous.

A couple of weeks earlier the kids had been out on holiday and they had taken some photos at the amusement park. At the time, Joe had noticed the power station in the background but had thought nothing of it, but now it came back, vividly.

Spying was a very serious offence here. A long jail sentence for both of them was on the cards.

On the other hand, lady luck had already smiled at them.

If the authorities had taken them back to their apartment, and searched it, there were a few more years in jail waiting to be uncovered.

While living in Saudi Arabia, Joe had learned how to make wine from grape juice, which was freely available. Ten to twelve days using the simplest of techniques with some sugar and yeast from any supermarket would transform the grape juice into a drinkable red or white wine. They had a couple of dozen bottles either ready for drinking or in progress.

Worse than that, hanging on a wall, was an antique rifle, which Joe had bought in Saudi. It was ancient, and looked it, but before he‘d bought it, someone had restored it so the bolt action was perfectly smooth and, technically speaking, it might well fire. Most importantly, Joe had somehow neglected to put it on the shipping manifest when they had made the move. God knows when it had actually last been fired.

When they got back to the apartment Joe phoned his boss and every local he knew to explain what had happened and to ask for advice. ―We must get rid of the rifle and the booze,‖ he said. ―I told you we should never have brought that stupid rifle.

What were you thinking of?‖ 23

―Okay, okay, but I don‘t remember you saying anything about not making the booze.‖ He got out his tool kit and, with a hacksaw, cut the rifle into small pieces getting blisters on his hands in the process.

In the meantime, Susan, with a very long face, was busy pouring all the booze down the kitchen sink.

Panic is a terrible thing.

When he had cut up the rifle, he drove around the city dumping it in different rubbish bins forgetting that his fingerprints were all over the evidence.

The following morning, after a sleepless night, Joe drove down the coast road, not knowing if he would be driving himself back or going straight into custody, and presented himself at the appointed police station.

As he sat in the outer room, he could see policemen coming and going and, as each one came in, there was much pointing and looking in his direction. He got a good impression of how a goldfish feels.

Someone offered him a handful of small nuts, which he took rather than cause offence. He ate them whole and had great difficulty swallowing but he persevered noticing more pointing and looking, along with snorts of laughter. Some time later, he noticed one of the policemen eating the same nuts but discarding the white outer husk before eating the kernel.

When he was called into the office he tried his best to look calm but he was shaking. He was confronted by a very smart looking officer who beckoned him to sit and proceeded to lecture him, again in perfect English, on the danger of breaking the security of the oilfields.

He then handed him back everything they had confiscated the night before. Everything. Nothing had been touched and the film was still in the camera. Joe almost burst into tears but was very conscious that appearances could still ruin things.

He thanked the officer and had started to leave. ―Habibi, my friend, how come you know the Sheikh?‖ ―I don‘t know any Sheikh.‖ ‗Yes you do otherwise he wouldn‘t have phoned me. He doesn‘t get involved in the affairs of many Westerners.‖ ―Honestly, I don‘t know any Sheikh.‖ 24

―As you wish, go now and tell your friends to stay out of our oilfields.‖ On the way out, it dawned on him. One of the phone calls the night before had been to an Engineer Sabah. He had met him through work and he seemed a very nice man but a Sheik and member of the ruling royal family? Surely not. Joe couldn‘t believe his luck. He drove back to the apartment, turned his key in the lock and pushed. Nothing.

The door wouldn‘t budge.

He pushed again. Nothing. ―Susan. Are you in there?‖ ―Wait a minute.‖ He could hear scuffling and scraping before the door opened. ―What did you do?‖ ―I barricaded the door.‖ It was a moment of pure farce, Susan versus the Kuwaiti Security forces. She could have been shot. ―I think I might ask for a transfer,‖ he said. ―Too bloody right you will.‖ After hot tea, breakfast, and some time to allow his nerves to settle, Joe went to the office. As he entered, he was surprised by a cheer and a round of applause. A colleague held up a makeshift sign high with the words, ―WELCOME BACK JAILBIRD JOE‖.

He decided that when he next visited home he‘d go to the pub, buy them all a drink and tell them about it. And they‘d say, ―Bastard. He‘s making it up! Do you know, I knew him when he had nothing.‖ John Major John Major, 65 years old, Irish, currently living in Spain, spent about twelve years working in various Middle Eastern countries and travelling extensively in the area.

25

Counterfeit Goods The bitter taste of last night's stale liquor lingers in my mouth. I lean on the balcony hoping that a cool wind and a cigarette will help me sober up. The market bustles below. I glance at the stall on the street corner selling cheap imitations. It makes me wonder if those counterfeits will ever be good enough: they look genuine, but would they feel the same, or would you always know you are wearing a fake?

A sadistic stall owner blares the same bloody bachata song on a loop and I try to ignore the music. Every Sunday morning spent hungover, I curse myself for living next to Madrid's largest open-air market.

On a weekday, Calle Ribera de Curtidores is nothing special, sandwiched by tree-covered sidewalks and historic blocks of apartments about five stories high where faรงades flake in burnt oranges, yellows and browns are set with elegant windows protected by little balconettes. The ornamental ironwork invites the abuelas to hang out their washing to the sound of gypsy youths practicing flamenco on the steps of the old dance school, under the light of the midday sun.

Sundays, it becomes something else entirely. Endless stalls of crap fill the streets and it seems like half of Madrid flocks to buy and sell trinkets. I watch a man dressed in a purple tracksuit and a baseball cap hand over a twenty euro note for a plastic bull I know is worth five euros at most.

I recline on the railing and turn my back on the sun. I ignore the streets below. I take pleasure in smoking my lights. The nicotine courses through my blood, and I delight in the aesthetics of smoke coiling back inside the room, tracing the curves of an Art Nouveau painting. With the walls painted in faded terracotta, my room is dark against the light. Last night's scattered clothes carpet the floor. My attention turns to the double bed and the beautiful dreaming man on it.

Cheap sheets coil around his torso; his complexion is light caramel.

The light illuminates his features: his straight nose and full lips locked into a soft smile. He dreams. I see you in his face. I swallow the memories and try to forget. You're far away. I am here. Two years living without you.

26

The man on my bed lets out a moan, he lifts his arms and arches his back. He opens his almond-shaped eyes and looks right at me. ―Come back to bed, guapa,‖ he says.

His eyes show a hint of desire. I throw my cigarette out the window and hop over the pile of clothes and into bed. I snuggle up and lie with my back to him; I feel his arms wrap round my waist. His hands make their way up under my scruffy t-shirt, first over my stomach, sliding north over my skin, feeling for my breasts.

The hangover invades my mind like unwanted bailiffs. I squint against the distorted sunlight, so I turn to look at Henry. I bury myself in him, losing myself in this deception which makes even the fiftieth loop of ―Obsesión‖ bearable. But Henry smells different.

He sits up and almost loses his balance. He moves himself to the edge of the bed. The sheet falls away, revealing him without a shred of modesty. He attends to his chemical herbalism with perfected skill.

Henry licks the paper and looks at me with those vacant dark eyes.

Your eyes were deep and blue. We lay there in the morning discussing the ambitions I once had, or your passionate rants about politics. A tapping crawls to the front of my head and I tumble into reality as Henry plays with the joint in his hand. You never did drugs.

Henry lets out a coy laugh. ―What?‖ he says.

His eyes flick down to the white cylinder; he lifts his gaze back with a smile. ―Breakfast‖ he says.

He puts the spliff in his mouth with a habitually indifferent expression. Henry smokes as much as I do—but never cigarettes.

In bed Henry is a friend, it's his charm. He can fuck you good and hard all night, and the next morning you can sit there and bitch about some new album by some inane metal band, or recite the same anecdote about once setting his hand on fire when he prepared absinthe. He's one of the few men I know who can sleep with all of his female friends and leave each one in turn satisfied and phlegmatic— everybody's chum and everybody's sex toy. My actions are far more cruel and selfish than his immature affairs with women. I use Henry.

When I first saw Henry at a friend's birthday party, I thought he was your ghost; a simplified and stripped down version of you. He is intelligent, but inertial. Henry lives an uncomplicated life working in 27

the scruffy bars of Malasaña; taking girls home using only his pretty eyes and a flash of his charming smile. A man in his thirties, proud of his Peter Pan complex.

Your intricacy makes you dark, impenetrable and discontented.

Your mind is a labyrinth surrounded by ten-foot-high walls. All the adjectives to describe your personalities are antonyms.

The last time I saw you in London I remember your eloquence and the touch of seduction in your eyes, the taste of temptation in your voice when you told me you were staying in your brother's empty apartment. That day, filled with laughter and memories, serves as a bitter-sweet reminder that we were never given the chance, even though we never lost the feeling of home and the anticipation of good to come.

Everything I had buried was exhumed when I first met Henry.

I fought against them, forgetting both of you, until I re-encountered Henry at a gathering. A few drinks later, we got to know each other on a sofa for the night. Our mouths and tongues communicated without words. I took no value from it; kisses in the 21st century mean a lot less now than they did in the past. I imagined it was only fleeting, but the lust endured. I'm doing it for the wrong reasons. I'm not like the other girls, who see this man as an object of desire and easy play. I want to find you in him—to believe I'm the same person you once loved.

I stumble into the kitchen, in need of caffeine, and throw some stale coffee into the Italiana. The kitchen is a mess. My flatmates have not cleaned anything for days. The yellowed paper flakes off the walls revealing the dirty and cracked plaster, and I realise I'm getting too old for this bohemian lifestyle. Working crappy jobs to earn the small amount of money I throw away on drink and partying. Surviving on a diet of coffee, tobacco and lack of sleep, lying to myself. My life stagnates because I am stuck in the past and afraid of the future's uncertainty. I have achieved nothing except running away.

The aroma of coffee fills the kitchen and the moka starts to bubble. Henry comes in dressed in a pair of scruffy hole-ridden jeans, and a faded Bauhaus t-shirt, his long hair tied back into a ponytail. He walks up to me and places his arms around my waist. ―Hey, let me finish making the coffee.‖ he says. He reaches into the cupboard and pulls out two chipped mugs. He pours out the strong black liquid and hands a cup to me. I taste the smoke in the 28

liquid from the slightly scorched grounds. Henry lights up again and a silence falls between us for a moment. I sip at my coffee and he begins to clean up, pacing himself between drags and sips. He rinses the pot out in the rusty sink. ―Any plans today?‖ he says. ―I don't know really. Maybe go to the market or one of those free exhibitions. You?‖ ―Don't know. Maybe go home, watch some TV, get a little high. The usual.‖ Henry brushes the loose strands of black hair from his face. ―There's a gig on in the bar I work in tonight, should be good, a local punk band, if you wanna come? I can get you a free ticket.‖ ―I think I'll give it a miss, get some rest tonight. I haven't really slept for days.‖ ―As you wish, if you change your mind it starts around ten.‖ ―I'll think about it, thanks.‖ Aside from shallow things, Henry and I have little in common. He talks a lot with nothing to say. If he did not have his looks, he would be ordinary. Our relationship—yours and mine—came from long nights of conversation. We talked philosophy, history, art and music—nothing was out of bounds with you. We each loved each other's mind. Your absence is even more painful when I look at this cheap imitation.

We leave the apartment. I light up in the stairwell while Henry recounts a dull anecdote on a band whose sound he engineered, who were so bad they relied on effects to sound interesting. On the street, we turn to give each other "dos besos" on the cheeks, as friends, we go our separate ways. I feel nothing. I'm empty. I walk past the man selling fake designer goods, his leathery face grins at me with fake gold teeth trying to seduce me with his counterfeits; the nausea rises in my stomach.

Deborah Nagy Deborah Nagy was born to English and Hungarian parents, and spent her childhood between Sussex and Budapest. She now lives in Madrid working on a PhD in Physics and writes by night.

29

Dumb Animals ―Danni, look at her. That ground is so rough and she‘s tethered. It‘s not right.‖ ―Nat, it‘s none of our business. It obviously belongs to someone.‖ Natalya glared at him. ―We can‘t just leave her.‖ ―Yes we can! I‘m not getting involved in any more of your escapades.‖ ―You know what you can do, don‘t you?‖ Her tight-lipped response spoke reams.

She flung her head back and her long chestnut hair bounced.

Danni swallowed. They were going to get into hot water over this—he just knew it. ―What can we do, for God‘s sake? It‘s not a cat or dog, it‘s a bloody horse!‖ ―A mare, actually, and I‘m taking her home.‖ Danni blanched. They‘d only gone for a drive so Natalya could take a few snaps for her art portfolio. The rambla had caught her eye. In parts, where the river had once flowed, local farmers had extended their orange and lemon groves. Some metres away, at the edges of the cultivation, patches of delicate pink and peach, crimson and stark white oleander blossoms contrasted with the citrus colours of the fruit.

They‘d stopped. Big mistake! As the foliage thinned further down the dry bed, she‘d spotted the grey mare. Now they were both standing alongside her, Natalya cheek to cheek with the animal. Past experience of Nat‘s love of animals and her belief that most people here in Spain had no idea how to care for them always made alarm bells ring.

Natalya looked every bit the Spanish señorita but she‘d been ten years old when she‘d left England. Her Spanish father had met her mother in Lancashire. He was on a training course in the hotel business when a beautiful young waitress caught his eye and stirred his Spanish blood. Theirs had been a whirlwind romance and they had settled in the seaside town of Morecombe, working and raising their two sons and long awaited daughter. She had the British love of animals and when her Papa sold his restaurant, relocating his family to the land of

30

his birth, she found the Spanish attitude to dumb creatures cavalier at best. Eight years had not mellowed her fierce crusade.

Her father dined out on the tales of her exploits. Once, two dogs safely within the confines of their own garden Natalya had deemed neglected had spent the night at their villa. ―We did not get a wink of sleep, mis amigos, with their whining and howling.‖ The following morning the owners‘ search led them to the Jimenez Wallace house. ―The neighbours were very good about it all really when I explained that mi hija thought los perros did not have water and believed she was doing a kindness.‖ Señor Jimenez smiled fondly. ―Then there were los gatos, Mama and her four kittens. Madre mia, it is possible we make a home for the cats and dogs!‖ Natalya had viewed that little procession making its way down Calle Los Claveles and tempted them into her garden with tasty leftovers from the day‘s dinner. It turned out that the cortijo on the hillside was home to the tribe and the children of the old farmhouse had been distraught when their pets did not come home. Her mother had found them in the garden shed and after a day of enquiries, they were back with their rightful owners. The tales were endless!

Danni sighed. Natalya was whispering soothingly to the mare and if he was honest, the animal appeared to be responding. He‘d lived in Arboleas for five years and understood how attitudes differed here.

Like Natalya, he had mixed blood. He‘d lived with his English father and Spanish mother in London until he was fifteen. A less than amicable divorce had resulted in his mother bringing him to Almeria.

He missed his father and envied Natalya her happy family life. He was not blind however to the fact that she was spoilt. ―Nat, you can‘t take her home. Get in the car, please.‖ Her green eyes spat her answer. ―You get in the car. I‘ll meet you at home.‖ She swung herself onto the horse‘s back, astride her every bit the rider that she was. Digging in her heels and clicking her tongue, the horse moved on. They went a dozen metres and she felt a jolt. The mare whinnied, turning her head slightly toward Natalya, soft brown eyes questioning. Sitting proud, she patted the mare. ―Danni, before you drive off, would you untie the tether?‖ Danni smirked.

31

―That‘s my Natalya.‖ Antonio and Ros were aghast as their daughter rode the grey through the gates, down the drive and onto the grass. ―Madre mia! What you do?‖ Antonio watched as the hooves dug into the turf and his lawn turned into a paddock.

Natalya dismounted and patted the mare. ―Isn‘t she beautiful Papa, Mum? I can keep her here can‘t I? Say I can, pretty please?‖ Danni arrived and shrugged his shoulders.

Later that evening a family discussion took place. Natalya was defensive. ―It‘s animal cruelty,‖ she said tears welling in her eyes. ―You don‘t know that Nat. The animal was probably put out to graze, for heaven‘s sake.‖ Antonio who found it very difficult to put his foot down with his daughter pleaded for some sense. ―Rosa, you must do something.‖ ―We have nowhere to keep a horse, Natalya.‖ Ros spoke calmly. ―Where did you find it?‖ ―It‘s her, Mum. She was on the rambla. She was sad.‖ Danni stifled a laugh. ―She has to go back. She belongs to someone.‖ Natalya shot a look that could kill at her mother and Danni took the brunt with, ―you don‘t really love me‖.

The following morning Natalya was unrepentant. Antonio said nothing and Ros berated them both. Tonio, her elder brother, a D.J. who had been at an all night gig, walked into the kitchen stating the obvious. ―There‘s a horse in the garden.‖ Her other brother Manolo was hot on his heels. ―Where did Nat get the gee gee?‖ His mother shot him a warning look just as Danni arrived for breakfast. ―Shall I walk her back for you, baby?‖ Natalya did a sweep of the gathering and head high stormed down the garden to talk to the only being she felt understood her. Her family could only look from one to the other in utter disbelief. ―I‘ll see what I can do.‖ 32

―You are a good boy Danni.‖ Antonio beamed. A solution was at hand, he was sure.

Ros raised her eyes to heaven. She loved her husband dearly but knew better than to expect a solution from him.

Danni followed Natalya and put his arm around her shoulders. ―Nat, come here. Let me take her back. She doesn‘t look neglected. She‘s a bit thin but that‘s how Spanish horses are. It doesn‘t mean she‘s not looked after.‖ ―The tether was short.‖ Danni smiled, ―She was eating the grass though, so not too short, eh?‖ Natalya looked up into his face. She sniffed and rubbed her eyes. ―And there was oleander nearby. It‘s toxic.‖ ―Dumb doesn‘t mean stupid where animals are concerned, Nat. She wouldn‘t have touched them and you know it.‖ She took a deep breath. ―Okay. You can take her back once I‘ve rubbed her down and given her some hay.‖ Danni led the grey along the back roads, past orange and lemon groves, almonds and olives until the rambla stretched in front of him. He could see a few people gathered there as he gently led the mare onto the riverbed. He was tying the horse just as he felt a tap on his shoulder. ―Señor, por favor.‖ Danni turned, face to face with an officer of the Policia Local.

It was a tear stained Natalya and both sets of parents who picked him up from the Police Station a few hours later. They believed Danni‘s story of how he came to have the missing horse belonging to the town‘s Alcalde Fernandez in his possession. Mayor Fernandez was very gracious and invited Natalya and Danni to the Town Hall for lunch the following week.

The local Spanish paper and the free English press heard about the incident and headlines in both languages read ‗Mayor overwhelmed by young woman‘s compassion‘.

Mayor Fernandez was an astute politician and like all such people was willing to speak at length with the reporters. He was extremely pleased with the photograph of himself with the young couple that made most of the front pages.

33

―My family and I treasure our beautiful grey mare. It is because the plant life is beneficial that I graze the animal on the rambla. Despite much of the water being re-routed to serve other areas, sufficient still flows during the rainy months to keep the growth green.‖ On the way to lunch with Alcalde Fernandez Natalya yelled, ―Stop the car‖. Danni came to an abrupt halt as Natalya leapt out and made her way over to a Spanish Pointer shivering slightly beneath an olive tree.

Christine Nedahl A retired teacher of thirty years Christine has lived in Arboleas, Spain with her husband since 2008. She is writing a novel and a series of short stories for her younger grandchildren.

34

East Rising Sun Dislocation. ―That‘s it,‖ Kate Mitchell said to an empty room as her grey eyes darkened and she tilted her head to contemplate the word further.

Loneliness, she thought, doesn‘t capture how disconnected I feel, severed from the familiar, startled each time I look around, as if perhaps a good pinch would transport me home.

Home. Now there‘s a topic, she continued in silent conversation. What is home? Is it where I live or where I come from?

Does it imply looking forward or looking backward? Can I make a home in Hong Kong? Is home a feeling or a place? Is it people or familiar things? Why am I so far away from all that is home?

Kate glanced at her surroundings. Most would admire the tall ceilings and spacious rooms, two large couches set at right angles to form a welcoming seating area, square coffee table topped with a bowl shaped like an open lily, splashes of abstract colour on framed canvasses, Persian rugs patterned in ancient geometric designs, pillows covered in Indian silks inviting guests to imagine an Asian way of life.

It was the spectacular view of the harbour surrounded by gleaming towers of glass and concrete that tipped the balance in favour of this particular apartment. Each time she and Tom looked out, they smiled at one another. So different from Boston, they often said. But today the apartment offered no pleasure. Loneliness lurked in every corner.

Dislocation. Kate muttered the word again, feeling the jangle of it on her tongue. Her orbit had spun out of control such that the gravitational pull of her personal sun and planets—husband, children, family, friends, work, Boston—had disappeared. She was left with nothing familiar, no touchstones to buoy her spirits, no children to remind her of the deep part of herself, that life-giving centre of being.

After thirty years of working full time while raising two children, she did not know how to be idle, without a sense of purpose, alone in a foreign land.

The newspaper slid to the floor as she reached for the telephone that rang with two short rings instead of one long. ―Hello?‖ 35

―It‘s me,‖ said her husband, Tom. Kate listened to the faint crackle and pop of a long distance line. Tom was due home that evening. ―Hi, dear. Where are you?‖ ―Still in Tokyo.‖ ―Oh. You‘re not coming home tonight, are you.‖ She said it as a statement and not a question. ―I‘m sorry, sweetheart. There‘s a difficult client situation here.

I need to stay another day to thrash things out.‖ Kate thought of the salmon thawing in the kitchen and told herself not to complain. Tom had enough on his plate. ―Will you be home tomorrow?‖ ―I‘m on the two o‘clock flight.‖ They chatted for a few minutes about inconsequential matters and afterwards Kate got up to put the salmon in the fridge. It would keep another day.

Tom‘s travel began while Kate was arranging their move; each week took him to another country or possibly two, first the larger countries—Australia, Korea, Japan, China, Singapore and India and then some of the smaller ones—Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, Vietnam and Philippines. His territory spanned thousands of miles and included fourteen countries. A world they knew nothing about.

Kate had been intrigued with his stories about orderly Japan, chaotic India, exotic Thailand and China‘s amazing growth. She had assumed his schedule would ease once he had met everyone but now she knew he would be on the road nearly every week.

After Tom‘s call she couldn‘t concentrate, nor could she generate enthusiasm for her usual small pleasures: writing to her mother, sending emails to family and friends, walking the path to the Peak, which was challenging as well as therapeutic, indulging in a bit of shopping. She paced the apartment feeling like a caged bird.

Why am I here? she asked herself. To be with Tom of course.

That‘s what couples do. The answer was easy. The consequences jarring.

When she thought of their life together, a mix of smooth waters and rocky shoals, the cresting waves of children, financial ups and downs, family tragedies, braving the rapids of uncertainty, it made her happy. Time had disappeared into months and years and only 36

occasionally did they dive deep into complex questions of life and love.

For the most part, contentment burbled happily.

They had been a two career couple practicing the art of balance. Some weeks Kate‘s hours were unpredictable requiring late nights or a Sunday afternoon to stay on top of her responsibilities.

Tom would take Rob and Jen to the museum to ponder over dinosaur eggs and Egyptian mummies, to the park to climb the jungle gym and whoosh down the slide, for a bike ride along the river, to the local tennis courts. Once Kate finished, she could focus on warm cooking smells, the splash of bath time and the lull of children‘s stories. Other weeks, Tom‘s pressures took precedence.

She understood intimately the demands of a career with substantial financial rewards. But she had not anticipated how it would feel to be the one without a job, the loss of status and lack of colleagues, an empty inbox. No one needing her skills or attention.

That night pent-up frustration kept her awake for hours.

In the morning, while applying cream to her small, angular face, dark brown hair pulled back into a twist, Kate made a decision. She would find a job, one with intellectual challenge, providing purpose and a sphere of influence. She ignored the difficulties a job might add to Tom‘s already complicated schedule.

Armed with a large coffee, Kate settled in the room designated as their home office with the optimism of tackling something substantial. She loved the order and focus that came from planning a major project and contentedly assembled a list of contact names provided by Boston friends and colleagues, revised her resume, and perused job opportunities in the South China Morning Post, cutting out several that looked promising.

Most of the companies were unknown to her—Squire Holdings, Li & Fung Trading, DairyFarm, Jardines—and she wondered what kind of products or services they offered. By four o‘clock she had composed and sent a raft of emails, researched several companies and drafted two letters of introduction. Hours had disappeared in satisfying work. ―Hi, sweetie. Are you on your way?‖ ―Fred‘s just picked me up. Should be half an hour.‖ Fred was Tom‘s regular driver. A gaunt, grey-haired man who used to work the 37

cargo ships, sailing to exotic ports around the world while his wife raised their three children. When he retired he bought a Mercedes and made a living driving businessmen around Hong Kong. ―I‘ve got wine in the fridge.‖ ―What are we having?‖ ―It‘s a surprise.‖ ―Oh, that‘s nice. See you in a few minutes.‖ She could tell by his voice that he was weary.

Over dinner Tom related stories about the people he met in Tokyo and they settled into their usual pattern of talking about business. For years they were each other‘s sounding boards, discussing work problems until they hit on an insightful path. Since coming to Asia these conversations were Kate‘s only source of mental stimulation aside from the newspaper and a few non-fiction books. ―I‘m sorry I had to stay. Were you upset with me?‖ Tom poured the last two glasses of wine, holding his aloft to study its colour. Long fingers mimicked a lean, tall frame. Blue-grey eyes, hooded brow and thick brown hair with flecks of grey made him look serious and rather intense. ―It didn‘t last very long.‖ ―This hasn‘t been easy has it?‖ ―Well, it‘s not quite what we expected, particularly the travel.

Some days I wonder why I came, you‘re gone so often.‖ Kate squeezed his hand but did not smile. ―I need you here.‖ His tone was partly wistful, partly apologetic. They had always respected each other‘s ambitions and Tom knew she had put her career on hold to come to Asia. ―I know. It‘s just that I‘ve never felt so useless or so lonely.‖ She paused and carefully folded her napkin. ―I‘ve started to look for a job.‖ Tom raised his eyebrows. ―Is that what you want?‖ ―Well, I have to do something.‖ ―I know.‖ He touched her cheek with his fingertips. ―Whoever hires you will be very lucky.‖ Kate smiled at his warm touch. This is home, she thought, and we‘ll be all right. We‘ll weather this small storm and, with a little luck, I will find my way.

38

Mary Tod Mary lived in Hong Kong for three years. She has written two novels, maintains two blogs and has published several articles about being an expat spouse.

Blogs: www.onewritersvoice.com & www.founddiary.com

39

Fork Handles and Good Intentions ―Oi! What are you doing with my things?‖ Dave looked as though steam was about to escape from his ears. ―My spare fork handles!‖ Tess watched from the kitchen window, standing back out of view. Their daughter Caitlin was more than a match for her father, and Tess had seen this coming. Dave hadn't. He'd put their daughter's slamming of doors and mumbling under her breath down to PMT. ―She's just like you used to be. Flamin' Viking women!‖ ―Dad, you collect too much rubbish. You'll never need any of this lot—and I'm sure you have one or two more spare fork handles squirreled away where I can't find them.‖ ―My lead—it's worth a fortune. I've been collecting that…‖ ―Yeah, and when would you take all this scrap metal to be converted into hard cash?‖ Caitlin nodded towards a heap of mixed metal. Her father hadn't earned the nickname Steptoe for nothing. ―When I've got enough.‖ ―Well, tough. It's going.‖ Tess enjoyed the spectacle. Her own father would have loved to have seen this. He spent every holiday tidying up a small patch of their garden, so that they could sit outside together, eating al fresco like they did every summer back home in Norway. He couldn't understand why Dave didn't do something with it. ―A crying shame to let all this ground go to waste,‖ he said. What happened? Dave going to work for a landscape gardener is what happened. He didn't bring his work home.

Just as well that they had never gone the whole hog and got themselves a smallholding. ―But what about all that wood? You can't take that. It's for the range. We need that.‖ Dave looked desperate, but the pressure was growing, and he knew he'd lost. Out of all their daughters, Caitlin was the one who could pin him down to his chair, remove his holey socks and bin them, however much he tried to protest. She'd always get the better of him. ―That wood is MDF off-cuts, old worktops (chipboard) and varnished wood. You can't burn that rubbish - and if you do, you'll undo all the good work you do by recycling household rubbish.‖ Caitlin barred his way, hands on hip. Tess chuckled. That girl was as formidable as her Norwegian grandmother. She'd stand no nonsense.

40

―But…your mother won't let me have pallets for firewood any more. Free fuel.‖ Tess was sure he was angling at getting Caitlin on his side. ―Oh, get real, Scrooge. You've seen bestefar's garden in Norway.

Mum would be in seventh heaven if our garden was like that, and not a tip—like this. It's a wonder she managed to stick it out all these years.‖ ―Your grandfather didn't grow vegetables.‖ ―Bestefar, dad.‖ ―Yeah, well, same difference. He didn't grow vegetables.‖ ―It's a long time since you did.‖ ―But…‖ ―No buts. We're doing something about it. We'll all help.‖ ―Your mother put you up to this, didn't she?‖ ―No, she didn't.‖ Caitlin continued the onslaught on the garden, piling the bonfire high. Old garden furniture, bits of wood, dead weeds and anything else that would burn, went the same way. It had been waiting for the 'right' moment to be lit for at least two years, and at seven o'clock the time had come. Tess enjoyed watching the flames devouring a lifetime's worth of collected rubbish. Pity it wasn't bonfire night.

Tess smiled to herself. Once the garden was done she was going to get herself a dwarf birch and plant it in the corner—or perhaps two—and make her garden a home from home, just like her little corner of Wales was. She still missed the garden of her childhood.

The fire was still smouldering the following morning. Dave's protests were finally stilled and he got himself ready to get on with his 'homework', aided by their daughters, with six husbands and partners and a clutch of grandchildren. ―Just going to get my fork.‖ Dave rummaged round in the shed, before storming back out, glaring at Caitlin. ―Where's my fork handle?‖ Marit Meredith

Norwegian by birth and upbringing, Marit Meredith settled in South Wales, UK, at the tender age of 18. She edits and co-produces The Pages Magazine, writes - and publishes anthologies.

41

Girl on the Couch ―Come on girls, keep up.‖ Peter, a physiotherapist and the leader of our expedition, forged ahead with a folded trestle table under one arm and a camera slung over his shoulder.

Thousands of tiny flowers painted the pasture land a bright shade of yellow. Beneath this carpet the terrain was furrowed and rock strewn, causing the three of us to stumble with the unwieldy trestle table and fat black bin-liners.

Up we climbed into higher pastures, clambering around olive trees, gnarled and twisted with age into fantastic fairy-tale shapes. I carried the clothing whilst Sheila, the beautician, struggled with sheets and towels. As we tripped and tottered, perspiring under the Mediterranean sun, our breathless laughter alerted wary goats that bleated and ran, their bells clanging.

The car was left far behind and who knew what the farmer would have thought of the spectacle in his field. He would probably have assumed we were planning a bizarre picnic.

Finally, Peter paused and turned in a slow circle underneath a canopy of almond blossom. This was to be the spot. Sheila and I caught up and sank gratefully onto a collection of boulders in the shade of an almond tree, calves aching, ankles bitten and scratched, perspiration beading and trickling. A few clusters of sheep straggled here and there, unfazed, whilst the goats regarded us warily from a safe distance.

The view was a spring palette of yellow and deep blue with the almond trees‘ mantles of pink and white blossom hovering delicately in the scented air between the two. The season was primavera, Spring in the Balearic Islands.

How I wished I could persuade my sister Joan to visit my new home. I regularly sent letters and photos back to England but the replies and phone calls were always brief. Joan worked in the offices of a firm of City accountants and her busy life when she wasn‘t working was spent trawling shopping malls and socialising. She lived in a small flat overlooking other small flats. I wanted her to swap her grey business suit and killer heels for something less corporate, let her hair down and be herself. I wanted to share the beauty and tranquillity of my surroundings with her so much, but she showed scant interest.

42

―I‘ll surprise you one day, Sue, you‘ll see.‖ But I was beginning to wonder if that day would ever come.

Peter lived in the apartment next to mine and had a health and beauty salon on the ground floor of a neighbouring holiday hotel. The hotel promoted itself in brochures by offering the salon‘s facilities to guests at discounted prices. Peter, Sheila and I, all ex-pats, had become firm friends and were always available to help each other out, although his request to help with today‘s venture was certainly an unusual one. ―Oh, no!‖ Sheila had taken a mirror from her bag and was trying in vain to recreate the hairstyle she had left with that morning but, like us, it was limp with the heat.

Peter, meanwhile, was busy erecting the trestle table, rearranging stones and clumps of earth to make sure it was stable on the parched ground. He then draped it with a sheet, the edges of which hung down into the yellow flowers. He arranged white towels on top and handed me a white gown whilst Sheila donned a clinician‘s white coat. ―Sue, can you put this on, please, and then we‘ll wind a towel into a turban around your hair and I‘ll help you up onto the table. Try to look relaxed, and Sheila, could you stand behind Sue‘s head with your hands on her shoulders, like this.‘ Peter demonstrated the required pose. Sheila pulled a face!

Now we were ready. The goats inched forward expectantly. ―I can‘t take this photo if you don‘t stop giggling. Please keep still,‖ Peter begged. ―But the table‘s wobbling!‖ ―The turban‘s coming off.‖ ―I‘m sure something‘s biting my leg.‖ ―The big goat looks hungry and he‘s got his eye on the towels!‖ Finally, Peter managed to get the picture he wanted and Sheila and I gratefully gathered up our belongings and slipped and slithered back the way we had come, towards small thickets of forest and the welcome sight of our car. The next stop was the nearest bar where icecold lager and Spanish tapas had never tasted so good.

About two weeks later, Peter knocked on my door to give me a photograph.

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―The new holiday brochures are out and my advertisement looks great. Thanks for helping us Sue.‖ He grinned. ―Pop in sometime for a free treatment.‖ The advertisement for his practice featured a ‗client‘ on a couch floating in a field of flowers. Our day out appeared to have been worth it and Peter was hoping for a busy season. The following week the phone rang and I heard my sister Joan‘s voice, sounding a little breathless. ―Sue, how are you? I‘ve been meaning to phone for ages. I picked up a holiday brochure for my boss yesterday and saw this absolutely gorgeous photo advertising breaks in Mallorca with allinclusive pampering sessions. You won‘t have seen it but I just wanted to be the girl on the couch, so I booked in for a week at Easter and guess what, the hotel‘s right beside where you live! We can get together and you can show me that island of yours. I might even introduce you to the owner of the salon, with his job he‘s bound to be attractive!‖ Joan carried on, detailing times and dates and making plans. I glanced at the table where the photo Peter had given me was propped against a blue vase full of yellow flowers. The girl on the couch had achieved what I had tried and failed to do so many times. Was Joan in for a surprise!

Anne Wilson Anne lived in Mallorca for a number of years and is currently half-way through writing her first novel based on some of the characters she encountered on the island.

44

However Dark Here, it‘s difficult to conceal a secret for long.

Most evenings, John Harris sat alone in the village‘s only bar.

Each year now he took pleasure, one of many in his life, in noting the changing colour of the vino de la tierra, its taste and strength. Ignacio‘s substantial tapas: ham and olives, fried egg sandwiches, calamares—when the fish van made it into the mountains from the coast—meant there was no need to cook at home again that day.

Then he would gather his papers and walk back to his little house. He half believed he was writing a book—something the villagers, none of whom could speak English, also believed. He usually met and greeted people trudging back from the campo with vegetables or fruit or firewood.

Later, he would sit on his tiny covered terrace and gaze north across the village to the mountains. He would look at the familiar constellation of streetlights strung across Chelva. He knew whose dog was barking, whose mule braying. In January he enjoyed the snow and the rain, listened to water as it ran off the launa roofs and down the steep little streets, watched mist gathering in the valley below. At dusk, in June, swallows swooped and twisted…

But now it was November. Ignacio‘s wine, once clear rosado, was dark brown in the plastic lemonade bottles and sold cheap. The next day was Matanza—the day the pigs were killed. He never looked forward to it. Although he knew what to expect, he was never quite prepared for the screams of animals that had lived a year without sunlight in a stable or a breeze block shed but still didn‘t want to die.

Blood would run down sloping streets. In the campo, the cries of terrified pigs rang along the ravines and through the vineyards and olive groves. Then thankfully, peace would return. The women of Chelva set to chopping and mincing, stuffing intestines, preparing joints for smoking on long tables in streets where fires burned. Food for the coming year. Bones were fed to the dogs. What a cruel end to a miserable life, the Englishman always reflected.

Lately, reflection was something he did less and less. He rarely asked himself now, ―How did I end up here? With a family far away and no friends; accepted, if not particularly liked, by the villagers of 45

Chelva.‖ We never get it all in life and he could think of no place he would rather be.

On his way home that evening, near the old Moorish washing rooms, he met Antonio Valdez leading his mule. The man‘s hand was dry, dusty rock. Antonio invited him to the killing of his pig. It was a serious invitation and John Harris saw no way of refusing. There was always face to be maintained in a village as small as Chelva, and to have declined the offer would not only have been an insult but, because killing animals is considered some sort of a masculinity test, it would have reflected badly on his own manliness. In his late fifties, this still mattered. And, he reasoned, he had picked grapes, beaten olives into nets, learned how to make baskets from esparto grass, collected honey…

This was something he should experience—if only once.

But there was another reason to accept this particular invitation and as he sat on his terrace that night, glass in hand, he quietly congratulated himself. The reason was Maria Concha Valdez.

Almost a year ago, on New Year‘s Eve, as the villagers waited for the bells to begin striking midnight, she had talked with him in Spanish so heavily accented that he hardly understood, but understood enough to know she was asking for private English lessons. John Harris immediately asked, ―Is that okay with Antonio?‖ In a village as small and as isolated as Chelva, one had to be clear about such matters.

He had taught English the previous year but, despite putting a lot of effort and thought into lesson preparation, not particularly well.

The class had started out with nine adult students—all women—and met on Monday evenings in a room under the priest‘s house below the great, barn-like, ochre church that dominated the village. Class numbers had quickly halved, despite the fact that lessons were free.

They had continued to dwindle until there was only old, deaf Encarna, wife of Paco Rodriguez, who sold rabbits, left. She knew no more English on the day the lessons stopped, last October, than on the day they had begun. Maria Concha Valdez had stopped attending after six weeks Now she was asking for private lessons and offering to pay.

They stood together in the frozen last minutes of the year. With the other villagers, they were holding twelve muscatel grapes and a plastic tumbler of cava. When the first midnight bell struck, villagers were required to eat all the grapes and have an empty mouth before the 46

twelfth chime died away into the star-filled sky. A grape-free mouth presaged good luck for the coming year.

In the first moments of that year, John Harris had a mouth full of pulp and pips. He laughed with Maria. She had long ago mastered the technique of rapid grape chewing and swallowing. ―No,‖ she said, ―Antonio doesn‘t know.‖ Then she was remarkably frank. Perhaps it was the fact that another year had ended. ―He sees no point in me learning English. He sees no point in anything much beyond wine and his building work, dominoes in the bar. Look, he‘s over there with his cronies.‖ ―Let me think about it,‖ John Harris replied. She shrugged, pulled her black coat tight and turned away.

It is difficult to conceal a relationship, however innocent, in a small village. It‘s difficult to conceal anything. Chelvans talk. It‘s how I know most of this story. They talk in the bar, in the square, in church, in the shop, in the campo, in the fig factory…They bestow the most innocuous of matters with a wholly unwarranted significance which, in the following days, is forgotten as a new subject commands attention.

Yet there are, sometimes, matters which are satisfyingly substantial.

How about Javiar Martin, married with three daughters, who in the summer, was discovered on top of a gypsy teenager in the trees above the village? What shame for his wife, a pillar of the church. Or young, alcoholic Patricio who recently killed himself with fox poison in a ravine on the way to the nearest town, Plandera, eight miles away?

John Harris was aware of all this, and yet that night, and in the days to follow, he gave serious thought, significantly influenced by Maria‘s dark-eyed beauty, to her proposition and the possibilities. A similar request from Encarna Rodriguez would have commanded rather less attention.

Maria was, indeed, a handsome woman. She was twenty years younger than her husband and bored to the edge of clinical depression by the repetition of a life that revolved around almonds, figs, olives and grapes and, in the case of her family, small building work. She was sick of the same conversations; unmoved by the excitement others felt at fiesta times with the inevitable migas or paella cooked in great silver pans in the street and the karaoke pop trios; resentful of the expectation that each day at two o‘clock Antonio‘s hot meal should be on the table and, 47

when her husband returned from the bar each evening, ham, olives and bread and, of course, more wine should be waiting.

John Harris convinced himself that she was rather mysterious.

She too, clung to the hope that Senor Juan was different: not physically attractive—he was rather plump and pink and smooth-skinned—but a man who had some learning, some skills beyond how to dress vines with sulphur or repair a chain saw.

And so, a week later, when he met Maria in the square, he agreed that he would teach her English at no cost. For him it was a little adventure. In fact, it was a serious and uncharacteristic lack of judgement.

Maria told him where they should meet—in an unused family house. Once there had been three thousand people living in Chelva.

Now there were four hundred, and many houses were empty, many of those in a state of serious disrepair. The building was at the quietest edge of the village. There was a back door up a narrow, rarely used, cut-through in the lower part of Chelva. The house still contained a few sticks of unwanted, cheap and dusty furniture. They arranged a small table and two hard wooden chairs in a back room whose rear wall was solid rock. Maria would crack the shutters so that, although it was a gloomy learning environment, there was sufficient light. Lessons began on January 27th.

There was an unspoken understanding of the need for discretion.

There were times when, for one reason or another, Maria couldn‘t show up. Maybe she sensed she was being watched or her husband needed help on their cortijo.

She was an able and enthusiastic student. John Harris was captivated by her smile, her nimble mind, her dry humour, her thick black hair and dark eyes. Within two weeks, they had pulled a bed into their schoolroom and although lessons continued, more and more time was spent on the dusty blankets in each other‘s arms.

By the end of May they both, almost simultaneously felt that they had pushed their luck far enough, that the excitement had faded.

They realised that familiarity may meld quickly into indifference and, certainly for Antonia, boredom. Juan Harris wasn‘t the answer to her unhappy restlessness. And the Englishman had begun again to long for the pleasures of solitary living without expectation or responsibility, without the imperative to search for something to say.

48

As cobwebs grew again over the shutters in the house on Calle Midiles and summer arrived, John Harris felt both relief and a certain smugness. It was born not just of the fact that their affair had been private and well managed, but also of the certainty, now, that at his age, he preferred a glass of wine, a book, the view of the mountains, to a relationship, however beautiful the woman might be. He was a lucky man.

So he slept well the night before Matanza, confident that Antonio Valdez had revealed, again, ignorance of his wife‘s infidelity, content in the belief that by watching tomorrow‘s bloody ritual he would be cementing another layer over a buried truth that could never be interred.

He breakfasted before daylight on cereal, small green apples— someone had left a bagful at his door—and strong black coffee.

He met Antonio at the threshing circles at the top of the village. The moon was still bright over the mountains. The Spaniard seemed to John Harris to be rather subdued and indifferent. Maybe he‘s hung over, he thought. He assumed that they would be walking to Antonio‘s cortijo—south along the path that wound around the valley sides. But no. ―It‘s here, in the village,‖ said Antonio and led the Englishman back down the narrow track by the ruin where, in spring, white lilies grow in a tiny secret garden. Then into the village by a strangely circuitous route.

Harris realised where they were going. He began to feel uncomfortable. And all those weeks…There had been a pig in the stable below them!

The single door, secured with a wooden peg at the end of an old dry rope, was just off the street on the opposite side to the cutthrough that he and Maria had used. As Valdez pushed the door across the earth floor John Harris heard the snuffling and scuffling sounds of an animal. In the beam of Antonio‘s small torch was a pig—bloated, pure white, pink-eyed. ―Look,‖ said Antonio. He swung the beam up high to the wooden-beamed, raffia ceiling. From the strongest beam hung two chains with hooks attached to pulleys. The wand of light moved to the wall where a pole with a wire lasso rested. Then down to the shit-andstraw covered floor where four great black rubber buckets were stacked.

49

lasso.

―For the pig‘s legs?‖ said Harris pointing in the gloom at the

―Yes,‖ said Valdez lighting a hand-rolled cigarette and pushing the stable door shut behind him with his left foot, ―and for yours.‖ John Harris, naked, swings upside down, on a chain next to a squealing pig. His clothes and shoes are in a plastic bag. A stone has been pushed into his mouth breaking teeth. He hears the sound of knives on steel, sees flashes of silver; hears a bucket being kicked beneath the creature next to him. He looks down and sees that his is already in place. When did that happen? He wishes the pig would stop screaming but it already has. Liquid floods and splashes into the bucket. From the corner of his eye he can see it—ripe and fresh in a narrow ray of clear November light. Valdez moves the first bucket and replaces it with a second.

There is a sound like the sandpaper hiss of a cornered cat as the dead pig is opened from head to tail. There is a silky slithering and bubbling and a rank, warm smell. The second container fills with glistening entrails. Steam drifts into Harris‘s face. Bile hits stone. Valdez carefully cleans the animal, scraping out offal that still sticks to ribs and flesh.

John Harris remembers the grapes. Antonio lights another cigarette and moves on to the second kill.

How convenient, and mildly diverting, it would be if I could say with certainty that most of John Harris ended up in the chorizo, longonizas, morcillas and salchichons of the Valdez family. I wish I could close the curtain on this tale with Antonio watching Maria Concha innocently slicing sausages packed with meat from their pig and her ex-lover.

I can‘t. I am certain that John Harris is dead. The house with the little terrace, where he would sit most evenings after a drink in Ignacio‘s bar, was sold by his family last year. I bought it.

The Guardia Civil showed little interest in investigating the disappearance of the man. It was presumed that he had returned to England. ―These people,‖ said Fernando Tomo, Chief in Plandera and cousin of Chelva‘s mayor, ―come and go.‖ But if you ask the villagers about Juan Harris, the Englishman who lived in Chelva for a few years, the writer, the subject is quickly changed. Observe closely. For a moment, eye contact is lost. Here it‘s difficult to conceal a secret, however dark, for long.

50

Andrew Craig Andrew owns a little house in a small Spanish village where he writes, paints, plays his guitar.... he enjoys the company of local people, the peace and the beautiful landscape.

51

Hunger I was born with the same frightened look as my dad and his dad. Even if we won ―Deal or No Deal‖, we‘d still look hurt and starved for affection. My mates kidded me. They‘d tell me I always looked as if someone had just swiped my cider. There was nothing for it. I tried to smile, look upbeat, as you do, but there was always something of the orphan in my eyes.

The drink didn‘t help. I wouldn‘t say I was an alcoholic, but there were nights down the pub when I couldn‘t remember getting back up the street. I reckon I got that from my dad and his dad as well.

I made it through university, though; or I should say I scraped through it. The day I got the letter informing me that I would be graduating after all (there was a matter with my fees), my mates and I—The Crew—started our piss-up at four in the afternoon.

Later in the evening, I spotted this fit bird across the bar. She was staring at me, probably because I was shouting louder than the rest of my mates. With the confidence of eight or how-the-hell-should-Iknow-how-many ciders, I walked over and introduced myself. ―Michael! I‘m not Irish!‖ I shouted. I think. ―Sabina!‖ she shouted back. ―I‘m a German girl!‖ ―Bloody Germans!‖ She laughed. She had perfect teeth and dark hair, much darker than the typical German. Apparently she could take a joke, so I think I must have told quite a few. I remember she kept laughing and laughing. ―You hungry?‖ she asked. ―I am starving!‖ I hadn‘t thought about it until she asked, but I hadn‘t eaten all day, unless you consider ten ciders eating. We got a table away from the crowd and ate jacket potatoes with our fingers, I think. I remember only bits of the conversation. We talked about Germany. I lied and said I‘d been to Oktoberfest a few years back. I didn‘t want to say I‘d never been out of England. In fact, I‘d spent most of my 23 years in or around Hackney. ―A musician,‖ I heard myself say. I reckon the question was what I wanted to be when I grew up. ―Not a cordwainer.‖ She didn‘t know what that was—like anyone ever does. My granddad was quite a famous one, but then my dad wasn‘t one at all. The drink put a stop to 52

the family tradition of making boots. ―A proper musician!‖ I said. As soon as I was finished with my worthless degree in English, I was going to start my own band. ―Do you play an instrument?‖ Sabina asked. ―No.‖ She laughed. ―You have perfect teeth.‖ ―I have good health insurance,‖ she said, still laughing. Her laugh was a girlie giggle that made me want to hold her. Her laugh told me she didn‘t judge me for my Hackney accent. ―I‘m common, you know.‖ I was pissed. I was beginning to say things I shouldn‘t have. ―So am I,‖ she said. ―Es ist auch gut so! I mean, And that‘s even good!‖ ―Mikey!‖ I heard one of my mates calling me. I was missing something; I don‘t remember anymore what it was. After that, everything started to fade. At some point Sabina‘s laughter stopped and I was hanging onto one of my mate‘s neck. And then I was in bed. The next morning I could barely remember her face, but I‘d never forget her laugh.

I graduated from university and went directly to the post office to collect the paper and folders I needed to send out a hundred CVs to schools. My brother had gone this route, so I thought I could as well.

He was a teacher in a public school where all the boys were posh. No one dreamt he was from Hackney. Sure, we could all do posh when we needed to. The problem with Danny was that he‘d forgotten how to do Hackney.

But the good thing about my brother was that he let me live with him after dad died. Mum had passed away years before. Danny was all I had—besides daytime TV. ―You really must get a job, Michael,‖ he said, turning off the telly in the middle of Countdown. ―I‘ve sent out CVs.‖ He didn‘t seem impressed. ―Look,‖ he said. ―Here‘s an ad for a teacher in Munich. They don‘t require anything but a university degree. All the positions you‘ve applied for here in England require some sort of practical experience, Michael. It‘s simply not realistic.‖ The background of the ad was what looked like a Medieval church (but what did I know?) with two onion tops. I remembered 53

then that Sabina had told me about the church. She‘d also told me how she worked at a language institute in Munich, how she got 29 holiday days a year, and how employees in Germany got one hundred per cent paid sick leave. As I stared at that ad, more of our conversation came back to me. She laughed when I told her we had a plastic film over our windows to keep out the cold. She laughed as she told me about her difficulties with The Tube in London. She laughed when she spoke of the bakeries in Munich and the bread—something called Brezen. I remembered her laugh when she said everything worked in Munich.

Everything worked in Munich, so I thought I could too.

A week later the phone rang in the middle of Countdown. The world wouldn‘t leave me alone during Countdown. ―Hello?‖ ―Hello, my name is Alex Green. I‘m calling from Munich . . . about the job opening.‖ I turned the telly down and put on my posh voice. ―Yes, of course,‖ I said. ―Am I speaking to Michael Thompson?‖ ―Yes, yes. Sorry.‖ ―We‘d like to invite you to take part in the method training course that‘s starting next week. Do you think you could make that?

I‘m sorry this is such short notice, but we have a schedule to keep to.

New classes, you know.‖ ―Yes, yes. Of course.‖ I must have sounded like a complete idiot, but then this Alex Green sounded like a bloody American—so we were quits I suppose.

I hung up the phone, having committed to something like a job without quite knowing whether I had the job. One thing I knew I didn‘t have was money. I had just enough to get a terrible haircut the next day; I borrowed the rest from Danny. I reckon he gave me the 300 quid just to get me off his couch. I reckon I got off his couch just to find Sabina.

The flight cost me half the money, and the youth hostel— when I arrived in Munich three days later—was almost twenty euros a night. Three hundred quid wasn‘t going to last long. To make matters worse, I discovered on the first day that the method training would last two weeks instead of one and I wasn‘t guaranteed the job after the two weeks. There were eight other candidates for the job, and none of them had the look of an orphan about them. On top of everything, 54

Sabina didn‘t work there—and Munich was a haystack of language schools.

My money ran out before the end of the first week. Thursday was the last day I remember having eaten anything. I think I had a pretzel from the day-old bakery. It was dry and tasteless, nothing like Sabina had described. I looked for her every day, hoping we‘d pass on my way to the school, hoping I‘d hear her laugh around a corner or coming up a stairwell.

On the following Sunday, the receptionist at the youth hostel asked me if I was staying a second week and whether I wanted to pay in advance as I‘d done the first week. I opted to pay when I left. I hadn‘t eaten in four days. That sounds unbelievable. I must have eaten something. I know I fantasized about stealing candy bars and ice creams, but the fantasy always ended with my being booted out of the country only to land on Danny‘s doorstep—the failure home for another round of Countdown. I wouldn‘t go home a failure.

I drank as much water as I could from the sink in the youth hostel toilet. I washed, but of course without money, I couldn‘t wash my clothes. My jumper was starting to smell like the drunk in the next bed. Rank beer, cigarettes, something meaty. He was a lovely fellow, though, and eager to help me plan my test lessons. I traded English lessons for some of his wurst one night. ―Have you ever been to France?‖ I asked. I was preparing a lesson on the present perfect. ―Once,‖ he said. ―Long answer?‖ ―I was already in France,‖ he said. ―Almost. Listen closely,‖ I said. His eyes were beginning to shut. ―Have . . . you . . . ever . . . been . . . to . . . France?‖ It was no use.

I took the slice of wurst from his hand anyway.

I survived the first few days of the second week on the occasional hand-out from the drunk. I also discovered samples in supermarkets. On Thursday I was to give my final test lesson. On Wednesday evening I was so weak that I collapsed on a bench at the east station for a long while before I boarded the train (without a ticket of course). The next few minutes are still a blur, but I remember standing there in the middle of the carriage, a dozen people staring at me as if I was some sort of wild, rabid animal.

55

―Please,‖ I heard myself say. ―I‘m all out of money. I haven‘t eaten properly in several days. I just need enough to get my tea, and I‘ll be fine.‖ I‘d seen a bloke do this in London on The Tube. His speech was much more effective since most, if not all, of the people in the carriage understood his language.

Everyone stopped looking at me when they figured out I was a beggar—I was a beggar—except one woman. She handed me a box of Dove chocolate ice cream bars and said I should eat them all before they melted. ―Eight hundred calories,‖ she said. ―You need calories.‖ My body started to heave. My entire body was trying to cry but I wouldn‘t let it. It‘s quite embarrassing for me to admit that, but I was starving. The woman disappeared as soon as the doors opened, and I ripped into the package. When I‘d finished, I licked my fingers until they were red and burning.

The next morning I showed up early to cut pictures out of magazines and type out role play cards. One of the ladies in the office let me use her computer. I was going to give the lesson of my life. ―Michael?‖ The door to Alex Green‘s office was open and he was gesturing for me to come in. ―I‘m giving my last lesson in a few minutes‘ time, sir,‖ I said, poking my head into his office. ―That can wait, Michael. Come in. Close the door.‖ ―But—‖ ―Come in and close the door.‖ I didn‘t like this fellow. He always wore a suit and smiled even when he was cross. ―Is something the matter?‖ I asked in the poshest voice I knew. I was sure he was going to say he‘d discovered I was common and send me straight back to Hackney. ―Michael, you look like hell.‖ ―It‘s my grandmother,‖ I said and still don‘t know why. ―She died a few days ago, and—‖ ―I‘m sorry to hear that, Michael. The death of your grandmother notwithstanding, you still look like hell.‖ ―I‘m sorry.‖ I was shaking. ―When‘s the last time you ate?‖ ―This morning,‖ I lied.

56

He reached into his pocket. ―Here‘s fifty euros. I want you to go get something to eat. There‘s a pizza place on the corner. I want you to get the biggest pizza they have with everything on it. Then I want you to go around the next corner and get a haircut. They charge about twelve euros. Then—‖ ―I‘m so sorry.‖ ―Then, Michael, I want you get that sweater washed at the coin laundry on the next corner. It smells like a garbage can.‖ ―I‘m sorry.‖ I was not going to cry. ―Michael, you have to get yourself together.‖ ―Yeah. Yeah. I‘m having a bit of a—‖ ―Son, look at me. I want you to do all that and get back here this afternoon at five for your test lesson.‖ ―What?‖ ―You‘re going to give me that test lesson. And it‘s going to be the best lesson today.‖ ―I will,‖ I said. ―And I‘ll pay back the fifty quid.‖ I knew it was euros but I said quid. I was too tired to correct myself and too tired to feel embarrassed about one more thing. ―I don‘t want you to pay it back; I want you to keep being a great teacher.‖ I left before I had the chance to fall apart. No one had ever called me great. I‘m embarrassed to say how I cried over my food. It‘s the kind of stuff you see in movies: the lonely bloke in the corner sobbing and stuffing his gob with a comic-book-sized pizza. I fell asleep during the haircut. When I woke up, I didn‘t know who I was.

Maybe I‘d become someone else. When I looked back at who I was in London, I couldn‘t imagine ever going back. At five I was at the school, in the classroom. I gave that lesson. Everything worked. I worked. Finally I worked.

Sabina. There is that bit left to the story. I never found her.

Maybe I was never meant to find her; perhaps I was meant to find only myself. I‘ve worked in Munich for twenty years now. Alex died last year. He treated me like a son. I get so bloody emotional when I think about him. I don‘t dare say things like Bloody Germans! or Bloody Americans! any longer. I‘ve learned a thing or two, like it‘s OK to be a common bloke from Hackney.

“Es ist auch gut so!” After ten years I can still hear Sabina‘s laugh.

57

Christopher Allen Christopher Allen has taught Business English in Germany since 1995. His fiction and creative non-fiction have appeared in numerous journals, both online and in print. Read more at www.imustbeoff.blogspot.com.

58

La Dolce Vita Penny had always hated early mornings and breakfast meetings but at this moment, she hated weeding more. ―Oh bugger!‖ she shouted, as she uprooted yet another young onion, chopped off in its prime. She stood up straight, stretched her back and took in the huge peaks in the distance, topped with snow.

No, swapping the City for the Italian hills had been a good move.

A small voice surprised her. ―Bugger, what bugger?‖ Maurizio, their six-year-old neighbour, going on sixty, popped his head around the fence. ―Niente,‖ Penny muttered - nothing. Maurizio wrinkled his brow. She forced a smile and looked around for George. He was so much better at speaking the lingo. ―I have gattini—baby cats,‖ Maurizio said, nose stuck in the air.

The lane they lived in housed a number of community cats for which no one seemed to take responsibility beyond an odd plastic plate of leftovers here and there. At mating time, there was night after night of noisy courtship. The tomcats prowled the road as if they were lords of the manor, marking their territory and claiming the females.

The young boy crooked a grimy little finger, beckoning her to follow.

Penny threw her hoe down, and leapfrogged the rusty barbed wire fence, landing in the oleander on the other side. ―You‘d never guess,‖ she said, pulling leaves from her hair, ―I used to be the best hurdler in my class.‖ Maurizio shrugged and disappeared into a disused building. ―Are you sure we‘re allowed in here?‖ Penny peered into a room full of rubble, probably from the hole in the roof, through which the sunlight poured. A small black cat with a lightning flash of white on her forehead leapt from a cupboard in the corner of the room and left through a small broken window. Penny could hear the tiny but resonant sounds of meowing. Maurizio dipped his hand in and produced a kitten no bigger than a mouse. Holding it by its neck, it swung there limp, paws hanging, its mouth open in silent protest.

Penny rushed forward filled with motherly instinct. ―Careful,‖ she said, cradling it gently in the palm of her hand and stroking its head. ―You poor little thing, are you hungry?‖ The 59

kitten found the end of her finger and sucked furiously. She peered into the cupboard and counted six more minute heads, mixtures of silver grey, tabby and white. She made a mental note to talk to George.

Maybe a house cat was just what they needed. Just at that moment, the adult cat flew back in through the window spitting at Maurizio and he struck out, slapping it across the head. ―Come on.‖ Penny replaced the kitten with its siblings. ―Time to go I think.‖ Maurizio followed her back to the onion patch and watched as Penny began to weed and swear once more. ―I‘ve got chickens too.‖ ―Oh, have you? How lovely…‖ She pondered for a while as she translated what she wanted to say in her head. ―What have you called them?‖ ―Called them?‖ ―Yes, what do you call your chickens? Do they have names?‖ Penny was going to name her brood, once she‘d convinced George they needed chickens, after three aged aunts of hers. ―Come si chiamano?‖ She shouted the words as if it would help, trying to inflect the right Italian tone and raising her hands in the air as she‘d seen the locals do.

Maurizio shook his head and raised his eyes to the sky. ―Inglesi, crazy inglesi. They don‘t have names,‖ he said with a flat tone. ―They are dead – they are for dinner table.‖ ―Oh,‖ said Penny, her hand fluttering to her forehead. ―Il volpe, the fox, had them. Just for fun.‖ Maurizio mimed the wily creature ripping at a chicken‘s neck. He then grabbed her hand and pulled her towards his house where she could see his mother plucking at a dead carcass across her knee. Penny paled, clasped one hand over her mouth and the other on her tummy. ―Oh dear, poor chickens,‖ she whispered. Some of this good life didn‘t seem such a good life at times.

The next day Penny persuaded George to have a look at the kittens. ―It would be good, George, to have something to look after…and a cat would sort out those mice that have been scurrying around in the pantry.‖ ―I‘m sorting them out myself, Pen.‖ George scratched his head. ―They‘re just being a little elusive right now…‖ ―Elusive!‖ Penny snorted. ―First they escape from a humane 60

trap and now they‘re laughing at you every night as they pinch the chocolate you left out on the snap traps.‖ George nodded as he looked at the red ends of his fingers. ―Those traps were vicious…how on earth did they manage to…?‖ ―Never mind that, George, a cat would sort it all out, as nature intended.‖ Penny took his arm. ―Oh, Pen, do I have to?‖ he complained, as she dragged him over the fence. ―We have enough to do looking after ourselves.‖ Penny ignored his protest as she pulled open the cupboard door, stood back. ―You won‘t be able to resist once you‘ve seen them.‖ George peered in and then back at her. ―But, Penny, there‘s nothing there, love, just a dirty old towel.‖ Penny frowned and looked inside. Sure enough, it was empty.

She heard Maurizio singing in the road. Leaning out of the broken window, she called to him. ―Where are the gattini?‖ ―Oh.‖ His eyes lowered, filled with unshed tears. ―I volpi, they came last night…‖ he whispered. ―No!‖ Penny‘s hand flew to her throat. Maurizio‘s father walked up behind his son with a spade slung over his shoulder. He winked and touched his nose with a grubby finger. ―No!‖ Penny repeated as the young boy took his father‘s hand.

George spent the next hour upturning every empty vessel and closing every door. ―Just in case. We don‘t want to turn this place into a feline maternity ward, do we?‖ Penny ignored him. ―You‘ve been working so hard in the garden, poppet, and you‘ve had such a shock.‖ George walked over and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She gazed at him, one eyebrow raised in suspicion. ―What?‖ ―You only call me ―poppet‖ when you want something.‖ ―Do I? What‘s wrong with wanting my gorgeous wife?‖ His hands crept down to her waist. Penny slapped them. ―What was that for?‖ ―I‘m just not in the mood. Anyway, I‘m fat and horrible. I thought a Mediterranean diet would sort out my flab, but it‘s just spread, east-west.‖ 61

Penny turned and watched as a rather pregnant silver-grey cat crept into their woodshed. ―It‘s probably all the red wine, poppet, don‘t worry. I love you just the way you are.‖ Penny glared at him for a second until a bead of sweat appeared on his brow and then stormed off towards the woodshed. ―What have I said now, Pen? Where are you going? Poppet?‖ The next morning George heard Penny squealing from the woodshed. ―What‘s wrong, Penny? Is it a snake? A scorpion? Hang on, I‘m coming!‖ George found Penny kneeling by a large basket, which they used for harvesting vegetables. She turned and looked up at George smiling. ―Look, a little family.‖ The grey cat curled into a horseshoe shape as four tiny furry bodies sucked hungrily at her belly. ―Now, Pen, I upturned all of those baskets yesterday.‖ A look of realisation crossed his face. Penny smiled her best smile. ―You didn‘t – did you? You know how they do things round here…‖ Penny silenced him with a hand in the air. ―I…we cannot – they are defenceless. I‘ll just move them to the laundry; they will be safe there. I must go and tell Maurizio.‖ She returned with her young charge in tow. He stared at the kittens for less than a second, and then shrugged his shoulders. ―What?‖ asked Penny. ―Neri, tutti neri…they are all black.‖ ―So? Aren‘t they beautiful?‖ Maurizio shook his head. ―No Signora Hunt, black cats are bad luck. You have lots of bad luck.‖ Penny woke to the sound of meowing. She fumbled for the alarm clock and squinted, searching for the luminous green numbers. ―Six am? George? George, do be a darling.‖ ―What is it, Pen?‖ George mumbled and pulled the covers up over his head. ―Oh, George, would you go and see to them this morning. I am so tired.‖ Penny waited but George did not respond. ―George.‖ She shook his arm and pulled down the covers, 62

―George, you‘re not asleep are you?‖ ―Not now, obviously, poppet.‖ George sat up, eyes half closed and scratched his head. ―What time is it?‖ ―Six a.m.—the kitties, their mums, they need feeding.‖ She placed a small peck on his cheek and snuggled in to his neck. ―Oh no, Penny, this is your doing, your zoo. You said that you would look after them. If you‘d listened to me we wouldn‘t have three litters and their hungry mums to feed.‖ George pushed her away with a gentle but firm hand and crept back under the covers.

As Penny tripped out in her pyjamas balancing three plates of cat food, one female wrapped its tail around her ankles. Trying to avoid stepping on the kittens, she tripped and fell down the stairs landing on all fours at the bottom. ―Damn cats! Why on earth…?‖ Penny sat up and rubbed her knees as the feline crowd jumped over her to get at the food. ―Signora Hunt? Are you alright?‖ Maurizio‘s father stood at the gate, waggling a spade over his shoulder. ―Do you want any help?‖ He nodded towards the herd of cats. ―No,‖ Penny shrilled. ―No thank you, very kind…siamo inglesi…we are English. We love cats.‖ She smiled, gathering the unwilling animals towards her.

She could swear she could hear him laughing as he disappeared up the lane.

Louise Charles Louise lives the good life in Italy. She has written four novels, yet unpublished and has had short stories published in Peoples Friend, My Weekly and Bridge House Publishing.

63

La Grisaille March in Paris. Sunless, rainy, cold. The French called it La Grisaille— the greyness. It lasted forever.

But today was especially bad. First, she‘d been ignored by the skinny parisiennes prancing through the locker room in their skimpy underwear. Then the Americans in her French class dropped names and places to show how well-integrated they were.

She knew what she needed and headed to the laundromat. Its hot air smell reached her while she was still on the street and started to cheer her. She walked in and saw two women, probably North African, staring into the distance while their clothes ticked the minutes away, a teenager zoning out under headphones, and an old woman wearing too much lipstick talking to herself. Perfect.

Her friends in the States, hung up on their fantasy about her glamorous Paris life, never understood why she preferred the laverie to the Louvre. ―Paintings on the Seine are the same as paintings on Fifth Avenue. I‘m more interested in people, real people.‖ Of course, the people she saw there were only the ones who couldn‘t afford a washing machine of their own. Or maybe they, like her, hated the teeny apartment-machines. One machine was both a washer and a dryer, so while you were drying your first load you couldn‘t start the second load washing.

Well, she reminded herself, if she wanted everything to be like home, she could have just stayed home. And the laverie had big washers and big dryers. And real people.

A tallish man in tight-fitting jeans walked in after her. He must have seen her Herald Tribune because he spoke to her in English. ―You have only ze small load. I, also, I have only ze small load. Peut-être we could make a combine? We save money on machines and for ze soap, yes?‖ His voice was as hypnotic as his clear blue eyes. She managed to nod.

They debated water temperatures and cycle lengths. They combined their coins and started the washer. He asked if it would be okay—she loved the way he said HOE-kay—if he did some errands and returned in time to put the clothes in the dryer.

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She left her newspaper unopened for a change and stared at the tumbling clothes like everyone else. She watched her underwear mingle with his and her sheets get tangled up in his, hoping her Weight Watchers shirt wasn‘t in this load. She let herself fantasize, though she knew it was crazy.

Those blue eyes returned during the final spin cycle, sat next to her and whispered in her ear, ―Now zat our underwear is togezzer, perhaps…a coffee?‖ She wouldn‘t do this at home, but Paris and La Grisaille changed everything. The next few weeks were wonderful but, by the time the sun had returned, she found out just how promiscuous his underwear had been. Like Edith Piaf, though, she regretted nothing.

Carole Howard Carole Howard divides her time between Paris and New York‘s Hudson Valley. She writes personal essays and fiction, and is finishing her novel, ―Deadly Adagio,‖ a musical mystery set in West Africa.

65

Midnight Wishes She was seduced the first time she met him; not by his olive skin or muscular arms but by the size of his gambas. ―Oh, Señor, que bueno!‖ enthused my mother, as she drooled over the succulent shellfish barbecuing over flickering embers strewn along the length of a hollowed out rowing boat on the beach.

A sun charred face looked up at her. The old man rubbed a wrinkled hand across his chest as a cigarette dangled precariously from the corner of his mouth and he shrugged. He mouthed something to the even older man sitting next to him on an upturned bucket. They looked at us and laughed. ―Turistas‖ was what I heard and they were safe in their assumption that we weren‘t locals but I sensed it wasn‘t a compliment. Mum was oblivious and laughed with them; she‘d already used up her repertoire of Spanish. I was twelve years old and wanted to die of embarrassment. How can you love someone and yet hate them at the same time? I turned away, coughing as a gust of woodsmoke swirled across our faces. I resented the man and his prawns and the heat of the night; everything. ―La Noche de San Juan,‖ sighed Mum. She gazed around the crowds on the beach, all there to celebrate an annual ritual of cleansing and renewal to the accompaniment of music, food, wine and a huge amount of noise. She pointed out the towering bonfire waiting to be lit on the stroke of midnight. She clapped her hands in time to the guitars being played on a tatty excuse for a stage behind us and readjusted the vermilion flower in her hair. Why couldn‘t she just melt into the background, be like she used to be back home. I looked at the silver face of the moon casting sprinkles of light across a dark expanse of the Mediterranean and wondered how I could settle the ache inside my heart. The same moon would be bathing my real home in its light, looking down over red brick houses and gardens that rambled into the woodland where we rode our bikes to the tree where Joey Marsh pecked me on the cheek then turned red. I could have been his girlfriend if I hadn‘t been dragged from everything I knew and loved to a town where we were strangers. I was homesick for a life that no longer existed. ―It will be wonderful, you‘ll see,‖ Mum had said, ―a new experience, space to breathe, a chance to grow.‖ 66

I hadn‘t believed her then and I still didn‘t believe her two months later. We were living in Guadiaro—much further south and we would have dropped off the end of Spain. We‘d been there a week and I‘d was standing on a beach without a friend or a dad. I hated him for choosing her but I missed him too. I missed everything that meant home.

Suddenly everyone was rushing towards the bonfire and throwing pieces of paper into its bowels. ―Wishes,‖ Mum had told me, grabbing my hand and running too.

She took out the post-it notes we‘d written on earlier and urged me forward. I poked them in between the lattice of driftwood, not looking back at her. We both knew in our hearts what the other had written. Then two burly men began lighting the wood, while children still ran around whooping and shouting. There wasn‘t a cordon or a fireman in sight, the bonfire just became part of the crowd and no one seemed to be worried. The flames licked at the foundations then burst forth climbing higher and higher. Midnight. All the elements conjoined to bring a new beginning to those who believed in the magic of the night. A crack and a whizz behind us signalled the start of a firework display sending multi-coloured sparks showering over sea and sand. Crowds moved towards the water‘s edge, some dipping a toe, others discarding clothing as they ran and dived head first into the chilly depths, all wanting to be part of the celebration, to belong. But how could I enjoy it without a friend to run and laugh with, like all the other groups of kids around us. Mum pulled me close and wrapped her arm around me. I saw the smile on her face as she began to unfasten her shoes and I pulled away; she had no idea how lonely I felt among so many people.

The next week my life crumbled when Mum enrolled me in the local school and I became an object to be pointed at, an outsider.

She‘d read that ‗immersion‘ was the only way to absorb a new language. ―Then you go and get immersed,‖ I screamed at her but she took me anyway.

Over the next few days I made her suffer for what she was doing to me. I didn‘t care that she cried at night. I didn‘t care that she was going to Spanish classes to help us both. I didn‘t care that she was 67

trying hard to find work or putting up my pictures to make my room cosy. I just wanted her to feel my pain.

And then, one day, a girl called Manuela handed me a note in class. Welcome I happy be your friend. I stared at the words for a long time then looked across to where Manuela sat. Her hair was black, pulled back tight with a thick red hair band and she was smiling at me. At recreo, she linked my arm and introduced me to the other girls in a mix of Andalucian Spanish and a faltering word or two of English. Over the coming weeks and months, we taught each other many things about our homelands—mostly to do with pop music and swear words, but it spawned a friendship that I knew would last.

Spanish TV was rubbish and I never got over missing The X Factor Final. I couldn‘t believe that shops didn‘t open on Sunday but it meant longer on the beach with a growing group of friends, or just hanging out in the square with handfuls of sweets bought at the kiosk.

I‘d never spent so much time outdoors. Hot afternoons lingered into balmy, jasmine scented evenings. I hadn‘t realised how cool it could be to speak another language.

Mum reversed the car into a bollard and met half the town when they came out to look. She threw up her hands and grappled for vocabulary and someone took pity on her and everyone laughed. She was trying, after all, not just another of those ex pats wanting to be English in the sun. The next day the butcher greeted her from his doorway and she chatted for one whole minute about his opening hours and her description of his dog. She was elated. We had dinner that night in a café in the square. An old man raised his hand in greeting and another mother from the school asked us how we were.

Mum beamed. Manuela walked by and asked if I wanted to go with her and Carmen to watch a DVD at Goya‘s. Mum was only too pleased to let me go and said she‘d pick me up later. As I looked back across the square, I saw Señora Garcίa beckon Mum to join them for a drink.

The hatred I had nurtured abated and I was glad she wouldn‘t be alone.

By the end of that first year my Spanish was en route to fluency, Mum was working in a coffee shop owned by Señora Garcίa‘s niece, we‘d planted a bougainvillea and had taken trips to Granada and 68

Morocco, places that were to be influential in my future plans. Five years have now passed and here I am, eighteen and on the brink of university, back to Liverpool to study architecture; the Alhambra had much to answer for as it turned out.

Alvaro takes my hand and pulls me down the beach towards the others, past old Pedro, turning his gambas as always in honour of San Juan. He waves as we run by and I swear his cigarette ash adds unexpected flavour. We weave through the throngs to Manuela who waves a bottle of wine at me and I take a slurp as the fire crackles into life. My friends are joking and larking about, clapping to the flamenco beat, the boys stripping down to plunge into the sea in a typically macho display. The girls taunt them, egging them on and I join in as enthusiastically as any of them because now I belong.

I keep looking for Mum and finally she runs over from where her friends are gathered to be greeted by Manuela and the others with hugs and kisses, a common ritual that I‘ve come to love. Another month and I‘ll be leaving for England, always my home and a place I need to go back to, to spend time living and studying where my roots are firm. Yet Guadiaro has persevered and carved its own place in my heart over the years and I will miss all that it has come to mean to me.

Mum puts her arms around me, then shows me the piece of paper folded in her hands. I pull mine from my pocket and we dash to the bonfire, giggling and throw in our wishes. A gust carries them upwards, flittering together until they disappear into the flames but this time I know that we are both wishing for the other‘s happiness. Past, present and future have finally made peace in my heart.

Elizabeth Fearon A move from Liverpool to Spain, six rollercoaster years for the family experiencing the pleasure and the pain of a new life and now it's time to go home.

69

Not the French way ―Tom, can you go and see who‘s at the door,‖ Mary called to her son from the kitchen.

She turned to see the boy return with a tall, good-looking man dressed in a smart suit and carrying a large briefcase. Before she could say that she definitely didn‘t want to buy anything, the man grabbed her by both shoulders and kissed her, twice on one cheek, once on the other, as Tom whispered: ―He says he‘s the mayor‖. ―I think you‘ve got the wrong house,‖ spluttered Mary, once he‘d let her go. ―Mais non, chère Madame. You are the English family who moved here six weeks ago, non?‖ ―Well, yes. Oui.‖ ―Je suis désolé, Madame. I am sorry. There have been complaints.‖ ―Complaints?‖ echoed Mary. ―But…‖ Monsieur le Maire held up a hand to silence her as he sat at the kitchen table with her and Tom. ―Noise.‖ ―Noise? But we don‘t make any. I tell Tom to keep his music down…‖ ―Exactement!‖ cried the Mayor. ―You have been here six weeks.

There has been no hammering, no sawing, no drilling, no chopping of the wood. You do not have a cockerel that crows throughout the day.

Madame, I must ask you, do you have a loyalty card for M. Bricolage, Bricomarché or any other DIY store?‖ ―Well, no, we don‘t really like…‖ she faltered.

The Mayor shook his head. ― I regret, Madame. That is not the French way. Where is your mari, your husband?‖ ―He‘s gone jogging.‖ ―Mais non! He should be here doing the bricolage, mowing the lawn, cutting the hedge. Let me ask you, chère Madame, do you have a hammer?‖ ―Maybe in one of the cases we haven‘t unpacked yet…‖ The Mayor rummaged in his bag and pulled out a hammer. ―Et voilà. A gift from the Mairie.‖

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Before she could take it, he hit the kitchen wall, causing Tom to drop his Harry Potter book and some flakes of plaster to fall to the floor.

Mary grabbed the hammer before he could do any more damage. ―Thank you. Merci.‖ ―It is nothing. Now, chère Madame, I noticed your shutters are open.‖ ―Well, yes, I know it‘s October but it‘s such a nice day…‖ The Mayor shook his head sadly. ―In France, we keep our shutters closed from 15 September to 28 April and from 7 May to 2 September. You do not want the cold air or the heat to attack you, causing you to pay many visits to the Pharmacie and perhaps even necessitating a three-week cure in the Pyrénées, do you Madame?‖ ―Well, no, but fresh air…‖ ―Non, Madame. It is not the French way.‖ He rose suddenly, and closed the shutters in the kitchen, causing them all to be plunged into darkness. Mary switched on the light. Tom hid behind Harry Potter. ―Le garçon. The boy,‖ said the Mayor, pointing at Tom. ―What is his name?‖ ―Tom.‖ ―Tom?‖ queried the Mayor and looked at Mary expectantly. ―Just Tom.‖ ―Non. That is not the French way. Moi—I am Francois-Marie.

My wife is Anne-Jacqueline, my daughter Georgette-Henriette and my son Pierre-Sebastian. The boy will not succeed in school if he is just Tom. What are the names of his grandfathers?‖ ―My father was Tom—we named him after my father. His other grandfather is Frederick—Fred.‖ ―Parfait. From now he is Thomas-Frédéric. That is the French way.‖ Thomas-Frédéric muttered ―Marie‘s a girl‘s name.‖ His mother kicked him under the table. He retreated further behind Harry Potter.

M. le Maire ignored the interruption. ―Now, Madame, I must ask to look in your refrigerator.‖ ―But why?‖ ―To see if you are eating in the French way, naturellement.‖ 71

inside.

Mary shrugged and pointed to the fridge. The Mayor looked

―Hélas, chère Madame, it is as I feared. You have only two types of cheese—I see no cheese of the goat or, even more shocking, no Roquefort. That is not the French way. You must have at least five different cheeses, and one must—sans doute—be le Roquefort. ―You have no tripe in the mode of Caen. You do not have a whole rabbit. Where are the trotters of the pigs and the black pudding?‖ he asked accusingly. He paused. ―Your chicken. It has no head or feet or neck. You need these things to make your stock.‖ He paused again. ―I see you have steak. Tell me, Madame, when you cook it what is the cuisson? How do you cook your steak?‖ ―Well done…Tom likes it well done and so does my husband…my daughter doesn‘t eat meat, but she‘s at university in England at the moment. She‘s a vegetarian.‖ ―C’est impossible. You cannot live in France and be a vegetarian.

You must cook your steak ‗bleu’—the blood must ooze out and mingle with the sauce. Chère Madame, I must now ask, what sauce do you serve with your steak?‖ ―Heinz tomato ketchup. We managed to find some in a supermarket nearby!‖ ―Mais non!‖ The Mayor threw up his hands in horror. ―You may only have the sauce of the mushrooms, of the three peppers or of the Roquefort with your steak. If you do not want a sauce, you must have the garlic butter. That is the French way. You will come to dinner with me and Anne-Jacqueline and we will give you steak and pâté de foie gras and some delicious escargots. You will come, you, your mari and Thomas-Frédéric too. I am sure Thomas-Frédéric will become great friends with Georgette-Henriette and Pierre-Sebastian.‖ Thomas-Frédéric looked less than impressed by the invitation. ―And now, Madame. You have a dog, non?‖ ―Yes.‖ ―Your dog has been seen tied up outside the boulangerie. Why is that Madame?‖ ―Well, there‘s a sign on the boulangerie door saying no dogs allowed.‖

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―Bah! Signs. You must not pay attention to the signs. Your dog is not happy outside the shop. He must go in with you. The boulanger will give him a bowl of water and a croissant.‖ ―Right. Thank you.‖ ―Your dog. What is his name?‖ Mary thought quickly. ―Scruffy-Fido.‖ Thomas-Frédéric looked surprised. The Mayor beamed. ―Parfait. That is the French way.‖ The Mayor got up to go. Mary decided to take her chance. ―Monsieur le Maire, perhaps you can help us with something?‖ ―Avec plaisir, Madame. How may I assist you?‖ ―We‘ve been here six weeks and they still haven‘t connected our phone. There always seems to be a problem…‖ The Mayor frowned. ―Six weeks. That is not very long to wait for a telephone in France. Madame, if in another 12 weeks your phone is still silent, you will tell me and I help you and your mari organise a blockade of the road of your choice.‖ ―A blockade?‖ ―Mais oui. We will organise a blockade of a local road to protest that you do not have the telephone. We can do it before our lunch or after our lunch. That is the French way to solve these little difficulties.‖ He kissed Mary on each cheek again. Thomas-Frédéric ducked out of the way before he too could be kissed. ―Au revoir, chère Madame. And bonne continuation.‖ ―Bonne continuation?‖ asked Mary. ―Mais oui. I hope you will be happy as you continue to live your life in the French way.‖ Doreen Porter Having worked in publishing in the public and private sector, Doreen Porter moved to Saint-Antonin-Noble-Val in southwest France with her husband and two cats three years ago.

73

Sustainable Development Gina had been in Africa for three months when she first met Bernard Sakala.

Middle aged, short, distinctly seedy and wearing green wellingtons in temperatures hovering somewhere above 40 degrees, he appeared typical of the local population. A kapenta fisherman on Lake Kariba, it was unsurprising that he smelled strongly of fish, together with other rather more dubious odours.

He had come to the office of the Fishing and Farming Cooperative to apply for an agricultural loan.

Or so Gina had thought. ―You‘re joking aren‘t you?‖ She turned to Rosa, her assistant. ―He is joking, isn‘t he?‖ She was aware she sounded desperate.

Rosa just smirked; but then she‘d always found Gina‘s total ignorance of the local customs an infinite source of amusement. ―So,‖ Gina began, still clinging to a vague hope she was mistaken, ―you want to take out a loan to purchase a second wife?‖ He nodded. No reprieve there then.

The sweat trickled off Gina‘s forehead, rolled down her nose and splattered onto the loan application on the desk in front of her. The air was oppressively heavy with yesterday‘s rain. She tried not to think about Bernard‘s feet in those wellington boots, and failed. Suddenly she had to get out of there.

She jumped to her feet. ―Right, Mr. Sakala, we‘ll be in touch.‖ He nodded again and left. A man of few words.

Later that day, she stood with Rosa on the long veranda outside the office block. She‘d been thinking about Bernard and his loan application all day. Now she pushed it to the back of her mind and turned to watch as the sun disappeared behind the dark mountains on the far side of the lake.

She‘d loved everything about her time in Africa. It was a world away from her old life as an accountant in London, but this was her favourite time of all; the moment between day and night. The fading light always brought a subtle shift in the ambience of the place.

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Tonight, the air was still heavy with rain and saturated with the sweet stench of decay that floated up from the rotting edges of the water.

The lake itself was scattered with the skeletons of trees drowned over twenty years ago when the damn was built and the valley submerged. Their stark, petrified limbs still reached up to the sky, black against the crimson sunset.

Gina slapped absently at a mosquito, not wanting to miss the instant when the sun slipped behind the mountains. Finally, it vanished, and they were plunged into that sudden darkness. It still surprised her how fast night fell. Another mosquito nipped her arm, and she turned and scurried back to the relative safety of the office.

Rosa followed her. She wandered over to Gina‘s desk and picked up the loan application. ―So, will you recommend the loan?‖ Gina opened her mouth to reply, of course not.

Then closed it again.

This was obviously a challenge, one more thing to make her question her narrow English preconceptions. She shouldn‘t reject it out of hand. No, she should make some attempt to understand the situation, and then she would reject it. ―How can any woman today accept being a second wife?‖ she asked Rosa, genuinely mystified.

Rosa shrugged. ―Perhaps she thinks half a man would be better than no man at all.‖ ―In this particular case, I think half a man is probably better than a whole one,‖ Gina muttered and earned a look of reproach from Rosa. ―You just don‘t understand us.‖ ―Maybe not, but I do understand our agricultural loans initiative; they‘re supposed to be for hand-pumps.‖ Rosa looked at her pityingly. ―A wife would be cheaper than a hand-pump, more effective and far more sustainable. Think ‗sustainable development‘,‖ she said, mimicking Gina‘s ongoing crusade.

Gina could think of nothing to say. She decided to sleep on it.

She wanted to be objective, but her sleep that night was plagued by dreams of some poor child, forced by greedy, unscrupulous parents into marriage with a middle aged man who wore wellington boots. By 75

the time she arrived at the office the following morning, she‘d convinced herself she couldn‘t let it happen.

Gina lowered herself into her seat, opened her desk drawer, and picked out the reject stamp. She held it poised over the application form but could feel Rosa‘s accusing stare from across the room. Trying her best to ignore it, she was about to bring the stamp down on Bernard‘s application, when a solid thud sounded on the door, and a woman erupted into the room.

She was beautiful in a gargantuan sort of way and dressed in a length of scarlet cloth that strained at her capacious curves. Gina almost ducked. It was as if a double-decker bus had invaded the office.

Rosa hurried across the room and hugged the other woman, then turned to face Gina. ―This is Loveness,‖ Rosa said. ―Loveness?‖ Gina looked from one to the other, trying not to let her confusion show.

Rosa rolled her eyes. ―Bernard‘s bride to-be,‖ she added, correctly interpreting the blank expression. ―She‘s come to ask you to consider Bernard‘s request.‖ ―Oh,‖ Gina said. She waved a mental good-bye to the vulnerable child of her imagination and tried to think of something intelligent to say. ―So, you want to marry Bernard?‖ A reasonable question in the circumstances, but both women looked at her as if to say; are you mad? ―Then why marry him?‖ Gina asked.

She wasn‘t quite stupid enough to bring up the L word. It was hovering on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn‘t bear another of Rosa‘s pitying glances. ―It‘s because of Mary.‖ Another blank look. ―Mary is Bernard‘s first wife…‖ Rosa explained with exaggerated patience, ―…and Loveness‘ best friend. He‘s promised them the loan money to start up a business together if she‘ll marry him.‖ ―We‘ll be very happy,‖ Loveness added.

Gina wasn‘t sure whether Bernard was included in this statement, but who was she to stand in the way of true happiness? She picked up her pen and signed the loan application.

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Gina stood outside the large thatched meeting room that stood at the edge of the lake. The whole village had turned out to celebrate. Huge pots of nshima, the local maize porridge, were being stirred on the open fires, and the smell of roasting goat and fried kapenta filled the air.

Bernard was nowhere in sight, but Loveness stood in the centre of the crowd, hand in hand with Mary, a woman of even larger proportions. Both wore huge grins on their faces and were clearly excited about their future together.

Gina almost felt a flicker of pity for poor Bernard.

Almost, but not quite.

Nicola Cleasby Nicola grew up in the north of England. She has worked in Zambia, travelled extensively, and has now settled to a life of writing and picking almonds in the mountains of southern Spain.

77

The Bad Expatriate Wife The drive from Kuwait Airport to their flat in Abu Halaifa was beautiful. The road skirted the coast, and small white lights strung along the pier made it look like Fairyland, Helen thought. Gas flares from the oil terminal lit up the navy sky, reminding her of fairgrounds when she was small. ―David, it's lovely,‖ she whispered to her husband. ―Wait till you see it by daylight,‖ he said. ―You'll soon change your mind.‖ In the back of the car, five year old Sam held Panda up to look out of the window at the red flares shooting up into the night sky.

At seven o'clock, the imperious ringing of their doorbell woke Helen up. David had already left for work in a hurry muttering, ―Christ, I'm going to miss the bloody taxi again!‖ It was Helen‘s first morning in Kuwait.

A tall, imposing woman stood there, a huge child gripped beneath her armpit, swaddled almost to extinction. ―Sorry, didn't wake you, did I? Welcome to Rubbish Tip on Sea. Coffee, Flat Ten, Block C tomorrow at 09.30, meet the other wives.

I'm Shona McDermott, we've been here longest. Bit of advice, don't take any nonsense from the locals, just ignore them, don‘t make eye contact, don't use the buses and only shop with your husband.‖ ―Thank you very much,‖ Helen managed. Shona moved the huge child competently to her other hip, nodded and left.

The view from the third floor was over flat, unremarkable desert, dotted about with a few grey-green bushes and litter of every kind. Helen and Sam watched in fascination a cow eating a cardboard box. Nearby, several others grazed inside an open waste bin until some dustmen in yellow overalls arrived in an truck to chase them away.

Sam laughed. ―Don't cows eat grass in Kuwait?‖ ―I suppose they eat what they can find, Sam, but they look healthy don't they? Tell you what, I don't think we'd like cardboard— shall we go out and explore?‖ She'd already checked David's inadequate food stock.

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Helen had spent three months on her own in England during David's probationary period. She'd single-handedly looked after Sam, found house tenants, and made all the decisions about what to bring out—Tampax? Marmite? Despite the fearsome Shona, she wasn't going to wait for her husband to take her shopping. ―Out, Madame?‖ Mahmoud the Egyptian haris was sitting in the doorway of his little airless room by the block entrance. A waft of boiling bones drifted out, and Helen felt his faint air of disapproval.

David had told her they were lucky to have him, as the other guard grew cannabis in the children's sandpit and was stoned most of the time. ―Just shopping, Mahmood,‖ she said, and grasping Sam's small hand firmly in her own, stepped out into the sunlight. They walked over sandy gravel towards buildings outlined against the blue sky.

Helen hoped one of them might be a shop. The landscape was now empty, apart from a solitary goat chewing a bush in the hot, still afternoon.

To her delight, she found a corrugated iron hut with boxes of potatoes, onions and some brown knobbly vegetables, all balanced on wooden planks and bricks by the door. Inside, three men sat crosslegged on the floor in front of a small portable television. Roaring voices and a sea of gesticulating arms came from the set. Helen advanced slowly into the dark interior, holding firmly onto Sam's hand. ―Khoumeni?‖ she asked tentatively, worried that she'd invaded a religious gathering. ―Nah, Futbal,‖ one bearded man replied laughing, showing very white teeth. ―Khoumeni zift,‖ another responded, spitting on the floor, and unwound himself to rise elegantly to his feet. ―Madame, what you like?‖ He indicated tomatoes, aubergines, carrots, bananas and grapes, all piled in inviting boxes. At the back of the shop, stood a huge refrigerator which he opened to reveal frozen chickens, yoghurts, ice cream and yet more boxes of fruit and tomatoes.

Helen smiled at him. It was Aladdin's Cave. She slowly started to put tomatoes into the paper bag he'd given her, when the second man called across.

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―You no like those tomatoes? You are very right, they not so good.‖ He snatched the top layer away to reveal the one beneath. They wouldn't do that in Waitrose, she thought, but worried about what would happen to the rest. He was unconcerned. Meanwhile, Sam had been given a huge, round sweet, which bulged in his cheek, and was sitting cross-legged on the floor watching the football. On the crude woodplank shelves were piled tins of tuna, chickpeas and even Iranian caviar. From a label, a dark-haired, blue-eyed beauty smiled alluringly behind her gauzy veil, Helen finally left loaded down with a chicken, aubergines, tiny cucumbers, tomatoes and potatoes.

“Ma' as-salamah.” ―Ma' as- salamah,” Helen replied.

At the Iranian bakery next door, Sam learnt his first Arabic.

“Thalatha houbis min fadlac,” he was urged to recite—“three breads please.”

The oven was shaped like a beehive, and flames lit up the inside. The baker wore a singlet and striped pyjama bottoms. Sweat poured off him and trickled down to be trapped in the dark curly hairs of his chest. Sam watched entranced as he deftly juggled a large raw flat bread, thrust it into the oven and stuck it to the roof. Seconds later, he caught the baked bread as it fell into his outstretched hand. There were small brown pit marks where the dough had touched the sides of the oven. He smiled and patted Sam on the head. ―Ma' as-salamah, please to return.”

“Ma' as-salamah,” and of course she would. The baker and the grocer confirmed the independence that already marked her out from the others. She chose to be different. They walked back to the flat, picking bits off the hot bread feeling pleased with themselves, and if she imagined disapproving eyes staring out from the flat windows, Helen didn't care.

David arrived home with an early evening invitation for drinks from his boss. As they drove towards Ahmadi, the oil company town, he seemed unusually edgy. ―Now Helen, just remember that Ahmadi's totally different from Abu Halaifa—imagine Woking with palm trees—but it'll be ages before we get a house up there. It's all done on a points system and my job grade.‖ 80

―But I love our flat, David, and the sea opposite. Sam's already made friends with children in the next block, and when he starts school next term, they'll all go on the school bus together.‖ He looked at her gratefully, swerving to avoid a truck laden with sheep and black-garbed women. The sheep seemed to have more room than the women. ―Anyway, I'd assumed that as he's more senior, they'd have better accommodation. But I don't intend to be overawed by great trappings of wealth.‖ David snorted with laughter, and said, ―Oh you don't know the Drakes. Just wait and see.‖ Parking the car under a grey-green eucalyptus tree, they walked up the garden path to the bungalow. Two scruffy deck chairs sat on the veranda, and a withered plant languished in a Nido Milk tin in one corner. David rang the bell, and they waited for some time before anyone came. ―David, they are expecting us, aren't they?‖ Helen asked. She'd gone to some trouble arranging for Sam to have supper with one of his new friends, explaining that they'd only be a couple of hours.

Eventually, the door of the bungalow opened, and a man in tee shirt and shorts appeared in the doorway.

He looked at them blankly for a moment, then said ―Ah, David, come in, come in. And you must be?‖ ―Helen,‖ Helen supplied. ―Helen, of course. Good God, is it Wednesday already? Marcia, do come, we've got guests.‖ They almost tripped over two overflowing bags of golf clubs propped against the front door and were ushered into the lounge, a long room full of chairs which looked to Helen as if waiting for a meeting to start in a village hall. Grey lino tiles stretched from end to end, broken up by mean little woollen rugs. Even the plants looked inadequate, lost in spaces too large for them. Outside, the sun was setting, but little light filtered through the long net curtains. Trappings of wealth? She'd expected to see some sign of his large salary, given that they'd been in Kuwait for some time. No wonder David had been amused.

Marcia Drake was sitting in the gloom under a large and dusty breadfruit plant. She was obviously not expecting them either, and reluctantly laid down the cards she was shuffling. Holding out a thin, 81

brown hand, she managed, ―John has told me about you. And how are you liking it out here? Ahmadi's beautiful, isn't it?‖ She was wearing golf shorts and a rather grubby white polo shirt. Beside her, Helen felt over-dressed and annoyed. ―We don't live in Ahmadi, she replied firmly, ―We're in Abu Halaifa. In a flat.‖ ―Of course you are. I don't think I've ever been there, but I'm sure you'll get up here in time. Just a question of being patient.‖ ―Actually, we like it. We live opposite the sea and go for picnics on the beach in the evenings to watch the sun go down, and...‖ ―Heavens, how very adventurous of you. But we do have our own Company Families Beach, I'm told there's a nice little kiosk to buy hamburgers and chips, and it's all fenced off from outside riff raff.‖ Helen thought of her Iranian grocery shop, of Sam being given a coke and sitting on a bag of onions; of the string-vested sweating bakers next door; the 'six o'clock' goats with their tiny goatherd who brought them to browse on the grassy roundabout by the flats. Even the dustmen fighting cows over their cardboard boxes. She felt an immense surge of protective, defensive love, coupled with anger.

Luckily, John Drake appeared at that moment to prevent her saying anything that she—or rather David—would later regret. ―Drinks! What we need are drinks.‖ He came through from the kitchen with glasses and crisps. ―Flash and tonic okay with everyone?‖ Drinks were poured out. John and David sat on a distant sofa and discussed work, and Helen was left with Marcia. Her drink was weak and the tonic flat. The crisps were very stale. ―Do you play golf?‖ her hostess enquired. ―We've a sporting little course here. The Greens are Browns, and the boys are supposed to rake them over after each player, but they're lazy buggers. Just sleep under the trees all day. Do you play?‖ she repeated. ―No, I don't.‖ ―Perhaps just as well, Membership's full at the moment, and as you don't live up here, it might be awkward. Though some of the girls do drive from outside.‖ ―Outside?‖

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―From the other flat complexes. Mind you, wouldn't catch me driving outside Ahmadi, no way. From here to White's Stores and Zam Zams' is quite enough.‖ ―What about going to Kuwait City?‖ ―Why ever would I want to do that?‖ Marcia looked genuinely puzzled. ―Well, to visit the souks and the vegetable market, just wander around.‖ Marcia looked at her, a small smile playing around her lips. ―Oh my dear, I'd forgotten how new out you are. When you've been here a little longer, you certainly won't want to 'wander around' as you put it. You'll realize how lucky we are to have all this, just here. Do you play Bridge perhaps?‖ ―Not any more,‖ replied Helen. ―I find it such an argumentative game. All the inquests into who led what trumps and revoking and all that.‖ ―Now, that's because you've obviously been playing with the wrong people!' For the first time, Marcia became animated, and leaned forward in her chair.

Gotcha, thought Helen. She'd been playing with the wrong people all her life, but it had given her Sam. Before it became evident that she'd never actually played bridge, she said ―What I'd really love, Marcia, is to have a look round your garden.‖ Marcia looked surprised. ―Well, of course, if you want to.‖ They went out through the kitchen, which was a tip. Stacks of unwashed plates teetered precariously in the already overflowing sink.

Food-encrusted dishes covered the worktop, together with a scum of washing-up liquid and bits of congealed food. ―Maid doesn't come in till tomorrow,‖ Marcia called over her shoulder as they went out of the kitchen door. ―We give her Fridays off.‖ You want a medal? For herself, Helen would have been ashamed for anyone to see this kitchen, no wonder the crisps were stale. ―Do you garden?‖ Helen returned interrogation pleasantries. ―Heavens no, don't have time. Joan Mitchell's boy does the front lawn, but we don't bother with the back. No point in wasting money on a company house, and it's only sand.‖ 83

In the corner of the garden was a carefully tended plot with feathery carrot fronds and purple beetroots. ―We let the boy grow stuff in there, and in return he does the watering and a bit of gardening. Of course, they start treating the place like their own if you're not careful, coming in at all hours, but we don't mind as long as they stick to the agreement.‖ ―The agreement?‖ ―Oh yes, it's all got to be fair.‖ Helen wondered in what sense it could be fair that someone was given a house and garden for free and could exact recompense from someone who had nothing. ―So now you've seen Ahmadi,‖ David said quietly as they drove home. ―What do you think?‖ ―I think that it's just as well we haven't got a house. I'd have lines of gardeners with hoes and sad faces, queues of Indians all wanting ayahs' quarters, and I'd have to play golf and bridge.‖ Her husband smiled with relief. ―But David, why are the Drakes so mean? The only thing they've spent money on is their wretched golf clubs. Marcia insisted on showing me her maid's quarters—the shower's also the toilet and everything goes down the same drain. She gets the Augean Stables cleaned in return for the maid living in a lavatory, and the garden boy waters the garden in exchange for a carrot patch, which they don't want anyway.‖ ―Oh, you really didn't like them, did you?‖ ―Actually, I don't mind them, it's their attitude I don't understand.‖ ―Darling, it's all about money. The making and saving of it.

Kuwait can make some people, like that, but everyone's not the same.‖ ―I'll never get like that. There's more to life than just making money, isn't there?‖ David was silent as he parked the car. She walked slowly away towards their flat, wondering why he hadn't answered.

Eileen Dickson

School matron, bookseller, mother; enjoyed five years in Kuwait, worked throughout Gulf and Beirut. Co-founded Jeeve Publishing, writing and selfpublishing fourth book short stories. Written one novel. Happy!

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The Blue Carpet Treatment ―But…what about the…?‖ I gesture wildly at the pile of carpets, shoulder high beside my front door. Spasms of panic overwhelm me as I imagine our new apartment as a carpet warehouse. ―No, no. No worry.‖ Jamal waves his arms back at me. Maybe he thinks this upper body action is some bizarre English custom. We look as if we are both swatting at insects. ―But I don‘t want all these carpets,‖ I wail.

I feel so useless. The language course I took before we arrived certainly isn‘t up to dealing with professional carpet sellers. And the word ―no‖ doesn‘t seem to work. ―No worry.‖ He smiles revealing betel juice gums and still flapping his arms. ―Try!‖ He indicates the carpet already spread out in my living room. It is predominantly red, whereas I particularly asked him to bring blue. There is another on the floor in the bedroom. That is red and gold with circles and swirls of colour that remind me of an over decorated Christmas tree. I don‘t want either of them, and I certainly don‘t want the other ten that are stacked by the door.

Half an hour previously, all the carpets were laid out across the flat, overlapping in a hideous coloured jigsaw. Jamal, a chopstick thin man with wispy grey hair, and a concave chest, unfolded each of them with a practiced flick of his wrist. ―You like? You like?‖ he asked of each, carefully gauging my reaction. Eventually he folded up those I‘d liked least and left me one in each room. Now, with a bright red smile, he slips out of the door and I‘m left with, well, my own carpet warehouse. ―I thought you were just going to look,‖ says my husband Don, when he comes home from the office. ―I was,‖ I answer, chewing my lip. ―How much did they cost?‖ I shrug. ―Er, nothing. At the moment…‖ The next day, around ten o‘clock in the morning there is a knock at the door. A burly youth stands there grinning. ―Carpets,‖ he says, spotting them and begins hauling some out.

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―Where‘s Jamal?‖ I ask, a feeling of unease spreading through me. These are expensive items. I‘m not sure I should be allowing someone to take them away. ―Okay, Okay,‖ he says. ―I bring blue…‖ He heaves six of the folded carpets out into the hall and pushes the call button for the elevator. I hover by the door, thinking he‘ll come back with some blue carpets, but after waiting half an hour I reluctantly shut the door and go back to the work I‘m doing. I still have a pile of carpets. There are two on the floor, which I don‘t want, and I might have let a carpet snatcher walk off with valuable items.

Concentration is difficult and after getting up and wandering round, checking from the windows and staring at the phone willing it to ring, I give in to my worries and phone Jamal. ―No worry, no worry,‖ he says. I can almost hear his arms flapping about as he speaks. ―I bring blue carpet…‖ I wait. One week, two weeks. I glare at the pile of carpets by the front door each time I come or go from the flat, but meanwhile Don and I became quite used to the red one in the living room. ―Maybe we should keep it?‖ ―I wanted blue.‖ I sound petulant. But why is it so difficult? I thought of dark blue, the colour of Ming pottery, but I would accept any blue now. Why couldn‘t Jamal have just brought a blue carpet in the beginning? ―You‘ll have to ring him,‖ says Don. But before I can get to the phone, our neighbours call round. ―Where did you get that wonderful carpet?‖ says the wife. ―I‘ll give you the phone number.‖ A month later Jamal is back. ―Blue!‖ he says, and heaves a new pile of carpets in the front door. He folds up the ones in the bedroom and living room, and with the practised flick unfurls the new ones.

Bluer. I nod. But not exactly what I am expecting. The carpets are still predominantly red, with just a little blue in the patterns, although I suppose we are getting closer. He eases one into place in the bedroom and another in the living room. The rest go on the pile by the door.

I look at him and gesture to the carpets by the door. I try to ask when he was taking them away, but Jamal just shrugs. He doesn‘t 86

or doesn‘t want to understand. I make a note to myself to invest in some more language lessons. ―The carpet man been again?‖ Don asks when he gets home. ―Yes,‖ I say warily. ―How did you know?‖ ―You know, new carpets!‖ He looks pleased with himself, but I know for a fact he never notices what I am wearing. It seems odd he is beginning to take an interest in soft furnishings.

More friends visit. Colleagues from Don‘s office, parents of the kids‘ school friends. ―You must give me the name of your carpet man,‖ they say. ―Such fantastic rugs! Where did you get them?‖ The carpets remain. Every few weeks one of Jamal‘s men arrives and takes a few carpets away. Sometimes they leave some more. ―Blue?‖ I ask them. ―No worry.‖ They smile.

Every so often, I ring Jamal. ―Do you have any blue carpets yet?‖ I ask, as I notice the colours in the present one clashing with our paintings or upholstery. ―Yes, yes, no worry,‖ he replies and I‘m sure his arms are whirring.

At intervals, Jamal comes himself. ―Do you have a blue carpet?‖ I ask. ―You don‘t like,‖ he gestures at the one on the floor. He appears hurt. A stab of guilt grips me. I shouldn‘t be so mean. I‘m sure he is doing his best. Then the voice of reason edges in and asks why I‘m putting up with something I don‘t want. I end up in turmoil and nothing changes.

Every so often, Jamal announces he has a blue carpet to show me, and with care and reverence he unfolds it for inspection, searching my face for affirmation. At no time does he ask me for money, and it is only after we have been in the country for five years and are due to leave, that I broach the subject with him. ―Jamal, we are leaving,‖ I explain using my still less than perfect language skills. ―I want to take a carpet with me to our new country.‖ ―No worry,‖ he says. ―I bring carpet.‖ ―A blue carpet?‖ ―Yes, yes, no worry.‖ He flaps his arms at me.

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This is bizarre. For five years we‘ve had carpets of all colours and hues on the floor, and a pile in the hallway too, and now we were leaving Jamal is offering to bring me more carpets? I slap my head in disbelief.

But he is as good as his word. The next day, he arrives with three blue carpets, and he takes all the others away. The flat feels empty. The move feels immediate. ―Good heavens,‖ says my husband. ―Are we no longer good enough to act as a carpet warehouse for Jamal? I was beginning to think you and he were having an affair, the number of visits he made to change our stock.‖ I look at him, just to check he is joking.

I have gotten used to Jamal over the years, coming and going and dropping off new carpets and taking away ones he needs to show someone else.

This is simply Jamal‘s way of doing business, far more business than he would from some out of the way shop.

I shall miss his regular visits when we go.

We have reached an understanding. And he has brought the perfect blue carpet just before we leave.

Alyson Hilbourne Alyson has lived in Asia and Europe, in several different countries, but still thinks of herself as an English woman abroad. She writes in her spare time and has been published in several anthologies

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The Brood Mare Blues This is how it works for us. We have my country and my people, my husband has his country and his people and then, there is where we live and work and try to make a life with our mix of languages and cultures and people who belong only to themselves. And, when we are not living and working and trying in that third country, we get on an airplane and go to one of our two peoples and live a little bit more because we don‘t have to work or to try too hard.

My husband‘s people make it easy for me. I went through that long, primitive, painful, and traditional process of integration with them. It‘s called childbearing and it doesn‘t matter where you do it.

Show me a pregnant woman among her husband‘s people and I will show you someone who is being witch-doctored. ―Don‘t eat that cheese, it‘s bad for the baby,‖ my mother-inlaw said. ―Eat this one instead. It will grow the child‘s bones.‖ Old wives feed and charm new wives into their families. They spare no authority. ―Why of course your meat should be overcooked, it‘s healthier,‖ the old aunt told me. ―If you think you need to eat rare meat, your blood must be thin. I‘ll tell your father-in-law to hammer three iron nails into an apple. Then, in the morning, we‘ll pull out the nails and you can eat the apple. That‘s what takes care of thin blood.‖ ―Are you sure I shouldn‘t eat it with the nails?‖ I asked them in their language I had learned badly. ―Are you sure?‖ They ignored me. They had more advice to give as I lounged under the vine and did nothing but eat and gestate. ―Don‘t eat the heel from the loaf of bread, Marina, you‘ll have a boy if you do,‖ my mother-in-law said. ―I‘ll tell my son he‘d better buy you more vitamins in town. He should know better than to make you travel. You should stay here with us, have the baby here. It‘s safer.‖ I emailed my old boss Esther and told them how they cared, how they fussed over me. ―Just watch it,‖ Esther warned me. ―Sure, they love you now, but once you have the baby, they‘ll try to steal it from you. They‘ll steal the best times of the day with it for themselves and you‘ll only see the 89

baby when it cries and wants to nurse. By then, everyone will be treating you like an extra on set and you‘ll be singing the brood mare blues like the rest of us. I‘m only half kidding.‖ I flew back to the third country with a baby inside who was as ready to be born as his grandmother‘s cheese could make him. When he was born, I wore him in a sling close to my heart and prepared to fly to visit my country and my people to show them what I had done.

My mother-in-law on the phone was horrified. ―He‘s too little,‖ she told me. ―Wait a while before you make him travel.‖ ―Don‘t let her go,‖ she cried over the phone to my husband. ―Don‘t let her go to her own people. They‘ll make it too easy for her.

She‘ll keep the baby with her, with them. She‘ll leave you there all alone.‖ I spoke her language so badly, but I had a son now. I could understand my mother-in-law‘s fears for her own blood. ―It will be fine,‖ I told my husband to tell her. ―Babies go on planes all the time these days. They get used to going back and forth.‖ My mother-in-law stopped calling to beg me not to make the baby fly and I went home to show him off. Babies may not get jet lag, but their mothers do. My own mother had to take the baby and rock him and walk him while I slept part of the day away for a week. ―All this travelling is hard on you and hard on the baby,‖ my mother said. ―I don‘t know if you should go back there. It‘s safer here.‖ ―We‘ll get used to it,‖ I told her. ―We‘ll all get used to going back and forth. ―Not me,‖ my mother said. ―I won‘t get used to being so far away from my own grandson.‖ ―Do you think we don‘t miss you?‖ I asked her. ―Is that what you think?‖ My poor mother just shrugged. I didn‘t have the brood mare blues, but maybe she did. Now that I had my own, I could understand how children betray their mothers by growing up.

Show me a new mother among her own people and I will show you someone who is being witch-doctored. ―You shouldn‘t nurse him whenever he cries like that,‖ my mother said. ―He‘ll drain your bones and make them brittle. It‘s better 90

to have him on a schedule than to be bent like a fishhook when you‘re seventy.‖ Old mothers feed and charm new mothers back into their families. They spare no authority. ―You shouldn‘t cook your meat so long,‖ my aunt told me. ―You need the blood iron from rare meat to recover from childbirth. It gives your white blood cells a boost.‖ ―Are you sure I shouldn‘t just have it raw?‖ I asked her. ―Are you sure?‖ They ignored me. They had more advice as to give as I lounged on the couch and did nothing but eat and recover from childbirth. ―Don‘t eat that cheese,‖ my mother said. ―It‘s dry and doesn‘t have enough calcium. Eat this soft one instead to repair your bones and stop them from going brittle. Which reminds me, did you have some orange juice with your spinach? You‘ll never absorb enough iron without vitamin C. Coffee is terrible for calcium uptake.‖ When I had had enough of recovering from jet lag and childbirth, I tied my son into his sling next to my heart and took him out gallivanting. ―He‘s much too young to go out gallivanting,‖ my mother said, but since she was my own mother and not my husband‘s mother, I could openly ignore her without causing a family rift.

I took him to see old friends in the city. They caught me up on all the news. Radio Guy was no longer Radio Guy. He had a new job that sounded very important, but I couldn‘t remember what it was, exactly. I heard from my old boss Esther.

And my best friend? What was she doing? I still thought of her as my best friend even though we hadn‘t spoken in so many years. I didn‘t like Radio Guy and she, of course, loved him. ―She‘s on maternity leave,‖ Esther said as if maternity leave was some disease she hadn‘t caught twice herself. ―Again!‖ My baby yawned throughout our conversation. ―All that travel must be hard on him,‖ Esther said. ―He‘ll get used to it,‖ I said.

After we finished our coffee, I took the baby through the park by the art gallery, the one where I had walked with my best friend through so many creative crises when we worked together, writing a 91

television show that gave advice to the lovelorn while Esther bossed us around. That was where I saw them.

My baby wanted to nurse, so I sat on a bench and readjusted the sling for access and privacy.

They were walking their dog. My best friend had toned down her wardrobe some. She was still bohemian and lovely, but she obviously spent less time ironing and sewing darts into skirts so her waist would be cinched just so. Long velvet skirts had replaced old gingham dresses and structured jackets had replaced vintage cashmere.

Radio Guy, her boyfriend now partner, no longer had pygmy goat horn body jewellery in his ear lobes. I guessed that he must have had his earlobes repaired somehow because, from the distance, it was impossible to tell that they‘d once been stretched so that he looked like an Amazonian rainforest warrior. It was impossible to tell he had once been the coolest of the cool.

There were four children with them! They had two little boys close in age, about 3 and 4. Plus, they had one of those giant strollers for twins that take up the entire width of the sidewalk. I wondered how she managed to get that thing on the streetcar. I am sure the blankets poking out from under the stroller hoods were pink. She always was an over-achiever, my best friend.

She was too busy keeping her family herded together to notice a mother with just one baby sitting on the bench in front of them. ―Now Matthew, you hold onto the stroller right beside me and Jordan, you take your brother‘s hand,‖ she told them firmly, but with warmth. ―Good boys. Are you ready to go for a walk? Wait a minute!

Sharona‘s lost her soother. Oh here it is. There you go sweetie girl.

That‘s better. Oh no! Donna is already asleep! We have even less time than we thought.‖ Radio Guy was in charge of the dog. He draped the unused leash over his shoulders, so confident was he that his dog would obey him. The dog sat beside him as my best friend got the children moving and, when they were ready, Radio Guy commanded the dog to walk alongside. The dog sat and turned to look at my best friend. She nodded at it and, with her signal, the dog knew it was OK to obey its master‘s command.

I laughed a little when I saw it. I liked Radio Guy a lot more now that he had my sympathy.

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―Just so you know,‖ I whispered to my little boy, ―that‘s where being a primitive traditional will get you.‖ Really, though, I thought all the alpha-beta confusion was a positive thing. It was so nice to see them that I didn‘t want to say anything. I was worried they‘d see me and stop being themselves. I didn‘t want to interrupt them as they went on their way through the park together.

I wandered through the university, through the market and showed my son off to everyone I met who remembered me from before. And then, suddenly, I realised I‘d had enough gallivanting.

That night, my husband called my mother‘s house. ―I miss you two,‖ he said. ―I miss you both. When are you coming home?‖ Kate Baggott Kate is a Canadian writer living in Germany. "The Brood Mare Blues" is from her collection Tales from Planet Wine Cooler for which she is actively seeking a publisher. Links to other published pieces can be found at http://www.katebaggott.com

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The Carnival is Over God, it was cold! Jean was lying on her back in the middle of the road, with her legs in the air, pretending to ride a bike. The only thing between her and German soil was a layer of cotton underwear, a skirt made of flimsy black felt and a small woolly blanket, the kind found in cat baskets. Might have been all right for a night under the stars in July, but this was the first week of February and it was five degrees below. ―How much longer?‖ she strained her neck round to see her husband Hans on the ground next to her, in the same ridiculous pose. ―Until the band starts marching again,‖ he gasped. ―Stop moaning. It‘s all good fun.‖ Good fun? He must be joking. Taking part in a carnival procession had never been one of her must-do things in life. Neither had being dressed up to look like a Victorian gymnast, in a red-andwhite striped T-shirt and a pair of white cotton bloomers. The skirt had been her sister-in-law‘s idea, to hide the modesty of the ladies in the group, she‘d said. More likely to hide Adelheid‘s own fat bottom. ―See why I told you to have a swig of that Coke with rum that Fritz was handing round? Would have warmed you from the inside.‖ Hans had had so much of it that he was sweating as he did his air-pedalling. ―If I‘d as much as sniffed at it, I wouldn‘t have been able to be able to stay on my feet for five minutes. I never drink normally and I don‘t see why I should start now.‖ ―Stop being such a spoil-sport! It‘s only carnival once a year,‖ Hans snapped.

Thank you, Lord, she thought. And don’t even imagine I’m going to do anything like this again next year.

The sound of a brass band, launching into one of those humpah tunes that German brass bands are famous for, had her and the rest of the group scrabbling to their feet. ―What do we do now?‖ she asked, rolling up the blanket and rubbing her back. ―Just skip along and wave to the crowds and shout ―Helau!‖ ―Shout what?‖ ―Helau. It´s what we shout here when it‘s Carnival.‖ 94

before.

―How do you spell it?‖ She‘d never come across this word

―As in your word ―hell‖ and then ―au.‖ As in cow. Not that difficult, is it? Come on, make an effort!‖ Jean looked at the people on the pavements on each side of the street. Most were pensioners huddled in thick coats and scarves, or young mums with toddlers in pushchairs, so muffled up that only their eyes showed. They‘d been waiting for the procession for about two hours already and were frozen to the marrow. And none of them were prepared to take their hands out of their pockets, wave frenetically and utter replying calls of ―Helau‖. They stood there with faces as long as church windows. ―They‘re not exactly in party-mood, are they?‖ ―Once they get into the swing of it, they‘ll be fine‖. Helau-ing like a man possessed, Hans pounced on some of the spectators who backed away. How were they to know that this man wearing black tights, striped T-shirt and with hearts painted on his cheeks with garish red lip-stick was one of the local lads they‘d seen grow up, or gone to school with.

Wondering how many miles they‘d have to cover before she could get out of this ridiculous costume and into her nice warm tracksuit and woolly socks, Jean craned her neck to see the rest of the participants in front of her. There were several floats, three more brass bands and, a motley collection of groups like her own. One depicted a class of school children, made up of adults with school satchels on their backs. She‘d seen the ―teacher‖ stop the group every few minutes, haul a blackboard off a cart, set it up, and have them doing sums. If the answers were wrong, the ―pupils‖ got a whack with a bamboo cane and the group shrieked with laughter. And every time they stopped, her group stopped too, and out came the blankets…

The parade never seemed to move more than a few yards, or so it seemed to her. Fortunately they managed to get along the main street of the small town without having to stop again, and the procession turned left up a hill. There were no houses on either side, just fields, and that meant there were no spectators either. But that didn‘t stop the coke-and-rum dosed members of the party skipping, shouting and waving. Utterly ridiculous, Jean thought, as she plodded up the hill, hugging her arms to her body for a bit of warmth.

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―I should have known you‘d be useless at this sort of thing.‖ Hans was at her side and muttering through clenched teeth. ―You Brits are so inhibited. Can‘t relax and have a good time. What you call ―stiff upper lip‖ and all that. And proud of it too, probably.‖ ―We don‘t do Carnival in England. We leave it to the Brazilians and they do it when it‘s warmer!‖ she snapped.

If only he‘d just put his arm round her and given her a nice warm hug.

The last part of the procession route was the home stretch down the street where her in-laws lived. As they drew level with the house, she could see her mother-in-law at the open kitchen window, arms folded, leaning on a cushion on the window-sill. Her father-in-law was nowhere to be seen. She knew he wasn‘t much of a Carnival person, and he‘d be sitting at the kitchen table, a glass of Schnapps in front of him, too timid to ask his wife to close the window to keep out the cold. ―Nearly there,‖ Hans called, as he skipped by like a schoolboy, arms flailing. ―How long have we been doing this?‖ she asked, plodding along, her cheeks numb.

He glanced at his watch. ―About two hours.‖ ―Feels more like five to me,‖ she muttered. ―I‘m looking forward to Ma‘s homemade doughnuts. Aren‘t you?‖ He grinned in anticipation. ―I‘ll be glad of a hot coffee.‖ Her teeth chattered.

Mother-in-law always made doughnuts on the day of the local Carnival procession. That law had been written in stone on the tablet Moses brought down from the Mount. And the family dutifully assembled to eat them. That too was tradition. The lucky ones sometimes even found a blob of jam in one of them.

When they were gathered round the kitchen table, mother-inlaw, her bulging form wrapped in a starched white pinny, gave her annual verdict on the procession, her greasy chin coated in sugar. ―There weren‘t as many floats as last year,‖ she complained. ―And the costumes weren‘t half a as good as two years ago when Frau Schmidt used to sew them. The bands didn‘t play loud enough either.‖ And the doughnuts are even more revolting than last year, Jean thought.

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―Well,‖ said Hans, jumping to his feet. ―Better be getting home. We‘ve got to get ready for the Carnival Ball‖.

To call it a Ball was a big mistake. No swishing silk, sparkling champagne and elegant waltzes, but a scrummage of about three hundred inebriated members of the village youth, stomping around on a greasy wooden floor that was slippery with spilled beer. The dance floor was so full that nobody could fall over. The thumping of the bass of the three-man band on the stage could be heard behind closed doors in the next village. ―I‘m not going,‖ she heard herself say. Her voice was barely audible. She repeated it, louder. ―I‘m not going.‖ The kitchen went silent. ―What?‖ Hans almost choked on a bit of doughnut and coughed. ―You heard. I don‘t want to go.‖ She looked at him. He was wide-eyed with horror. ―But we‘ve got tickets. We always go. You liked it last year.‖ ―No, I didn‘t. Nor the year before.‖ Tears welled up. Defiant, hot tears.

This was mutiny. The family gaped at her. ―You‘re just saying that to be awkward,‖ Hans snapped. ―No I‘m not. I hate this whole Carnival business, I‘m frozen to the marrow, dog-tired and I don‘t feel like dancing. It‘s impossible to dance on that filthy floor anyway. Go with Adelheid.‖ She got up to go and, turning away from the table, she saw her father-in-law glance up at her behind his wife‘s back.

He winked and raised his glass of Schnapps to her. ―Helau, daughter-in-law,‖ he said, smiling. ―Helau, Dad,‖ she replied as she left the room.

The Carnival was over.

Jany Gräf Since 1969 Jany Gräf, double-barrelled ex-pat, with UK and Dutch nationalities, has lived in Germany, a country that not only celebrates carnival, but is also sadly lacking in custard creams.

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The Good Neighbours A skein of acrid smoke swirled across the terrace as we were having breakfast. Roger crushed his coffee cup down onto the saucer. ―The old bugger‘s at it again. Monsieur Marty…MONSIEUR MARTY…‖ Only burning leaves and straw crackled in reply. Monsieur Marty had been spirited away. ―What are we going to do?‖ I asked, sighing. ―I‘ve had enough. I‘m going to phone the police.‖ ―I don‘t think they‘ll be very helpful, Roger…‖ but he had already stamped through the open French windows and lifted the receiver.

It was our dream house. We first saw it on a late spring day under a cloudless sky, with the cuckoos calling and the fresh green oak leaves rustling in the breeze.

We exchanged glances and just knew that this was the one. ―They all have something wrong with them,‖ I had complained the previous evening, after visiting twenty houses in four days. ―If it‘s not monstrous snakes lurking by the front door or streams running through the bedroom, it‘s noisy restaurants next door. And those are the better ones.‖ Fearing further disappointment, we followed Monsieur Grandlac the estate agent to the final house on the list. He unfolded himself from the car, brow furrowed and shoulders hunched.

Le Bosquet was a tiny hamlet. Once a thriving farming community, only two houses were now habitable. Three others, in various stages of disrepair, shuttered and bolted, sat at odd angles around a grassy square, like a clutch of dice thrown and left to lie where they landed. ―Who lives in the other house?‖ Roger asked. ―Oh, that‘s an old man, Monsieur Marty. He‘s lived here all his life. He‘s very quiet. You won‘t have any trouble with him.‖ A curtain twitched at the edge of my vision, but there was no one there.

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I turned back to ‗our‘ house. Yes, it was just what we were looking for. A bit of work needed, central heating, a swimming pool to install, but Monsieur Grandlac knew a builder who could take care of all that for us.

The purchase went more smoothly than we had dared to hope and we moved in the following August. Monsieur Grandlac‘s builder friend promised to do the work that autumn. In the meantime, we could camp out for a bit; it would be fun. ―I suppose we ought to go and introduce ourselves to the old boy next door,‖ said Roger. ―Should we take him something, do you think? I don‘t know – a cake or a bottle of wine?‖ ―Bottle of wine‘s probably coals to Newcastle round here, Sue. Why don‘t you bake him a cake?‖ I sifted icing sugar over the Victoria sponge. I hadn‘t yet mastered the oven and the cake looked a bit flat. I shrugged. At least it’s a neighbourly gesture, I thought.

Roger rapped at the solid wooden door. After a long pause, it opened a crack to reveal two birdlike eyes in a sunken apple of a face.

Clearing his throat, Roger summoned up his best schoolboy French. ―Good morning, Monsieur. We are your new neighbours. We have come to introduce ourselves and to invite you for an aperitif at our house this evening.‖ The door slammed shut.

A pause. ―I‘ll take that as a no, then,‖ said Roger. ―What shall I do with the cake?‖ ―Leave it outside the door. He can eat it or throw it away, it‘s up to him.‖ Two days later, the war of attrition started.

First, there was the splendid cockerel, a new acquisition, which crowed non-stop from first light.

Then rasping and banging sounds started up behind the wall.

Whatever was going on, it required the continuous use of a circular saw, an electric drill and a hammer, often after dark. Our bedroom seemed as if it were in the centre of a building site.

Monsieur Marty installed three hunting dogs in the new kennel a few days later. They bayed at morning and evening feeding time and often in between at hares or gusts of wind.

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―So much for the peace and quiet of the countryside. It was more peaceful in Wandsworth!‖ ―Perhaps we should try to talk to him again, Roger. Maybe he doesn‘t realise how much he‘s disturbing us.‖ ―In my opinion he knows exactly what he‘s doing, Sue. For some reason, he doesn‘t like us moving here. The Mayor might be able to tell us why.‖ ―Ah, Monsieur Marty. He‘s a little eccentric, you know,‖ said the Mayor, turning his palms up and his mouth down. ―He has lived alone for many years since the death of his wife.‖ ―That doesn‘t really explain why he is carrying out a vendetta against us.‖ ―I am told that his father was one of those left behind on the beach at Dunkirk. He was held in a German prison camp for five years.

So, you see, Monsieur Marty doesn‘t have many reasons to love the English.‖ ―But he can hardly blame us. We weren‘t even born then,‖ I objected.

The Mayor sighed. ―When you bought the property, Monsieur Marty was hoping to buy the large field at the side. It once belonged to his father but he was forced to sell it when he was short of money. The estate agent advised Monsieur Combès not to sell it separately because it would reduce the value of the property.‖ ―Quite right,‖ said Roger. ―We wouldn‘t have bought it without that piece of land. That‘s where our swimming pool is going to go.‖ The Mayor patted us out of the door and, with more pressing matters of state to attend to, no doubt forgot about us. ―Well, at least we now have an explanation for his behaviour,‖ said Roger, rubbing his neck. ―Yes, but it doesn‘t get us much further. We still have to live with it. What‘s he going to do next?‖ As we relaxed on the terrace that evening with a glass of wine, a pall of black smoke billowed from behind the wall. Spluttering, we took refuge inside and shut the windows. ―Right. That‘s it. I‘m going round to have it out with him.‖ ―Now don‘t lose your temper with him, Roger. Remember we are foreigners and nobody asked us to move here.‖ 100

Roger strode down the track and up the path towards Monsieur Marty‘s door. He faltered in mid step. The old man was standing by the bonfire watching him, pitchfork raised like some rustic trident. My heart missed a beat. He wouldn’t, would he? I thought.

Roger opened his mouth but before a word could emerge, Monsieur Marty flung the pitchfork to the ground, turned on his heel and marched into the house.

Pummelling on the door, Roger tried the handle, but it was locked. He turned and walked home, shaking his head.

Following the next morning‘s smoke-interrupted breakfast, two gendarmes turned up in response to Roger‘s call.

The senior gendarme sucked at his moustache and consulted his notes. His unsmiling colleague stood at his elbow, arms folded, muscles bulging beneath his shirtsleeves. ―I regret, Monsieur, Madame, that there is very little we can do. Monsieur Marty has the right to own a cockerel; he has the right to keep hunting dogs; and he has the right to light bonfires. However, I am prepared to speak to him and try to persuade him to be more reasonable. Please wait here.‖ The two policemen approached the old man‘s door. This time it opened. Much gesticulating followed. As the senior gendarme jabbed a finger at Monsieur Marty‘s chest, the farmer spat on the ground and retreated indoors.

The gendarme made a gesture at the door. Then he and his colleague clambered back into their blue van, reversed at top speed up the track and with whining gears sped off up the lane.

It continued in the same vein for the rest of the summer. Our friends down from London left early, driven away by the noise and smoke. The locals were sympathetic, but no one could suggest a solution. ―I suppose murder is an option,‖ growled Roger. ―Do you think I could claim it was a crime passionel?‖ I didn‘t answer. I was setting up my laptop in the small room off the terrace that we had earmarked as an office. I was keen to restart my freelance writing business and earn some money. ―OK, darling, I‘m going into town to see if I can sort out this broadband connection with France Telecom. Will you be all right on your own for a couple of hours?‖ 101

―Of course. I‘ve got plenty to catch up on. As long as the Hounds of the Baskervilles don‘t start up, I should be able to get a lot done while you‘re out.‖ I made a coffee and sat at the desk in front of the open French windows. I tapped away for a while before becoming conscious of a plaintive bleating coming from Monsieur Marty‘s property. Must be one of his blasted sheep, I thought, continuing to type.

The bleating continued and, stepping outside, I realised it was a human voice. It sounded like ―Au secours‖ – help.

The sounds were coming from behind the old man‘s house, where the land sloped steeply away.

Down in the field far below the farmyard, Monsieur Marty‘s tractor, a 1960s relic, was lying on its side, its engine still running. He was stretched out next to it, facing backwards downhill, powerless to release his leg, which was trapped under a wheel.

I plunged down the hillside, brambles whipping my bare legs.

As I reached the overturned tractor, I saw petrol dripping out onto the hot engine and down onto Monsieur Marty‘s blue overalls.

His eyes implored me to hurry as I fumbled to pull out his leg. ―Can you stand up?‖ I asked. He shook his head and slumped back on the ground, his face crumpling. Grabbing him under the armpits, I tugged as hard as I could until his solid frame was well clear of the tractor. ―I‘ll phone for help.‖ Breathing hard, I toiled back up the hill. I spun round as the petrol ignited and the tractor was engulfed in flames. Monsieur Marty raised his arms against the heat, but was out of range.

After a couple of weeks in hospital, the old man was well enough to come home, although he walked with a stick.

He came round that evening in a brown corduroy suit that smelt of mothballs, beaming and bearing a misshapen bottle. ―Vieille prune, distilled by my father,‖ he announced with a wink, plonking it down on the kitchen table.

We abandoned the bottle of white wine we had been planning to open and tasted his plum brandy instead. He wheezed with laughter as we clutched at our throats.

We didn‘t see much of him after that, but the cockerel and the dogs disappeared and the bonfires stopped.

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One day I found a pheasant on the doorstep. We poked at it, wondering how long it had been dead. ―What on earth do you do with one of these?‖ I asked Roger. ―At Sainsbury‘s they were always nicely shrink wrapped.‖ The following week there was a casserole containing a jugged hare. It was delicious.

The builder arrived without warning one day in the pelting rain. We showed him the land destined for the swimming pool. Feet planted apart, he scratched his head. Taking an iron bar and a mallet from his van, he went around making holes in the ground. A ringing accompanied each blow. ―Just as I thought,‖ he said. ―Solid rock. Dynamite‘s the only answer.‖ ―And how much will that cost?‖ asked Roger.

The builder mentioned a figure. As one, we shook our heads. ―What about over there?‖ asked the builder, pointing at a smaller patch of ground on the other side of the house.

We inspected it. He went through the pantomime with the bar and the mallet again. This time there was no ringing sound. ―Well, that‘s settled, then.‖ Roger said as the van splashed up the track. ―It doesn‘t get as much sun as the other side, but it‘ll be a lot cheaper.‖ ―That field isn‘t very useful to us now. What about suggesting to Monsieur Marty that he buys it?‖ I ventured. ―Or at least the part of it nearest his property,‖ I added, as Roger opened his mouth. ―It would help to pay for the work.‖ That clinched it.

Several weeks later, Monsieur Marty, Roger and I sat at a table outside the village café in the shade of a plane tree. The leaves were turning but it was still warm, almost hot, in the mellow sun. We toasted the signing of the papers at the notary‘s with the greenish-hued local wine. ―As a matter of interest, what are you planning to do with the land?‖ Roger asked.

Monsieur Marty twinkled. ―Oh, I was thinking of keeping a few pigs on it.‖

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Vanessa Couchman Vanessa lives in southwest France. She provides writing services for organisations throughout the world and writes for magazines about France.

Whenever she can escape, she writes fiction. www.vanessacouchmanwriter.wordpress.com

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The King’s New Throne March 1969 The ocean is ever the same. When you're on an island. The ocean is never the same. When you're surrounded by water.

Lifuka is a day's plane ride from Nuku-alofa. If you can get a plane. Most of the time, it's a two-day boat ride on a leaky old tramp steamer run by a Dutchman named Red Rudd. A colourful guy, as redfaced and red-bearded as his name, with a Santa Claus smile and ratty captain's hat. He brings water, food, news and the odd stray visitor like me.

He sizes me up, ―Peace Corps?‖ ―Yes,‖ I say. ―Last boy I ran out there, he last six months.‖ He laughs. ―Then I take him back to Nuku-alofa. I tell him not to feel bad. I couldn't last six weeks.‖ Red makes the trip about twice a month. Or everyone on the island would starve. I've learned a little Tongan over the past two months, but mostly got drunk on Japanese beer, partying with ex-pats and Tongan Royals who hang out at the Hilton. The Hilton's just down the hill from the Royal Palace of King Taufa'ahau Tupou IV. We call him T-4.

I never got to see the palace. I ask Red if he's ever been. He laughs, ―Oh yes. I replace the King's Throne.‖ I'm impressed. As we crawl across the Southern Pacific, he tells me about it. ―Most Tongans are big, but the King he is even bigger. He's six-feet-six and weighs three-hundred-fifty pounds easy. So the old throne is too little, now he needs a new throne.‖ ―You met the King?‖ ―Oh yes. He's very friendly. Speaks very proper English. He towered over us.‖ ―Us?‖ ―I had an assistant. A German.‖ ―Oh.‖ ―The King, he left us with flunky who took us to jobsite. We about get lost in that palace. It's full of hallways going nowhere.‖

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The horizon does not seem to move. Or we don't seem to move toward it. We can't be going more than five miles an hour—I know nothing of knots—but it feels like the current is actually pushing us backward.

Red couldn‘t care less. He explains that the hallways in the palace are lined with hats on pegs. Every kind of hat you could imagine: fireman's hats, panama hats, cowboy hats, top hats, turbans, cricket fishing polo and baseball caps, military helmets the world over, bowlers, homburgs, fedoras, fezzes, even crowns. Thousands of them. ―Whenever a dignitary visits, he brings the King new hat.‖ Red asked the flunky about the hats but the flunky said, ―No touch!‖ and led them to the King's bathroom. ―Bathroom?‖ ―Yes, I tell you that we are replacing his throne,‖ Red laughs. ―You're a plumber?‖ ―Plumber, sailor, mechanic, cook—I do it all.‖ ―So how big was this…throne?‖ ―About the size of VW Beetle. All porcelain. I don't know how they get it to Nuku-alofa. Not single crack in it.‖ I'm sure now we're drifting backwards. I say something to Red, but he laughs, ―You in hurry? Believe me, you won't be once you get there.‖ ―So how'd you do it?‖ I ask. ―The throne?‖ He says that some island ―talent‖ had screwed the thing up royally. The bathroom itself is only ten by ten. With a granite riser for the toilet to sit on. But they couldn't mount it properly. It leaked.

Oozed. The King was not a happy king. ―So my German. He worked for Mercedes. An engineer. He rigged a pulley system. We almost dropped the thing once. And that would have been that.‖ He makes the throat-slash gesture. ―My German adds more pulleys till we move that thing as neat as a glass of sherry. Took us two days work but we mount and seal it.

The King has his throne and is happy king.‖ The funnel begins to belch acrid black smoke. Red mumbles about a breakdown and ducks below. I start to follow him, but he waves me back, laughing, ―This, you don't want to see.‖ After some tinkering, the smoke turns to white and we continue on our voyage.

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story.‖

I ask about Lifuka but he dodges the question. ―I didn't tell you,‖ he laughs red-faced, ―best part of the

―Okay,‖ I say. ―The King was so happy with the job done he offers me a gift from the palace. Anything I want.‖ ―So what'd you ask for?‖ ―I just hope he will pay me more. So I ask for something little.

I ask can I have one of his hats. He gets real quiet. Not so smileysmiley anymore. I tell him it's joking, but the flunky's hopping from one foot to other, giving me dirty looks. On Tonga everything's so...it's bad luck for King to give up a gift. Especially one of his hats. But it's more bad luck not to give gift once offered.‖ ―Damned if you do, damned if you don't?‖ ―Ya! Damned. On Tonga only one kind of luck. Bad luck.‖ He looks out over the infinite water. Takes it in through his bright blues eyes. ―So my German and I look at all the hats. And King is getting mad.

The flunky's about to be pissing his pants. So I grab a hat. One the King won't miss too much.‖ ―Which one you choose?‖ ―Well, I don't choose. It choose me. Old boatswain's hat. From the Dutch Navy, 1930s, '40s. I point and the flunky pulls it down.‖ Red smiles. Like the best is yet to come. ―My German and I both look it over. I look inside and there's this plastic blue label. Kind you make with the little machine, dialling the numbers?‖ ―Like they have at K-Mart?‖ ―Ya!‖ he laughs, though he doesn't know K-Mart. ―So plastic label is stamped 'THE KING.'‖ He laughs so hard his belly shakes. I laugh too. I'm not thinking about Lifuka anymore. ―So,‖ he says, ―I ask the flunky to look at a couple more. And the King says yes, yes... And they all have 'THE KING' stamped on them.‖ I'm laughing almost as hard as he is now. ―Are you a drinking man?‖ he asks. ―Sure,‖ I say.

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―I've got some sherry and when the sun goes down we'll have a drink. Or two.‖ ―So what hat did you take?‖ I ask. ―The boatswain's hat,‖ he cries.

He must think I don't believe him. His face turns from red humour to red anger for an instant. ―You don't believe my story, do you, boy?!‖ ―Sure I do,‖ I say, thinking this guy's crazy and it's just him and me on this boat in the middle of nowhere.

A smile creeps to the corner of his mouth. He can't suppress it. Soon he's laughing as hard as he was before.

He takes the hat off his head and says, ―Look for yourself.‖ There in the back of the hat is a blue plastic label stamped THE KING. We laugh hysterically, as the sun goes down over the waters, like the king of infinity. Luckily, there's sherry.

We drink for a while, mellowing into darkness and silence. I can't see Red's face any more. But his laughter comes like a low bubble. ―You know what,‖ he recalls darkly. ―The bastard never paid me!‖ Luke Powers Luke Powers is a Professor of English at Tennessee State University. His novel The Helicon is a fictionalized autobiography including ex-patriot experience on the Tonga islands during the Vietnam War.

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The Life of an Errant Expat ―Hola, are you in? Where are you?‖ Sanch O‘Pansy called as he leant his rusty moped up against the house and peered through the open door.

He saw his friend snoozing on his sofa, with the Costa Blanca newspaper covering his head. Books were scattered across the dusty floor along with overflowing ashtrays. ―Siesta time is over. Just seen your postman, you have an important letter from the Spanish tax office,‖ said Sanch, slumping down into the armchair.

The recumbent figure stirred, causing the paper to slide onto the floor. ―For me? Tax, can‘t be.‖ Sanch held up the letter, ―Don K. Hote, that‘s you, it must be yours.‖ Don sat up, rubbed his eyes open. ―I didn‘t come to Spain to deal with tax. I came for adventure, love, excitement and to pursue my quest to right the wrongs in this fair land. I have been reading more exotic tales of heroes.‖ Sanch had been hearing these extravagant claims for weeks and wished Don would return to his former self, enjoying a round of golf followed by several gin and tonics in the clubhouse bar.

Don stood up and started pacing around the room with newfound energy. ―They won‘t get any tax out of me. I live off the fat of the land and my crops.‖ ―I thought the local growers‘ co-operative pays you for those grapes and almonds that your land produces?‖ asked Sanch. ―Not any more—what good is money in this ruined economy?

I take wine, roasted almonds and herbs in payment instead.‖ This was news to Sanch O‘Pansy. So that‘s what those peculiar looking plants hidden under the vines were. ―Exactly what kind of herbs are they?‖ Don shrugged. ―I don‘t know their name, my Spanish neighbour planted them. But listen, my little fat friend,‖ Don said, lighting up a herb cigarette. ―Tomorrow we leave for an expedition to explore the hinterland. To see for ourselves the wide open plains and the ways in which we can conquer this land.‖ 109

Sanch O‘Pansy preferred not be called ‗little fat friend‘ but his bulging belly was evident to all. ―So we are not playing golf then?‖ His tone was heavy with disappointment.

Don stood blowing smoke rings. ―Golf is for the ordinary man, the Expat. Not for the likes of us who seek adventure to win a fair lady. Here, try some herbs. They will make you forget all about golf.‖ Sanch worried they would make him forget about everything, permanently. He knew that unless he agreed to join Don on his exploits he would never hear the last of it. Perhaps if Don got it out of his system he might start to play golf again. ―So what‘s the plan?‖ ―Plan? Brave fearless adventurers do not make plans. They take the challenges that life throws at them and swat them like troublesome flies.‖ Sanch gazed through the smoky haze. He recognised the smell.

It was identical to the one that always accompanied the youngsters gathered near the disco bar down town. ―Do you think your old Seat will make the journey inland?‖ Sanch always worried about such practicalities. ―Indeed not. Anyway, even if it would it is unsuitable transport for us. So that is why I have bought a motor bike, the ‗nice on tar‘ model. You have your moped so together we will ride with the wind in our hair.‖ Sanch knew it was a bit late for that, running his hand over his sun-tanned bald pate and looking at Don‘s few remaining wispy strands of grey hair. If he mentions wigs, I am definitely joining up with the expedition he promised himself. ―So I will cancel our tee-time booking at the golf course then?‖ However, Don had once again been overcome by his herbinduced slumbers. Sanch closed the front door on his way out. Asking himself why he had ever struck up a friendship with Don K Hote in the first place. Mind you, he had not been given any choice in the matter. After all, Don was a very persuasive man, especially after some herbs.

The next day they set off. Don wearing goggles and a thick waistcoat, looking suspiciously like a bullet-proof-vest. He loved an EBay bargain. His bikes panniers were full of heaven knows what, but a 110

few brown leaves were sticking out. Sanch brought up the rear on his moped going flat out, its little engine whining at the unfamiliar exertion.

The scenery changed from the Costa Blanca citrus groves to the golden fertile plains of Castilla La Mancha. Vast expanses, free of concrete structures, except row upon row of wind turbines standing majestically on high ridges with their enormous fins spinning in the wind.

The giant alien-like rotating structures mesmerised Don, causing him to ride his bike off the road into some cactus plants. His protective vest deflected the vicious thorns, as he tumbled from his machine.

His trusty ally pulled up alongside him, glad to dismount his overheating moped. ―Look over there,‖ he said pointing to a bar set back from the road. ―Let‘s get a drink.‖ Don disentangled his machine from the prickly pear cacti and they wheeled their machines over to parking area. ―Are you boys looking for some fun?‖ asked a tall dark haired girl, wearing pink shorts, a gold low cut T shirt and high heels that did not look at all practical for hiking over the plains. ―Indeed we are, fair lady,‖ said Don. ―We are seeking errant adventures, day or night. To right wrongs and ensure justice.‖ The girl was confused, but then she recognised Don‘s herby aromas. She turned her attention to Sanch O‘Pansy. ―Seen anything you like?‖ She smiled. ―Yes, gorgeous shoes—where did you get them?‖ Don had his goggles in a tangle, ―Fear not, dear lady, we are here to protect you,‖ he said following Sanch into the bar, with red goggle shaped lines etched onto his face.

Inside, the walls were covered with old black and white framed photos of La Mancha - scenes from yesteryear. Whilst Sanch ordered some drinks, Don stared, transfixed by the images, absorbed in their historical content. ―Look, my friend, we have arrived at exactly the right place—it provides the inspiration for our adventures to begin. I shall prove myself and win the hand of the fair lady we met outside—the all so sweet—my Dulcie.‖ Sanch placed the cold drinks down. ―Sweet? I think her days of sweetness were over long ago.‖ 111

―Then that shall be our first challenge—to return her to the days of innocence.‖ Don took a long swig of his cold beer. ―Come, faithful follower. Our quest begins.‖ Don returned to the car park, with Sanch trailing behind.

Dulcie was climbing out of a lorry cab, adjusting her T-shirt and clutching fifty euros. ―My Dulcie—what challenge do you wish me to undertake so that I can win your hand and you will dine with me tonight?‖ ―How do you know my name? Anyway, simple. For 50 euros my hand, and everything else attached to it, is yours for twenty minutes,‖ she replied.

Sanch‘s eyes went skyward. If only Don had not discovered the herbs. ―Do not talk to me of money, but of honour and truth. I will slay those aliens moving down the hill side to win your hand.‖ She glanced nervously over to the hill, but only saw spinning wind turbines.

Before Don K Hote could challenge the revolving aliens, a roar of motor bikes announced the arrival of two Guardia Civil officers. Immaculate in their green uniforms, not a speck of dust or squashed fly on them.

They arrested Dulcie for soliciting and Don K Hote for having panniers full of ‗herbs‘ and riding a bike wearing a bullet-proof vest with ‗FBI‘ in large letters on the back.

Later Sanch persuaded Don to plead guilty and accept the fine.

He even managed to get him to remove the herbs and plant artichokes instead.

Don vowed never again to read classic Spanish novels or be under the influence. The bike? Impounded by the Guardia Civil and auctioned off to pay his outstanding tax bill.

The life of an errant Expat is never an easy one.

Rob Innis Rob Innis is a freelance writer living in Spain. Published monthly in magazines and Expat websites. Recently had a short story published in the fund raising anthology ‘50 Stories for Pakistan‘ See: http://www.robinnis.wordpress.com

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The Manchester Goods Department She stood in the department store, mumbling to herself...In a country where sweets are lollies and lollies are ice blocks…what would they call a duvet?‖ A deep voice from behind her said, ―Would you believe, a doona?‖ Lydia whirled round and stared at the man who stood, smiling at her. ―A what?‖ He nodded. There was laughter in his eyes though he tried to stay serious. ―A doona. You‘ll find one in the Manchester Goods Department.‖ ―Do not mention Manchester Goods to me.‖ He lost the battle and laughed outright. ―I heard you at the Customer Services desk. That‘s why I followed you up here.‖ He looked around. ―Not that you‘d find many duvets in the underwear department.‖ ―Well, I got lost. Look, I‘m sorry about Manchester Goods.

Now that I come to think about it I do vaguely remember my mother calling bedding by that name a long time ago.‖ ―Ah, well. We Australians have our traditions too.‖ ―But what the woman actually said when I told her I wanted a duvet, was, ‗What‘s a duvet?‘ And when I explained it was for my bed, she said, ―Oh, go to Manchester…‖ Lydia took a deep breath. ―And that‘s another thing about this country: when the place names are not aboriginal and often unpronounceable, they‘re the same as back home.

London, Hastings, Torquay, Manchester…you have them all.‖ ―I know.‖ She gave him a long look and then burst out laughing. ―I‘m sorry I was rude. I‘ll go back and apologise to the woman.‖ ―You weren‘t actually rude. You just walked off.‖ ―In a huff.‖ ―A what?‖ ―Huff: bad mood, sulk, tantrum.‖ ―Oh, we call that ‗spitting the dummy‘ here.‖ ―I don‘t think I was that rude.‖ 113

―No. But if you must apologise, tell her you‘re suffering from a bout of homesickness. You are, aren‘t you?‖ ―How perceptive…‖ Lydia began, noticing for the first time his kind blue eyes. What with the silver hair and golden tan, it all added up to a gorgeous hunk, as her daughter would say. He was tall and well-toned too. He obviously looked after himself. She wondered what he did in the store while she basked in those kind eyes…A shop assistant? She shook her head. A Department Manager at least, she thought.

His soft cough hit her like a shot out of a gun. She blushed as she realised she must have been staring at him for some time. But then, he‘d been staring at her too, hadn‘t he? ―I‘m James Harrison,‖ he said, taking her hand. ―And you are?‖ ―Lydia Morton.‖ ―Let me show you our Manchester Goods Department, Lydia.

And then…perhaps we could have lunch here, in the store‘s restaurant? I promise I‘ll fill you in on all the Australian names.‖ She nodded, too enchanted to speak, and allowed him to lead her away.

He held her elbow lightly as they walked. ―I can see that you‘re going to need a lot of help with our language. For instance, over here chips are what you call crisps.‖ ―Then what are chips? You know, the kind you have with fish?‖ ―They‘re hot chips.‖ They stopped as a woman came up and waited to be noticed.

Not a shop assistant. Office staff, Lydia decided. ―James,‖ the woman said. ―They‘re waiting for you at the meeting.‖ She glanced at her watch. ―You‘re already eleven minutes late. And the majority shareholder is getting extremely impatient.‖ ―Then tell him to chair the meeting.‖ ―You can‘t let him do that.‖ James gestured at the woman, saying, ―This is my secretary, Angela. She‘s always telling me what I can‘t do.‖ Angela turned and smiled. ―And the majority shareholder is not a man to be kept waiting.‖ She looked at the two of them standing so close together, James‘s hand now firmly holding Lydia‘s arm, and said softly, ―It‘s about time, James.‖ 114

Lydia didn‘t think she was talking about the meeting. Her words had a profound effect. They told her that he was available, as she was. She withdrew her arm and purred, ―Yes, James. Please go to the meeting. I shall be waiting for you...‖ She smiled. ―In the Manchester Goods Department‖.

Mary Davies Mary has one book published, won two Mills & Boon competitions and was second in a competition adjudicated by Katie Fforde. At present she‘s writing a book for children.

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The Next Step Pascal had gone to great lengths to make sure everything would be the same when he returned to the US. When he finally did make it back to San Francisco after a two-year exile, he picked up precisely where he had left off. The same job doing graphic design at the same ad agency.

The same apartment above a dive bar on the cusp of the Tenderloin with the same old grey cat who did not belong to anyone but lived in the apartment and hunted for mice. The same cell phone number, the same car with the same dent in the passenger side door and a broken air-conditioner. The same ex-girlfriend.

The break-up with the girlfriend had been so long and heart wrenching that in the process Pascal had let his H1/B visa lapse, and he had no one to blame but himself. His boss had been furious: she had offered to sponsor Pascal‘s green card application, but instead he ended up having to leave the country. It wasn‘t like he had a home to return to outside of the United States: he had come to this country for college, and in the meantime his parents and his sister had moved from post-Soviet Armenia to the Netherlands. He had to learn Dutch and act like a teenager, living with his family who refused to accept rent money from him but insisted that he did his chores.

During his first couple of weeks back in San Francisco, Pascal caught up with all of his old friends—had a couple of homemade dinners in recently acquired houses, met a few newborns, got a ride in a hybrid car, went clubbing with a recently single male friend, invited a recently single female friend out to a baseball game. Everyone asked the same questions. ―And you got your old apartment back? You mean, the exact same one?‖ ―I called my landlord, and it turned out that the place had just become available again. I guess two years is the average turnover in that building. The apartment is not that great, you know. It always stinks of beer.‖ ―And your cell phone?‖ ―I kept up payment on my contract.‖ ―Even though you didn‘t use it?‖

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―I knew I would. All of my clients have this number, so it‘s convenient.‖ ―And your car?‖ ―My uncle owns a garage in L.A. I went down there last weekend.‖ Pascal‘s uncle was his closest relative in the States. When Pascal first came to this country from Yerevan as a college freshman, he had lived with his uncle‘s family, shared a room with one of his younger cousins. Even after he moved to San Francisco, Pascal always drove down to L.A. for all major holidays, including his cousins‘ graduations and weddings. Sometimes, he flew down there for the important Dodgers games. Every time he got sick, his aunt mailed him a jar of honey and a batch of sugar cookies that kept well in the freezer.

But now all of his cousins had scattered across the country, and his aunt and uncle had sold the old house and bought themselves a condo in Thousand Oaks. Pascal had spent the night in the bare-walled spare room, and in the morning picked up the car and drove back to San Francisco. ―Are you happy to be back?‖ Pascal‘s ex-girlfriend Kelly asked.

She and her boyfriend Ryan met him for dinner at a vegetarian sushi restaurant.

Painful as it was to see Kelly with another man, the thought of never seeing her again had been, to Pascal, unendurable. Hers was one of the first numbers he dialled when the roaming icon on his cell phone finally disappeared. She sounded cheerful on the phone, told Pascal she‘d missed him and invited him for dinner at her and Ryan‘s new place. She was going to make spinach artichoke lasagne, Pascal‘s favourite. This gave Pascal pause. Kelly‘s lasagne would be another taste of the past, exactly the way he‘d imagined it from the Netherlands, but Ryan‘s presence would inhibit any real communication between them. He was glad when she called back to reschedule—for a Monday night, at a restaurant.

Pascal showed up to the restaurant on time, which was a mistake, because everyone in San Francisco seemed to run late. He got a seat at a cosy window table for four and sipped sake from a square cup for half an hour. The restaurant was empty on a Monday night.

When Kelly and Ryan showed up, Pascal barely recognized them.

Ryan, he had seen only a handful of times before, but Kelly seemed like a total stranger. She dyed her hair the same shade of red, was still a 117

bit overweight, wore one of her usual v-neck sweaters, so the change wasn‘t anything he could put his finger on, but it was undeniably there. ―Did you get new glasses?‖ ―Huh?‖ ―You seem different somehow,‖ Pascal said. ―Did you get new glasses?‖ Kelly touched her glasses with her hand and thought about it for a minute. ―Let me see. Did I?‖ Ryan went through the usual routine of questions. ―And you got your old job back? And your old apartment? The very same one?

Unbelievable, man! And the same cell phone number? And your car?‖ ―I also got my cat back,‖ Pascal said. ―My neighbours had taken her in, she hunted mice in the building, but when she saw me, she came right to me.‖ ―How are your aunt and uncle doing?‖ Kelly asked. She had spent one Thanksgiving with Pascal in L.A., one Christmas, and one graduation party. She also had gone to a couple of Dodgers games and dragged him to the taping of ―American Idol.‖ Pascal couldn‘t tell if she was thinking about all of that, if her question was provoked by genuine curiosity or by token politeness. He remembered how many problems in their relationship had been caused by the fact that he could never tell whether Kelly was being sincere or not. He could never get rid of the feeling that she was hiding something from him. ―You must be a very good man,‖ Ryan said warmly. ―Cats are very discerning.‖ Hearing this, Pascal experienced a rush of overpowering hatred for Ryan. Ryan, with his sun-burnt hair, tanned pink skin, an open smile on his handsome face, seemed to be an unfailingly happy guy. He was very easy to like. This was one of the reasons Pascal had been so insanely jealous when Kelly had first introduced the two of them, when she still claimed that there was nothing romantic going on between her and Ryan. Now, the jealousy flooded back, and along came a sense of Pascal‘s own inadequacy. Where Ryan could be a steady, positive presence in Kelly‘s life, he, Pascal, was doomed to remain forever adrift.

Perhaps because Pascal hated him so much, Ryan was much easier to talk to than Kelly. Every time he glanced across the table at her, he kept noticing changes in her appearance. She had more wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. She smiled more.

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The waitress came to take their order. Pascal had been reading the menu for the past half an hour, but still felt like he needed more time to decide. He let Ryan and Kelly go first, and then piggybacked on their order of eggplant and shiitake nigiri. While the waitress was taking notes on tea and miso soup, Pascal remembered that he was very hungry and changed his mind, asking for a buckwheat noodle bowl and a seaweed salad instead. ―So, are you happy to be back?‖ Kelly asked when the waitress took away the menus. ―He must be! I mean, he got his life back as if nothing had ever happened,‖ Ryan raised his cup. ―Cheers, dude!‖ Unwillingly, Pascal mirrored the gesture, and when they set their cups down on the table again, he heard himself say: ―You know, I‘m thinking about going back to the Netherlands.‖ ―What do you mean?‖ ―The Hague was actually a lot of fun. You get to meet people from all over the world there, and they really know how to party. The weekend starts on a Thursday night and the bars never close. I got to travel all around Europe on weekends.‖ The sake burned pleasantly in the back of Pascal‘s brain, and it was easy to brush away memories of the sad, overcrowded clubs, empty daytime bars with satellite TV screens where he could catch a Dodgers game once in a while, and the long bleak weekends when he didn‘t know what to do with himself. And really, the Hague no longer seemed such a cold and faceless town when he thought back on it.

Here, in the US, it seemed an exotic, chic place, something to boast about. So what if he could never understand anyone, even when they were speaking English. He did learn Dutch eventually. So what if it took him forever to find a job. He did find it, and working for an ad agency, the exact same job he had in San Francisco. Living with his parents, he‘d had few expenses. So what if he ended up going shopping with his mother every other weekend or playing sidekick to his sister when she and her friends went on their skiing trips. It wasn‘t all bad.

Out loud he was saying, ―And you know, I‘ve gotten really close to my parents and my little sister. She‘s going to school there, and I‘m thinking of going back to school too. I now know four languages, if you count Armenian and Russian.‖

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―But you went to such great lengths to preserve your life in the States!‖ Ryan protested. ―I can‘t believe you would just throw all of this away. Kelly, tell him it‘s crazy—‖ ―I don‘t think you should go back to the Netherlands, Pasc,‖ Kelly said. ―I mean, you just got here. Give it some time, make new friends, you know?‖ Two waiters came over to bring their food, and as they were unloading their trays, Pascal saw that his substitution turned out to be an addition, and he got both, nigiri and noodles. ―I thought I said I didn‘t want this,‖ he said, pointing at the plate of nigiri. The Japanese waiter didn‘t understand him, and wanted to take back the entire tray with Kelly and Ryan‘s food as well. ―No, no!‖ Pascal waved his arms at him. ―No, I meant this, not that—Oh, never mind, just leave it. Leave all of it.‖ The waiters shrugged and unloaded the trays, leaving the table crammed with enough plates of food to feed a family of four. ―Is everything okay?‖ Kelly asked when they were gone.

Pascal looked at Ryan and at Kelly sitting in the booth across the table, touching shoulders with each other, and he felt sick, and he didn‘t know what to say.

Olga Zilberbourg Olga is a writer and an editor born in St. Petersburg, Russia and currently living in San Francisco, California. Her stories have appeared in Narrative Magazine, Alligator Juniper, J Journal, and other publications.

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Twice Bitten Two hours and thirty-five minutes late. Not that I minded the delay, as it meant less time in the company of two people I'd rather hoped I'd never see again. ―Another coffee?‖ My husband Den interrupted some rather dark thoughts. ―Uh, uh,‖ I said, pushing away the half-full plastic cup of lukewarm brown water, masquerading as coffee. ―I'm saving myself for something a lot stronger, when we eventually get home.‖ The bing-bong of the airport's public address system sounded, and I cocked my head to listen to the subsequent announcement. No news about the Gatwick flight, just another warning that unattended baggage would be destroyed; I'd heard those words so often during our frequent trips to the airport to collect visitors, but they never failed to spark my imagination. Today, I was picturing an extremely destructive Boxer dog, with a taste for Louis Vuitton. ―Can't be long now, surely.‖ Den's comment interrupted my brief fantasy. Or it could have been the cracking of his knuckles—a sure sign that he was becoming impatient. ―Shame your friend didn't text us to say the flight was delayed,‖ I said, with more than a hint of sarcasm. ―At least at home we could have had a decent coffee.‖ Den didn't reply. He knew it was his fault that we were here, waiting to pick up his former work colleague Phil and wife Belinda, so that they could spend some of their fortnight's holiday at our home.

They'd visited us once before and Den and I had agreed afterwards never to allow them to stay again. And yes, I know Phil could charm the knickers off a nun, but had my husband forgotten the incident with the BBQ, or the night at the restaurant we've never felt able to go to again? Or all the other stuff that had riled Den throughout their last visit? ―Just a few days?‖ Phil had pleaded, adding that they planned to move on afterwards to a ―nice little hotel‖ on the other side of the island. And, Den being Den, he'd hesitated a few moments and then said yes, of course they could come and stay with us.

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―Liz, it's just landed!‖ Den was peering up at one of the flight monitors. ―Gate C. C'mon, let's get it over with.‖ I pushed back my chair, picked up my handbag and dragged myself in Den's wake towards the arrivals area.

I'd noticed Belinda's hands the first time they stayed with us. The woman looked like Tony Blair in a curly wig, but her hands were beautiful: creamy unblemished skin and almond-shaped fingernails precision-glazed with scarlet varnish. So, when she'd offered to wash the breakfast dishes the first day, it was on the condition that there were rubber gloves. When she discovered a tiny hole in one of them, the offer was withdrawn, never to be made again.

A packet of new rubber gloves was now sitting in the kitchen drawer but, as the four of us sat later on the terrace at our home, sipping Cava and nibbling olives, it soon became obvious that Belinda wouldn't be making use of them.

Because Belinda had been ―discovered‖. Or at least, her hands had. In Sainsbury's, of all places. ―So,‖ she told us, gleefully, ―this rather gorgeous stranger, standing next to me at the deli counter, asked if I'd ever considered being a hand model!‖ She gave a peal of Belinda laughter, and I noticed Den flinch slightly. ―Anyway, a week later I was in a studio, wearing a wristwatch worth more than our car, having my hand photographed for a full-page ad in a Sunday supplement. And things have really taken off since then.‖ ―I'm now a kept man,‖ Phil joked. I wished he'd been kept away from us, but realised that wasn't very hospitable. ―Does it pay well, then?‖ I was trying to make up for my previous uncharitable thought by feigning interest. ―God, yes!‖ Belinda stretched out her hands and gazed adoringly at them. ―I didn't earn as much working full-time as a secretary.‖ Conversation fizzled out for a few minutes as Den topped-up our fizz. ―Mind you,‖ Phil said, leaning across the outdoor dining table as if to share a secret with us, ―most of her money goes to Mrs T.‖ Now that her hands had become a valuable commodity (there was even mention of an insurance policy), Belinda had handed 122

housework duties over to paid help, in the form of Mrs T—a woman from the village, who ―did‖ for her four times a week. These days, when Belinda wasn't slaving in a photographic studio, she was a lady of leisure, leafing through glossy magazines looking for images of her famous hands. I was beginning to realise that I wouldn't be getting any help with domestic chores from her quarter, when she spoke again. ―You know, Liz?‖ Belinda had pushed her glass to one side. ―I could murder a nice cup of tea, couldn't you?‖ Well, I could certainly have murdered something, but the opportunity to escape indoors to the sanctuary of my kitchen was a welcome one, so off I went. ―That wasn't too bad an evening, was it?‖ I ventured, as Den and I were getting ready for bed that night. Our guests were spending their first night in the bedroom across the landing and I spoke in a low voice, to ensure we couldn't be overheard. ―Depends on your definition of 'too bad',‖ he mumbled. ―You do realise we've blown this month's eating out budget in one night?‖ I'd feared as much. We'd gone to the coast and foolishly offered to let Phil and Belinda choose where we should have dinner.

Of all the restaurants, they opted for Las Olas...the one with the Michelin star-chasing chef. As we perused the menu, sipping enormous G&Ts from glasses large enough to house goldfish, I'd heard Den's intake of breath. He'd spotted the prices. ―I think I'll just have the chicken,‖ I said, snapping the leatherbound menu shut and placing it on the table as Den and I exchanged panicked glances. ―Me too,‖ he said. ―Haven't had chicken for ages.‖ Apart from last night, but who's counting? ―Well, I'm on holiday,‖ Belinda said ominously. ―Lobster for me, with the foie gras to start.‖ ―I'll join you, sweetheart,‖ Phil flicked through the pages in search of the wine list. ―White, all round?‖ ―Fine,‖ Den said. ―Something local? There're some excellent whites made here.‖ He picked up his own menu and quickly found the relevant page. ―OK, what do you recommend?‖ 123

Den scanned the list and picked a local organic wine that we'd tried before and really enjoyed; when the sommelier arrived with his pen and pad, we were shocked to hear Phil order a French wine at twice the price.

In spite of everything, I quite enjoyed myself. The chicken dish was like nothing I could ever cook; the wine was crisp and delicious (Den was driving, so there was plenty to enjoy), and we seemed to spend a lot of time laughing. I was in the ladies fighting a fit of the hiccoughs when the bill arrived, so I didn't find out, until I was wiping off my mascara later, that Phil had declared it easier to split the bill in half rather than ―do the math‖. Sometimes I wish that my lovely husband would be just a little more...assertive. ―Next time, I'm having the lobster!‖ I declared, only halfjoking. ―We'll be eating at home while those two are staying,‖ Den hissed, as he dropped heavily onto the mattress. ―You know what this place could do with?‖ It was day four of Phil and Belinda's stay and we were spending the afternoon on the terrace, reading. Phil had looked up from his Jeffrey Archer and was gazing across our garden when he raised his question. He provided an almost instant answer: ―A swimming pool.‖ Den looked at me and raised his eyebrows. I half-smiled in response. It wasn't the first time this visit that Phil had offered some home improvement advice. ―Not much point, Phil,‖ Den replied. ―Neither of us can swim.‖ That wasn't strictly true, but I didn't blame Den for not wanting to admit that a pool was beyond our budget. ―But it'd make the place look classier,‖ Phil retaliated. ―And better for people who come to stay here on holiday. Especially in this heat.‖ He pulled a handkerchief from his shorts pocket and wiped sweat from his brow.

Ever seen the red mist? I was beginning to understand what it was. ―Actually, Phil, most of our visitors like it here the way it is,‖ I smiled. ―People who want a swimming pool would probably stay in a hotel. I imagine that place you're going to has one?‖ We'd heard nothing further about the ―nice little hotel‖ Phil had originally mentioned in his phone call to Den, and I thought a little reminder might be helpful. ―When did you say you were going there?‖ 124

―We haven't booked it yet, have we Phil?‖ Red-faced—and not from the heat of the sun—Phil glared at his wife: ―I was going to ring them this evening actually.‖ He laid his paperback on the floor beside his sun lounger and stood up. ―In fact, I'll get my mobile and do it now.‖ ―It'll cost a fortune using the mobile. Use our phone instead,‖ I said sweetly. ―Reception will be better too.‖ The reception at Hotel Tres Hermanos was as warm as the place was cool. A huge old stone farmhouse, converted into a trendy 22bedroom hotel, it reeked luxury and style. As two huge modern glass doors swished open on our approach, I could smell the leather of the cream sofas in the spacious reception, and feel the delicious chill of efficient air conditioning.

We followed Phil and Belinda through the doors and were almost immediately greeted by a stunning blonde, striding towards us with a pearly smile and her arm extended ready to shake hands. ―Mrs and Mrs Brennan, how nice to meet you. Welcome.‖ Her accent was German, but the English was perfect. A boy who could only recently have swapped his school uniform for that of a porter, appeared from nowhere and whisked away the Brennan luggage; another youngster arrived with a silver tray bearing two glasses of something sparkling, which he placed on an olive wood coffee table. ―Would your friends like to join you for a drink?‖ The blonde gestured towards us, as we lingered behind.

Although I was looking forward to saying goodbye to our guests, I rather liked the look of the squashy sofas and sparkling welcome drink, and wouldn't have minded a brief taste of the high life, Tres Hermanos-style. Phil had other ideas. ―They're just leaving. They've got quite a drive back.‖ ―Yes, must be going,‖ Den said, grinning at Miss Germany. ―I'll take a brochure though, and we might come for a night some time.‖ We said our goodbyes, wished Phil and Belinda a lovely stay, and left them to the luxury of their new accommodation. Holding hands tightly, Den and I resisted the temptation to skip joyfully down the gravel path to the car park. We saved our celebrations until we arrived home, when we cracked open the bottle of chilled Cava we'd slipped into the fridge earlier that day. As we chinked glasses together, 125

we drank a toast to the quiet life and, this time, Den swore that he'd never let Phil and Belinda stay again.

I was drying the dishes from our belated breakfast the next morning, when I heard a car slide to a halt and its engine ticking over outside the house. Doors banged and I heard raised voices drifting in through the open kitchen window. One was Spanish, speaking loud and fast. The other was...surely not? I heard the gate squeak as it opened and then the crunch of footsteps on the gravel drive.

Den had come round to the front of the house, having heard the commotion from the back terrace. I didn't have to strain to hear the conversation. ―Good morning, my friend, bet you didn't expect to see us again so soon!‖ Phil had dropped his cases to the ground and held his arms out, as if expecting to be embraced. ―Er...no.‖ I looked out of the window and saw Den, standing with his hands on his hips and a frown plastered across his forehead. ―What are you doing here?‖ ―We couldn't stay another night at that hotel. Twelve euros for a G&T! And all that minimalist interior crap's not our thing at all.‖ Phil tilted his head to one side and raised his eyebrows. ―We hoped you might let us stay a night or two more while we re-think our plans?‖ I fixed my stare on Den, willing him to say no. ―Well, I suppose now that you're here...‖ So much for thought transference. I sighed and went outside, wiping my damp hands on the back of my shorts before I greeted The Terrible Two. ―Put your cases in the hall and come round to the terrace,‖ I said. ―Coffee?‖ We'd long finished coffee and were lazing on sun loungers in the shade of the parasols. The temperature and humidity had been steadily climbing and the benefits of the pool that Phil had suggested were swimming through my thoughts. He'd already taken their cases upstairs and was now on the lounger, dozing. Belinda seemed engrossed in an issue of Homes & Gardens. And Den? He'd disappeared indoors a while ago. Without excusing myself, I went indoors and found him upstairs in the guest room...stripping the bed.

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―What are you doing, Den?‖ There were large pieces of cellophane wrapping on the floor. ―I'm changing the bed. Giving them new sheets.‖ Literally new. He shook out the folded fuchsia pink sheets and I suddenly recognised them as the prize we'd won in the village Christmas raffle just before we'd moved to Spain. Thinking that they might make good dust covers when we decorated, I'd stuffed them in the back of the linen cupboard ―You can't use those!‖ I held my hands up to my face. ―They're awful! In this heat? Nylon sheets will be—‖ ―Absolutely horrendous.‖ Den gave an exaggerated wink. ―Those two'll be gone tomorrow morning.‖ Janice Dunn Former BBC local radio presenter Janice Dunn moved to rural Mallorca in 2004. Now a freelance writer, she's had many non-fiction articles published but, so far, no short stories.

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Unreliable Paradise We have just moved into a five-star, five-bedroom house in a lush suburb of this Caribbean island capital. Set into a steep hill, with views of the bay from every level, the newly built house feels like a dream with its sleek modern kitchen, covered veranda overlooking the pool and gardens filled with semi-tamed rainforest greenery. Parrots screech in each morning to eat fruit from our trees, hummingbirds frequent our flora, and iguanas sun themselves on the terraced lawn.

With this latest corporate move, we‘ve landed in a selfcontained resort.

While the national language is English, the local accent makes it as unfamiliar to me as Greek or Russian. Lilting voices dance through the air towards me, tossed happily from smiling pink lips that frame large white teeth. Brown eyes intently focus on my face telling me I am expected to understand. And that is with my housekeeper. I have a fulltime housekeeper!

Our development has a guardhouse and a snarly pitbull called Lobo who growls every time we drive by. I hope he improves as we get to know him.

We have been given briefings. Our island is a developing country with a small crime problem and an unreliable police force. But that is a local problem. Ex-pats are always safe. Conventional wisdom is that even criminals know a large part of the country‘s revenues depend on this business that we are part of.

The island‘s beaches are dotted with coconut trees and framed by mountainous rainforest. The sea is as blue as the sky and as warm as the soft white sand. This is a tropical paradise.

Then, uninvited guests attack one morning. I don‘t understand their words, but I see their guns. They storm into the garage as the garage door opens and my husband is stepping into the car.

My fourteen-year-old Beth jumps back into the house. ―G..g…gu..gun!‖ For a long half-second I freeze, as I glimpse the source of terror. Then I grab Beth‘s arm. ―Get in there. GET IN THERE!‖ I hiss to my daughters as I pull them both into the adjacent office. ―Lock the door!‖ 128

―They‘ve got Daddy!‖ Iliana screams. ―Shhh! Shhh! I know. I know!‖ I say, trying to think. Where‘s my cell phone? ―Shit!‖ We don‘t have a landline in the house yet. ―What?‖ says eight-year-old Iliana. ―I left my purse on the table. It‘s got my phone in it,‖ I say.

Thump, whack. I can hear the car doors opening in the adjacent garage. And yelling. I saw at least five gunmen, all carrying long, black-barrelled shotguns, or maybe semi-automatics, I don‘t know enough to tell. ―Beth, where‘s your phone?‖ ―Huh?‖ My 14-year-old, Beth, is dazed. ―Your phone, honey!‖ I screech in a whisper. ―Do you have your phone?‖ ―Yeah. Yeah—here it is. But it‘s got no money on it,‖ she says shaking her head. ―Shit.‖ I pause. ―The emergency number. You can always dial 999 in an emergency right?‖ My fingers are pounding the phone as I say it.

A woman answers. ―Help! I‘ve got intruders in my house now!‖ The woman asks a question. ―Yes, right now. Guns. They‘ve got big guns.‖ I‘m so frightened I can‘t bring myself to say they‘ve got my husband, too. ―My address? Yes, it‘s 1124 Tarapiarco Drive…what?

Tarapiarco. Tarapiarco—Shit! T-a-r-a-p-i-a-r-c-o Drive. Just off Maraval Road. Why is this so hard? ―Yes, it‘s a new road. Come on, it‘s the only new road in Port of Spain - just behind Adam‘s Bagels.‖ Why won‘t she help me?

I hear angry yelling in the garage. Oh no, they‘re walking into the house. I hear drawers rattling open and shut in the kitchen.

Money—they‘re looking for cash, shouting, ―Where‘s it? Where‘s dah‘ money?‖ I hear Robert answer. He sounds so scared. They‘re yelling again. He must have told them we don‘t keep cash in the house. ―For f***‘s sake, would you send—yes, t-a-r-a-p-i-a-r-c-o. 1-12-4. My last name? St. Guerin. It‘s French—no—I‘m American. Expats. Yes. St. G-u-e-r-i-n. Why do you need my name?‖ Clickety-clickety-clack sounds the keyboard at the other end of the phone. ―Are you going to send somebody?‖ I shriek.

129

Calmly the woman answers me, in that happy, lilting accent, as if our lives aren‘t in danger. ―Of course, Mrs. Guh - rin. We must identify your location. Then we will send someone.‖ ―Everyone knows this new development. How can you not…?‖ This is the only new area being developed in town. Oh shit, I think. Unreliable police. I didn‘t understand. ―Please send help!‖ I say, knowing they won‘t. I‘m not sure why, but help is not coming from this call. I hang up fast and look around the room.

In hiding behind the filing cabinet, Beth is hugging her younger sister and telling her, ―It‘s okay. If they come in here, you just do what they tell you, and it will be fine. It‘ll be fine.‖ My beautiful girls. Oh no, what will they do to my beautiful girls?

I see the computer. I run to the keyboard and click into e-mail.

It‘s all I can think of. Who‘s out there? Who can help me? My fingers are poised above the keys.

The door handle jiggles.

I look at the girls. We freeze.

A fist pounds on the door and jiggles the handle hard.

I shake my head at the girls. We don‘t take a breath. Visions from hell race across my brain: the girls, how can I protect them? I‘m not even on the same side of the room. How brutal, how sick are these men in my house? And Robert, oh Robert. Please God. Please help, I whimper in prayer.

The intruders confer on the other side of the door—definitely locals from the accent. Where‘s Robert?

Then I hear Robert‘s shaky voice, ―I told you—they left.

That‘s the back door.‖ After a few excruciating moments, the footsteps walk away from the door and down the stairs. They haven‘t found us. Yet. Thank you, Robert.

Mimi. I‘ll try her. She has security guards at her house. Our security is down the road and even if I could call them, I don‘t have the number. They don‘t have a computer. ―Mmmmi...help! Intruders, guns now! Hlp us.‖ Send.

No reply. Shit.

Alfred. Maybe Alfred is there. ―Hlp! Inrrders, guns, in my house now. Need hlp!‖ Send.

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away.

No reply. Well, shit, people don‘t always read e-mail right

I need help NOW. Karen, I‘ll try her too. I blast another help message. I can‘t think of anyone else. We haven‘t lived here long enough.

Then I don‘t know what to do. I get up and go over to the girls, still huddled in the corner. ―Mom?‖ Iliana has tears in her eyes. ―Yes, honey,‖ I say softly.

She doesn‘t say anything. ―I love you, sweetheart,‖ I say wrapping my arms around Beth and Iliana. My arms can‘t stop their trembling. ―It‘s going to be okay.‖ I don‘t know what else to say.

I can hear banging and shouting below us. They must be in the basement. Shit. They‘re coming up the stairs. We stop breathing and become petrified wood again. The footsteps pass us by and go into the garage again. I hear the doors opening and closing.

Then a dog barks, furiously, viciously.

Suddenly there is chaos, lots of noise, shouting. From outside.

What the hell is happening? Running feet. Barking. A shot! Oh God, what happened? Help us, please!

More shouting. More running. We crouch behind the grey metal file cabinet, listening.

Then there‘s a knock on the door. A knock? Yes. ―Honey, it‘s me.‖ Robert! ―It‘s safe now. Alfred‘s here. Come on out,‖ says my husband in a strained voice I hardly recognize.

I toss open the door and throw myself into his arms. ―Are you okay?‖ we both say. The girls join us in a family embrace. We all break down in sobs and rivers of tears. ―It‘s okay,‖ says Robert, over and over. ―It‘s okay. We‘re okay.‖ We don‘t let go of each other. ―Alfred!‖ I say when I look up and see him. Alfred and Officer Williams, the gate security guard, are here with Lobo the guard dog. ―Are they gone?‖ Alfred reassures me they are. ―I got your e-mail,‖ he says grimacing. ―Thank you, Alfred. Thank you!‖ My voice is strangely high pitched and uneven. I break into more uncontrollable sobs. Robert 131

hugs me tighter, choking back sobs too. His face is bloody, and one eye is almost swollen shut. The girls cling to us as if clinging to life.

In a few minutes, the house is full of security guards, an ambulance, embassy security personnel, and eventually the police. I‘m not sure if they just finally showed up, or if someone more important called. The security experts think it was a gang hit, possibly training for a terrorist cell because of the weaponry, number of men, and the treatment of Robert, including, I now hear, a game of ‗Russian roulette.‘ One gunman had a small pistol.

Maybe they didn‘t know we were expats. Maybe they didn‘t care.

It might have been a simple robbery. The attackers probably live just over the hill in Diego Martin.

Apparently, the area just over the hill is ‗gang central‘. Nobody mentioned that before. They don‘t have to pass the guardhouse if they walk through the forest and over the hill. Of course, this is the newest and wealthiest suburb. Many poor locals would probably kill to live here. My husband was almost killed because we do live here. Maybe not for long.

But we are safe. Well, sort of. We won‘t stay here tonight. I wouldn‘t be able to sleep. Thank God for friends. Thank God for Albert, my new best friend. Albert is just a regular guy—the construction manager finishing this house who got my bizarre email.

He rushed up here without a weapon, just to see if he could help. And thanks for another hero, unarmed Officer Williams with that wonderfully vicious dog. Apparently, criminals here are afraid of dogs.

Apparently, dogs here are trained to kill, so the criminals are right.

That‘s why they shot at the dog. And missed.

I‘m only beginning to learn what I don‘t know about this country.

But I think I‘m starting to understand their accent.

Julie Whelan Julie is an American writer. With her Irish husband, she has lived as an ex-pat in London, Trinidad, and Texas (to her, that counts). She currently lives in New Jersey.

132

When in France Since first light, I‘ve been pacing the confines of our cramped apartment. ‗Mr Cool‘ Tim finally says, ‗‗Will you stop that, Ellie.‘‘ I sit down and start chewing my already raw cuticles. I couldn‘t even eat one croissant for breakfast, and I usually scoff two. I think I need to go to the toilet again.

There‘s a crack of thunder and it starts to rain. ‗‗Why did we ever agree to this?‘‘ I moan. ‗‗You know why. To get a better price.‘‘ ‗‗What if they just take the money and run?‘‘ ‗‗They won‘t.‘‘ He’s bluffing.

I use all my willpower to avoid saying, ‗‗This would never happen in England.‘‘ Since we moved to France, it is one of those irritating phrases I hear other expats use, and I‘ve vowed never to say it myself.

Raindrops the size of ping-pong balls bounce off the windscreen. The wipers squeak. Tim is driving, escargot-style, guided by the giant plane trees that flank the road into the village of Cazanet.

We‘re on our way to sign the papers for the purchase of our first house in France.

I should be happy. ‗‗Turn right here,‘‘ I say, peering through the cascade of water pouring down outside my window. ‗‗There‘s the notary‘s sign.‘‘ ‗‗Hang on. We‘re meeting Sylvie and Gerard in the supermarket car park.‘‘ ‗‗Oh yes. The cash.‘‘ Oh my God! ‗‗There they are. Blue Renault.‘‘ I can just make out Gerard‘s fingers tapping the steering wheel, as he peers out from behind heavy-framed glasses. ‗‗Our car or theirs?‘‘ Ours might leak any minute, but if I mention that Tim will kill me. ‗‗Their car‘s bigger.‘‘ Phew.

At least it is warm in the south of France when it rains, not like in England. But stepping from one car to the next is like walking beneath Niagara Falls, and as I sink my sizeable bottom into the back seat, I can feel the wetness oozing into the Renault‘s upholstery. Sitting 133

next to Sylvie‘s dainty Edith Piaf figure makes me feel like a hippopotamus. ‗‗Bonjour! Quel mauvais temps!‘‘ ‗‗Bonjoor!‘‘ Rubbish accent. Rubbish weather too. ‗‗Not our fault about the weather.‘‘ Tim laughs. ‗‗We‘re English!‘‘ Really, sometimes…

Tim and Gerard are in the front. I smother a giggle with my hand as they remind me of characters from some French gangster movie. Right now, the expression ‗paying under the table‘ seems ridiculous. In this case, it could just as well be ‗paying on the front seat‘. It’s not that funny. I’m just jittery. Hysterical? ‗‗…vingt, quarante, soixante…‘‘ Tim counts the twenty euro notes into Gerard‘s hand. Hurry up. ‗‗Don‘t you have any hundreds?‘‘ Gerard asks. ‗‗No. I was afraid the bank would be suspicious of large withdrawals,‘‘ Tim says. ‗‗Pff!‘‘ Gerard responds with a perfect lip-fart. Sorry. No polite way of describing that. ‗‗It‘s normal,‘‘ Gerard continues. ‗‗This is how we do it in France.‘‘ ‗‗Oh,‘‘ says Tim, scratching his head. ‗‗Where was I?‘‘ Groan.

A continual drum-roll of rain thunders on the car roof. Sylvie gives me a conspiratorial smile. I try to return it, but it‘s purely mechanical without an ounce of joy in it. The windows are beginning to steam up. I need some air. I roll down the window a crack and a sheet of water lands in my lap. Merde.

I daren‘t speak. I daren‘t move. If Sylvie or I distract Tim, he will have to start all over again, for the second time. I need a wee. ‗‗€10,000. Correct?‘‘ Tim looks up at Gerard. ‗‗We count one more time to make sure,‘‘ he says. No! I should have spoken out loud. They count it again. This time it comes to too much. Is suicide an option? ‗‗Okay. Okay,‘‘ Gerard says. His lips form a spout and his shoulders rise in a Gallic shrug. ‗‗Let‘s leave it at that.‘‘ ‗‗Good. We‘re already late for the notary.‘‘ Tim and I hop back into our car, as Gerard stuffs the envelopes into his pockets. As we reach the notary‘s car park the rain stops, but puddles leading to the front door of his office block our 134

path. We remove our shoes and wade through. Gerard‘s face creases with concentration, as he struggles to hold onto his shoes, at the same time as keeping a firm grip on the bundles of cash bulging from his pockets. Won’t the notary think that odd? ‗‗I wish I had this on video,‘‘ Tim whispers. ‗‗We‘d be arrested,‘‘ I say. ‗‗Poof!‘‘ No, Tim. Only the French can do lip-farts.

At the reception desk, the notary‘s secretary passes me a small envelope. ‗‗You will need this. No?‘‘ ‗‗Thank you.‘‘ On the front are some words in French, which roughly translate as ‗Only to be opened after the death of Tim Prior‘. ‗‗I‘ll take it, Ellie,‘‘ Tim says.

He pulls out a blotched piece of paper—the sketchily drawnup cash agreement, signed by all four of us. He holds it up for all to see, and rips it in two. The notary‘s wife dumps the pieces in the wastepaper basket. I give my hands a ceremonial rub. Sylvie grins and does likewise. Almost there. The rest is a piece of gâteau. Right?

The notary appears, apparently unaware of the obstacle course we‘ve survived to get here. And seems equally unfazed by the state of Gerard‘s pockets. He shows us into his office. ‗‗Did you see the match?‘‘ he asks Tim. ‗‗What match?‘‘ Tim never could keep a straight face.

The French had ripped the English rugby team apart in the Six Nations decider. The notary grins and raises an eyebrow. ‗‗On to business?‘‘ We nod. The notary gabbles his way through the dozen or so pages of the deeds, in a string of legal jargon. My attention flies straight out the window. I am already sitting on the terrace of our beautiful new home, cocktail in hand, raising my glass to Tim, lean and bronzed (I wish) in the swimming pool. Just as I‘m about to take the first sip, Tim nudges my elbow. ‗‗Just one question before you sign,‘‘ I hear the notary say. ‗‗No other monies have changed hands relating to this transaction?‘‘ What!?

My body implodes. I watch the notary twiddle his pen in his fingers and keep his eyes firmly on the papers on his desk. Tim catches my eye and we exchange one of those it-never-ceases-to-amaze-us looks.

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After what feels like an age, Gerard mumbles a word resembling ‗Non.‘ The rest of us squirm in our seats. A hot glow creeps up my neck. I pull my scarf tighter, noticing how the notary‘s mouth is curling up slightly at the corners with the beginning of a smile. He knows. ‗‗Good. Please sign here.‘‘ Four pairs of shoulders relax. We sign an interminable number of pages, then standing up, we all shake hands. ‗‗Enjoy your new home.‘‘ Sylvie hands me the keys. ‗‗Merci.‘‘ ‗‗Now you are French legal experts!‘‘ Gerard says. It’s supposed to be a joke.

Tim opens his mouth to answer. No! ‗‗Just laugh,‘‘ I whisper to him through gritted teeth.

I‘m still a little shaky and could do with that cocktail now. ‗‗We‘re going to the café for a celebratory drink. Will you join us, Sylvie? Gerard?‘‘ Having negotiated our way back across the Great Lakes, I can feel a new spring in my step as we head for the Café du Centre. Clouds scurry across an azure sky and a blast of heat from the sun reminds me why we chose to live here.

Clinking glasses, I realise Tim and I have crossed another cultural hurdle, and for the first time since moving to France, I feel just a little bit French.

Pff! Jill Brown Jill is a freelance writer living in France. Her short stories have been published in My Weekly, the small press and online. They have also won prizes in several competitions.

136

With A Rose Between Her Teeth Whenever we Costa Brits became weary of sun, sea and sangria, tired of bright beach umbrellas, blue skies, palm trees, bead curtains, and dinner at midnight, we would go over to Debbie and David‘s. Debbie‘s chintzy little villa with its garden gnomes, crocheted toilet seat covers and heavy velveteen curtains was a home from home, a true haven, for the homesick.

Debbie prided herself on the little bit of England she was so adept at creating in this Mediterranean land. She gave tasteful little tea parties with neat cucumber sandwiches and Earl Grey tea. She tirelessly moved heaven and earth to provide endless supplies of Marmite, Proper Thick-Cut Marmalade, Marks and Sparks knickers, Wincyette nightgowns, Heinz Baked Beans, Coleman‘s Mustard, Golden Syrup, HP Sauce, Peanut Butter, Birds Custard Powder and PG Tips. She‘d once saved an entire family from Horlicks withdrawal symptoms when their incoming relative‘s plane was delayed by fog at Gatwick.

Debbie‘s heavy, lumpy, tasteless cooking was a balm to us Brits. At Debbie and David‘s, one always ate dinner at an hour when our hosts – Debbie was far too well brought up to say the Natives or the Locals – were still recovering from their siestas. We tried to pile our peas on top of our forks, drank watery tea from Willow Pattern cups and pretended we weren‘t actually eating at all.

Debbie grew roses and made jam and wore shapeless clothes and sensible shoes.

David played golf and wore socks with his sandals. At Christmas he dressed up in a red suit stuffed with cushions and stomped around the British School braying ―ho, ho, ho‖ and ringing a bell. Debbie made soggy puddings and indigestible mince pies.

Neither Debbie nor David had ever mastered the language of our host country. Despite their adherence to English ways, it was a constant source of concern to them. ―Of course we don‘t need to speak Spanish,‖ Debbie would say. ―But it‘s only good manners, isn‘t it?‖ But with the advent of the European Union, Debbie‘s star began to wane. Soon anyone could buy Baked Beans at the local 137

grocers. And then, when Marks and Spencer opened a store in the nearest city, it was not a happy day for Debbie. Now no-one needed her. Even so, it was a terrible shock when David went.

Went Native, that is.

One evening Debbie phoned around asking if we‘d seen him.

Although she spoke in her usual modulated tones, we could tell that she was agitated, and we all promised to look out for him. But David was nowhere to be seen: neither at the Costa golf club nor the Shenanigan pub nor the Britfast cafe.

Over at Debbie‘s villa, we pressed her for more details. ―I‘m sure it‘s just me being terribly silly, but...‖ Debbie perched on the edge of the sofa, her hands in her lap. ―You see, David so wanted to learn Spanish properly. After all, it‘s only polite, isn‘t it, having lived here for so many years? But as you know, he‘s just not a linguist. None of us are, of course. Anyway, when he heard about this new suggestoneuroneutics method – SNN they call it – he wanted to give it a shot. He had the first two sessions last week and,‖ her voice faltered, ―this morning he brought up his bacon and eggs and toast and thick-cut marmalade. I haven‘t seen him since.‖ We promised to find David and withdrew to the Shenanigan for a confab. Later that evening, Debbie called to say David had returned. However we could tell by the slight tremor in her voice that things were not right, and back to the villa we went. Debbie sat stiffly on the sofa, an embroidered hankie on her lap. Two Horlicks mugs sat on the coffee table.

The heavy silence was suddenly broken by a loud gurgling noise. The gurgling reached a crescendo then turned into a series of splutters and Spanish expletives. Debbie briefly pressed the hankie to the corner of each eye, then crumpled it into a ball. The gurgling started again. We glanced at each other, then tiptoed across the patterned carpet in the direction of the noise. In the bathtub sat David in his vest and pants, pouring red wine in the direction of his mouth from a glass flask with a long spout. Gasping and spluttering as the wine ran down his neck, he wiped his face with the back of his hand, then threw his head back again, mouth gaping, and poured another stream of wine over himself.

In horror we returned to the sitting room to comfort Debbie with fresh Horlicks. Then David appeared in a cloud of cologne. His chest hair protruded from a too-tight shirt, and a St Christopher medal 138

on a gold chain gleamed around his neck. He strode towards us, beaming, shook our hands and thumped us on the back. Then he went over to Debbie, arms wide open, gave her a noisy kiss on each cheek, then thumped her on the back too. “Hombre! Qué pasa?‖ ―I‘m not an hombre, David,‖ said Debbie with a pained look. ―Won‘t you have your Horlicks?‖ “Qué?” David looked totally bemused. “Qué?‖ Debbie pressed the balled hankie to her eyes.

Word got round that David had Gone and that the prognosis was bleak. We went to the villa, all of us, to see what could be done to bring David back. ―What do the suggesto-thing people say?‖ ―That they‘ve fulfilled their contract because now he speaks fluent Spanish. You see, somehow the Spanish has got out of the language part of the brain and spread into the personality part and the psychomotor reflexes and...‖ Debbie‘s voice became choked. ―At first the neurologists thought he‘d had a bilingual septum collapse. They considered doing a language duct anastomosis. But that‘s awfully dangerous and there‘s no guarantee that...‖ Her voice trailed off.

One of us said very carefully: ―Perhaps a good... um... psychiatrist could bring back David‘s English personality.‖ The atmosphere grew thick.

Then the most adventurous of our number said with much clearing of the throat, ―I wouldn‘t dream of interfering, but, ah, one has heard that shamans are reputed to find missing bits of people.‖ ―That‘s terribly sweet of you,‖ said Debbie. ―I‘m sure they‘re absolutely wonderful little men but...‖ Her voice trailed away. ―I thought I might donate him to science.‖ We stared at the ceiling and fidgeted.

Then the door burst open and David barged in, jingling a set of car keys. ―Coming for a spin? Or should I say a vuelta! Ha, ha!‖ Quietly, unobtrusively, we tried all sorts of subterfuges to bring David back: golf tournaments, special consignments of Gentlemen‘s Relish, plans for a real Christmas panto. But all in vain.

David was sighted several times by those of our number brave enough to venture into our hosts‘ territory: in a smoke-filled bar in the old town, with a crowd of small dark men, shouting and slapping people on the back and passing a flask of red wine around, or eating dinner at 139

midnight, a red checked napkin around his neck, prawn shells and legs piled up on his plate. Debbie grew ever paler and thinner.

One day Debbie invited us all for tea. We pretended that we could not hear the blaring TV and David singing Spanish football songs on the patio, and that Debbie‘s eyes were not watery and lacklustre. Little did we suspect that that was the last Chiversraspberry-jam-filled Victoria sandwich we would ever eat in our little corner of Iberia. ―We fought it as long as we could,‖ said Debbie. ―But I‘m afraid one will just have to accept the inevitable. One tells oneself that he‘s...‖ She struggled to stop her voice from breaking. ―He‘s... happy.‖ Soon after that, the devastating news was announced: Marks and Spencers were closing down. Now Debbie would surely come into her own again. We waited, fully expecting a tea invitation and excited plans to hire a coach to go to the city and buy up supplies for the whole community at the grand closing down sale. We waited.

Finally we heard the news. Debbie had Gone. To join David.

Now we see her shimmying down the promenade, stilettos clicking, black lace mantilla fluttering, with a rose between her teeth and a gleam in her eye.

Valerie Collins Valerie Collins has published several prize-winning short stories, written for magazines and guidebooks and is co-author of In The Garlic: Your Informative, Fun Guide to Spain. She lives in Barcelona.

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Zap Ten weeks. The long summer vacation in Saudi: a merciful release from stuffy English boarding schools. And when we‘d had enough of swimming, deserts, colourful souks, cramped markets and long abandoned towns hewn from sandstone, we made our own entertainment. One of the best games we played was discovered quite by accident.

Riyadh was hot in the summer. Our air conditioning unit ran all day. Its constant hum providing the background noise to all our summer activities, ensuring the inside of the villa stayed comfortably cool against the fierce heat of the Arabian Desert. There was one small price to pay for the luxury of not expiring from heat exhaustion inside one‘s own home: an over-drying of the air and the chance for static electricity to build up. To guard against this, we had a huge humidifying unit in the living area and it was my holiday job to keep the water tank topped up each day and make sure it was switched on again afterwards.

Thus we stayed cool and the air adequately moisturised. Well, that was if you remembered to refill it, flick the switch and it worked properly.

Then, one afternoon, my brother discovered that our humidifier had developed such a fault. He had been playing on the floor with his Lego and I was sat on his bed, leafing through one of his favourite comics. When Mum called us for lunch, he quickly scrambled up from the floor, dragging his slippered feet across the carpet in the process. Before dashing to the kitchen, he reached to snatch the comic from me. Even now I can‘t for the life of me think why he did that—I was always careful with his comics. Then it happened: our fingertips touched and there was a huge discharge of static between us. We both heard the crackle and felt the jolt of pain shoot in to our hands and up our arms. Thus, ―Zap‖ was born.

The trick was to make sure the soles of your slippers or flipflops never left the carpet and the faster you slid around, the better.

You could generate such a charge and blast an unsuspecting brother or sister, or even parent if you dared. Adopt the position: hands curled, thumbs pointing skywards and forefinger outstretched, weapons at the ready. The resulting shot was sometimes quite painful, like a waspsting. We spent many an hour haring round the living room, darting in 141

and out of bedrooms ―charging‖ ourselves. Sometimes we would lie in wait, ready for someone to touch you. Mum hated it when we got her this way.

For almost a whole week, as the mullahs made their midday calls to prayer from lofty minarets, their echoes bouncing back and forth across our walled compound refuge, we played Zap! We had the longest faces when the maintenance crew called in at the villa to fit the new humidifier. It worked perfectly...well, as long as you remembered to keep the tank topped up.

F J Safrany Daughter of an Expat in Saudi Arabia and Qatar in the 80s, FJ Safrany became an Expat herself in the 90s and spent five years enjoying life in North Carolina.

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Index of Authors Christopher Allen, 52 Kate Baggott, 89 Jill Brown, 133 Louise Charles, 59 Nicola Cleasby, 74 Valerie Collins, 137 Vanessa Couchman, 98 Andrew Craig, 45 Mary Davies, 113 Eileen Dickson, 78 Janice Dunn, 121 Elizabeth Fearon, 66 Paola Fornari, 15 Jany Graf, 94 Alyson Hilbourne, 85 Carole Howard, 64 Rob Innis, 109 John Major, 19 Marit Meredith, 40 Deborah Nagy, 26 Christine Nedahl, 30 Doreen Porter, 70 Luke Powers, 105 F J Safrany, 141 Pamela Storey, 8 Mary Tod, 35 Julie Whelan, 128 Anne Wilson, 42 Olga Zilberbourg, 116

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