Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
The ferry trip to Ibiza took less than an hour and was uneventful if one excepts the occasional fellow passengers who were 'light in the loafers' (as they say today) and sidled up to Dick on occasion and attempted unsuccessfully to engage him in 'fruitful' conversation.
We passed along the eastern side of the island, barely noticing the resort town of Santa Eulalia del Rio and the island's only river and long before the fancy tourist destinations of Cala Llonga and Cala Blanca had been developed. We were impressed when we rounded the point and viewed for the the first time the glistening white facades of the buildings that crowded up the hillside in the town of Ibiza. We knew the town was old but had no idea that the island's recorded history stretched back six thousand years.
The waterfront stretched for about a mile along the shoreline and from a distance the buildings near the quayside looked like white-painted cardboard boxes climbing up the side of a large hill intersected halfway up by a massive stone wall surrounding the Old Town and the perfect, preserved bastions and buildings of Dalt Vila. A wide concrete jetty extended about half a mile out into the bay from the shore, making the water in the bay smooth and tranquil.
As we drew closer to shore we could see that inside the huge outer wall of the old town was another high wall protecting a dome-like stone structure that could have been either a castle or a monastery. In the days to come we tried on a number of occasions to find an entrance to the outer wall but were unsuccessful. The built-up section of the town extended from the base of the outer wall down to the paved quayside which was about fifty feet wide.
When we stepped ashore on the long dockside we were only two of the many thousands through the years who had 'discovered' the idyllic island for the first time. There were tables and chairs fronting the several bars ranged along the far side of the spacious dockside. Since these were 'tapa' bars serving free snacks of smoked oysters and escargots and a variety of other pickled items we felt that it behooved us to familiarize ourselves as soon as possible with the local habits. Accordingly, we entered the nearest bar and ordered a couple of shots of cognac and helped ourselves to some smoked oysters which were in a large jar and individually impaled on wooden toothpicks. The cognac was smooth and aromatic and was served in glasses that held about three ounces. It cost ten cents a shot.
'I think it might be a good idea to go into town and find a place to stay before we get completely pissed.' Dick said as he finished his third drink.
'I tend to agree,' I said, 'phone for an ambulance.' We paid for our refreshments and left the bar, realizing as we glanced off the door jamb that we were already moderately pissed. 'Downtown' was only about a hundred yards away around the next corner and we soon spotted a hotel sitting on the corner of the promenade.
We were fortunate in our timing, certainly from a contemporary standpoint. We had arrived shortly after the end of April, well before the traditional holiday time for tourists from the rest of Europe. Tourism, virtually at a standstill during the years of the Second World War had still not recovered in Spain. The Marshall Plan had yet to bring currencies back to their prewar vigour and we were the stingy beneficiaries.
Notwithstanding the centuries of successive occupations by the Phoenicians, Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Byzantines and Moors we 'discovered' the island when it was in a relative state of stagnation. I had to chuckle when, nearly twenty years later I read in the travel section of our newspaper about the fantastic 'new' island off the east coast of Spain that had just been 'discovered' by the hip young travellers of the late sixties. Certainly it had become more permissive, with relaxed dress codes and nude beaches, than when Dick and I were there under the furtive eyes of the Secret Service, the Guardia Civil and the local police.
Late in April it was too early for the sun-seeking tourists to head for the Iberian peninsula. The jumbo jets had not started to pour in with their thousands of cut-rate visitors. The Golden Arches had not yet arrived so the people were still eating real Spanish food. Lamb, chicken, potatoes, salad and red wine were our staple foods. We had no difficulty checking into Fonda 'La Victoria' for an indefinite stay. We had a few meals and wine was included. It cost us a dollar a day.
We never knew whether Antonia was the owner of the inn or just the manager but we were so pleased with the arrangement we never bothered to ask. After we had been resident for only four days she told us she knew an elderly lady who had an 'apartamento' up near the old wall, fully furnished, and would be glad to rent it to us for the rest of the month. Would we be interested?
'How much?'
'A thousand pesetas a month each, breakfast and dinner included here at the hotel.' Very much unlike our usual behaviour, we didn't even quibble. A dollar a day each for a fully furnished flat and two meals a day was right in our ballpark.
'Let's have a look!' We trudged up the hill behind Antonia, passing an occasional shop, a fish market here, a butcher shop there until we fetched up at a green wooden door in a stone building that seemed a part of the ancient wall itself.
Antonia motioned us to go ahead and we entered without hesitation as the aged occupant was obviously not present. There was a small foyer with a tiled floor just beyond the entrance door and a flight of worn stone steps leading up to the left. A waist-high stone divider separated the stairway from the main room above. The room itself was about twenty feet long and fifteen feet deep. There was a recess in the far wall that looked like an enlarged station of the cross but was obviously designed for cooking purposes, presumably using the nearby charcoal for fuel. There was an acceptable amount of furniture including a dining table with chairs, a sofa and a lounge chair. There was a day bed at the far end of the room and directly across from the head of the stairs was a bedroom with a single bed and a dresser. In one corner of this room was the tile-encased top of a shaft that led many feet down into the depths. It was a water well! There was a clay jug and a coil of rope beside it but no notice on the wall giving instructions. We didn't have hot and cold running water, but we obviously had cool slowly-raised water available.
There was a certain knack involved in going to the well for water. After lowering the clay jug forty or fifty feet until it touched water, it was necessary to jerk on the rope until the jug had tipped over and filled with water. Then it could be slowly and carefully raised to the top of the shaft. I emphasize carefully because on one occasion when in a hurry I raised it rapidly and banged it rather forcefully against the side of the well. I heard the sound of it striking the rough-hewn side of the well, then a distant splash and a consequent lightening of the load. I continued to haul up until a jug handle and a shattered portion of jug emerged. Fortunately the water jugs were made locally in Ibiza and as cheap as dirt; in fact they were dirt, unglazed baked clay actually! I tied on a replacement jug and started again, carefully this time!
There was a beautiful inlaid tile floor with appropriately hazardous scatter rugs 'scattered', of course, around the room. Every wall had several sanguinary reproductions of Jesus Christ's Passion. Dick enjoyed the same level of piety as I and was not in the habit of doing the Stations of the Cross. As a result, as soon as the agreement was concluded the Lord was removed and stacked below the bed for the duration. I got the bed, incidentally. Dick was preoccupied with his first attempts at sculpturing and wanted to use the dining room table for his practice so we made a trade off. The tiny cooking area was never used because we had breakfast and dinner at the fonda.
We reluctantly concluded after a couple of days that the town mayor was not going to have an official welcoming reception for us (presumably due to a foul up in his calendar) so decided just to become acquainted on our own. There was a glassed-in bar at the south end of the long park encircled by the promenade. Wonder of wonders--we found an old familiar friend inside--a mumble puppy table! We had found our principle raison d'etre and as a result spent our afternoons plugging coins into the slot and dedicating ourselves to developing carpal tunnel syndrome. Just as a quick cost comparison, the game required ten centime coins; since there were one hundred centimes in a peseta and the peseta was worth two and a half cents, you figger it out! We were blowing a quarter of a cent per game! An afternoon of strenuous play (twenty games) could cost as much as five cents! Normal cost these days for a game of 'fusball' in Canada or the States is one dollar!
Dick and I had usually played as a team so warm and pleasant cooperative feelings had been extant whenever we played prior to reaching Ibiza. Now, for the first time, we were 'mano a mano'. So long as our wins were approximately equal our relationship remained genial. However, when one or the other of us went on a winning streak the relationship began to show signs of strain. Gratuitous snide comments were dropped into the conversation. If the situation continued for long there was no conversation. Fortunately we were not carrying deadly weapons. Feelings became bitter when one or the other of us made subtle but hurtful suggestions about how the other could improve his game. We were obviously becoming 'bushed'; after all, it was 'just a game'!
There were a few metal tables and chairs on the pavement adjacent to the enclosed bar and Dick had soon made the acquaintance of a middle-aged woman who was setting daily records for the number of absinthes she could drink. She had them served in a large glass and added water which she claimed minimized the harmful effects. If her liver looked anything like her eyeballs she had already been affected. Dick said the rumour was that her recored was forty! She blamed her bloating on the water.
Another of the early morning regulars was a skinny, scrounging dog with big, pointed ears that I decided was directly descended from the dogs owned long previously by the Pharaohs of Egypt. I made regular attempts to befriend him but he was as wild as a weasel and always kept his distance. It was a shame because the poor creature was infested with ticks. Ticks the size of water-soaked raisins were clustered in each of his huge, paper-thin ears.
Roger Barr came in one day to watch Dick and me play 'Fusball' while we exchanged vicious expletives and later took us out to one of the tables to meet Mijbritt, his current Scandinavian 'squeeze'. Roger was a native Californian and an accomplished painter; his watercolours of pigeons feeding in the town square were impressive to our unpracticed eyes. His Norwegian sweetheart was an attractive long-legged blonde who seemed to have been quietly obsessed with Roger.
We were just leaving a local bistro one night when Roger spotted us and asked if we would like to take in a social event. A taxi had been sent over for him from the party in Telemanca on the other side of the bay. It was being sponsored by the wife of an oil man who was at that time supervising the laying of pipelines and whatever else was available somewhere in Arabia. No doubt his absence was a sore trial to his wife but she was able to bear up bravely since he paid the rent on their accommodations and provided a seemingly infinite supply of Cognac Fundador Domecq, making up to some extent for the melancholy gap created by his absence.
'You fellows may as well go,' he said, 'The taxi is already paid for. All you have to do is jump in and you're away. Don't worry about the way you're dressed, it's strictly informal!'
'I wonder what he meant by that remark?' I said as we climbed into the cab. Our taxi driver had gone for coffee but after a few minutes of conversation in approximate Spanish another driver went off and returned with our man. The highway ran along the beach beside the bay but eventually we lurched off into a side road and followed a narrow, twisting route for several miles between solid stone walls that came within inches of the sides of the taxi. We bounced along this way for ten or fifteen minutes until we were brought to a stop by another cab stalled in the middle of the road. A long argumentative discussion ensued until we finally decided to walk the rest of the way after having elicited sufficient directions from the driver to find our way.
The house ambled along the crest of a long, low hill overlooking the bay and we could discern its outline against the gentian background of the sky. Light poured from one central window like a huge incandescent Cyclopean eye. We mounted the stone steps to the broad porch in front of the living room, then walked into the carnival of noise and activity on the other side of the door. There were about twenty people present in all and they didn't slow down or show any perceptible interest in our arrival, which indicated to me that the party was at least two or three bottles of cognac along the way. Finally a large genial-looking woman with a flushed face and a booming voice spotted us at the door and ploughed through the milling bodies toward us.
'The hostess, I presume,' I said to Dick, smiling idiotically, then, turning to the woman before she could say anything I shouted 'Roger sent us! He's sorry he can't make it. I'm Ron and this is Dick!'
'Splendid, splendid,' she cried, 'welcome to our little group. Pour yourselves a drink! No, come and meet everybody first!' She lurched toward the centre of the room, dragging us with her. 'Now, look, what are you? Artists?' She bubbled happily.
'No,' I said, 'Nothing!' Her jaw dropped and she stood perplexed for a moment, then she smiled archly as though catching on to a private joke shared by just the three of us.
'Oh, come on now, you must be something!' she laughed conspiratorially, fixing me with a mischievous eye that somehow missed the mark.
'Well, yes, I guess I am something, really.' I said, 'I'm a bum!'
'A bum!' she shrieked, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
'Yeah! A tramp, a sponger, a professional moocher, you know!' I was enjoying myself immensely by this time and was impelled by a desire to act completely opposite to what I felt she expected, heedless of her discomfiture or the questioning glances of several of the people within earshot of our conversation. She was a rather large woman and when Dick and I entered the room she had grasped us each around the waist with one of her huge freckled arms and was holding us imprisoned firmly in a vise-like grip all the while. This necessitated constant nimble footwork on our part to maintain the group stability and to keep our sandal-clad feet from being mashed and battered beneath her heels. There was always the risk that at any moment we might all three go crashing to the floor in an uncoordinated heap.
'He's a writer,' said Dick finally, sensing that it was essential that we identify ourselves in some way soon, before the situation deteriorated any further. 'He writes to his mother every week!' he added, doubling over with feigned laughter in a commendable attempt to wrench free from the octopus-like clutch of our hostess. She adjusted her grip quickly, however, and he was once more held helpless.
'Right, and he's a sculptor!' I cried triumphantly. 'One of the best. Modest, though, you know. Can't get a thing out of him.'
'A sculptor!' she cried ecstatically. 'We don't have a sculptor! You're the first!'
'Oh, yes, I sculp a bit, from time to time,' Dick said modestly, gazing toward the picture moulding with a pensive look and a slight wrinkle in his brow.
'He actually means 'sculpt'' I said.
'Simply marvellous--a writer and a sculptor! Now come on and meet everyone.' We were obviously classified at last and things were able to proceed normally once again. Which, of course, was serious drinking! During the brief period when we floated about in the unclassified limbo of nondescription there was a definite threat to the smooth course of the party, but when we were finally identified and related to some of the more popular art forms--rescued from the void, as it were, all present breathed a sigh of relief and carried on happy and secure. Which is bullshit, of course! Everybody else was too self-absorbed and drunk to give a damn and the only one relieved was our hostess, the compulsive 'pigeon-holer'.
She indicated a slight good-looking fellow about thirty years old, clad in a navy blue turtleneck sweater. 'He's a wonderful artist, does really good work,' she said with a gush of enthusiasm. 'His name is Emil; And here's an artist too!' She indicated a tall blonde Swedish man who stopped in the middle of a drink to nod disinterestedly. 'His name is Kurt. Oh, and here's Peter, you should see what Peter's doing! (Peter didn't appear to be doing anything I could see that was particularly interesting) I haven't seen any of it myself because he won't show it to anyone, but I just know it's great, really great!' Peter was slight and tall, very tall, about six foot two or three I guessed and larger than he appeared to be at first glance. He had very light skin which was exaggerated by his dark hair and the thin wisp of a dark goatee on his chin. And so we went on down the line until we had shaken hands with or nodded to most of the artists and writers and musicians in the room. Except for Peter, each was meticulously identified by occupation and then, almost as an afterthought, by name.
Finally she came to a very small man with a cheery red face and a bald head ringed with a halo of crisp curly white hair. A little white goatee jutted from his chin like a mountain goat on a shale bank but which looked much more comfortably at home than the one on Peter's face.
'And this is Grimey, my favourite!' she shouted in a perfect transport of joy, releasing us at last and seizing the little fellow with both arms in a gargantuan bear hug which lifted him completely off the floor. He seemed not to mind this treatment in the least and chuckled loudly and got more red in the face as she whirled him round and round in their grotesque embrace. Finally she set him free long enough to allow him to shake our hands and enquire about our health. We were informed by an interested bystander that Grimey, a not-too-complimentary alteration of his real name, which was Grimes, had for years been the staff cartoonist for one of the large London dailies. He had only recently retired to Ibiza to indulge his long pent-up urge to do something 'a bit more formal'. 'Really our only bona fide celebrity, when you get right down to it,' said our informant.
At last we were allowed to make our way to the bar which consisted of a table with several bottles of cognac, some ice, a pitcher of water and some siphons of soda water. We immediately proceeded to make every effort to shorten the gap between the already semi-stiff members of the group and ourselves. Amongst the young artists we were introduced to at Telemanca were Peter Nicholson and his wife. Their limited financial means had forced them to move to Ibiza, a place of work which supplied a maximum of freedom with a minimum of expense. I should qualify my comment about 'a maximum of freedom'. Peter told us about a friend of theirs who had planned to meet with another artist in Paris. He had foolishly left his passport in his room when he headed out and was hitchhking on the road north of Barcelona when he was stopped for questioning by two Guardia Civile 'typewriters'. When he told them that he had 'forgotten' his passport they calmly informed him that he would have to accompany them to their local headquarters. His response was to utter a rude expletive accompanied by a significant gesture of his right arm and hand. He then turned on his heel and headed north once again. As an afterthought he turned around to see if the police had left and was astonished to see them kneeling on the road with their rifles pointed at his back. He immediately raised his hands and walked back to them.
In the minds of the Guardia Civile a foreigner without a passport was obviously a Royalist spy. Fortunately for him a curious American tourist stopped to enquire and made arrangements for Peter to deliver the passport to his friend who was incarcerated at Barcelona. Spain was indeed a 'police state' where you could exist quietly and inexpensively if you were non-political and didn't get crosswise with the police.
Peter's wife was about twenty-seven years of age and a stunningly beautiful former London model. Marrying a penniless artist probably seemed romantic at the time, but without the professional hairdressers and cosmeticians available she didn't look as glamorous as her former photographs. When she and Peter decided they had enough of the 'elite' foreigners of Ibiza they arranged for a cab to pick them up and I scrounged a ride with them. Dick was riding high and not inclined to leave so we departed with a minimum of fanfare. The Nicholsons dropped me off downton near the Fonda Victoria and I started trudging up the street toward our hacienda. It was already about two in the morning and the town was deserted. As I passed the police station there was a single bare light bulb burning above the open doorway. There was no one in sight but an unlocked bicycle leaned against the front of the small building. My drunken brain drew the predictable conclusion and I straddled the bicycle and rode off down the hill heading back to whence I had come.
The party was less lively by the time I had made it back around the bay but the supply of Pedro Domecq had not been exhausted. However, another half hour of fatuous conversation interspersed with serious rumination convinced me that I was going to be fortunate if I didn't end up in jail for theft. Stealing a bicycle was probably an offence, but stealing a 'police' bicycle must rate as a 'very serious offence'. I decided to part with the addled drunks a second time.
It was dawn when I began my weaving return to the town and was treated to some interesting experiences while en route. I heard a goat bleating but could not see it in the farmyard I was passing. I stopped and looked around the yard carefully but could see only chickens. I knew they didn't bleat. I heard it again but this time it seemed to come from above me. I looked up; it was coming fom above me! There was a domestic goat standing confidently in a tree about twelve feet above the ground. I'm reasonably sure I saw it! I continued on down the road as the sun rose higher in the sky. The road was not paved and was covered with a thin layer of powdery dust. A few yards ahead of me I spotted a thin glistening ribbon lying halfway across it. I had seen these bright ribbons before but had never seen one being constructed.
This time I had caught the perpetrator in the act; a snail almost as large as a golf ball was half way across the roadway laying down a viscid pathway on which to travel. It was slow but effective and I suppose it wasn't expecting traffic at that time of day. It didn't retract into its shell as I expected it to do, so I decided to try a close-up inspection. I laid the bicycle down in the ditch and walked out to the centre of the road where I got down on all fours and peered closely at the solitary traveller. I had never been this close to a large European snail before and I was fascinated by the fact that its body was fully extended as were its long horns which I thought carried its eyes at their tips. If the snail's timing was bad mine was even worse because I became aware of a steady tramping noise which was growing in volume. Migawd! it's the Dawn Patrol! I thought when I looked up and saw the Spanish Army approaching.
I'm inclined to think that the platoon's general amusement was matched only by my intense embarrassment at being caught crouched in the middle of the road studying a snail at daybreak. By the time my alcohol-muddled brain had assessed the situation it was too late to flee or attempt to indicate I was engaged in some other activity. It was a platoon of about thirty men and they were less than a stone's throw away. My last second decision was to stay where I was, affecting a keen interest in my study of Helicidae, the terrestrial European snail. Their arrival was imminent and I realized I was directly in their path but before I could move they separated like a well-trained drill team with two files passing behind me and two passing in front. I didn't even receive the anticipated kick in the balls. 'Crazy foreigners!' I expect they were saying to themselves. When they were a safe distance down the road I rose, dusted off my pants and retrieved the bike, Humbled, I rode on toward town. The streets were still unoccupied and the light was still on above the door at the police station. I rode slowly and carefully up to within ten feet of the station then dismounted and gently replaced the bicycle in the exact spot I had found it. There was no sign of activity within. I was free!
As I walked slowly on up the hill toward our digs I realized I had turned a dull night into an adventurous one; theft of police property, diversion of the Spanish Army, nature study both high and low, what more could one ask? An unlimited supply of Fundador Domecq?
-o-
I was working my way slowly through Dostoevsky's 'Brothers Karamazov' at the time. 'The Brothers 'K'' (as the knowledgable young university students called it) had been was on the lips of every little girl in Innsbruck who had just graduated from some university somewhere. If you couldn't talk knowledgably about 'The Brothere 'K'' you were classified with the average Austrian peasant as 'just another cretin'. I figured I had better get with it. When I found out that Roger had studied Philosophy and Arts at Berkeley I was keen to talk to him about 'the meaning of life'. He was willing to talk.
Locke, Berkeley, Hume, Kant; all were names with which he was familiar. I told him that I had found mathematics and philosophy difficult to rationalize until I had learned of 'a priori circumstance'. It wasn't until I had read about and accepted this doctrine as promulgated by Spencer that I had some satisfaction.
'I had the same sorts of problems,' Roger said, 'in fact I used to lose sleep about it! Then one day I woke up and said 'to hell with it all!' and I've never thought about it since; much happier, too!' Roger made a powerful impression on me and I gradually accepted his viewpoint and quit worrying about matters over which I had little or no control. Such was not the case with the ever-vigilant Secret Police.
There were huge salt flats north of the town of Ibiza which were worked by a crew of men who were transported to work and back by a narrow-gauge railway train each day. On one of these days Roger and Mijbritt decided that a 'picnic' would be fun so they packed a basket with a variety of delicious food and wines, rented a couple of bicycles and set out. They found what they thought was an ideal spot near the edge of the salt flats.
Since the young couple was somewhere between lust and love they snuggled close together following their picnic. Rather than dropping off to sleep they began to indulge in amorous activity. Their embraces became progressively more avid until they reached a level of involvement which was considerably beyond snuggling. By the time the afternoon train passed by carrying the salt flat workers home they had achieved a state of 'flagrante delicto.' Since the right-of-way had become concealed because of the overgrowth of grass the lovers hadn't noticed their proximity to the railroad tracks. But the train engineer noticed them and slowed the train down sufficiently to afford a satisfactory viewing for his passengers. This was much too sensational an event to remain undiscussed by the salt workers and eventually the general public. It finally reached the ears of the Secret Police. Abomination!
Mijbritt was given until noon the next day to leave the island because of her 'lewd and immodest' behaviour. When I asked Dick if he knew why Mijbritt was singled out and not Roger he said that Norway wasn't negotiating massive borrowing from the United States like Spain was. I later wondered at the effectiveness of this punishment since there was no other destination from Ibiza but some other location in Spain.
'Oh,' I said cynically, 'that certainly makes good common sense!' When Mijbritt left the next day Roger was with her.
***
One day we met Margaret Nicholson who was walking along the quayside with Angela, her little three-year-old daughter. Margaret did not look particularly dainty herself but her daughter was positively dirty. Her dress had obviously not been washed for some time and her hair was snarled and tangled.
'Where are you lads off to?' she enquired.
'We've heard there's a liquor factory down here somewhere so we thought we'd try to find it.' I said.
'I know exactly where it is,' she replied. 'I can take you there if you like.'
'Great idea, lead on!' We walked another quarter of a mile along the quay until we came to a nondescript building we might have missed had we not had Margaret's assistance. Large wooden vats lined the walls and there was an agreeably sweet odour in the air that was presumably a mixture of the various herbs utilized in the liqueurs. We were cordially greeted by a man who was apparently the proprietor. He spoke no English but Margaret was capable of carrying on a dialogue with him that proved to be more than adequate.
'He says you are welcome to sample all of the different liqueurs until you are ready to make a selection.'
'That sounds like an offer we can't refuse,' Dick said.
'I couldn't agree more,' I said happily. 'Does he supply stretcher bearers?'
'He'll only give you small samples,' Margaret said.
'I wouldn't count on it!' I said.
My comment was prophetic. An hour and a quarter later we lurched out of the establishment after having 'large' samples of every liqueur they made. In addition I was carrying a large parcel containing quart bottles of five different kinds of the local product: Palo, Anisette, Cognac, Rumanisette and Absinthe. They were all at least forty over proof and the total cost was approximately three dollars and fifty cents. (I have the invoice!)
'Migawd! where's Angela?' Margaret cried. 'She was here only a moment ago!' She had the typical terrified look of a woman whose small child has disappeared and has no notion of which direction in which she has gone. I looked down the street and saw a woman walking along holding a toddler by the hand. Another familiar-looking toddler of similar size was walking along beside them. Angela had obviously been looking for a friend and had found one.
'Take a look down there,' I said to Margaret who was verging on complete panic.
'Oh, migawd, it's her!' she cried and shot off after them like a greyhound.
'Bad grammar, that,' I said.
'What're you talking about?' Dick queried.
'She said 'it's her!' She should have said 'it's she!', 'her' takes the objective case.'
'Oh, for Christ's sake, gimme a break will you!' he snarled.
We waited while Margaret took her daughter by the hand and spoke to the Spanish lady. After several minutes of delay Dick volunteered to go down and see what the problem was. A few more minutes of discussion ensued after Dick joined the group, then he and Margaret and the child finally left the Spanish woman and came back to where I had been waiting. Dick was wearing a "shit-eating" smile which piqued my curiousity. Margaret was looking distraught and the young child unconcerned.
'I can't believe it!' Margaret exclaimed. 'That stupid woman thought I was trying to kidnap Angela--my own child, for God's sake! Who could believe such a thing?' I could, I thought!
We stopped at a little pastry shop on the way back to our flat and bought three times our usual supply of incredibly delicious tarts, some filled with lamb, the others with fish. Little Angela was obviously undernourished and we bought the tarts with the excuse that it was our usual routine but we knew that most of them would end up with Angela and her mother.
'We really should be going,' Margaret said after we had been at the flat for a while.
Angela had started eating the tarts as soon as we left the pastry shop and was still preoccupied with them.
'You may as well take the rest of these,' I said, handing the bag with the remaining pastries to Margaret. She accepted them after a token denial.
'I fear for that little girl,' I said as we stood watching them walk down the street.
'So do I,' Dick said. 'She's dirty and she's also half-starved. I think she took off with that little Spanish girl and her mother simply because she's desperate for companionship.'
***
Dick and I had never seen anything quite like the 'promenade' that took place each night around the large downtown park. Promptly at seven the young ladies of the town began appearing for their nightly stroll around the promenade. The first time we saw it Dick and I thought we had arrived in 'free love heaven'. Most of the girls were aged between fourteen and eighteen and dressed in their best black lace dresses. Every nicety of cosmetics had been used, full red lips, rouged cheeks, eye shadow and what we assumed were false eyelashes were 'de rigeur'. Many wore fancy turtleshell combs in their shiny black hair over which they had draped lace mantillas. Regrettably we were encouraged by their incredibly flirtatious behaviour; they smiled at us seductively, stared at us brazenly and in some cases actually winked at us in an overt 'come on' manner.
That was the 'up' side. The 'down' side was that each group, and they numbered from two to five or six, had a stern, middle-aged woman accompanying them. These were the 'dueños', the stern chaperones mandatory in Spain.
'Good gracious me, get a load of the chest on that one.'
'Dig that one on the far end,--I swear she winked at me!'
'How in hell do you cut one of those gorgeous fillies out of the herd, anyway?'
Thus the conversation progressed for an hour as our youthful hopes and juices rose in concert. But the witching hour, eight o'clock, approached, as did our dashed hopes. As suddenly as they had all appeared, they all disappeared.
'Where the hell did everyone go? It was just starting to get interesting.'
'Beats the hell out of me, I think it's all some kind of sadistic Roman Catholic plot!' Meanwhile, in the background, I swear I could hear the sound of door bolts being slid firmly home and security bars being dropped into place. I assumed that pent up frustration was extant on both sides of the barred doors.
Based on our previous experience in the big city of Barcelona we found it difficult to believe that there were no 'Houses of Pleasure' in existence in the town. But persistent questioning of the natives and the displaced foreigners met simply with negative head shakes. Meanwhile, all of our lascivious juices had been energized so we continued to search for reconciliation.
One evening when we had been invited to the Nicholsons for a drink I made bold to tell them of our lack of success in finding an outlet for our thwarted impulses.
'Oh, sorry, I meant to tell you but I'm afraid I forgot,' Margaret announced. 'I think I know where the place you're looking for is located.'
It was slightly embarrassing to carry on this conversation with Peter present but he seemed unconcerned. Presumably Margaret had already told him of the dilemma Dick and I had felt. I took a sip of the red wine I had been given and tried not to evidence my absolute disgust. Dick and I had been able to buy a drinkable red wine at the vintners for about ten cents a litre. I couldn't imagine anyone paying less for a wine but they seemed to have done so, or maybe they hadn't paid for it. Could it have been some kind of dregs? Had the wine merchant discerned the beginning of sediment in his cask and given the remainder away for no charge? It was acrid and difficult to swallow, perhaps the first drink in my life I had never finished.
'Well, don't be shy,' I said, 'Where is it ?'
'You're probably not going to believe this,' she said with a chuckle, 'but it's right across the street from us,!'
'You mean from where we are now?' I said incredulously.
'Afraid so,' she said with a laugh. 'It turns out we're living in the middle of the 'red-light' district!' she said with a laugh. The Nicholson's flat was only a short block and a half from the bar at the end of the promenade. 'Don't exaggerate, dear, it's only one place, not exactly a district!' Peter said.
'Is it that green door right across the street?' I said. 'That's the one!'
'So I guess I'll check it out,' I said. 'You comin', Dick?'
'Maybe I'll just wait here until I see whether they throw you out or not,' he replied.
'Please yourself, chickenshit!' I said.
'See if you can get the 'soldier's rate'!', Margaret said tauntingly as I walked to their door.
'How do you know about any 'soldier's rate'?' Peter said suspiciously.
'I'm not completely stupid, you know!' Margaret replied tartly. 'I got it from the same source that told me where it's located.'
'I'd like to know where that source is located,' Peter grumbled quietly.
I crossed the street and knocked on the door. After a few moments it was opened by a dark-haired woman in a dressing gown, thirtyish and with a clear complexion.
'?Puedo me ayudarle?' 'How can I help you?' she asked with a pleasant smile. Of course I knew exactly how she could help me but I had to be slightly cautious, especially with my fractured 'Spanglish'. I resorted to the time-worn option of sign language. It seemed to be effective because she swung the door wide and waved me in. I was surprised by what I saw. There was no settee with a group of four or five tarted-up young females anticipating the evening trade. The room was spacious but sparsely furnished. There was a wooden table on the far side of the room where four old men were seated playing cards. They didn't bother to look up when I entered.
A young woman in white tennis shorts was standing beyond the table at an ironing board, pressing and folding various light articles of clothing. I was taken to a table and chair off to one side and sat down as the laundry lady looked up and smiled. Meanwhile my hostess had gone over to a bar and returned with a glass of acceptable red wine. Becoming acquainted was much less difficult than convincing her, whose name I had established as Racquel, that I was entitled to the 'soldier's rate' but she finally relented after I had told her in an appropriately heartrending manner of our state of penury.
After concluding that session my lady friend went over to a sofa near the wall and picked up some needlework she was working on. Good heavens! I thought, I haven't witnessed such a scene of harmonious domestic bliss for ever so long! Even slow-sipping my wine in an uncharacteristic manner did not account for the long delay in the arrival of my buddy. I had finished my wine and Racquel had come back for my glass when I decided I had waited long enough. I grasped her wrist and nodded toward the staircase leading to the second floor. She nodded her approval and we walked over and started upstairs just as Dick opened the door and walked in. I paused on the staircase, looked back at him with a smile, cocked my beret over one eye, winked and continued up the staircase behind Racquel.
The 'activity' room was as clean and sterile-looking as a hospital surgery. The ensuing encounter was as lacking in romance as the digging of a ditch. Raquel was as placid as a millpond and if I'd had the time I'm sure I would have begun to think about other extraneous matters. But I didn't have the time; I behaved much in the manner of a bunny rabbit and although Racquel was most solicitous about washing and drying my exhausted equipment the experience was in no way memorable. On the other hand, what did I expect for sixty-two and a half cents?
Not very long after I had walked up the stairs I was walking back down the stairs. I went over and sat down beside Dick as Racquel refilled my glass.
'How was it?' he said.
'Great! Absolutely fantastic!' I lied. 'You can have your pick from a selection of two attractive young ladies at your leisure.'
'I think I'll pass for the time being,' he said casually.
'Whatta you mean, you think you'll pass? Are you nuts or somethin'? I even got us the 'soldier's rate'! Twenty-five pesetas! It's the cheapest fuck you'll ever get! What exactly is your problem?'
'These girls are rather plain, actually.'
'Jesus Christ! Whatta you expect for twenty-five pesetas? Marilyn Monroe? Maybe you'd like for me to get some flour sacks or paper bags to put over their heads! Look, if you want romance go to the movies, if you wanna fuck, go upstairs!
'I think we should leave.'
'You think we should leave do you? I bust my ass finding this place and getting the best rate in town and you wanna leave. That's beautiful, just fuckin' beautiful! Right then, let's leave!' I rose and looked toward Racquel and put fifty pesetas on the table. She nodded and smiled. I returned her smile and then wheeled and followed Dick out the door.
I thought later about the transient nature of sex and how similar it was to pain. If someone is suffering excruciating pain from a toothache or other physical ailment it seems commonplace for him to make solemn promises to whatever deity he customarily pays obeisance. "If you just make this pain go away I promise I'll go to church every day for the rest of my life, or, I promise never to swear again, ever!" Of course, when the pain goes away he forgets about his fervent pledges and carries on with his life. Sex is much the same, 'I'll just put it in a little way,' he'll say, or, 'I love you, I love you with all my heart!'; then, prepared to support all the children in the world at the critical moment he happily fucks his quarry and promptly begins to lose interest and all memory of the promises he has made. There is no memory of either physical pain or physical pleasure. In the first instance it is much to be avoided; in the second instance it can be regained with effort and application. Should I discuss this with Dick? Nah, 'fluck it!' as the old Chinaman said, he wouldn't understand!
-o-
One day we saw some young fellows far down at the end of the jetty with snorkels and face masks. Notwithstanding our incredibly busy schedule we decided to walk down and have a closer look; we put on swim trunks and wandered down. To our astonishment the husky boy who seemed to own the equipment surfaced with an eight pound fish skewered on the end of his spear just as we arrived.
'Good Lord! I can't believe that he caught a fish like that here!'
'So where do you think he caught it, Barcelona?' Dick said dryly.
'Okay, okay! I just can't believe there are fish that big in these waters.'
We hung around with hang dog looks for a while before the diver asked us if we would like to have a 'go'. We were surprised and pleased that he was so fluent. I said I wouldn't mind, so he handed over the face mask, snorkel and flippers and I rigged up and jumped into the water. There were no fish that big in the waters I visited. I dove several times and held my breath as long as I was able but saw no fish of large size, in fact, no fish of any size. It turned out that I was not deep enough. I came back onto the jetty and handed the equipment over to Dick.
'Here, you try it, I couldn't see a goddam thing down there!' Neither of noticed the quiet approach of the gentleman in the brown uniform. It turned out that he was the village policeman who had been alerted by the Harbour Master that there were two men on the jetty who were 'not wearing shirts!'. The local police force had been summoned to deal with the 'emergency'. As a result--'gentleman in brown uniform'. With the help of the skilled scuba diver we got the message that the gentleman in the brown uniform would be required to jail us unless we returned home and acquired appropriate clothing for our upper bodies. The bicycle the gentleman in the brown uniform was riding looked familiar.
'He says you cannot come out here without a shirt on,' interpreted the expert scuba diver.
'Tell him we've got swim trunks on,' Dick said.
'He says he was phoned by the Harbour Master and it isn't permitted for you to be here without a shirt.'
'You mean we've got to go back and get a shirt on before we can dive under the water, out of sight?'
'Afraid so--the Harbour Master's word is law.'
'That's ridiculous! As far as I'm concerned the Harbour Master's full of shit!'
'I can think it but I can't say it; after all, I've got to live here!'
I still have the feeling that if we hadn't the good luck to have a man who was a fluent interpreter we'd have been heading for the police station instead of our flat. Having discharged his vigilant duty the local police force rode off down the jetty on his ancient bicycle. Still fuming over the prudish attitude of the locals it was like having salt rubbed in our wounds when we looked down and saw a local labourer who had dropped his drawers and was having a leisurely bowel movement amongst the rocks at the bottom of the jetty. It was a mighty screwed up town!
San Antonio, up on the northwest side of the island, was touted as a superb resort town with long sandy beaches and classic accommodation. There were bicycles for rent in the town of Ibiza so we decided one fine day on a bike hike to the resort town. We had barely made it to the outskirts of Ibiza when we were waved over to the side of the road by a couple of grim-faced men in civilian clothes and fedora hats. I decided it was too hot or they would have been wearing their black leather coats and dark glasses.
'Christ Almighty, will no one rid us of these meddlesome fellows?' I whispered 'Anouilh-like' to Dick . First there was the leisurely inspection of our passports, notwithstanding the fact that they had been lurking about watching us for at least two weeks. Then they began pointing to Dick's cut-off blue jeans.
'Not again!' he said, 'I don't believe this!' But it was indeed true, the arrogant assholes had concluded that Dick's cut-offs were 'not apppropriate' dress and he would have to go back to the flat and put on a pair of long trousers. The temptation to assault them was intense but we realized that would just lead to jail time. Police states were not much fun!
We decided after about five minutes at San Antonio that they had spent most of their budget on advertising. The place was literally deserted. We were beginning to feel like desert island marooned sailors before a waiter finally appeared to ask us if we wanted a drink. We decided to treat ourselves to a beer before the dry dusty return facingus. Maybe the nude bathers have turned things around in the past few years, otherwise we think we were looking at an establishment headed for bankruptcy.
-o-
One evening we were sitting at a table on the quayside waiting to see if anyone interesting was coming in on the evening ferry. A middle-aged Spanish lady dressed all in black came up to our table and managed to convey the message that she was prepared to give us Spanish language lessons if we were interested. After it was established that we were interested in having lessons we got down to the 'nitty gritty' of establishing the cost. Communication was still far from being favourable so, in order to avoid any misunderstanding, we asked her to write the details in my notebook along with her name and address. I still have it but it still has elements of illegibility even now. It looks like:
Teresa Acabo,
Calle Pedro Tur No. 4
clase de Espanol
35 pesetas, 30 days
6 tardes
I had written 'Start April 9, 1953' below her note.
We had some difficulty maintaining straight faces while she wrote out the contract. What it really said was that we would get one hour of instruction at 6 p.m. every day for a month for a charge of thirty-five pesetas (eighty-seven and a half cents each). We had no twinges of conscience--she had set the price and we had not quibbled. I told you we were cheap! But the worst was yet to come!
We arrived promptly at her flat on the appointed evening and were shown to a table where three chairs had been set up. She sat between us and opened a single text. Communication was still minimal but it soon became obvious that she was apologizing for not having a Spanish-English dictionary. She had a French-Spanish dictionary! I could tell Dick was astonished; I had taken five years of French at school but Dick was virtually ignorant of the language.
'Good lord!' he muttered quietly. He showed up for two more painful sessions then told me he was resigning. Would I mind passing on the good news to our 'teacher'? I was having rather heavy going myself, first with the embarrassing explanation of Dick's decision to quit, then with the cost of the continued lessons themselves (we compromised for half of what payment Dick still owed). With no other teaching aids and Ms. Acebo's virtual inability to write legibly, after a few more lessons I found myself coming to the same decision Dick had made. I toughed it out for a further ten days of meaningless meetings then told her I was terminating our arrangement. Just think, between us we had pissed away nearly two dollars on unredemptive attempts at learning!
One day we decided to visit the church just below the old city wall at the southwest side of the old town. It was open but there was no one in sight, not even an isolated supplicant or what passed for a warden. The interior of the building was bathed in bright sunlight and what appeared to be a plethora of imitation human blood. This was not the deep blackish-red colour of dried human blood but the bright shiny red of fresh arterial blood.
There were seven 'Stations of the Cross' ranged along each side of the pews, most of which had a sanguinary component but we were not inclined to spend time genuflecting. We were fascinated by the life-size blood-drenched figure of Jesus Christ nailed to the cross above the altar. We walked up close to the statue of Christ and decided it was made of some ceramic material of unknown origin. The realistic-looking blood appeared to be wax but my curiousity was aroused. After glancing around surreptitiously I reached out and touched it.
'Jesus! You'll pardon the expression I'm sure, but whatta you tryna do?' Dick hissed.
'Relax! I'm just checking!' I said. But the 'blood' was not soft and pliable as wax would have been, but as hard as the rest of the statue. It made some sense, of course, since the church was medieval and the images just as old. Christ's legs were indeed crossed and one spike used to impale both feet. The Romans obviously assigned more value to the spikes than to the feelings of their victims.
'Dearie, dearie me, that method of departing from this tear-stained vale must have really smarted!'
'Tell me about it,' Dick said.
'There must have been tens of thousands of poor bastards who were hung out to dry this way. On the other hand there must have been a few who were 'lucky' in an Irish sort of way!'
'I don't follow you!'
'Well, I realize this is a sort of kinky way to look at it but what about the few who were haemophiliacs? With holes that big in them they would have bled out in just a few minutes. No doubt the soldiers were quite disappointed.'
'That's an interesting point; sick, but interesting!'
'Surely you're familiar with all the other sick jokes about crucifixion.'
'Not really.'
'Well, they say that Caesar was in the habit of walking down the road lined with the crucified victims to add to his feeling of domination, presumably. On one occasion he said to one of his centurions 'Go and get me a ladder, quickly, that one seems to be trying to say something to me!'
'When the soldier returned with the ladder and it was placed against the upright of the cross, Caesar climbed up and placed one ear close to the dying man's lips. The man mumbled something and Caesar said 'Louder, I can barely hear you!' Then, with a final dying effort the man said 'I was just saying "I can see your house from here!"' On another occasion, a celebration of his birthday in fact, he was up on the ladder and a convict croaked "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you!" then expired.'
'God, you Canadians are really sick, you know!'
'It's our specialty!' I said modestly.
'Let's get out of here,' Dick said, 'I think I've had enough.' As we walked back down the hill Dick was still curious to know more about the crucifixions and the selection process. 'So why has this guy been singled out to be deified and all those thousands of others ignored?'
'Think about it!'
Another hundred yards down the road Dick said 'Okay, I've thought about it...what's the story?'
'Well, I'll admit that J.C. had a bit of a leg up over the others; he'd been attracting attention to himself by going into the temples and spoiling the business of the money changers and also telling everybody that he was the son of God. The Romans were also becoming impatient with the things he had been saying about them and their gods. Did you know that when they were hiding out in the catacombs their secret symbol was a fish?'
'I seem to remember something about that.'
'Can you imagine a movie called "The Sign of the Fish?"
'Don't tell me Hollywood had something to do with that!'
'Well, the choice was theirs,' I said. 'Anyway, every religion needs a martyr or a holy man so the members of his little group of followers did a number on him and Pontius Pilate cooperated by 'washing his hands' of the whole affair. Once this was done the Christian religion was off and running. The rest is history, quite distasteful history in many cases!'
'What a lovely cynical viewpoint,' Dick said.
'Another one of my specialties,' I said.
'Why do you say every religion has to have a martyr or a holy man?'
'Actually not every one has, but I remind you of what Roger Barr said. He got so involved in religious studies that he was losing sleep at night. Eventually he just threw up his hands, in effect said 'to hell with it all!' and has been reasonably content ever since. The various religions and their beliefs are so varied and complicated that people can spend their lives just trying to comprehend their variety. As for their beliefs in God and the various divine and mysterious powers extant I just say 'Forget it, it's a hobby for some and a power trip for others. 'Nuff said!'
That night we were sitting at a bar drinking glasses of acceptable red wine and the subject of churches and their role was raised once again. Dick was sitting to my right and a labourer we had never seen before was sitting to my left. He obviously had a marginal understanding of English and it was apparent that he was listening closely to our conversation. Eventually he had managed to insert himself into the discussion with brief comments of approval or disagreement. I was moderately stoned by this time and not giving much thought to my comments. Following one of my observations the stranger offered one of his more frequent comments.
'Which church do you belong to?' I asked him in all innocence. He paled slightly and looked at me as though he were at a complete loss for words, which, as it turns out, he was! While I was waiting for a response from our suddenly inarticulate acquaintance I became conscious of persistent nudging by Dick. When I eventually turned to him he looked at me like I was drunk (which I was).
'There is only one!' he whispered.
'One what?' I asked stupidly.
'One church, stupid! It's called Roman Catholic!'
'Oh, yeah, right! I said. When I turned back the stranger was hunched over his glass again and didn't seem inclined to talk.
The following day was the end of the month and we were due to move on. Bill had arrived the previous night and we had him sleeping on the floor so he was looking forward to a bed on the ferry. I made my bed but knew it would be stripped and washed forthwith. The framed sanguinary lithographed photographs of Jesus Christ's Passion were retrieved from below the bed, dusted off and hung back where we thought they had been previously mounted. We told Antonia of our impending departure and told her to make out our bill, including our meals for the following day. Dick spent most of the evening building a box in which to store his beloved sculpture, packing it carefully in tissue paper before nailing it shut.
I'll admit that our idea of 'idyllic' in those days was basically related to how much we had to pay for things, but I don't want to give the impression that Ibiza verged on the idyllic in other ways. There were other minor aggravations beyond the officious and intrusive behaviour of the various levels of police state oppression.
There were no bullfights in Ibiza for what seemed like an obvious reason. The population of the island was less than a rinky-dink plaza like Felanitx had to draw on, so anyone interested in watching quality corridas would presumably take a ferry to Palma. The hairy-chested macho men of Ibiza were not about to be deterred by such a minor inconvenience, however; they opted for fighting cocks. Regrettably, there is a degree of vainglory bred into these fighting birds and although quiet while being held by their owners prior to an encounter in the cockpit they feel free to challenge each other all night long from the safety of their pens. Naturally we never knew about this phenomenon until it was too late to do anything about it, such as not going there in the first place!
As a result we spent a portion of every night listening to hair-brained 'cock-a doodle-doo's' before finally dropping off to sleep from exhaustion. I never 'cottoned' much to the sick attraction the Spanish men had for their fighting cocks, coddling them like their "'first-born', kissing their heads and murmuring to them as they were held opposite their potential killers, long, sharp-pointed stainless steel spurs strapped to their legs. The wagering before each contest was brief but frantic and soon the start signal was given. The cocks flew up and attempted to drive their spurs into their opponent. There were usually two or three flurries required before one bird was sufficiently wounded to be unable to continue. Even so the fight was usually concluded within four or five minutes. Occasionally one cock would strike a fatal blow to the head of the other at the outset and the fight would be finished in less than a minute.
I have no problem with men staging cockfights for pleasure or gain and, in fact, have enjoyed witnessing them myself on occasion. So, you are probably saying, 'What's your problem?'
My problem is that the stupid bastards (I refer to the birds) never seem to be aware that the fights are over and they're back home in their pens. The horny little pea-brained buggers keep right on challenging each other throughout the night with their sunrise caterwauling. Ironically, once they have been reasonably reassured that everyone within earshot has spent a restless night they go to sleep just as the sun comes up.
Speaking of disagreeable noises, there was one other I should mention. That was the sound of the garbage collection unit, which in this case comprised a tired old donkey with straw baskets hanging from each side. In Canada we called it 'garbage', in the United States they call it 'trash', in Spain it's called 'basura'. We never had much in the way of 'basura' but the 'basurero' made a ritual of stopping at our address daily. We always knew when the four-legged 'bote de la basura' had arrived because of the loud, harsh, disagreeable sound of his braying which alerted us to his arrival. We also knew that, incredibly, it would be within a few minutes of four o'clock in the afternoon. The 'basurero' would have had slim pickings at our place beyond the occasional empty liquor bottle. By the time we left the island I was able to deliver a reasonable imitation of the pathetic, mournful cry that seemed to reflect all of the painful labour that he and his ancestors had accumulated over the centuries.
You will recall that the 'water closet' as it was jokingly referred to was at the bottom of the staircase behind the green door. That is to say it was 'behind' the door if the door were opened suddenly. It would have been embarrassing for all concerned if the toilet were 'ocupado' at the time. Since we didn't have a supply of reading material in place I thought of it as a place for quiet rumination and analytical thought. Ever since we had moved in we had been puzzled by the deep, smooth indentations on the 'four by four' oaken beam along the top front edge of the 'can' that fitted so smoothly into the calf at the back of each leg. I was quietly pondering the variety of different warriors who had been occupants of Ibiza for the hundreds of years past and picturing in my mind's eye a Roman centurion dressed for battle, complete with solid metal shinguards. Shinguards! That was the answer! Eureka!
For a moment I'm sure I experienced the euphoria of Archimedes. I nearly dribbled in my haste to rush upstairs, stumbling in my pants, to relay my brilliant discovery to Dick. 'What's your problem?' he said, looking up from his sculpture. 'You look like you've just seen a ghost!'
'It was the shinguards!' I said excitedly.
'Whatta you mean, the shinguards? You nuts or somethin'? I carefully explained my theory to Dick who was still regarding me with a suspicious look. 'I would have thought iron shinguards would have made a lot of nicks, not that smooth surface.'
'Well,' I said, rationalizing quickly, 'you have to remember that metal shinguards came along fairly late in the game. They were made from hard leather for several hundred years before that.'
'You may have a point there,' Dick said grudgingly.
'Exactly!' I said, beaming with pleasure. I had solved 'the mystery of the mutilated crapper'.
I had for some time watched with interest the behaviour of the tiny salamanders that were occupants of the stone walls that were everywhere in Ibiza. A salamander is a sort of toy breed of alligator. Most of them were about six inches long, give or take a half an inch. At least half of their length was comprised of a tail which tapered down to a point. I guessed that they wouldn't weigh much more than half an ounce soaking weight. If it weren't for their legs you would say they were snakes. They were brownish in colour and their backs had a pretty bright green inlaid pattern. I stood exchanging stares with one sunning itself atop a wall one day and pondered the possibility of trapping him as a pet.
Legend has it that salamanders have the ability to live in fire but of course I had no intention of testing this mythical lore. He just lay there with his little yellow eyes staring at me, and occasionally his black forked tongue flicked out quickly. It was difficult to tell whether he was sitting or standing; he could be lying flat on his stomach and still have all four feet on the ground. Salamanders are very fast on their feet and the feet have small claws on each toe which enables them to clamber up walls where there are no apparent footholds. I sneaked up on him gradually, getting down on my knees and using an intervening patch of grass for cover, then I pounced quickly with my hand and held the grass down on top of him. He struggled hard to escape but I had him by the throat and before he knew what was happening I had popped him into a little cardboard box.
When I got back to town I made a new, more elaborate cage for him. It consisted of a larger box with two windows in it which I had made by sticking cellulose tape over the holes I cut in the top of it. He would put his nose against one of the windows and press with all his strength trying to get out of his little prison. I began to feel that unless I could make his captivity a bit more bearable I should release him. I lit on the idea of a tether. The plan was to tie a tether rope around him and then let him run around on the window ledge and catch flies or whatever else he might fancy. It wasn't a rope, of course, but a length of black Number Ten thread. We carefully removed him from the box and I held him while Dick tied the thread around his middle (around the salamander's middle, of course) which really 'pissed off' the salamander. I suppose you might say he was furious. He kicked and twisted and writhed around trying to get rid of the tether. When I took him over to the window sill and anchored the thread to the sill he climbed up the side of the window as far as he could. He was a feisty little bugger and continued to pull with his front legs in an effort to drag the tether down over his hind legs. He finally managed to get it slipped off partway over one leg which only got him snarled up. Then he just hung there, holding on by his front legs like a man trying to drag himself out of quicksand.
Eventually I began to worry that he might permanently cripple himself so we decided to take off the tether and try to tie one around his neck. I had him sitting on my knee and was reaching over to grasp him by the neck when the little bastard twisted suddenly and bit me on the finger. The thing that amazed me most was the size of his mouth. It opened wide and I could see the tiny sharp teeth like rows of little needle points in his jaws. When he clamped down on my finger he let go with his feet and just dangled there in midair, hanging on with his teeth. I had to shake my hand to get him off and he flew through the air and landed on the bed. The first thread was still attached though so I reeled him in quickly and grabbed him again. I decided we were not friends. It was my turn to be pissed off. If we'd had a flush toilet that's where he would have been headed. However, we persisted and this time made no slip-ups. We got the new thread around his neck and cut the old one off.
The day we left Ibiza I gave the salamander his freedom. His bonds fell away and he was liberated but he did not seem to believe it. He merely sat blinking in the bright sunlight, looking lonely and afraid. There was no one to bite! It was too late, I suppose, to expect anything else. He was broken, his spirit snuffed out like a candle flame. He seemed not to be enjoying his rediscovered freedom. C'est la vie!
— The End —