Two Old Fools - Olé!

All three drivers leaned on their horns and wound down their windows, allowing three different sets of music to blare out into the valley. Joe and I exchanged glances. Who were these people? What were they doing in our village? We had a bird's eye view from our roof terrace, and we froze in horror as the raucous convoy thundered past the village square, turned into our street, and parked below, right outside our house. Nothing much had changed in the five years since we'd made El Ollo our home. Our ability to speak Spanish had improved hugely, but there were only a handful of permanent residents in the village with whom to practice it. However, every Friday evening the population of the village rose, only to plummet again on Sunday nights as the weekenders returned to the city. Of the permanent villagers, dear old Marcia had hardly aged at all. Always dressed in black, with her silver hair secured by ever-escaping hairpins, she continued to run the only village shop. The shop was aging faster than she was, the walls were beginning to crumble, and the steps had worn away. Luckily, her two strapping sons came up to the village most weekends and carried out basic maintenance. Uncle Felix, the illiterate retired shepherd, still shared his two-roomed cottage with his beloved mule and a pair of chickens. Ancient, but like most Spanish peasant folk, he enjoyed rude health, and frequently boasted he had never visited a doctor. Although toothless and wizened, he still possessed more energy than either Joe or I. Every February we relied on Uncle Felix to supervise the pruning of our grapevine. He would arrive, cloth cap pulled low over his eyes, ready to bark out orders. His mule would wait patiently outside in the street, thoughtfully grazing on our window box, aware that her adored master would rejoin her soon. If the window was open, she'd push her long face into the room, rattle her ears, and snicker for her master. Cut there. No, not there, further up. Madre mia, not that branch. Cut the one to the left. Joe and his clippers would dance hither and thither, obeying Uncle Felix's commands. But it was worth it. Every year the grapevine produced huge, plump bunches of grapes, more than we could possibly eat. And how could El Oyo continue to function without Geronimo? Who else would sweep the streets, assist the old folk, and give us chicken advice? Along with his three moth-eaten dogs, Geronimo had acquired a donkey, which he often tethered beside Uncle Felix's mule. The mule and donkey were fond of each other, and grazed flank to flank, while Geronimo sat on the dry stone wall, swigging from his bottle, watching them. Geronimo still enjoyed a beer or brandy a little too enthusiastically, but everyone turned a blind eye. Geronimo was part of the fabric of El Oyo, and arguably Real Madrid Football Club's most devoted fan. Paco and Carmen Bethina, the best neighbours in the world, were still very much part of our lives. Every Friday they'd arrive from the city, noisy and exuberant, shattering our peace in the nicest way. Paco's bald fist would pound on our front door, making us jump. English! he'd bellow. We have tomatoes for you. Or cherries, or shiny red and green peppers, depending on the season. He'd hand us a huge bag crammed with produce, while his wife, Carmen Bethina, stood behind him, a broad smile dimpling her round cheeks. Of course, Bethina wasn't really Carmen's name, but five years ago, when Paco had introduced himself and his wife, he'd said, Bethina, meaning neighbour. We'd misunderstood his Andalusian accent, because V's sound like B's, and assumed her name was Bethina. So the name had stuck. Carmen Bethina frequently baked us cakes, and our waistlines expanded. Their son, Little Paco, had grown tall, but played enough soccer in the village square to avoid piling on the pounds, despite his mother's baking. The same could not be said of Bianca, Little Paco's cocker spaniel. We had watched her grow from sickly puppy to barrel on legs, and it was easy to see why. Bianca had become the family dustbin. All Carmen Bethina's cooking scraps and leftover dinners were disposed of inside Bianca's...