On my way back to Ibiza town with sick little
Flipper beside me, there were three items of special interest
about Paco and Maria, my two Ibicencan passengers. They were,
in order of their importance to me; first, that their help
would afford me immediate access to a vet; second, that they
seemed to have commanded a lift from me instead of asking
for one; and finally, that they were carrying rucksacks. Why
carry rucksacks on a local trip?
As to their connection with a vet, I was
soon to learn that on Ibiza one could almost count on discovering
that any one Ibicencan in whom one had an interest, was, in
all probability, cousin to another one in whom one had an
interest. This, it was claimed, was because over the centuries
there had been excessive intermarriage as a result of the
isolation of the island. Whatever the cause, the case was
clear. There was a generous supply of cousins available, really
a surplus of the same, and almost everyone involved was drawing
on that supply. But I was not aware of this state of interfamily,
island affairs, during my early days in residence. So I was
especially astonished when I learned that Paco not only knew
the vet in Ibiza town, which is what he had told me initially,
but that he was also closely related to him. Was, in fact
you
guessed it
his cousin. It seemed such an outsized coincidence
that I should have picked up a vets cousin when I needed
a vet urgently. And it was a coincidence bearing such good
tidings for me and my dog, that I could hardly believe that
it was entirely exempt from celestial intervention. Paco would
be able to do all the explaining needed about Flippers
condition, to say nothing of his being able to ensure my immediate
access to his cousin, no matter we were in or out of office
hours.
As to the their seeming command that I stop
to give them a lift, instead of asking for one, this had come
about because Paco had raised his arm with his palm flat to
me, instead of using the usual itinerant thumb signal. He
had used a police gesture which orders one to STOP. And so
I had stopped, in an almost knee jerk reaction. Why had he
used that autocratic gesture? His manner in the car was not
authoritarian. Quite to the contrary. He was quiet and calm,
courteous and responsive, grateful for the ride and warm and
loving with his companion. So why the command for me to stop?
The answer could be found in the Ibicencan condition. He simply
did not know the usual thumb request signal which asks for
a lift. He didnt know it existed. He had signalled in
what was to him the most natural way to let me know; would
I please stop and give them a ride? He had never asked
for a lift before. His life had been entirely restricted to
a small portion of the west coast of the island. He had, indeed,
never been further into the islands greater land space
than the little fishing town of San Antonio Abad. And to that
he had always walked. He and his companion were on their first
voyage out of their homes and into the big world. They were
on their way to Ibiza town, not only the biggest village on
the island, but also its capital as well. Ibiza town was where
the great ships docked, Ibiza town was where people from the
great world could be seen, Ibiza town was where their sophisticated
cousin, the vet, lived, this trip, Paco told me, with the
broadest grin imaginable, was their honeymoon! They would
have had a carriage, but it was needed on the farm. I was
their chosen chauffer, it would seem, and my Renault was all
the carriage they could ever have hoped for.
And, as for the rucksacks, they became self-explanatory.
They were on what for them was a long, long voyage, one of
perhaps several days, and so they needed their things. They
needed clothing changes, they needed toothbrushes, shaving
material, hair-do accessories, the lot. They even had with
them, Maria told me with pride shining in her eyes, her wedding
dress, which had been made somewhat less ornate so as to be
usable as a best dress, in case she should need one. Right
then and there, I decided I would see to it that she would
need one. There would have to be a party to celebrate their
honeymoon and our happy, if accidental, meeting. And I would
give it.
I began to tell them about it, improvising
as I went. About who would be there. There would be their
cousin the vet, of course, and any other friends or relatives
they had in the Big Town, there would be Chinese Rita, Dundee
Doreen, Hungry Hannibal, Ernesto, and perhaps even Emilio
Schillinger. With the mention of each person there were expressions
of delight from the newlyweds and they obliged me to describe
each of them in detail. Once again the language difficulty
had to be overcome. (To this day, so many years later, it
remains a serious problem for me!) And somehow it was. With
patience, using the few words we had in common, and with much
facial contortion, body motion and hand gesticulation, I managed
to convey the essence of the characters and personalities
of the people involved. And my new friends could not get enough
of it. For friends they had become, almost instantly. There
was an immediate positive chemical reaction among us. The
immediate common purpose, which was to get help for Flipper
and as soon as possible, seemed to cement a personal bond
among the three of us. And laughter was no stranger to the
interior of the little Renault 8. We almost laughed our way
into Ibiza town. Every gesture of mine, every wince, grimace,
smile, intake of breath that I used to make my meanings clear
were greeted with a smiling, bubbling glee that somehow seemed
to portend good things for all of us
and especially for
little Flipper. He, poor fellow, did not share in our pleasure,
but continued ill and silent, lying immobile on his cushion,
head on my old hat.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, as we
drove along, there was a nagging question brewing. The nature
of that question remained quite obscure to me until Maria
brought it to life with a question which was right to the
point. Where, she asked, was the honeymoon party going to
be? The answer, it suddenly came to me, was that the party
could be in one of three places. Or in all of three places,
for that matter. It could be in the Delfín Verde, which
had assumed an air of old hunting ground familiarity; or it
could be at a beach kiosk I had heard about, on a near-to-town
beach, called Playa den Bossa; or it could be in another bar
than the Delfín, one selected by Pacos cousin,
the vet, who would surely know where best we could all go
where
there would be good music, good food, and good people.
And so at last, we rolled into Ibiza town.
In no time at all we were at the office of Pacos cousin,
Vicente, who turned out, luckily, to be there. He greeted
his cousins with an effusion of emotion, with loud assurances
of his joy at their unexpected arrival, and with genuine pleasure
at meeting me. He was professionally dressed in white smock,
white shirt and trousers. He was smoking a cigarette, which
later became almost his trademark, as it had been with Juanito.
His office and surgery were spotlessly clean. His general
manner was such that I became satisfied about his competence
and as my confidence in him grew, I was happy to hand Flipper
over to him. Paco ran down the history of Flippers misfortunes
and then Vicente began his examination.
Wearing surgical gloves, skin tight plastic
things, Vicente turned out to be a very good vet, indeed.
His examination was efficient, thorough, and exercised with
speed. There was much compassion and feeling for the patient.
In no time at all Flipper was full of antibiotics and energy
builders of all kinds. One could see that given further treatment
for his damaged feet, Flipper was going to be all right. And
it was with the feet that Vicente proved to be quite expert.
With a gentleness that was almost feminine, he disinfected
the damaged pads. Then he encased each paw in healing salves
and bandaged them so that the salves would give their balm
securely. In the end Flipper slept. Vicente lifted him into
a small bed in a small cage and took another cigarette. He
will be fine, he said reassuringly. His fever
will come down soon, and then he will feel much better.
I breathed easier as I thanked him for his help. Paco had
told me that Vicente was always right with his prognoses.
And in fact, Flipper went on to live four more years until
he was age sixteen. But more of that in due course.
The thing to do now was to organize the
party I had promised the newlyweds, the doing of which turned
out to be an adventure in itself
and to find a permanent
home for me, in or near Ibiza town.
Harold Liebow
haroldliebow@ibizahistoryculture.com
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