|
And so it was. When tomorrow came and breakfast
had been taken in the leisurely manner usually reserved for
royalty, when there had been a generous time to stretch out
in reclining chairs on the front terrace and take in the silent
miracle of the sea’s ever-changing purple, blue and green
colours, only then did I finally ready the little Renault.
All of us, Madame, Jacques, stunning Catherine, baby Sandra,
her father, Alberto, and I were to visit a distant neighbour
at Christmas time. In deference to me, Madame had decided
to visit only one family instead of the four originally contemplated.
It would serve to more gently introduce me to the custom,
she said. But at the same time she let me know that she was
fulfilling what she considered to be her own wish and pleasure,
as well as an inescapable social obligation. I was strongly
impressed by what I could see was her punctilious attention
to strict island protocol. There must be a strong and genuine
personal contact, she explained, while we were guests in the
homes of our Ibicencan friends. There was, first, an obligatory
inquiry of the latest family affairs: births, deaths, marriages,
jobs, crops, weather, health and….then salsa.
All this while sitting on the traditional,
hand crafted, child-sized, Ibicencan chairs. This only emphasized
the unusually gracious dimensions of the entrada room in which
we would be sitting. One entered the friend’s house only
after announcing one’s presence by clapping one’s
hands vigorously in the front courtyard. It was exactly like
ringing an entrance bell. One was then immediately invited
in and the social ceremony began. That strong personal contact
was established, there were the polite inquiries about the
family’s affairs….and then salsa.
The woman of the house invariably took a
special pride in the quality of her special recipe for this
traditional Christmas soup. And you could be sure it was a
special recipe, for no two salsas ever tasted exactly alike.
One might almost say no two servings of the same salsa ever
tasted exactly alike. There was a profound ethos attached
to the making of salsa. Generations of the family’s women
had developed their own special way of producing the golden
Christmas bowl of soup. So it was no surprise then, that your
appreciation for its merits was eagerly awaited each time
you were gracefully offered a bowl. And it behoved you to
be more than politely generous in your approval. In which
case, of course, you were awarded another bowl of... .salsa.
There really was no way out of this Catch
22 salsa situation, I found. I soon learned to draw out the
consumption time of each bowl with which I was so eagerly
provided, so as to lessen the total number of bowls which
each visit could be counted upon to present. And I soon learned
to make the right noises, too, about how especially delightful
it all was. And it was, really. It was just that there was
too much of it. And it was impossible to refuse.
But I am getting ahead of myself. We must
come back to my first Christmas visit. We ‘drove’
up the car-cruel access road to Madame’s house, creeping
along like a small beetle climbing a rough wall, until at
last we found what might be called the main road…if you
stretched the meaning of ‘main’. Main road surfaces
in those days were sometimes almost as much pot hole as they
were asphalt, and road width varied a good deal from easy
two way passage to only just one way passage. It was, however,
an easy matter to adapt to these conditions, and to soon come
to approve of them, as well. There were no high speed collisions,
no blood on the tarmac, and no cadavers in their cars, staring
straight ahead. Not many of these, in any case. (I, myself,
was later to prove to be one of the exceptions!)
Once on the main road, we turned left, north,
toward Santa Inés, climbing up and out of the seaside
shore area where Madame’s house was located. The road
was a miracle of scenic variety and mountainous marvels. We
chugged up and up and up, as if there was never to be a top
to our climb. And on our way we were presented with splendid
views of glorious, distant mountains, their tops wreathed
in mist, against a sky so blue it made you think it had been
painted by God. Beneath these towering mountain giants, spread
out as if on deliberate display for us alone, lay pregnant,
verdant valleys, with clusters of sheep and goats drowsing
in the ever enchanting sunlight of the island. Here and there,
on great rocky outcroppings and intimidating cliffs, clung
lonely casas payesas, monarchs of all they surveyed. We stopped
once, to listen to it all. There was no sound but of nature
and the tiny bells suspended beneath the chins of the lead
sheep and goats.
In the end we rounded down to the Santa
Inés road itself, the same one Flipper and I had used
to visit that charming hamlet only a few days before. It was
entirely a surprise to me when the directions which Madame
gave me, took us to exactly that place where I had reached
my overwhelming decision to remain forever in Ibiza. And that
transcendent spot itself was directly overlooked, from a high
cliff site quite nearby to its left, by one of the most beautiful
casas payesas I have ever seen. Its proportions were preposterously
perfect. Its intense whiteness was virgin and nowhere blemished.
Its location was celestial. It provoked a sharp intake of
my breath when I realized that it was to that house that Madame
intended we should visit. We had come some six kilometres
to find it. Below it spread the breathtaking plain of Santa
Inés, and I felt immensely privileged to absorb its
beauty again, even if only for an hour or so, while, at the
same time, I marvelled that one family had lived with such
natural magnificence laid out before them for hundreds of
years.
In the front courtyard, just as Madame had
said, we clapped our hands loudly and were immediately rewarded
by the appearance of an elderly Ibicencan gentleman who graciously
waved us all inside. He was a strong looking old man, grave,
courteous and well preserved. He was clean shaven and smiling
and he immediately showed us to the little chairs that were
so typical of country furnishing. We sat at a small round
wooden table, well worn and well polished. The old varnish
gleamed in the indoor gloom, for the sunlight was effectively
blocked out. In a moment the woman of the house joined us,
smiling and whispering, greeting the family as old friends
and making me feel especially welcome. She took my two hands
in hers and told me that she and her husband had heard of
me and my little dog and of that Christmas Polaroid shot I’d
taken of the lovely policeman near the Montesol Hotel! I was
astonished, of course, that these things should have been
news in the first place, and then that the news had travelled
so fast and so far, but when I learned that their son had
been in town when the great shot had been given to me, I understood.
It was another example of the island’s everlasting even
tenor in the course of which the smallest of events tended
to be greatly magnified.
And then she said something so unexpected
that I was sure the translation which Madame made, had got
to be wrong. Our hostess said that it was an extraordinary
coincidence that they should have come upon a small grey dog,
only the day before. He was very much like my dog, according
to the description their son had given them of Flipper. They
had found him and a Podenco bitch with him, while on their
way back home in their wagon from a Christmas visit. Both
animals had been limping slowly and painfully along, and,
since they were obviously lost, they had picked them up, taken
them home, fed them, watered them and let them sleep. Sleep,
she said, was the great healer. They were still sleeping now
and they were just inside one of their animal houses, behind
the main house. Would we like to see them? But perhaps it
would be better to let them sleep on? Seeing them now would
surely wake them. In the mean time we could all have….salsa….and
she passed the bowls around. And then perhaps just before
we left, we could have a look at them.
Now there was no way of immediately explaining
to these kind people under what tension and under what unresolved
strain over the loss of Flipper we had all been labouring
until then. And with what hope and with what joy we were now
all possessed, upon hearing such miraculous news of his recovery.
It was a profound testament to our sense of the order of things,
to our sense of determinative decorum in the presence of the
conservative elderly, that we did not immediately shout out
the feelings of relief and happiness that boiled up within
us. Even baby Sandra remained silent. For surely, the two
animals sleeping peacefully away in one of the animal houses
just behind the main house, were Juanito’s bitch and
my Flipper! Anything else would be just too bizarre. So for
the nonce, we contrived to say nothing, though we looked volumes
at each other and the effort cost us. But the instant rush
of strong feeling which surged up inside of me was just too
much, and I coughed up my mouthful of….salsa. It was
an inexcusable breach of the protocol of visiting friends
at Christmas time. But in the circumstances, I was excused,
nevertheless.
Harold Liebow
haroldliebow@ibizahistoryculture.com
| |
