Abruptly, he turned back to Primavera, and bowed. ‘Come my dear,’ he said. ‘Let me take you for a walk around Shirley’s garden, and let me show you where she permits me to live when I am here.’
He held out a hand for Prim as she stood up. It was only when she stood beside him that I was able to gauge his height. He seemed to be elastic, for as she came to his side he seemed to stretch by a couple of inches, standing erect at around five feet nine. I shook my head in amusement as they moved off towards the pool and sat down once more, beside Shirley.
‘Where did you find him?’ I asked.
‘Clive found him,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘or he found Clive. I was never sure which. He told me that they met in a bar, in-country somewhere, one day when he was out on his own for a drive. They got talking and they just hit it off. They bonded, I suppose you’d say. Clive invited him to stay in the summerhouse whenever he felt like it. In return, and without ever being asked, he started to do odd jobs around the place. All sorts of things. Cleaning the pool, painting, some gardening.’
She pointed above our heads. ‘See those palms? As they grow, every so often the lowest leaves go yellow and have to be cut off close to the trunk, with a saw. It’s a hell of a job, but the old fellow manages it, no bother. He just shins up the things like a monkey and gets to work.
‘After Clive was killed, when I came back and told him, he was distraught. He sat in front of the summerhouse sobbing his little heart out, for about half a day. Then he got up and started to gather up his things. I said to him, “What the hell are you doing?” and he said, “I will go. You will not want me here now.” I just told him. “Don’t give me any of that macho crap. You’re my friend too. That hasn’t changed.” So things went on as before.’
‘How long has he lived with you now?’
She smiled. ‘We’ve known him for six or seven years now, but he doesn’t live with me. He comes and goes as he pleases, unannounced. He might stay here for a month, or two, then he buggers off and it’ll be weeks before he’s back.’
‘What nationality is he?’
Shirley looked at me, quickly. ‘Oh, he’s Catalan, make no mistake. You’re meant to assume that; he gets very huffy if anyone asks him that question. And whatever you do, don’t call him Spanish.’ She pointed to the summerhouse. A small pole rose from the right-hand gable and from it, a small red and yellow striped Catalan flag fluttered. ‘That’s his personal standard,’ said Shirley. ‘When he arrives, he parks his little Noddy car up at the back gate, and runs that up the pole. Most times that’s how I know he’s taken up residence.’
She laughed. ‘The old bugger. He’s like a mobile gnome sometimes. He’s all over Prim just now, but he’ll go for days without saying a word. He’s never up before midday, and never in bed before midnight. He wanders around but never gets in my way. I like to sunbathe in the buff, and he just lets me get on with it, pottering around, pruning the plants.’
I looked at her in surprise. ‘Don’t you …’
She shrugged. ‘You sound just like my son John, the way you said that. Davidoff always says that at his age he’s only a man in his head. According to him his balls don’t work any more … like those of the unspeakable French, he says. Davidoff doesn’t like any nationality, other than Catalans and British.’
‘What age is he?’
Shirley sat silent for a moment or two. ‘Gawd knows,’ she said, eventually, shrugging. ‘Look at him.’ Together we gazed across the pool, as he ushered Prim into the summerhouse, behind the wooden doors. ‘I’ve asked him, but all he’ll say is, “Older than you, cherub.” I’ve tried to guess, but I can’t get near it. If you see him normally you’d probably say he was going on seventy, but there are moments … like when he’s quiet, when he needs a shave, when that bloody depressing Tramuntana wind’s been blowing for three or four days, when the sun isn’t shining … when you can detect a great sadness in him. When that comes over him, you could believe that he’s a lot older than that.’
I stared at the door, which had closed behind them. ‘And when he’s not here, where does he go? Where does he live?’
She shrugged again. ‘Gawd knows, again. I never ask, he never says. I look at him sometimes and I remember this cat that Clive and I used to have in England. He was ours from a kitten. He had an electric cat flap, and a magnetic key that fixed on his collar. We fed him and looked after his vet shots and everything, and he came and went as he pleased. Quite often, when he came in he’d be stinkin’ of fish or cat food. We knew that he had another home, that someone else was feeding him and enjoying his company, as well as us, but we never found out who it was.
‘Sometimes I think that Davidoff’s like him, that there’s another Clive and Shirley somewhere, none of us knowing about the other.’ She grinned. ‘But so what. He’s a one-off and I love him, and when he’s around, I never feel like buggering off back to Britain.’
We sat in silence for a while, staring at the closed doors. ‘He must know a lot of stuff,’ I ventured eventually. ‘About Catalunya.’
‘Christ, yes. But he doesn’t talk to just anyone. You’re all right, though. He likes you.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because he didn’t ignore you. That’s what he does with most people, first time he meets them.’
As she spoke, the wooden door creaked open again, and Prim emerged, smiling, with Davidoff at her heels.
They rejoined us arm in arm. Prim sat down again, and Davidoff beckoned to me. ‘Come on, my boy,’ he said. There was something about him that made me think of Zorba the Greek, and Anthony Quinn’s great line to Alan Bates, ‘Let me teach you to dance.’ Then I realised what it was. His English, good as it was, was overlaid by a slight but distinct American accent, as if he had extended his vocabulary and polished his grammar by watching movies. I stood up and followed him, a Theodorakis tune playing in my head.
We strolled along the side of the pool. ‘Like I told you, young Mister Oz,’ he muttered, ‘you are a lucky man to have a woman like that. She makes my blood boil like it has not for many years. You must take nothing for granted, if you are to hold on to her.’
‘Seems to me,’ I said, ‘you’re pretty lucky yourself, to have someone like Shirley for a friend.’
‘That I know. But then so is she, to have someone like Davidoff to look after her, and to help her get over Clive.’ He sighed. ‘Not that she will ever do that. Her son, John, he is no help to her. When he visits Shirley, I go away. Adrian, he is all right. He’s a nice guy, but John, no. He is such a prick. He thinks he knows everything, that one. He pushes Shirley away from the business even although it is hers, and he makes her feel useless.’
I glanced at him. ‘We’ve asked her if she’d like to help with some work we’ve got.’
‘Ah, that’s good. You could tell, then, how lonely she can be. That’s kind of you.’
‘Not entirely. We really do need help. All of a sudden we’ve got quite a bit of work on our hands.’ I stopped at the deep end of the pool, not far from a Bouganvilla which exploded from the garden wall.
‘Davidoff,’ I began. ‘You must know all there is to know about Catalunya.’
He laughed. ‘The only man who thinks he knows everything about Catalunya is the President of our Government … and he is wrong. But Davidoff knows more than anyone else. How can I educate you?’
‘What can you tell me about Dali?’ I asked him, feeling unaccountably nervous all of a sudden.
He turned to fix his eye on me. ‘You ask about Catalunya, and you ask about Dali. That is interesting. Dali was probably the least typical Catalan there has ever been. The average Catalan man, he keeps himself hidden from outsiders, he is reserved among strangers, he is tight with money, he is not flamboyant in any way. As a race, Catalan men seem to feel an inferiority.