No? Hey, I believed for a couple of years that he tried to kill me. It’s only recently that I’ve been persuaded that I was wrong, but the very fact that I could accept that possibility should tell you everything about him. If the true story of his career was ever written it would be a global bestseller, but I’m the only person left alive who could do that, and trust me, it ain’t going to happen. The only thing about Oz that’s clear and undeniable is this: he’s dead. Doesn’t stop me loving him, though. This is how I see it: we were apart for spells during the ten years or so from our first meeting, and only together full-time for two or three of them; so this is just another separation, only longer.
What? Sorry, I was drifting for a moment or two. The fourth man I love? His name is Gerard Hernanz Rivera, he’s thirty-nine years old, about three years younger than me, big, dark-haired, an outdoor type with strong legs, well muscled from mountain-biking, and broad shoulders from swimming, his two principal hobbies. He’s well read, amusing, courteous, multilingual, and he’s the ideal dinner companion. ‘How is he over breakfast?’ I hear you ask. He’s exactly the same, but I have to add the qualification that the only breakfasts I’ve ever shared with Gerard have been in the cafés in St Martí, or occasionally those facing the town beach in L’Escala. This is not to say that I wouldn’t like to serve him croissants and coffee on my bedroom terrace, watching the sun make its presence felt, but that was a non-starter from the beginning, the blocker being Gerard’s job as our parish priest, of the Roman Catholic variety. But why. . pray. . should that stop me loving him? He’s a truly lovable man, possessed of all the qualities I mentioned, and the fact is that half the women in his parish fancied him from the moment he moved here. I know this, because I’ve seen the look in their eyes on those occasions when he’s been my partner at local events. He probably noticed it too, but he didn’t mind, because he understood from the beginning of our friendly relationship that I had respect for his calling. There was just one time, when we had dinner together for my birthday, on the back terrace in Can Roura, that I could see an uncertainty in him. I’d had more to drink than usual, and maybe I’d looked at him in a way that made him feel uncomfortable. Whatever it was, I told him, ‘Gerard, I’ll make you a promise here and now; I’ll never be a danger to your vocation. I’ll be there for you when you’re lonely, as you must be from time to time, given that God does not do stimulating conversation. I’ll chum you to the movies. I’ll share a bottle with you whenever vanity gets the better of you and you feel like showing off your undoubted knowledge of the fine wines of Spain. I’ll be your informal confessor, as you’ve been mine. But I will never, ever, try to entice you into my bed. I don’t need any of that stuff right now, and if I ever find that I do, I’ll make alternative arrangements, of which you will know nothing. This is not to say that I’m not physically attracted to you, but I value your friendship and your company way too much to ever put it at risk.’
He raised an eyebrow as he looked back at me. ‘I have one brother,’ he began, ‘in Granada, although he is everywhere. His name is Santiago, Saint James in English. . although he is no saint. . called Santi for short. But I have no sisters. Perhaps, Primavera, you would like to fill that gap.’
And that’s how it was. He became the brother I never had, and vice versa. And if there were still a few cynical crones who muttered behind our backs, then, as Gerard would never say, far less do. . fuck ’em.
Three
I was really looking forward to last summer. Unforeseen events had cast a shadow over the year before, and it had taken me a while to get over them, emotionally, if not physically. One of the positives of the experience had been its demonstration of the strength of the friendships that Tom and I had in the village. The resident population, within its ancient walls and in the area that surrounds them, is just a little short of a hundred, but there are none I don’t know, and none I don’t like.
When you’re shown such goodwill, it has to be returned, and so, in the aftermath of the blip in my tranquillity, I decided to do everything I could to involve myself in the village life and events. But that resolution isn’t as grand as it sounds, since for half of the year the people are devoted full-time to serving, and making money from, the hordes of tourists who descend on L’Escala and on the campsites along the beaches to the north of St Martí, and for the other half they’re devoted full-time to doing not very much.
I looked around, and asked around for ways to help; after much head-scratching, Cisco, who runs Meson del Conde, the restaurant that faces the church across Plaça Major, pointed out that one thing the village lacked was a proper information centre for visitors. I jumped on that one. My house is bang next door to the church, and I have a small garden. . and dog-pound. . in front. With the cooperation of the town’s tourist office. . no Catalan can resist something for nothing. . I had a small booth built, set into the fence on top of the wall, with a frame to hold all sorts of leaflets, and a bell that people who wanted more specific advice could use to call me, or Tom (who’s comfortable with adults, knows as much about the area as I do, and who’s well big enough to see over the top of the booth), or even Father Gerard if he happened to be around.
My new facility was a success; it opened at Easter and within a couple of months I’d been asked to sell tickets for the pleasure boats that cruise along the coast, and tokens for the carrilet, the tractor-drawn train that runs between St Martí and the beach at Montgo, on the far side of L’Escala. I’d even been approached by a golf course twenty kilometres away and asked if I’d handle bookings for them. (I turned them down; I was there to help visitors to my village, not send them away.)
The venture gave me something positive to do, and made me feel good about myself. But it didn’t use up all of my time. The peak tourist season lasts for only six weeks or so, from mid-July to the end of August: I knew I would be busy then, but for the rest of the mid-year months, most of the business is done at weekends. I was still in the market for things to do, and that’s when Ben told me about his wine fair.
Benedict Simmers is an English guy who pitched up in St Martí pretty much as soon as he finished university, so he told me, and never left. He did a few tourist-related jobs, involving, mostly, parties of school kids, before he got ‘repped out’ as he puts it, and went into the wine trade. He sold online for a while, until he saw an opportunity, and opened a bodega, a wine shop at the foot of the street that leads up to Plaça Major.
He’s Tom’s friend as much as mine, thanks to the dogs. We have an intellectually challenged Labrador called Charlie, and Ben has two of the same breed. As I understand it, Cher, the older of his pair, is Charlie’s aunt, which makes Mustard, her whelp, his cousin. When he’s not at school, Tom often helps Ben when the shop is busy, by walking all three of them. This is no problem for him; he seems to speak Labrador as fluently as all his other languages, for they all obey him instantly, even Mustard, who’s lawless with everyone else.
He was doing that, one Saturday in May, and I was in the shop restocking my wine cellar, according to Gerard’s guidance and recommendations. . he’d been drinking a fair bit of it, so I decided that he might as well help me choose. . when I saw what looked like a poster displayed on the shop’s computer monitor.
‘Arrels de vi,’ I read aloud. ‘Means “The roots of wine” in English, doesn’t it?’