‘What are you going to do about it?’ she asked. ‘Tell Ramon?’
‘Probably. I’ll call him later. Before that, I’m going to see John Gash. He wants the Lada; he can have the Lada. The sooner that thing’s in bits, the happier I’ll be.’
17
I didn’t keep any secrets from John. No, I told him what I thought had happened, and I said that if he still wanted the bloody car he could have it, on condition that once it was in his mother’s garage, it did not go out again, other than in a large crate. I told him he could stuff the Fiat Punto, though; I settled for two and a half grand cash.
I also settled for a nice new Chrysler Voyager, a great big seven-seater with windows so dark that, in emergencies, the local priest could have used it as a confessional. It also had a black paint job. When I brought it back from the dealer in Girona three days after Christmas, my dad took one look at it and asked me, ‘What’s that? A fucking hearse? Why didn’t you have “Funeral Director” painted along the side?’
Of course, none of the family knew the real reason why I had sent the Lada along the road. Not even Jonny’s fertile mind had worked out the significance of the two simultaneous holes in the side windows. All I told them was that I had been self-indulgent for long enough and that if John Gash could make a buck out of the damn thing then good luck to him.
‘You’re not self-indulgent, you tell me,’ my dad grunted, as he looked at the Voyager and the Mercedes parked side by side in the big garage. ‘What do you call those then?’
‘Tax deductible, Dad,’ I answered. ‘That’s what I call them.’ The best investment any upwardly mobile young man can make. . at least after he suddenly and unexpectedly finds himself seriously rich. . is in a top-class tax adviser.
I suppose I should have called Fortunato right away to tell him about the Lada business, but I didn’t. When I called at his office in Girona next day, after I had ordered the Voyager, they told me that he was on leave for the rest of the week. I don’t know why, but I didn’t feel like asking Prim for his telephone number.
Anyway, after a couple of days, I had persuaded myself that my imagination was working overtime and that the ‘gunshot’ which had drilled the Lada’s windows was far more likely to have been a local vandal with a very strong catapult and a bag of ball-bearings.
So, instead of triggering yet another police investigation. . or having Fortunato simply laugh at me. . I concentrated on preparing for the Hogmanay party which Prim and I had decided to hold. As the only Scots couple in L’Escala, we felt more or less obliged to fly the Saltire.
We had invited a number of friends from the British community in the town, plus a few other people we had got to know during our previous stay. I didn’t expect Prim to have put the Fortunatos on the list, but when I saw their names there, I said nothing about it. I was surprised when they brought Alejandro, but I don’t suppose I should have been; as I said, Spanish parents are much more relaxed about their infants than we Brits are about ours.
We overruled Mary when she tried to insist that she would do the catering. Instead, we hired local people, a middle-aged couple who ran a restaurant in the summer months and worked privately. . and for cash. . during the rest of the year. (It has occurred to me often that much of the personal taxation system in Spain operates on an optional basis.)
They set up a buffet for forty from ten p.m. onwards, plenty of seafood, cured ham, casseroles, and salads. We also asked them to provide the wines; a smart choice since they came up with a couple of really good regional vintages that were new to us.
One of the advantages about seeing in the New Year in Spain, or anywhere else in Europe for that matter, is that you can do it twice. As is the case with many other things British, our time is out of step with the continent.
When the witching hour came, we tuned in TV3, the Catalan channel, and watched the celebrations in the Placa de Catalunya in Barcelona, complete with the countdown to 1 January. We drank our toasts, wished everyone a Happy New Year, kissed a lot. . then tuned in to BBC1 via the digital satellite and an hour later did it all again.
At some point between the two midnights, I found myself face to face with Veronique. . if she was a Brit I’d have called her Veronique Fortunato but, in Spain, wives retain their own surnames. Alejandro had fallen asleep and had been parked with Colin in the boys’ bedroom, Jonny having been given a late pass until one a.m. local time.
‘So what’s your other name?’ I asked her, idly, in Spanish. . It’s not the best opening line, but it was all I could come up with at the time. ‘Sanchez,’ she replied, in English. ‘My Catalan name is Veronique Sanchez i Leclerc; formally we call ourselves after both our parents.’
I nodded; I knew that from my first time there. ‘So the names over your front door are Ramon Fortunato and Veronique Sanchez?’
She smiled. When she did, her brown eyes seemed to take on a deep amber glow. ‘Almost. Vero Sanchez is what everyone calls me.’
‘Where does the Leclerc come from?’
‘From Niort. My mother is French.’
‘Ah, like the previous owner of this place. Did you know him?’ As I said it, it occurred to me that I was doing something most Jocks hate. It happens all too often, though. You’re in London or Paris or L’Escala or wherever and you’re introduced to some English prat who says, ‘Oh, you’re Scottish are you? Do you know so-and-so? He’s Scottish.’ Dickhead, Blackstone.
‘Sorry,’ I said at once. ‘That was silly. France is a big place, and this town’s full of French people, even at this time of year.’
She made nothing of it, other than to give me a look, which I took as pity for my lack of social graces. ‘That’s true,’ she answered, ‘but also British, as I can see tonight, and Germans, and Dutch. There are people of many nationalities living here now. We are even beginning to see some who, ten years ago, would not have been allowed to leave their own country, even if they had the money.’
‘Poles, East Germans? I suppose so.’
‘Yes, but Russians as well. There are quite a few already up and down the Costa and every year brings more. This is something which worries Ramon; he says that anyone from Russia who can afford to buy a house here is probably a criminal.
‘He is concerned about what may flow from that. He says that they can kill each other in Russia if they wish, but not here in Spain.’
‘Come on, Vero. Not everyone in Russia’s a crook.’
‘No. The poor people are honest. But I was in Girona Airport one day and I saw tourists there who were going home to Riga, in Latvia. They were all under forty, the women were all beautiful and they all wore very expensive clothes. It was a big plane, too. I think my husband is right to be worried.’
At that moment, John Gash’s voice carried across to me. I thought of his sideline business. Maybe Shirley should worry too, I thought to myself.
‘You and Ramon seem very happy, for all that,’ I ventured.
She looked up at me, a shrewd look in those dark eyes. ‘Yes, I suppose we are,’ she answered quietly. ‘You know, I guess, that it was not always so.’
The door to the past was open. A simple, ‘No’, would probably have slammed it shut again; would have been sensible, too. But. . say no more.
‘Yes, I know. I’m happy that it’s worked out for you.’
‘And I for you. I know all about you, of course. Ramon told me about you and about why you went back to Scotland, when you lived here before. Then, a few weeks ago, I saw a magazine article about you, and your new career. It said what happened to your first wife. That must have been terrible.’