Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof Read Online Free PDF Page B

looks astonished. 'Really? How do you know?'
    Â Â 'My neighbour, Margalida, told me. I haven't even clapped eyes on him yet.'
    Â Â She grabs a half-finished cigarette from an ash tray in front of her and inhales deeply. 'He's a bit of a Don Juan – long hair, good muscles. I could tell he wasn't from around here.'
    Â Â There's a groan from the office at the back of the shop and in a trice, Albert's tall and robust frame appears in the doorway.
    Â Â 'She's not on about the postman again?'
    Â Â 'It's a hot topic, Albert.' I give him a wink.
    Â Â 'I guess,' he drawls, 'Just that I've heard it about ten times already.'
    Â Â Antonia wafts her cigarette at him. 'Don't exaggerate.'
    Â Â 'What is it about this guy?' Albert quizzes me. 'Even your chum, Juana, came by yesterday waxing lyrical about him.'
    Â Â That's intriguing. I could never imagine Pep's inscrutable wife betraying a soft spot for anyone publicly. I buy a new ink cartridge and head for the door. 'Are you joining in the battle this year?'
    Â Â 'No way! It's too crazy. I'll be watching from the side, but Albert and the boys will take part,' Antonia gestures at her husband.
    Â Â Albert holds up his hands in protest. 'Not this boy. I'll be safely in a bar discussing Argentinean barbers with the new postman.'
    Â Â By the time I reach Cafè Paris for my habitual espresso, it's nigh on midday. The square is awash with German hikers in sturdy boots, and groups of cyclists clad in gaudy Lycra all-in-ones. They sprawl lazily on wicker chairs in the sunshine, sipping freshly squeezed orange juice and studying route maps. Waiters weave in and out of the tables, refilling glasses and occasionally stopping to share a joke with a passing local. In the raised bandstand opposite the lofty, ornate church, toddlers on tricycles career around the flagstones while their young mothers huddle around the old fountain chatting and smoking. There's the familiar toot toot and creaking of the vintage Sóller tramvia as it rumbles along the iron rails that carve an uneven, meandering path through the centre of the square to the station. I wait till the wheezing veteran with its wood-panelled carriages slowly passes by, and skip over the road to Cafè Paris. Within its cool, marbled interior I spy the usual suspects scattered at various small, round tables. A few heads bob out from behind Ultima Hora or Diario de Mallorca newspapers as I enter, clocking that I too am a regular. José, the young owner, greets me with a wave from behind the bar and plonks a small cup of steaming coffee and a bottle of mineral water down on my table. I wonder what would happen if I changed my order one day, just for the hell of it.
    Â Â Across the room, I receive a furtive smile from Gaspar, the paper delivery man. He's looking rather hot and bothered and is in deep discussion with Senyor Bisbal, a tall and distinguished Mallorcan in his late seventies who has recently taken to greeting me. Rumour has it that he is one of the wealthiest and shrewdest businessmen in the valley, and I wouldn't doubt it. If there's one thing I've learned since living here, it's that well-heeled Mallorcans abhor outward signs of wealth and showiness of any kind. They would rather spend their money on acquiring land or property, or failing that, squirreling it away for a rainy day. The hallmarks of serious Mallorcan wealth in the rural areas include:

    Â Â 1. Scruffy, and at times dishevelled, personal appearance
    Â Â 2. Grubby, battered and dented jalopy, preferably lacking wing mirrors
    Â Â 3. Spindly, quivering Mallorcan ca rater hunting dog in tow
    Â Â 4. Faithful elderly retainer close at hand
    Â Â 5. Undying loyalty to a couple of simple restaurants serving wholesome local fare
    Â Â 6. Assiduous checking of bar and restaurant bills and leaving of small tips
    Â Â 7. Expensive Havana puros sm oked by the men folk
    Â Â 8. Enormous property and