Anonymous Pornographer

"You may know the saying, 'Landlords are bastards'?

Irma nodded.

"Well dear old Sol, my landlord came in just as I was finishing the window dressing. He was not as polite as you; he said I looked stuffed.

"Well, he made me close up and marched me across the road to his office at the back of the top floor of the McIntosh Building where he sometimes sleeps over.

"He took me into the bedroom and leered, 'This is where I entertain my lovely ladies'.

"I though, oh God, what have I let myself into, but he seemed to sense what I was thinking.

"He shook his thick mane of yellowy white hair and said, 'Don't be alarmed Margie, you are not my type. My lovely ladies are all elderly widows of Jewish extraction who still like the occasional fling'."

Irma chuckled.

"That must have been a relief."

"Immensely.

"But 'Not my type'?

"Sol is into his seventies. I though at that age they only used it to pee, if they could find it. Oh, excuse my vulgarity."

Irma blushed.

"That's quite all right. We are modern women. From what I have read some good old swordsmen are still at it into their nineties."

"God," shrieked Margie. "I thought I only had another few years left, but the thought of two ancients, teeth out and knocking their bones together while puffing away is the most obscene thought ever to pass through my mind. How horrifying."

That response flared Irma's interest. She was very interested in her own sexuality and was all ears when others ventured opinions or spoke about experiences on that subject.

"How old did you think you'd be before you hung up your spurs, so to speak?" inquired Irma, as they began sipping their second cocktail.

That question jolted Margie.

"Are we meaning to get into this topic so deeply?"

"Not unless you have a problem about it."

"No, but we've only just met."

Irma looked at the serious expression of her dinner companion and burst out laughing.

"Shall we talk about gardening or something else that I know little about?"

That brought back sparkle into Margie's eyes.

"Sorry, I was just being a little cautious."

"Why?"

"Well, we seemed to be getting in rather deep into this conversation."

Taking a moment to comprehend that statement, Irma clapped her hand over her mouth to block a near hysterical outburst of laughter.

She spluttered, "I'm definitely not into bondage or anything like that. In fact, I'm scarcely getting any sex these days."

They had a most enjoyable two-course meal, veered into various other topics of conversation including exchanging some background details and then left for home.

Margie got into the first taxi to arrive. She wound down the window and called to Irma.

"I want you to come to work for me, to manage the shop. If you're interested call in tomorrow evening on the way home and we'll talk about it. Good night."

Although a little tipsy, Irma's brain was still functioning well. She began to mentally draft out her resignation from the publishing house.

Chapter 4

The morning after his arrival at Malaga, on the Costa del Sola, after his rousing night with the hot airline cabin attendant, Heston drove 25 kilometres east to the old town of Velez-Malaga, and from there it was a short drive to the home of Marino Fernandez, who'd been supplying him for olive oil for ten years.

It was an emotional meeting, their first. Their business arrangement had been organised by an old school friend of Heston's working as a trade adviser in Cordoba.

The deeply tanned and slim Marino and his buxom wife Josefina cried copiously, both hugging Heston together and leaving him nonplussed. This Latin form of emotional greeting to a stranger was unknown to him but their sincerity was unmistakable. With faces awash with tears, it had to be.

Heston learned later that they regarded him as something of a patron. When his first five-year contract of supply was struck, it had been a disastrous year in a not unfamiliar cycle for olive producers, a market over-supply following an exceptional year of favourable growing conditions.

Although the order was not large, it came at a time when the Fernandez family was down. They regarded it is a sign from Heaven, and even returned to church for a couple of Sundays for thanksgiving.

Marino had 760 acres of land, every bit of it under cultivation with more than 600,000 olive trees on his estate.

"Come, I will show you around," he said in perfect English as his late parents, who'd farmed the land before him, had sent him to school in England.

They walked through the rows of olive trees that already in two days after crossing into Spain had become a familiar sight to Heston. He was now in the province of Andalucia in South-west Spain.

Spain is the top producer of olive oil in the world, with just over five million acres of olive trees under cultivation, Marino had announced as they walked. Even prouder still, he said the Andalucia region was the largest production area of olive oil in all of Spain.

"Right," smiled Heston, "which is how you came to be my supplier. Only the best!"

"Oh, no-no," protested Marino. "You wanted good quality oil at a low price which is why your agent came to me."

"So, he did, so he did," laughed Heston, slapping the older man on the back.

For some reason, he had the notion that the whole family worked in the heat and dust from dawn to dusk to harvest their crop.

"Must be damn hot work and take weeks to harvest this lot."

Marino looked at him sideways, wondering why he'd missed the joke. But he saw the way Heston looking at him, and knew he was serious.

"Contractors come in and harvest mechanically. We're not peasants, you know."

"Oh, God no. I never would think like that. I really had no idea of your harvesting and processing methods."

Marino smiled, thinking that another foreigner had been given a lesson about modern Spain.

"When are the olives harvested and roughly what is the process?"

"The picking season extends from September through to March, but the peak period is November-December.

"Our olives are shaken from these trees and fall on to sheeting.

"They are then put into bulk bins, with great care being taken not to bruise or squash them. The bins are trucked to our mill which we operate as a local co-operative where the oil is extracted."

Heston asked how long was the period from harvesting to oil extraction?

"By law, olives for extra virgin oil in Spain must be pressed within 72 hours of harvesting."

"The oil is returned to us in bulk containers where we place it into a variety of containers to meet the needs of our various clients. These containers range from 500 ml glass bottles to the 200 kg drums we send to you in New Zealand."

They entered the packing shed.

Just inside the door was a lidded jug standing on a small table with a number of tumblers standing beside it.

"Drink?"

Heston nodded.

The next thing he knew a tumbler full of wine was being thrust into his hand. He looked at it curiously.

"Did you think I'd give you water?

Heston stalled on his reply.

"We only give water to animals or drink it ourselves in the day is a real scorcher. Overwise we drink a real drink, none of that gut-busting coffee for us."

Only one person was working in the beautifully lit and appointed workroom.

"We're almost finished here until the next lot arrives in."

"Catalina?"

The worker turned, startled.

She pulled out the earplugs connected to her mini-disc music player.

"Si?" she asked, then seeing Heston standing alongside Marino she rephrased her response, "Yes?"

"Our guest has arrived. I want to introduce him to you."

"Ah, yes, the Englishman."

That caused Heston to wince, as being a third generation New Zealander he fondly though he had no English blood in his veins, only Irish and Scottish with perhaps one-sixteenth French.

"Heston is a New Zealander, my dear. Not an Englishman."

He took the woman by her hand and drew her beside him.

"Heston, this is my daughter-in-law Catalina, who will be your guide for the three days you will be staying with us. She is the mother of our two grandchildren who are the delight of our lives."

"Pleased to meet you, Catalina. I shall like to meet your husband and your two children. My wife Margaret will want to know all about Marino, his family and this olive oil production facility."

Catalina looked at Heston bemused. Her accent was barely noticeable. Obviously, she'd been in an English-speaking environment sometime during her formative years, or perhaps more recently.

"Why would Mrs Mason living on the other side of the world who will probably never come here want to know about me, my husband and our children?"

"Well," stumbled Heston, not knowing what to say.

His smiling host came to his rescue.

"New Zealanders, my dear, are mostly of English descent and we all know how eccentric English people are."

That seemed to barely satisfy Catalina, who continued to look at Heston suspiciously.

"My husband and my children are away on a school expedition to an art centre," she said. "They won't be back before you leave."

"Perhaps you have a photograph of them that I could take home with me. I'll pay for it."

That startled Catalina, who looked wide-eyed at her father-in-law.

"It is an exchange, he'll leave us a photograph of himself and his wife; they have no children and perhaps that is why his wife has a fondness of receiving photographs of the business associates and friends of Heston."

"I think perhaps as a result of this visit, he will now be our friend, rather than a new business associate who all those years ago helped to raise this family of ours out of its despair. You will remember that time, you and Estevan had only just become sweet on each other."

"I remember," she replied rather stiffly. "It just seems strange that he should want a photograph of us in his home."

"Please understand, my friend, that Catalina grew up in a very small village and did not benefit from the standard of education that the English and perhaps people in your country receive as of right."

"My son Estevan came into contact with her when she was in England working as an au pair for a wealthy family. She was in a café one night with some other au pairs and music was playing."

"They urged her to dance, and she did, beautifully of course as she comes from a country family when classical dancing is ingrained into family life."

"My son Estevan was entranced."

"You mean Catalina does the Flamenco?" Heston asked in awe.

Catalina looked at him in surprise.

"The Flamenco is not unfamiliar to you?"

Up to now, his relationship with the person who was supposed to act as his guide had been going only in one direction, downhill. Heston determined this was an appropriate moment to lie.

"I am passionate about it," he improvised, and could not have chosen a better word than passionate.

"Here is Spain we dancers respect aficionados," she said, hastily adding that she was no longer a performer.

She smiled warmly at Heston as she said that.

He felt relieved, and studied her.

She was somewhat swarthy, not good looking. Her skin was flawless but her nose was squashed on to her face, her sizable nostrils flared and her mouth was overly wide.

And that was about all he noticed because she was dressed in overalls that fitted her like a loose sack. Oh, there was one thing. When she smiled, a flashing streak of bright light seemed to leap from those intensely dark eyes.

Overall, his impression was somebody you could pass on the street and not notice.

* * *

Interestingly, as this furtive assessment was underway while Marino was answering a phone call, Catalina was similarly engaged.

She thought there was a sadness about the visitor, perhaps his wife didn't supply the affection for which he yearned?

She guessed he was aged about forty, ten years older than herself. The strange sandy-coloured hair of Englishmen had faded, and was thinning. She could not deny that for an Englishman he was still quite handsome and looked reasonably athletic although he was a little too thick around the waist for his age.

But he smiled warmly, showed excellent teeth and he dressed well.

Marino come up to them and said "My friend not far from here cannot start his truck, so I must go to administer to the errant vehicle."

"Why don't you take Heston to the village?"

"I will do that," said Catalina, and walked over into an ante-room. She emerged a couple of minutes later in a shapeless black dress and white canvas shoes - scarcely the clothing of a trend-setter.

Heston sat uncomfortably beside Catalina in her small white car that belched black diesel fumes. He felt uncomfortable because she drove erratically and rather too fast for the winding road. Her method of braking was to jam her foot down hard and release it just as quickly as if in triumph that they had not gone into a spin, hit something or rolled off the road.

Walking through the village she said, "Coffee?"

"I would prefer something a little stronger," confessed Heston, his body struggling to repair frayed nerves.

Catalina seemed to ignore that comment, leading him into a coffee shop. Sensing his disappointment, she said, "Our coffee shops are not like coffee shops in England and serving coffee on these premises is a secondary activity. May I buy you a whisky or a brandy?"

Almost two hours later they arrived back at Marino's home.

"Damn," said Catalina. "You are in for a boring evening as neighbours have invited themselves to dine. They don't speak English but if they did, they would still practically ignore you."

As they drove up Marino met them at the door. He waved to Heston who was getting out of the car and went to the driver's door to speak to Catalina. She drove off with a toot of the horn.

"My apologies, my friend but our boring neighbours have invited themselves to dinner and no way would I wish to subject you to them."

"Catalina had gone home to change and will be back in half an hour to take you to a restaurant. I must apologise for this. Jose is so disappointed as she was looking forward to learning things about your country and how you live."

Half an hour?

A little over an hour later the door burst open and in walked Catalina who crossed the room to where Heston sat with Josefina beside him, translating.

Catalina's raven hair was pulled on top of her head, with ringlets dangling down.

Her face was unchanged, still rather coarse.

But now in evidence was her figure - she was quite large breasted, but elegantly slim.

She was dressed in a hugging black dress, black hose and black very high-heeled shoes and wore a black band around her neck.

But the incredible thing was in the way she moved. Heston quickly summed it up; she moved like a panther.

"Ooh-la-la. She'd done this for you, lucky boy," whispered Josefina. "Take care, she can be a wicked lady when the mood suits her."

Heston didn't know what to say. What could he say?

The other two men leapt to their feet, and the elderly neighbour led the charge to kiss the new arrival on her cheeks. Marino was more restrained, gently pulling her head downwards and kissing her on the forehead.

Walking out to the car Heston had cunningly placed himself on the right side of Catatlina, so as they arrived at the car, he was closest to the driver's seat. He held his hand out for the keys, but Catalina shrugged.

"They lie in the ignition."

Heston guided her by the arm to the other side of the vehicle and opened the door for her.

She expressed her appreciation in Spanish. Heston hadn't a clue about what she'd said but the softness of her voice and the slight incantation was all he needed to know; she had expressed her appreciation at being treated like a lady.

They'd just sat down in the restaurant, with the elderly male waiter greeting them and handing them the menus that were already on the table. It was a village restaurant.

Then Catalina sighed and said to Heston, "It's hot in here. Do you mind if I take my dress off?"

His mouth gaped open and a peal of laughter escaped from Catalina.

"Oh, I thought you Englishmen had a real sense of humour."

Heston could have sat there spitting his dummy.

Instead he leapt to his feet, went behind his dining companion and began unzipping the back of her dress.

Turning she grabbed his hands and hissed, "Not now, later you fool."

Piercing light flashed across her eyes as she said that, obviously reflection from the overhead lighting but the intensity of the flash startled Heston. He was relieved to see that she was smiling.

Returning to his seat, he was rather pleased with himself and wondered if that last comment of hers was just a tease.

He almost hoped it was because after Munich he'd promised himself to never again be unfaithful to his Margie, well knowing that Margie had no intention of making a similar vow.

He smiled at Catalina and thought he would ask her to translate the menu to return to a normal level of restaurant conversation. But it was she who spoke first.

"Do you push for sex on your first date?"

He was wearing an open-neck shirt, but still thought he detected his neck thickening.

Who the hell did she think he was, Don Juan?

"Is this a date?" he countered, thinking that was smart enough to flummox a country girl.

"Technically no, but will that be a hindrance?"

As if to reinforce her persistent cajoling, she brushed his leg lightly with her leg, sending visions of those shapely black-encased limbs flashing through his mind.

With perfect timing the waiter arrived at his side to take the wine order.

"Would you please order, a flint dry white to start me off."

She rattled off the order without looking at the wine list. The waiter inclined his head slightly towards Heston and immediately became compliant with Catalina as soon as she mentioned the word "Englishman".

"Where were we?"

"I was about to ask you how many varieties of olives do you have in Spain," retorted Heston, defensively.

"Were you really?" she replied, rubbing a long finger down the side of her nose. A discreet Latin gesture meaning 'liar'.

"In excess of two hundred and fifty, I believe, but we aren't together this evening to discuss olives."

"Then what is the purpose of our being together?"

"Cannot we first eat before embarking on that course?"

"No."

"You're a hard man."

"I hope so."

She giggled loudly at that, and several men at a distant table looked at Catalina and said something at length to his companions. They continued to stare at her for a few moments longer before returning to their wine and table conversation.

The proprietor of the restaurant arrived at their table and greeted Catalina expressively in Spanish. She held out her right arm and he raised it slowly and kissed her hand reverently.

She addressed him in Spanish and he bowed slightly to Heston and said in passable English, "Welcome to my humble restaurant Senor Mason. Our hospitality is for yours to enjoy. We are honoured to have you both with us."

Heston smiled broadly and uttered one of the few Spanish phrases that he'd picked up, "Muchas gracias, proprietario."

As the thickset owner walked away, he intercepted a waiter, and pointed to Heston's table. Moments later their waiter arrived with a bottle of red wine, and held it in front of Catalina to inspect. She read the label and indicated acceptance, with the waiter addressing her quietly.

She translated: "He says with the compliments of management. The proprietor obviously liked you attempting to address him in our language and knowing he'd never had a New Zealander in his restaurant before. It's how do you say, a wine off the top shelf."

Chapter 5