Halfway to Africa

James Lawrence

>3. THE BUILDER AND THE AEROSOL

It all began so promisingly. He had a wallet full of photos and I of the folding stuff. The difference is, he still has the photos.

“These are just some of the houses we’ve renovated,” he announced with manifest pride, leafing past shiny white villas in the Algarve and substantial stone piles in the Minho, all under skies of unblemished azure. I was pleased to note he appeared to have left each site clean, without a trace of the usual builder’s debris, and even with mature gardens around them. I would have been proud to own any one of them.

Yes, this was my man – experienced, well equipped, a nationwide operator; his handshake firm, his smile warm and genuine. Above all, he was sensitive to the intrinsic dignity and character of old houses, in painful contrast to my last builder, Bulldozer Bento, who is to period properties what Osama bin Laden is to New York skyscrapers. No, this man was going to transform the heap of rubble by which we were standing into a house fit to grace not only the pages of Country Life, but the front cover itself.

After thirty years of hard toil and bitter disillusion, my dream was at last within sniffing distance. I saw spread before me a shining vision of my future: gently rocking in the hammock on the terrace, hunk of fresh, warm bread topped by a decent brie in one hand, glass of crisp white wine in the other, attended by a smiling, raven-haired lovely eager to light my cigar. The only sounds apart from the dinner bell would be the halcyon warbling of the birds, the whisper of leaves in the zephyr breeze, the gentle murmur of the tumbling cascades. And all for less than the price of a one-bedroom flat in Penge. If not yet a lady, Luck had at least stopped being a bitch.

“How long do you think it will take, Senhor Julio?” I asked, not really expecting any kind of commitment.

He stroked his chin as if performing some agile calculations. “About eight months.”

That means at least a year, I smiled inwardly. He couldn’t pull my leg - I knew all about Portuguese builders. But it didn’t matter: a year was not a lifetime. And it would be worth the wait.

“Isn’t that a bit optimistic? It’s a big project.” I was trying to be fair to the man.

“No! I’ll have guys swarming all over it like ants,” he promised. “But first thing we need to do,” he went on, even as the ink was drying on the cheque, “er, leave it blank, I’ll fill in the name – is to build a shed to house our equipment. Won’t do to leave it lying around – you can’t trust anyone these days.”

“That’s reasonable enough,” I conceded.

“And it’ll be useful for your garden tools and firewood afterwards,” he pointed out.

“I suppose that means I’ll have to pay for it.” I can be pretty sharp on the uptake sometimes. “But it’s not in the contract. How much are we talking about?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “Ah! Hardly worth mentioning. I’ll do it at cost.”

I was so full of bonhomie that had he proposed to rape my woman and sell all my family into slavery, I would have said that seems fair. But I draw the line at eating my cat.

“Black cats are the cure for asthma,” he assured me (I don’t recall how this entered the conversation). “It’s well known. But only a black cat will do.” My Tommy threw himself, scratching, at the window, and I reflected that I had just entrusted my life’s savings to a man who believed that sucking on a black cat helps you breathe more easily. Ah, but these were cultural differences, to be enjoyed, not scoffed at.

His tools safely housed, it was my turn. Work began on the annex, so that I would have a roof over my head while the main house was being renovated. With winter coming on (it was already April), this seemed like a sensible idea.

Throughout the summer, two men worked fitfully on the annex. “Any more and they’d just be standing watching each other,” averred Julio, one day when he swung by to collect his monthly cheque. “Once we start on the main house you won’t be able to see the walls for men.”

“I certainly hope so, because I’ve paid getting on for half the total contract already.”

He tapped the side of his nose craftily. “That’s because I’m buying in the materials now, before the price goes up. All the floor and wall tiles are safely stored in my warehouse – I heard they were going up 15%.”

What a relief it was to have this Machiavelli on my side. He was saving me a fortune!

By August the structure was ready for the specialists to do their stuff. Of course, they were all on holiday.

In September I watched as the carpenter applied varnish to the ceiling beams, as well as the newly painted ceiling, walls and tiled floor.

“Wouldn’t it be much easier to varnish the wood before installing it?” I ventured.

He turned, thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose it would.” He steadied a look at me as if to ask: “And what is the point of your question?” Then he went on slapping the varnish.

“Er, it’s not actually the colour I asked for,” I apologised, handing him up a Superbock.

“It’ll dry to that colour.” Yes, he was probably right. Silly me.

I moved into the annex towards the back end of October, just as the nights were getting cold. I found that the electrician had cleverly arranged the lights so that one switch served for all. The only problem with this labour-saving device was that I couldn’t switch one off without switching them all off. But then, when they were all on at the same time, the fuse box kept tripping anyway. And I was getting electric shocks off the radiator in the bathroom, so that had to go. I could look forward to some modest electricity bills this winter, which was as well, for it turned out to be the coldest on record.

A roaring log fire was the obvious answer. Another golden vision swam into view: there I was, cuddled up under a blanket in front of an open hearth, warming my hands on a glass of mulled wine, candle spluttering, kicking myself for yet again forgetting to buy batteries for the CD player – it almost made me look forward to winter.

I’d paid out extra to have a fire (the contract called for a fireplace, but made no mention of a chimney), so I was damn well going to make the most of it. There was plenty of old timber lying about (nails always upward), ripped out of the house, so I excitedly piled it up over the firelighters and applied a match. The crackling of the flame was all the more gratifying with the knowledge that a chomping platoon of wood beetles was about to meet a grisly end. (If I sound sadistic, Greenpeace types should know that I saved one plank to make a picnic table, just so the little b------s would have to listen to me munching.) I went off to fetch the crumpets, butter and toasting fork.

On my return I was met by a billowing curtain of smoke. I took a deep breath, cut my way through to the door from memory, and stood gasping in the cold night air, which rushed in to the house to chase out the choking fumes. But the fire itself was fine – the smoke (and most of the heat) going straight up the chimney. Must have been a freak gust of wind. I put on another pullover, shoved another plank on the flames and impaled the first crumpet on the toasting fork – damned if I was going to be beaten.

The crumpet remained stubbornly white, except for the soot gathered in the little holes. I brushed away the singed hairs from the back of my right hand, and thrust my left into the smouldering inferno. But I forgot all about the pain as, in the far corner of my vision, a sinister black miasma came seeping out of the cooker hood, curling and snaking its way from behind to loom over me like an evil ectoplasm.

This was very odd. I knew I hadn’t left anything in the oven. In fact I’d never used the oven, on account of the electric shocks. Then I had one of those rare moments of inspiration – I switched on the ventilator. As the fan whirred into action, the fumes were satisfyingly sucked back – only to re-emerge seconds later, taunting me, from the fireplace. I was forced to open the door again, equalising temperatures at about 2ºc. But at least I had the answer: they had run the exhaust tube into the chimney, and left it pointing downwards.

I switched off the ventilator and caught another electric shock. I switched on a radiator and tripped the power. There’s only one thing left to do in such circumstances: I went to bed with Glen Fiddich and a black crumpet.

“Ah, it’s impossible to find a decent electrician these days,” Julio shook his head in weary resignation on hearing my report. “I know a good man – Manuel – I’ll get him on to it.

“You still haven’t presented your licence to the Câmara,” I reminded him. The project still isn’t legal.”

“You’re right, Senhor Jaime. My wife has been very ill. I had to take her to the hospital again yesterday. I’ll attend to it without fail next Monday.”

I felt sorry for him and took a stab at cheering him up. “I must say, that seems a reasonable price for the annex, Senhor Julio. All that stonework, and an extra bedroom.”

“Er, that’s the bill for the shed, Senhor Jaime.”

And so the seasons rolled by. Four men turned up to work (I use the term loosely) every day on the main house, and I enjoyed the ‘Spot the Difference’ challenge every day after they left. “Look, that beer bottle wasn’t there this morning!” I would point out. “And isn’t that a new dollop of cement on the window?” But the house had its first inhabitant: I watched a robin build its nest in my putative sitting room, and, undisturbed, raise three healthy chicks. Quite touching.

The men devised their own entertainment to fill in the hours and days while they were waiting for materials to show up. They would sit eating their breakfast, then elevenses, then lunch, then afternoon tea, around an inspection chamber in the ground, through which passed the drainage tube from the annex where I was still living – except that the tube didn’t quite pass. For want of an elbow joint the waste had to leap like a homebound salmon through open air a couple of feet, before continuing its journey on to the septic tank. The men had shown extraordinary skill in positioning the receiving tube – it was barely four inches in diameter, after all – and I imagine it provided many hours of good sport, adjusting distance and angle, before they found the optimum flight path. The chamber was located well away and below the annex, so each discharge would have acquired considerable velocity by the time it reached them. For weeks I had been wondering why, exactly six seconds after I flushed the toilet, a great cheer always rose up outside. Probably they were taking bets.

I like to see men happy in their work, so when the elbow joint finally arrived and the chamber was sealed, I pondered alternative diversions to usefully occupy their time. I finally decided on a Lego set, but couldn’t find the ‘Junior’ version.

I needn’t have worried: one hot day soon after (it was 38ºc), I saw them light a fire. Ah, they’re going to grill sardines for lunch, I thought. How wonderfully Portuguese! But instead of fish, out of the sack they pulled empty aerosols which, one by one, they tossed onto the flames. There would be a great whoosh, then a bang, and the cans would whiz across the garden and sometimes even into the forest. The latter was a bonus: there was a silent frisson of anticipation while they waited to see if it had started a blaze.

On one of his monthly orbits I again challenged Julio over his tardiness in presenting his builder’s licence.

“Ah, I’m sorry Senhor Jaime – my wife is very ill again. I’m afraid it’s quite serious. She must have an operation.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Senhor Julio. But it’s five months since you said you would arrange another electrician, and he still hasn’t turned up.”

“And is that my fault?” he frothed indignantly. “And Senhor Jaime,” he lowered his voice, “I must ask you for extra this month. The tiles you wanted are no longer manufactured, and the substitutes cost a lot more.”

“But I thought I’d already bought them! You said you had them stored.”

His brow folded into deep furrows and he shook his head. “There must have been some misunderstanding, Senhor Jaime.”

“Yes, it was such a long time ago. And all that money I paid?”

He struck the pose of a man mystified, ransacking his memory vaults. “You mean the deposit? That’s sacrosanct, Senhor Jaime. I don’t touch that money.” The very idea was repugnant to him.

And the months rolled by and turned into years. I became part of Julio’s inner circle, and was always invited to family functions. His first grandson (due even as I write) is to be named after me. I remember the first time I met his wife – it was at their youngest son’s baptism. I had expected to be presented to a cadaverous husk, attended by at least two paramedics: one to push the wheelchair and adjust the drip bag, the other with oxygen mask and defibrillator at the ready. In fact she had hands like boxing gloves and legs like the balustrades I wanted for my garden steps, when they were built. Whatever treatment she was on, it appeared to be working.

“I hope you’re feeling much better now,” I smoothed, conquering the searing pain of crushed fingers. “Was the operation a success?” She smiled at me strangely and didn’t reply. I guess confusion was a symptom of her illness.

I always harboured an irrational fear at these gatherings that, as sponsor, I might be called upon to make a speech (I am to public speaking what Dr Shipman was to geriatric care). Fortunately I was spared this embarrassment, but I was made to feel like guest of honour – every man in the room of working age queued to shake me warmly by the hand and press his business card on me.

A delivery of materials was always a big event. We would rush out to meet the truck like starving refugees to a UN helicopter. On one such occasion I was still swigging on the celebratory Lidl’s vinho espumante when I spotted that there were only twelve wooden floor tiles for the Polynesian hut I was going to have erected next to the swimming pool, which had been excavated nine months before and was starting to fill in again.

“There should be twenty-four, Senhor Julio,” I pointed out.

“Não, senhor!” he wagged a finger. “The hut is three metres by two, correct?”

“Spot on.”

“That’s six square metres.” He smiled indulgently.

“I’m with you so far.”

“Each tile is fifty centimetres square – that’s half a metre. So to cover six square metres we need twelve tiles.” He spoke slowly and kindly, as patient teacher to retarded pupil.

“Forgive me, Senhor Julio, but you need four tiles of fifty centimetres square to make one square metre. Therefore to cover six square metres you need twenty-four.”

He shook his head. This was sheer madness.

To illustrate my point, I laid out four tiles on the ground in a square. He gaped like a child at a clever conjuring trick. There was sorcery afoot here.

His voice left him in a hoarse whisper. “I didn’t budget for that, Senhor Jaime.”

“When working in two dimensions, you have to square the measurement,” I said, trying hard not to sound like a supercilious Englishman.

He’s a quick learner, is Julio, I’ll grant him that. Now when I receive his bills I can tell that everything has been squared, instead of merely doubled, as before.

“One-hundred-and-fifty euros for a length of aluminium tube seems a bit steep, Senhor Julio,” I chided him on his next appearance. “That’s almost as much as the wood-burning stove itself. And it can barely be three metres long, never mind eight.”

He cast around him, and from one of the piles of rubbish pulled out a small scrap of the same tubing (about fifteen euros’ worth, by his reckoning).

“How long would you say this is?” he challenged.

“Oh, about twenty centimetres.”

“Right. Now, watch this.” He pulled on each end of the tube and it opened like a concertina. “Now how long?”

I had to admit, it had just about doubled in length.

I’ll also give Julio that he’s regular – only once has he failed to pass by for his monthly cheque. Ever conscientious, he sent his son Fabio instead.

“My father is with my mother,” Fabio explained.

“Oh, dear. Is she unwell again?”

He seemed puzzled by this. “No, they’ve gone to the Alentejo. Father heard that some Germans have built beautiful houses there. He likes to take photographs.”

A movement behind him caught my eye. “Why are the men taking the equipment out of the shed?” I asked.

“Because they are afraid it is going to rain.”

Alarm bells shrilled. “You mean the roof is leaking already?”

“No, the roof is perfect. They say they built the shed too close to the edge of the terrace. The ground is moving. If the rain is heavy, it may fall down. No, leave that blank. I’ll fill in the name.”

“I’ve watched your son grow from boy to man,” I said to Julio on his most recent sweep.

“He’s too big to hit now,” he lamented with a sigh. “And how is your arm?”

“It’ll mend, same as the leg did.”

“Ah, it’s a disgrace that a man your age should have to scramble up and down a slope like that.” He shook his head in a ‘what’s the world coming to?’ kind of way.

“You did promise me the steps would be done by last Easter, Senhor Julio.”

“It’s only August, Senhor Jaime.”

“No, last Easter; Easter of last year.”

He sighed and shook his head again. “I’ll have two men on it next Monday. Where does the time go, Senhor Jaime? The years just slip by. I remember you when you had hardly a grey hair on your head.”

“And I remember you when those trousers still fitted!” I retorted.

He laughed and then we both fell silent for a moment, allowing our eyes to rest on the scattered rubble of the collapsed wall, lost in our own thoughts. I sensed it but could not quite put my finger on it: those shattered fragments symbolised something.

I finally broke the silence. “I’m beginning to wonder if my dream will ever be realised. I’ve been living in the annex so long now ….”

He gripped me passionately by the arm and turned me to look him in the eye. “Never give up on your dreams, Senhor Jaime!” he intoned, fiercely. “Without his dreams, a man is nothing!”

“But it has already cost me a lot more than your quote, Senhor Julio, and it’s still far from finished.”

“I can make that easier for you, Senhor Jaime.” He slid a piece of paper from his pocket. “I like you very much, Senhor Jaime. I think you are a good person. That’s why we’re still here, even though I’m losing money. I should have asked another 100,000 euros for this project. If I didn’t like you so much I would have abandoned it a long time ago.”

“I’m very grateful to you, Senhor Julio.”

“Senhor Jaime, I enjoy these little chats we have every month. But we are both busy men. It is a nuisance for me to drive all the way down here just to collect a cheque. I’m sure you also have many other things to do. That is why I have prepared this mandate for your bank to pay me by direct debit. It makes everything much simpler, and is not as painful as writing a cheque. All you have to do is sign here. No, leave that blank. I’ll fill in the name.”

From behind us came a loud Whoosh! Bang! In the village a startled donkey began to bray: ee-aw, ee-aw! A blackened Dum-Dum aerosol rolled at my feet.

James Lawrence is based in Central Portugal. He can be contacted on traduz@mail.telepac.pt

Visit James' websites at www.portugalhols.com and www.portugalpropertydirect.com