Juicy Red Tomatoes

Peñon Street WP
Illustration – Angelica Westerhoff

SEÑOR ALVAREZ HEAVED a box brimming with juicy red tomatoes up from the floor with a grunt. “This lot will have them through the door quicker than a gang of armed vampires raiding a blood bank,” he said to nobody in particular, as nobody in particular was there to hear. Humping it towards the front of the shop he dumped it on an upended crate by the door. “They won’t be able to resist these.” The grocer blew a sigh of satisfaction. “They’ll be gone in next to no time.”

His mini-supermarket bereft of customers, Señor Alvarez carried on wittering to himself, as he so often did when alone, which he so often was.

“They must be the biggest, reddest and ripest tomatoes in the whole of Santa Catalina. So juicy.” Picking one up he examined it for blemishes, taking care not to bruise it before sorting out the best to put on top. “And they’re all mine.” He placed it back among the others. “Not for long though. Not these.”

Having spent some time polishing and arranging each tomato to its best advantage, he straightened his back and rested his palms on his haunches. “Not bad at all, not bad at all.” With that he went back into the shop.

“What a prize chump that Sanchez is,” he said, “thinking he can get the better of an old hand like me. Take more than a half-baked nincompoop for that. We’ll see who the biggest idiot is when this lot starts flying out.” But something about his voice suggested he wasn’t quite so sure of himself as he was trying to make out. The tomatoes had been cheap. Suspiciously cheap. Sanchez had folded far too willingly in accepting the very first offer the grocer made. Normally, he’d quibble over every centimo.

“I don’t like it; I don’t like it at all.” Taken aback by the loudness of his own voice, Luis Alvarez glanced over his shoulder to make sure nobody had slipped in through the door to hear him. Of course, they hadn’t. He sighed with relief, secure in the knowledge he was alone.

He felt the sudden urge to scurry to the door and take another look at the tomatoes, as though half-expecting them to have perished. Once there, they looked just as good as before, if not better. Yet, magnificent as they were, something niggled. He couldn’t help thinking they were too good to be true.

In an effort to moving his musings away from his growing doubts about the tomatoes, he gazed out the door and into the world beyond his little emporium. A cheerful sun shone out of skies blue as blue. What a beautiful day. The simplest pleasures are always the best.

Sniffing the clear bright air, Señor Alvarez let escape a breath of contentment. Life was good, in the main, very good. Fact was, Sanchez didn’t know what he’d got. The old fool must be getting senile. Nobody could resist tomatoes like those. Especially when they were the first things they saw on entering the shop. There were few more exquisite feelings than getting the better of someone less intelligent than oneself. Still as sharp as a tack, and with a face as hard and straight as a metal rule, the grocer had told the pensioner there was no demand for tomatoes. The market was as flat as a pancake. No demand? People were crying out for them, yet the grocer had snaffled the lot for a pittance. You had to get up early to catch Señor Alvarez out. He smiled, allowing himself a few moments more to savour his accomplishment.

In this chirpy frame of mind he glanced up the street to the brow of the hill, when the skies appeared to darken all of a sudden. His eyes narrowed to slits. On the horizon he spied two familiar silhouettes heading his way. One sauntering, the other scampering, they appeared not to share a care between them. There being no time to shutter the windows and lock the doors, a grimace took hold of the grocer’s face. As the silhouettes approached even closer he raised an eyebrow. If he could best old Sanchez, he could best anybody. Gradually his grimace was displaced by a grin; this could be his chance to turn a bad omen into a golden opportunity. Clapping his hands he rubbed them together. It promised to be a very good day indeed.

Hands in pockets, straw hat tipped back, Pedro was whistling his way towards the grocer’s shop, his scruffy dog in tow. Señor Alvarez looked down at his delicious red fruits and pondered. Though the fisherman couldn’t fail to be transported by the sight of such juicy red tomatoes he still owed him for four slices of ham and a loaf. Probably thought the grocer had forgotten all about them. Well, he hadn’t. But Pedro never had any money with him. And even if he had, getting him to part with it was an entirely different matter.

Still, Señor Alvarez would have to look on the bright side. See it as a challenge. Life was full of challenges. There was always the chance Pedro could’ve come into a packet. He might have won the lottery. Señor Alvarez swiftly banished the ridiculous fancy with a shake of his head. Not a chance in hell. Yet he had to think positive. He steeled his mind with positivity. It would take the skill of a brain surgeon to prise a few coins from Pedro’s pocket. He had that skill. He had it. He pictured the fisherman being drawn inexorably towards the tomatoes. Like an innocent fawn caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck, the instant their splendour caught his eye he would freeze in his tracks. Held in their trance, he would extend a hand to pluck one up and put it to his mouth. That’s when Señor Alvarez would pounce.

“Hola,” Pedro greeted cheerfully, raising the brim of his battered straw hat. Through the door and into the shop, he strolled straight past the box brimming with juicy red tomatoes without sparing them as much as a glance. Señor Alvarez’s mouth gaped open, ready to say something. He cleared his throat noisily instead.

“Ahem!”

“What’s up with you?” asked Pedro. “I already said Hola, do you want me to say Buenos Dias too? Buenos Dias.” Señor Alvarez cleared his throat again.

“Ahem!” he said, tapping a foot on the floor. “I can’t believe you haven’t noticed my tomatoes. Don’t you think they’re the biggest and ripest in town?”

“Not a doubt about it,” Pedro said.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Well, I bet you’d like to try one.”

“How much would you like to bet?”

“Not bet like that, I mean you can have one. On the house. Gratis. For free. Just to try.”

“I wouldn’t take so much as a free lick of those tomatoes. Even if you paid me.”

Señor Alvarez stared in disbelief.

“Are you sick?” he inquired.

“No, and I don’t want to be sick,” Pedro answered.

Señor Alvarez waggled a doubting finger in his left ear. He couldn’t have heard right. It was impossible.

“Then you must’ve developed an allergy to tomatoes,” he said.

“Not that either. I love them. I eat them all the time. I had some for breakfast this morning. Though not half as good as yours look.”

“Fresh-picked at dawn. They’re home-grown.” Senor Alvarez said.

“I can see that.”

“Perfect soil. They’re organic.”

“Very organic.”

“No chemical fertilisers. Natural, organic fertiliser. Everything natural as natural can be.”

“And very rich in nutrients, I shouldn’t wonder,” Pedro threw that one in for nothing. “As well as other stuff.”

“Absolutely. They’re chock full of vitamins and minerals,” Señor Alvarez added. “Nature’s very best.” He liked this sort of talk. Eyes darting from fisherman to juicy red tomatoes, he flicked his head sideways towards the brimming box. Twice he flicked it. “Go on, take one,” he nodded in invitation, “You know you want to.” Señor Alvarez flicked again. “Go on.”

“Have you got an affliction?” Pedro asked. The grocer ignored him.

“And don’t forget the natural organic fertiliser when you’re taking that first bite,” the grocer reminded him. “Makes them really tasty.”

“You already mentioned how organic they are. A couple of times,” said Pedro.

“It can’t be mentioned enough.”

“True, very true. Neither can used toilet paper. That’s very organic in its own special way.”

“Used toilet paper? What’s used toilet paper got to do with it?”

“The used toilet paper that comes along with the natural organic fertiliser spilling out that broken drain next to old Sanchez’s garden. It’s a sewage pipe.”

“But you’re not supposed to throw toilet paper down toilets. It causes blockages. ”

“And you’re not supposed to grow vegetables in raw sewage either, but that doesn’t stop some people doing it. And it doesn’t stop other people selling them.”

“What are you saying?”

“He’s saying people shouldn’t sell farm produce contaminated with human waste,” Officer Lopez announced. His arrival unnoticed by either man, neither could know exactly how long he’d been there. That he was new to the Santa Catalina Guardia Civil was made blatantly obvious by the glistening buttons on his tunic. Emphasised by the fact he had yet to develop the deaf ear years of practice brought to veteran officers. Let alone the ability to cock one. “Surely, you must agree with that?” he said, directly into Señor Alvarez’s face. Señor Alvarez winced.

“Si,” he said. “Of course, I do.” The two men held each other’s gaze momentarily before Señor Alvarez jerked an index finger out towards the box brimming with juicy red tomatoes. “Funny you should say that,” he said. “Take these tomatoes, for instance. There’s something about them I don’t like. Something not quite right. So I’ve put them by the door to throw away. In fact I was just about to take them down to the rubbish container when you walked in.” Officer Lopez glanced down at the box brimming with juicy red tomatoes.

“They seem fine enough to me,” he said. Bending down, he picked out a prize specimen to examine. “More than fine, I’d say.” He rolled it between fingers and thumb. “They must be the biggest and ripest tomatoes in the whole of Santa Catalina, by the look of them. So red. And so juicy looking.”

“They may seem fine to you,” Señor Alvarez said, “But you don’t possess the practised eye of a professional purveyor of comestibles. Trust me, you have to look closer.” The policeman drew the tomato so near it almost touched his nose. He sniffed.

“What fragrance. Fresh off the vine as far as I can smell. I can’t see anything wrong with them.”

“Exactly my point. It’s what you can’t see I’m talking about. You’re guardia civil, you should know about that. A bit too innocent-looking, eh? A bit too good to be true, don’t you think?” Señor Alvarez leaned an eager face towards him.

“The best I’ve ever seen,” Officer Lopez said. And was just about to bite a chunk when Señor Alvarez snatched it from his hand.

“They’re not for sale,” he said, putting it back in the box.

“You must be joking. Weigh me up a couple of kilos,” Lopez said.

“Not at any price,” the grocer insisted. And with all the might of all his teeth, he forced a friendly smile. “No amount of money in the world could buy those tomatoes. And I certainly wouldn’t take any from you. Come back this afternoon, and I promise I’ll have some even better ones. I’ll keep some by, especially for you,” he said. Officer Lopez smiled back.

“I hope you’re not trying to bribe me,” he said with a wink. Señor Alvarez’s eyebrows jumped.

“Bribe you?” he asked aghast.

“You know what a bribe is, don’t you?” Pedro said.

“Of course, I know what a bribe is!” the grocer snapped.

“He says he’s familiar with bribery, officer.”

“I’m not familiar with it. Not in that way. I just know what the word means.”

“Come on,” Officer Lopez said. “I know they must be expensive. First class tomatoes always are. But I want to pay the going rate. I don’t expect any favours, and I don’t give any.” He stared at the grocer’s sweating brow. “I hope I’ve not got you wrong here, Señor Alvarez. Because I’d come down on you like a ton of bricks if I thought you were breaking the law by refusing to sell me some of your best tomatoes just because I’m a member of the guardia civil.”

“Breaking the law?” Señor Alvarez exclaimed.

“The law,” Pedro said. “You know the law is, don’t you?”

“Of course I know what the law is!” Señor Alvarez shouted. “And there’s no need to explain what breaking it is either.”

“He knows all about breaking the law, officer.”

“For chrissakes! Shut up! Will you?” Alvarez said to Pedro.

“Now, now, there’s no need to raise your voice,” Officer Lopez said. “The gentleman is only trying to help.” Then turning to Pedro: “It’s all right, señor, I can handle things on my own. Thank you, very much.”

“He’s not trying to help. Can’t you see what he’s doing? He’s mixing you up. And what things are you talking about? There are no things to handle.”

Officer Lopez took the grocer gently by the crook of his arm.

“Let me be the judge of that. As I said, Señor Alvarez, the gentleman was just trying to help. I’m quite sure you know what breaking the law is, but there’s no need to lose your temper. It can only provoke people unnecessarily. Just tell me how much your tomatoes are, weigh some out, and I think we’ll all agree no further action need be taken. The matter will be at a close, and we’ll all be on our way. I think you owe the gentleman here an apology.”

“An apology?”

“An apology,” said Pedro. “You know what an apology is, don’t you?”

“Of course I know what an apology is!” Señor Alvarez yelled at the fisherman.

“I’ve had to warn you once about that nasty temper of yours,” Officer Lopez said. “I don’t want to have to do it again.”

“But it’s him! It’s him you want to be warning and arresting and stuff. He’s saying things deliberately!”

“I never said anything about arresting anyone,” Officer Lopez said. “But I will do my duty if I have to.”

“I’m a witness to that,” Pedro said, “The officer didn’t say anything about arresting anybody. But he’ll be more than willing to do his duty if he has to.”

“For what?” Señor Alvarez asked pitifully. Pedro turned to Officer Lopez.

“For what?” he asked.

“For what?” Officer Lopez repeated slowly, and looked to the ceiling for assistance. “For causing a public disturbance,” he pronounced.

***

“He only went and dragged Alvarez down to headquarters,” Pedro told Antolin   over a beer in Juani’s bar later in the afternoon. “Banged him up in a cell for a couple of hours of to cool off. You should’ve heard the language.” The fisherman laughed. “When I saw old skinflint’s eyes peering through bars, it was all I could do to keep a straight face.”

“Well, he can’t complain,” Antolin chuckled. “He’s lucky it’s the only thing he was arrested for. If you paint your grandmother’s donkey before trying to sell it back to her, you ought to keep an eye out for rain.”

“I don’t get your drift.”

“Neither do I, I’ve been trying to puzzle that one out for the past forty years. It’s something my uncle used to say.”

Copyright © 2016 Bryan Hemming

 

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10 thoughts on “Juicy Red Tomatoes

  1. I agree with Laura. I think it’s time to rein in the blogs and plans and ideas, and projects and this and that and sit yourself down to write a book. Your work is worth more than a blog can give it. Your descriptions, like this one: “. . .caught by a shaft of light escaping through an open door spilling merriment, a newspaper page flaps its way along a blustery street when a sudden gust bears it up with all the clumsiness of an albatross taking off in an Arctic storm. As the wind whisks yesterday’s news into tomorrow the door slams shut for shadow and muted voices to reign once more.” are nothing short of breathtaking. And you give your characters wings to fly into the reader’s imagination. Even if you didn’t knit your work into one long piece of fiction, you could surely publish a fine book of short stories.

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    1. Your kind words are much appreciated, Linda, though there are a few too many hurdles to jump before I can do what was my intention when I first came to Spain. If only.

      Due to our choices to live as an artist and a writer Angelica and I live frugal lives and are hardly able to cover our outgoings for most of the year. The influx of tourists each summer helps, but still doesn’t bring enough money for me to devote to the months needed to compile a collection of short stories, let alone a novel. Angelica also has her needs as a creative artist.

      You’re right about spreading myself too thinly, especially over the last couple of years, and that’s why my posts have almost stopped completely. There have also been other complications that have got in the way that I won’t go into here.

      On the bright side, my articles of last year and this year have been widely read on alternative news sites that pick them up.

      The problem is getting paid. As I’m not always aware of how many outlets re-blog or re-publish my work, it’s rather difficult to know how to. One thing is certain, they don’t ask my permission or tell me once the articles are published. The other problem is that none of the sites are based in Spain, and I don’t have the time or money to follow-up.

      My idea was to establish a reputation and then get one outlet to take something like one or two articles a month and let them take care of following up. I’ve achieved the first bit – to an extent – but not the second.

      Although my plan wouldn’t mean a large amount of cash flowing in, it would make a huge difference to us as we are used to very low incomes. With the extra money I could spend most of my time concentrating on the final draft of the novel gathering dust in my files, as well as compiling the collection of short stories that just need polishing up a bit.

      That was the plan, but then came the ‘other complications’.

      But all is not lost, right at this very moment I am trying to work out a new plan, and that’s why I posted El Levante yesterday. I think the Missives from Santa Catalina site gives a fairly good idea of what I do and what I can do on the short story front. My intention is to point a few publishing houses towards it, in the hope one might show the same enthusiasm as Laura and yourself.

      If you have any ideas I will be only too happy to see them.

      Thanks for the encouragement.

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      1. Ideas? Hmm. I’ll put some pondering to your issue. I understand your difficulty with getting paid for your work. This is a terrible time for journalists and writers. It seems the whole world has come to expect information for free. Too many people don’t even care about the validity of the information they consume. I have a friend with a wife and child who has just completed his coursework in journalism. He’s having a devil of a time getting a paying job, although his articles have been picked up by the likes of Huffington Post and Washington Post. He didn’t even get paid for those, although his readership was huge, based on the bazillion comments that followed each article.

        If you were to miraculously get published, what is your ultimate goal? Is it financial or is it more about readership? I’ve heard anecdotes about writers who couldn’t get a publisher or agent to look at them. They selp-pubbed and marketed themselves strategically, gained a huge following, and THEN got the publishers’ attention. I think that is a rare phenomenon…but it happens.

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      2. My primary goal has always been to reach as wide a readership as possible to both inform and entertain.

        Writing stories is theatre for me. The characters and scenes I create play through my mind as I tap away at the keyboard. Each moment spent writing a story is a moment of living in my own world of suspended disbelief.

        The desire to write began in childhood with a longing for the ability to help others escape the harsh reality that is childhood for too many of us. Reading helped me achieve that magic, and to look at life through different, less jaundiced, eyes. As I hope my Santa Catalina stories show, overall, I have an optimistic view of life, overcast from time to time with dark and stormy clouds.

        Though, like most of us, I would prefer to have more of it, financial reward has never been my main objective. I could have achieved that through sticking to graphic design or dealing in antique tribal rugs and textiles, both of which I have done with sime success. No, on the money front I have always been happy to earn as much as I need to live on, and I don’t need very much.

        Thanks, for your thoughtful input Linda. Showing we care about others is fast becoming a lost art.

        Bryan.

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      3. Well Bryan, the above would be the perfect start for a really fine author page. And since you don’t have inflated notions of getting rich by publishing (which rarely happens anyway), have you considered self-publishing? I think self-publishing is a marvelous way of skirting the gate keepers. You’ve got some really wonderful stories to share with people, and your reasons for writing & sharing are the bedrock motivations of an honest artist. Maybe platforms like CreateSpace and LightningSource are not as easy to access in Spain, but I wish you’d consider the idea. Your work screams for a larger audience.

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      1. Ooh! I don’t know about that, Laura. A bit like you – I feel – I have far too much on my plate already with blogs and plans and ideas, and projects and bits of this and that all over the place. Then again, I kept diaries of all those travels, and it was an excerpt from one of those that got me commissioned by the Telegraph to go to Armenia. Don’t tempt me, please!

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