Work on the wall was progressing quite smoothly. Francisco had taken down the first section he'd built, which was leaning over just a bit too much for our liking, though he saw no problems with it (“Oh, don't worry, we'll make it up on the parging.”), and the rebuilt part was now almost vertical. We had also come to an agreement about where exactly the wall should be in the garden, and where it would end, although that was still subject to change depending on how high we eventually decided to make it. Then, just as everything seemed to have fallen into place, the police arrived. We had not taken out a permit to build the wall of course. For minor jobs like this, people never bother, and this was not only minor, but a replacement for a previous wall, parts of which had been falling over on us from time to time. However, apparently someone had lodged a complaint against us. In fact, whoever it was had made at least two complaints, one against us, and one against Bertha, our nice German neighbour opposite, who was having her terrace repaved.
The two policemen spent quite a while at Bertha's. This was understandable because even after living in Spain for twenty-five years, apart from being able to count to ten in Spanish and say perro as she points to her dog, she speaks only German. For Spaniards, communication with her, such as it is, depends a great deal on gestures, intuition and good will, which it must be said the policemen seemed to have in abundance. Finally though, they left her and appeared at our gate, and Francisco went down to see what was up. One of the policemen was Moses, his ex-unofficial-brother-in-law, and as we watched from inside the house we could see them go through preliminary greetings with what appeared to be considerable bonhomie. There followed a lengthy discussion and much serious gesticulation, which we watched with growing concern.
When they finally left, Francisco reported back to us in an uncharacteristically sombre mood. Not only had someone complained, they had done it by phoning the chief of police that morning, a man who we now discovered lives just down the road. He it was who had immediately sent Moses and his colleague to investigate. This was serious stuff: the complainant obviously had connections. It's not just anyone who can call up the chief of police and get something done right away.
We had noticed that poor Bertha, who apparently doesn't know how you can treat policemen in Spain, had actually let them enter her garden and look at the work that was being done, so Moses and friend had served her with a formal complaint, which meant all work had to stop at once and she would probably have to pay a fine. In our case, Francisco had of course not let them past the front gate, and he had described the work he was doing – much broader in scope than Bertha's - in such a way that they laughed and gave us a friendly verbal warning, although we were still supposed to stop. They told me I could use up the mortar we've already made, said Francisco, looking around wistfully at the blocks waiting higgledy-piggledy to be added to the wall. He paused and smiled, happier now. But this afternoon and tomorrow the police don't work. We can get quite a bit done.
According to Francisco, as long as we rushed down to the town hall and applied for a minor building permit right away, all would be well. They're open until three, he assured us. Surprisingly, this being a Saturday, they were. We got the forms, each one in triplicate, addressed to his excellency the Lord Mayor of A***, and very complicated, and showed Francisco that there were parts we couldn't fill in ourselves, about the type of work, a plan signed by an architect, no less, the name and details of the contractor, etc. He looked at them suspiciously – he can only just read – and reached for his cell phone. Moses, he said, we got the forms. Pause. Yes. You're going to have to fill them in for me. No, no, no. No, you have to do it. Right. Pause. Ok? Good. He snapped his phone shut and turned to us with a big smile. Moses will fill them in. He knows how to do it. We apparently looked surprised, because he found it necessary to explain: He does it all the time. He has this ongoing battle with his neighbour, she's a terrible woman. As soon as he does anything, she complains about him, and he has to get a permit. Then he complains about her, she gets a permit. It's been going on for years. He's filled in these forms so many times and he has to do it really well otherwise the lawyers get hold of it and she wins. They just hate each other. They're always at it.
When he'd left for lunch at around two-thirty I went to see Bertha. My German is not too good, but I looked up the words for permit and complaint in my dictionary before leaving the house and partly because she speaks beautifully clearly things went pretty well. When I asked if she had a permit, using the long word I'd found in the dictionary (Genehmigung), she snorted loudly. My wife and I had assumed that being German she would respect the rules, but either she had been in Spain too long or our stereotypes were outdated. Eine Genehmigung? Of course not, she said, lifting her eyes up towards heaven. But aren't the workers German? I asked, thinking that they at least, or the company they worked for, would be law-abiding. She looked me in the eye. Polen, she said, pushing her lips forward in a way I maliciously saw as disapproving, Polen. She threw up her hands, then pointed to the little patch of terrace next to the entrance that remained to be finished: they had to stop everything, she said, alles gestoppt, and just two square metres left. And I might have to pay a fine. Then suddenly, she laughed. Good thing they don't know about the apartment, she said, her mood now changed. Bertha is a very upbeat sort of person. She'd just had a completely separate apartment built underneath her house which she'd showed us proudly a few days before. Apparently sans Genehmigung.
So who do you think complained? María, she said at once, nodding in the direction of María's house. It must be María. But why? I didn't know you even knew her. We knew María because she'd tried to sell us a house once. She is a real-estate agent, very well-connected, a wiry high-pitched woman who is incredibly pushy. She and I hadn't got along at all well and we'd ended up buying our house from someone else. I could see her ratting on us, but why on Bertha? Bertha snorted again and began to speak more quickly. Do I know her? Of course I know her. She sold me the house, she does my rentals, I've known her for 25 years. But why would she lodge a complaint against you? Well, real estate's not doing too well, is it? and she does a lot of construction, renovations, and stuff like that. She always did things for me before but she's very expensive, so I stopped using her. It would have cost more than twice as much if I'd done this with her instead of the Poles. It's María, for sure. I mentioned that whoever complained had apparently phoned the chief of police directly. She raised her elbows in a sort of shrug and briefly closed her eyes: María! Of course.
The two policemen spent quite a while at Bertha's. This was understandable because even after living in Spain for twenty-five years, apart from being able to count to ten in Spanish and say perro as she points to her dog, she speaks only German. For Spaniards, communication with her, such as it is, depends a great deal on gestures, intuition and good will, which it must be said the policemen seemed to have in abundance. Finally though, they left her and appeared at our gate, and Francisco went down to see what was up. One of the policemen was Moses, his ex-unofficial-brother-in-law, and as we watched from inside the house we could see them go through preliminary greetings with what appeared to be considerable bonhomie. There followed a lengthy discussion and much serious gesticulation, which we watched with growing concern.
When they finally left, Francisco reported back to us in an uncharacteristically sombre mood. Not only had someone complained, they had done it by phoning the chief of police that morning, a man who we now discovered lives just down the road. He it was who had immediately sent Moses and his colleague to investigate. This was serious stuff: the complainant obviously had connections. It's not just anyone who can call up the chief of police and get something done right away.
We had noticed that poor Bertha, who apparently doesn't know how you can treat policemen in Spain, had actually let them enter her garden and look at the work that was being done, so Moses and friend had served her with a formal complaint, which meant all work had to stop at once and she would probably have to pay a fine. In our case, Francisco had of course not let them past the front gate, and he had described the work he was doing – much broader in scope than Bertha's - in such a way that they laughed and gave us a friendly verbal warning, although we were still supposed to stop. They told me I could use up the mortar we've already made, said Francisco, looking around wistfully at the blocks waiting higgledy-piggledy to be added to the wall. He paused and smiled, happier now. But this afternoon and tomorrow the police don't work. We can get quite a bit done.
According to Francisco, as long as we rushed down to the town hall and applied for a minor building permit right away, all would be well. They're open until three, he assured us. Surprisingly, this being a Saturday, they were. We got the forms, each one in triplicate, addressed to his excellency the Lord Mayor of A***, and very complicated, and showed Francisco that there were parts we couldn't fill in ourselves, about the type of work, a plan signed by an architect, no less, the name and details of the contractor, etc. He looked at them suspiciously – he can only just read – and reached for his cell phone. Moses, he said, we got the forms. Pause. Yes. You're going to have to fill them in for me. No, no, no. No, you have to do it. Right. Pause. Ok? Good. He snapped his phone shut and turned to us with a big smile. Moses will fill them in. He knows how to do it. We apparently looked surprised, because he found it necessary to explain: He does it all the time. He has this ongoing battle with his neighbour, she's a terrible woman. As soon as he does anything, she complains about him, and he has to get a permit. Then he complains about her, she gets a permit. It's been going on for years. He's filled in these forms so many times and he has to do it really well otherwise the lawyers get hold of it and she wins. They just hate each other. They're always at it.
When he'd left for lunch at around two-thirty I went to see Bertha. My German is not too good, but I looked up the words for permit and complaint in my dictionary before leaving the house and partly because she speaks beautifully clearly things went pretty well. When I asked if she had a permit, using the long word I'd found in the dictionary (Genehmigung), she snorted loudly. My wife and I had assumed that being German she would respect the rules, but either she had been in Spain too long or our stereotypes were outdated. Eine Genehmigung? Of course not, she said, lifting her eyes up towards heaven. But aren't the workers German? I asked, thinking that they at least, or the company they worked for, would be law-abiding. She looked me in the eye. Polen, she said, pushing her lips forward in a way I maliciously saw as disapproving, Polen. She threw up her hands, then pointed to the little patch of terrace next to the entrance that remained to be finished: they had to stop everything, she said, alles gestoppt, and just two square metres left. And I might have to pay a fine. Then suddenly, she laughed. Good thing they don't know about the apartment, she said, her mood now changed. Bertha is a very upbeat sort of person. She'd just had a completely separate apartment built underneath her house which she'd showed us proudly a few days before. Apparently sans Genehmigung.
So who do you think complained? María, she said at once, nodding in the direction of María's house. It must be María. But why? I didn't know you even knew her. We knew María because she'd tried to sell us a house once. She is a real-estate agent, very well-connected, a wiry high-pitched woman who is incredibly pushy. She and I hadn't got along at all well and we'd ended up buying our house from someone else. I could see her ratting on us, but why on Bertha? Bertha snorted again and began to speak more quickly. Do I know her? Of course I know her. She sold me the house, she does my rentals, I've known her for 25 years. But why would she lodge a complaint against you? Well, real estate's not doing too well, is it? and she does a lot of construction, renovations, and stuff like that. She always did things for me before but she's very expensive, so I stopped using her. It would have cost more than twice as much if I'd done this with her instead of the Poles. It's María, for sure. I mentioned that whoever complained had apparently phoned the chief of police directly. She raised her elbows in a sort of shrug and briefly closed her eyes: María! Of course.
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