Palma de Mallorca Mystique

By Raymond Crane

A contemporary YA Romance in two volumes. In volume one the maturation processes of four individuals is described, - Franz, German - Sebastian, French, - and Chloe Tosh and Penny Posh, two English women undergo that gruelling meeting and rejection called Romance. In the second volume our two male heroes meet two German sisters, Ingrid and Gretchen. What else needs to be said - everything and more as you shall so surely find out about. You have nothing to lose and much to gain, so do not be afraid. This is a post modern effort.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Raymond Crane
• Release date: Jun 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463546512

Raymond Crane

If you wish to review my two volume novel, Palma de Mallorca Mystique you should first contact me and ask my permission. If I approve of you I will invite you, unless you are impotent, sorry, I meant impudent. Thanx , Raymond Crane. Check Amazon Kindle - Booksie.com - Goodreads.com A broader sense of Romance? Let’s say most readers of novels would think of Romances as being like a typical Mills and Boon story about two people who fall in love, with some complications, and eventually live together happily ever after. Let’s say that most novels of whatever genre contain elements of such a basic scenario. We as readers or writers almost always expect a novel to have Romantic elements even if only as a secondary plot. Let’s say the plot of a basic love story could go like this – A meets B and they fall in love. B meets C and is seduced into leaving A. B and C don’t get along so when A re-attracts B, B returns to A and they live happily together for ever after. There would be little character development in a basic love story and almost no social comment. A basic love story may have elements of other genres such as crime, S/F, or history or adventure. For an extended love story we can see Jane Austin’s stories of Romance which show character studies and social comment as well as a complicated plot. If an author or reader were to look at any of my novellas the focus is on a simple plot line with some social comment. Sure a basic love relationship is central to these stories but there is little character development. To take a wider view of Romance one may look at that epic work, The Odyssey by Homer. Going on a long voyage in which many and various events happen to the main character can be called Epic Romance. There is no basic love relation going on throughout the novel, it is not like Mills and Boon stories at all. One could say that it is the first great lifestyle/adventure Romance because the main character loves his life, whatever happens. My French New Roman novella, - Devils’ Playground is more like a short Epic Romance. There is no basic love relationship but many and various events happen to the main character including much extended travelling. This novella is told in the first person with much interior monologue. It is so very different from all my other works that one may be excused if one thought it was written by another author. Taking my Opus Grande, two volume postmodern Romance novel, - Palma de Mallorca Mystique here we find exquisite and evocative descriptions of the environment and in-depth character studies, lot’s. This work allows for social comment and a great slice of cultural commentary – dialogue is predominant. The themes of love and romance are explored in depth. Some young writers write sex novels these days and call that Romance. Would you say that sexually themed stories are Romances, or only pornography? I would be delighted if anyone would comment on my points of view and perhaps offer some points of their own. Thanx - Raymond Crane My favourite books Imagine going into a Spanish second-hand shop where they did not value books highly. An old man of seventy who proclaims himself to be a follower of Karl Marx comes to serve. I say, do you have any English books, he says, no, they don’t sell, but he could get his hands on a big box of such by the next day. I go back and sort through the big box of books, there I find - An autobiography of J. D. Salinger Thus bad begins - by Javier Marias, a recent edition The complete Catherine series by ? A day in the country – a collection of short stories by Maupassant The novel and Society – a text book The Europeans by Henry James The story of Philosophy – by Bryan Magee How fiction works – by James Wood Studying the Novel – by Jeremy Hawthorn . . . and the old man bows graciously and says €5 Euros. – I’m in heaven! Thanx - Raymond Crane Raymond Crane, author, A note concerning my two volume novel, Palma de Mallorca Mystique - One may compare my writings with that of Jane Austin, after all we are both Romance writers. The comparison is short for as Jane Austin is a great apologist for the newly arrived middle-classes, as pictured in her portrayals of professional males, doctors, lawyers, and sea-men although the latter had to be Admirals to figure in her stories, I accept fiction writers, political researchers, film directors, and fashion designers as though they were just the latest thing, in every way respectable. Whereas Jane Austin would feel that many of her characters may not meet the mark of respectability, that is, as members of the nobility, my characters are as they are, take them or respect them, they are what they at first appear to be. I am after all writing in a new age, and despite the respect given to Jane Austin I demand just a little respect for portraying characters that are all of our current time. Thanx – Raymond Crane YA TWO VOLUME ROMANCE NOVEL – A PRIZE A BLOGSCAPE BY RAYMOND CRANE – AUTHOR A personal critique of Palma de Mallorca Mystique by the author – Raymond Crane. I would like to point out numerous writing styles which feature in my two volume Romance novel. I shall first list three writing styles provided for your enjoyment. The first, is the surreal element, explicated technically in Franz’s and Sebastian’s witnessing of a wild, fiesta, party, in Franz’s dormitory in the first volume. The event didn’t happen but the main characters felt that it did. That is... they imagined that the Andalusian waiters who shared his dorm actually were having a riotous party. In the second stylistic element worthy of mention is the farce or farcical incident when Franz encounters the fictitious and absurd Baron of Upper Slowdownia. This racy scene is told with an extreme sense of facility so that the reader would be highly amused and captivated by the recounting of the episode. The third stylistic element which stands out all too humorously is the meeting of Sebastian with Gretchen in the private study, where she pulls a gun on him. It is highly absurd and also highly melodramatic. The attitude of Gretchen, her demands, are very hyperbolic and his responses very antithetical, and very humorous. It is scenes such as these which lift the story out of the ordinary mode of a story, or rendition, and these elements give the reader such an amusing, enjoyable entertainment. THANX - Raymond Crane

Book preview

Although many parts of this book may seem mismatched even when they appear on the same page … when the reader sums it all up, by looking backwards over their shoulder, what they will be able to gather from the total experience is a vista of Palma de Mallorca, its terrain one could say, and besides mingled with this, a logically thought-through story of an unmistakable swelling sea of consciousness’s, a vast range of people, some more prominent; an ever persistent clouding of actually existent factual evidence – never before written of with such care and accuracy - from the very pinnacle it all rains down. But this is not rain, this is purely sunshine permeating and illuminating every hidden corner, for the discriminating eye or ear to see or hear as it is seen and spoken in Palma this very day. It is as though the clouds over Palma did part for the seasons of one spring and one summer giving everyone the best view point of discovery.

This is not a story of elves and fairies although the dimensions of rough human equivalents are provided. This work does not represent the mountain range of all previously recorded great literary histories expressed until this day – this is something completely new! … A regular treat for the senses and the mind. -

‘A new author has arrived on the scene, bursting with ‘real’ life, expressing a natural style to suit his most naturalistic themes. You have not read another such as him – it is me, and I am proud of what I have written. Proud to burst forth with the breath of living breathing life.’

This is not a straight forward story, intrinsically or extrinsically there are multitudinous layers. The reader constantly finds their self falling through or rising above to another level – it is rather like a bird in flight, with a logical momentum that never ceases to cause a sense of wonder.

As every thinking person knows – the Crane is a magnificent bird for its beauty alone, also a crane is an equipment used for lifting things, so practical, so useful – I do not for one instant take these linked facts for granted and I believe that these facts connoted to my name are reflected in all of my work.

I am a writer who naturally looks to the horizon, all else is incidental. A few Thee’s and Thou art’s justify this piece as a literary work.

‘I would call this a mammoth effort however mammoths are extinct whereas this book is bursting with life!’

‘POW!’ – For a Romance reader the aim is true! Not at all opaque! In fact this is pure light itself! - Zingy expressionism!

‘Do we really take young adult romances seriously?’

‘Do we really account for the personal power plays?’

‘Can we accept the abject feelings of rejection?’

‘Can the rising spirit of love conquer all challenges?

‘This story takes these things seriously, accounting for every move and counter play, not just between two persons but between a host of complex personalities whose fates are entwined like the tangled web of life itself.’

There is somewhat of an authorial presence in this work . . . this is an innovative technique I have developed only for this work. The author actually appears occasionally as an incidental character, and this is quite different from the mere intrusiveness of a narrator.

In these two innovative Volumes the author unconventionally provides the unorthodox presence of himself as a surprise character in the story. - Now you see him, now you don’t !

‘What is Realism?’ - ‘What is Naturalism?’ - ‘What is Idealism?’ . . . the answers, and what the literary uses are for these terms is succinctly stated in this book. This is a philosophical journey! A serious effort –With a serious intention!

If you like a book that is static/dynamic rather than packed with action then you will like this book. Perhaps the reader won’t know that they like this style until they have read it.

‘If I have brought Palma and its people alive for you I will be very pleased!’

‘These two Volumes capture between them to a certain extent the soul of Europe, as it is manifested, here, in Palma de Mallorca - raw and refined.’

This story is what dreams are made of – any event that resembles reality is a coincidence – nothing offensive to normal people.

‘We, the characters of this story promise to keep the readers on tender-hooks!’ - Not a day passes without the reconstruction of richly interesting events and the incidental mentioning of hundreds of minute details.

A telling look: - This is not conventional writing; this is a Post-Modernist style of writing – a composition like a painting . . . An Epical presentation!

‘Is there any law against happiness? - Read this book ! !

A quote of the first sentence of the Javier Marías novel – Thus bad begins.

‘This story didn’t happen so very long ago – less time than the average life, and how brief a life is once it’s over and can be summed up in a few sentences, leaving only ashes in the memory, ashes that crumble at the slightest touch and fly up with the slightest gust of wind – and yet what happened then would be impossible now.’

I would say that my story is not like that of Javier Marías. It is not composed of memories. My story is happening right now, every day in Palma. And yet there is a certain similarity; my story is not dark like that of Marías, it bubbles with vitality which is of the very essence of life in Palma de Mallorca – and like good literature such as that written by Marías the fabric of life is dissected in all its vibrant semblances to the facts of existence. My story is more than a possibility this very moment. So sit back, read, and compare for yourselves.

‘A mixture of the mundane and the magnificent – can you tell the difference?’

It is highly recommended that you, the reader of these Volumes, should read the first Volume first, to get the full import of the principal characters’ impersonations. This is almost guaranteed to produce satisfactions incomparable than if one were to begin with a reading of the second Volume, first.

‘In my story there are heroes, they are the scapegoats of Love, and the exemplars of Romance; true to life as all of history proves me true, yours and mine; oh yes this story is so true!’

‘I know what is to be found in every adult heart; it is thoughts of Love and Romance such as is to be discovered in this exposition, and never to be exhausted from the human spirit!’

In my view a person can still be quite immature in their mid-twenties. In my story some are, some aren’t – some are only half-way-there.

In this voluminous creation the reader will discover - a stunning catch-all scenario! - It’s not so much what the characters say but the conceiving of the ordinary as being exceptional. Sensational!

THE LA PALMA DE MALLORCA

Mystique

VOLUME ONE and VOLUME TWO

' - A little of everything is sufficient thank you ... '

For reference to this quote in context... see VOLUME TWO

The First Volume is mainly concerned with the maturation processes of four individuals in the excitement inducing environment of Palma. The Second Volume conveys the pure and undiluted love relations of four individuals within the wider world of La Palma de Mallorca. Throughout the two Volumes there is a persistent, precise, undauntable, brave and fearless logic with which we must all accord, whether we like it, or not! Even the writer has to stand beside his own creations! : In the first the logics of passions existing side-by-side or contrarily; in the second the broader logics of High Romance expressed in detail to best present the characters and their unmasked adventures. It is the author’s earnest desire to ring truths, or falsehoods whatever, out of his characters; as long as they know the truth about themselves enough to express what they permit, or that which the writer reveals unbeknownst to they.

‘Smart, sensible, not at all fantastic!’ - This novel does not, for the most part, deal with the physical habituations of ‘easy’ men and women.

This story has the power to elevate the reader beyond the realms of modernist writings. The seductive nature of melodrama, though some may consider it not contemporary in parts of this exposé does not elude the author. This writer makes direct references apart from the obvious love relations to ideas which should or should not concern us in our present Age. A post-modernist writer draws on all of the techniques of former literary histories and does not write purely in his or her … own Age. In other words, this writer has a lesser commercial concern. It is the author’s opinion that melodrama is the better part of literary Romance; it leaves one lingering over every word … and here it is all presented as though post-modernism were not discontinuous. One may rely on cheap and easy quotes from newspapers, however this entire work, its conceptualization and packaging design belongs to the author. The aim being to circumvent commercial attitudes, gently. It takes some skill to reproduce conversations a little differently than is currently the vogue - that’s what the author does. - ‘If the reader wishes to concern their self about the writing processes in the mind of the author; let it be said, that, as ideas form in the oven of his mind he likes to get them down-hot in written words, with his trusty flashing pen, before the enjoyable task of typing begins. The ingredients are part of his everyday life, however research must be done along the way. The whole piece then, is created quite spontaneously – although the author admits that some months may pass before some of his conceptions get to the typing stage. – Editing … is of course, continuous.’ - ‘The author has to catch the ideas at their instances of inspiration – this is what makes the text so vibrant and spontaneous.’ - Treat yourself to the usually unconventional opinions of the raffish protagonists, you’ll never look backwards again. This book will help you to get your bearings in an intellectually uncertain world.

I consider myself as a writer to be somewhere between the wit of Henry James and the psychological depth of Javier Maria; however incongruous these writers appear to be, it is amongst such authors I wish that my readers shall consider me. This is the rank I aspire to and in my own way I hope to contribute to the world of literature. My style is not so exceptionally funny as to be leaping with laughter neither is it as dark as a dawn which promises never to come; the fact is my writing is relatively light-weight compared with these two authors. I assert that my story provides a fare account of some of the people that one could possibly find in Palma de Mallorca at the present time. One hopes that the reader their self can ascertain the credibility of my claim.

‘Literature is a serious, and difficult business to be a part of, fictions are not, we all live fictive lives – you never know who you may offend – the feminists who will never in a life-time let down their guardian angels; the conservatives who as yet still believe in trench warfare; the left-leaning people who seem willing to assimilate any old insult; not to forget the purest of the pure who have never heard of George Bernard Shaw. I only wish that each reader could write their own story, the facts of their lives, before, now, and later; all at once. That would be my greatest thrill!’

The reader may find the story in both Volumes banal and cool to begin with but then, the tense intricacies of interactions develop the plot and, he or she will find themselves soon becoming quite involvingly hot!! Herein is displayed a certain conscious mindfulness amongst the contemporary world culture.

‘I go out of my cage to challenge the reader into a newer understanding of contemporary human nature.’

This novel is for the most part composed of the similitudes and contrasts between various characters. I am not a writer who keeps to a set plot; the themes are everything for me. These people are normal, there are few villains. The reader who is not interested in normal people is not interested in eighty percent of humanity. The reader may notice that I tend to focus on the differences, between age groups even exaggeratedly, and to a lesser extent between nationalities. Although what may appear as quite natural, is actually, a little contrived. - My characters are the scape-goats of Love and the exemplars of Romance.

PROLOGUE - La Palma - Palma de Mallorca is not a jumped-up yesterday city like most American towns that may have a greater population. Mallorca has flourished from ancient times as an island centre of a world yet to be dreamt of. The native peoples show many and various colours but it is the more recent addition of the tourist and the expatriate which lifts it above its glorious past into realms where the culturally impossible becomes possible, and the mix of old and new is in a constant flux of invention. We walk the life of the native people - but more challenging and perhaps more vital, the new arrivals who discover here expanding ways of life without limit, a world containing within each day the splendour of magnificence.

‘A compulsively driven orderly syndrome of a novel!’

Love to my eyes is a serious business of profits and losses all taken here, into account. – You wouldn’t read about it anywhere else!

The language of Love; The language of Romance – all of this is spelt out! – as the facts of life are indelibly encountered here in La Palma de Mallorca in the contemporary Age.

CHAPTER ONE - CAPITULO UNO

‘…. where the Earth meets the Heavens …’

It is the spring of our present age - The sun is shining along upon the big and bustling Balearic city of Palma warming all bodies through, locals and tourists alike. It is mid-day and still there is a little haziness hanging in the lower air. There is no wind, not even the slightest whisper of a breeze. All is calm, all is bright, as four figures grouping loosely together appear to be waiting on the dock where the boat from Marseilles is expected within the half hour.

One may have observed that two of them looked to be local Palmarians, dressed casually in jeans and pale check shirts, and both snacking on handfuls of salted palomitas, [popcorn] one, and the other pipas, [sun flowers] seeds. The husks fallen from the pepita eater were scattered haphazardly around his feet, suggesting that he had been waiting on that dock, in the sunshine for quite some time.

The other two waiters look rather foreign, not that anyone looked foreign anymore in Palma. Perhaps one looked more of a Frenchman than the other one; the second of the two was possibly Catalan, Spanish; they both were wearing slightly different clothes than the local two. The French looking man had faded blue jeans that looked to have once been a bright light blue in colour but now appeared a little worn and comfortable for him. He was wearing a black shirt and one may be forgiven for supposing that he had originally come from the south of France, Provence, for he wore comfortable looking black and white sneakers, the kind of footwear that could possibly have been bought in one of those, ‘we’ve got everything,’ Chinese shops. All of the others had black leather shoes except the one Catalan looking man who had brown leather shoes. The Catalan looking man had a white shirt, freshly ironed, and he seemed to want to present the image of himself, as being just a little more self-important than any of the others.

As they waited, a little apart from each other, they did not show any sign of knowing each other. And before too long the boat from Marseilles appeared in the distance and quickly traversed the space between the waiters on the dock, and the posi where it had first been sighted and apprehended. There were other docks of course nearby, docks that took away boats to Barcelona and to Valencia or further afield but this was the dock where they waited, the four, and this was the boat they had a-waited….. The boat itself was quite large and as the waiters knew, it could carry upwards to five-hundred persons. Each of the gathered four was expecting someone to alight from that boat, and they were preparing themselves to greet anew, some friend or relative that had been away for a-time.

There was a light shed upon that Marseilles dock; distinct from the glory of heat cast effusively by the streaming calmness of the mid-day sunshine of Palma…. on that dock, standing at a distance from the gathering of men, stood a teenage girl, an adolecente, in a colourific pose of pinks, reds and yellows. Close to her side was a small boy, perhaps having nine or ten years who was seemingly amazed to be present on such an important occasion; so young and fresh looking was he, and the girl too, his older sister presumably - appearing pre-occupied and enclosed within herself was the girl, casting her beaming light towards the expected sighting of the ferry from Marseilles. - Not to be concerned with the presence of the two children that day, they simply were there; the men were not apparently aware of them, and they apart, and yet so welcome a part of that scene upon the dock that particular mid-day, in full expectation of meeting up, no doubt with their parents - the less surmised concerning them, the better.

The French looking man however did notice the girl pulling down on her mini-skirt…. ‘She might,’ thought he, - be a right prize in about five years’ time…. ‘By the look of her, and the boy, they have taken the day off school; at any other time - I imagine her dressed up in a school uniform and not the common sort. She probably goes to the best girls’ college in Palma…. just look at her hair, would you? - I bet her folks are rich bankers or financiers…. probably get the new seasons’ fashions straight from Paris and Milan…. can’t wait to see, ‘em!’

Down the gangplank came the trippers, some more serious travellers, and some folk who regularly travelled on that boat. The Frenchman, who had a French air about him and had stood quite in a relaxed way, probably only spoke French. The Catalan man, who was quite different in appearance to the two locals would have spoken Spanish and Catalan, and the two men from the Baleares would be Spanish speakers, with some Catalan and also many colloquial words and expressions which they alone could know the meanings of - but the four men had not spoken; the Frenchman because he did not want to feel embarrassed as he stood in his ignorant pose, quite the self-conscious one, whatever his dreams and reasons for being in Palma were. The Catalan man had a more formal manner about him, and was speaking into a mobile phone in Catalan. The locals could tell just by his mere presence, that he was a Catalonian native, as he kept an aloof distance.

The four of them huddled together near the closed gate of the gangway, awaiting the showing up of perhaps loved ones, perhaps strangers, who upon first meeting may give them a hug or more likely just a handshake…. the locals were smiling but not the Frenchman or the Catalan man; they all seemed to exude an amiable attitude, a distinct self-awareness that they had more of a rightfulness to be there on that dock, that morning, in their usual happy states of mind, accounting for all things as though yes, this was truly meant to be…. they were, in short, completely at home with themselves, and nothing was going to change, no sad event was going to override their friendly countenances.

The men were perhaps a little nervous in their expectations as the gate before them was opened by an attendant dressed in a naval uniform with shiny buttons, and a smile for each of them.

The Frenchman had a dark-red-face, a singular casual look that set him apart from the others, as being quite the mysterious one, probably his black shirt could indicate fascist sympathies, perhaps influenced by older relatives who may, or maybe not have been supporters of the Spanish Franco dictatorship. Such sympathies were not unusual in the south of France; and he amusedly hummed a French chanson.

The three others accepted him as being a little unusual though not rare, they could have spotted him, or someone like him on the streets of Barcelona or Palma, any day of the week. - The two locals shot him a deliberated gaze when they first had seen him and both surmised that he was not a real tourist but in fact here on some sort of business. They half expected him to meet up with a woman or a girlfriend who may spend the spring and summer with him on Mallorca. - They themselves were in fact agricultural workers who had gotten their selves dressed up just for this special occasion. Normally they worked on a vineyard inland doing the many things that vine-tenders seasonally do, but also they filled the grape crushers and filled the vats, and the barrels with grape-juice and the famed red wines of Mallorca. They were noticeably workmates rather than friends although they would have spent times together in cafes and bars along with others like themselves, and they had joined forces like friends on their common mission, to greet perhaps long missed affines or relatives on this brilliant Mallorquin mid-day; potentially capturing all beneath the widest of mysterious Balearic beach-umbrellas.

…. the assumed to be Catalan, man, approached the two local Mallorquin men whom one could see, as obvious from their rather bent shoulders that they were accustomed to their physical labours, and tended to stand closely like friends familiar with each other now that they were in closer proximity…. as they all awaited the downward decent of their respective visitors. - He said, with a waved motion of his arm, a gesture common, to him and them - ‘…. I know you two men, I know you only too well. - you are the type who go to a bar to release yourselves from a day’s toil in the sun…. I can see your grape-stained hands and you will never be able to wash this from your souls. - you drink or guzzle away, at the red wine of the Baleares or preferably of the island of Mallorca, that you may have produced yourselves; from vine to glass, as you say, here in Mallorca. - you do not watch football on the video screens, but because they show French horse racing, you have chosen this bar; and you often have a bet. - you don’t even like football! So what would I do for you? Heh! - you play dominoes all of the evening and when you are good and sloshed you stumble home to your beds without a care for tomorrow, for you know it will be exactly the same as that day…. you possess the joyful happiness that has a certain innocence and unworrying way to it, like all Mallorquins…. you listen to only the Balearan folk songs and know them off by heart; you would prefer the Mallorquin folk songs, but with some regret you cannot always hear what you please in the cafes and bars that you frequent on a daily basis. - and you know what? I am jealous! - very jealous of your simplistic acceptance of your history and culture. For I am a Catalonian businessman, who works for a Barcelona real estate agency that specializes in land sales, deals on the Baleares. I come here whenever I can because I love the place, especially Palma! - So I just wanted to let you know how a stranger feels about you both, and about Mallorca. We here on this dock are not really strangers to each other. We can surmise so much, and what we don’t know we can find out, so if later you may find yourselves having some question about me, you and your soon to arrive friends or others, can meet me and we can talk, for I just love Palma - I’m fascinated and I am saddened, when I have to return to Barçelona. Consider my offer that I give to you both…. to make up for the distance we may have felt on this dock, here today in Palma!’

The local pair were quite amazed by the expressions of feeling in the speech of the Catalonian. They held thoughts, both of them, that at first sighting he would be a little proud of himself in his rather stiff way of standing…. they expected him to be full of himself and the vain-glorious imaginings of Catalonia, and especially as they surmised that he was from Barçelona, that he would be unapproachable, inaccessible to them. - They, obviously only agricultural workers, kept a close reign on their familiarity with people from other places, who may, however inadvertently, be a challenge to their day by day existences. They only nodded, and said plainly, - ‘Perhaps, perhaps; we won’t have the time, we have to return to our village, to our people, for even here in Palma we are just a little uneasy, not that we feel in any way threatened, but we find your offer friendly enough … so alas … here come the travellers, fresh from Marseilles. - So we will see what we shall see of you another day and bid you a kind farewell; our attentions must be contained within the moment, for we have to see our workmates, who have been working in France for several years. So thanks again, perhaps we’ll meet somewhere in Palma; our home, our great passion! - We hope you will see more of Palma and know all about the love we feel for Palma de Mallorca!’

The Frenchman who stood to one side of them had overheard their conversation, although he understood little, he could just get the gist of it, as it was similar to his own feelings. He had stopped his unselfconscious humming and whistling when the other three began their talking, and the two local men were aware that he had. It had been a kind of provincial folk song, he had expelled, of which the Frenchman was very fond. - The local two had recognized the tune as being like their own folk songs - He in fact was a musician and somewhat of a composer of folk songs in a popularized form that he hoped to record on CD’s, and thus gain for himself a reputation nationally in France, and its financial remuneration. He had come to Mallorca especially to research the traditional folk music of the Baleares. He was fascinated by the songs’ similar themes and rhythms.

The four, shared similar feelings; the peoples of that region where very much about feeling; and this was because of their similar purpose in being there that morning, on the Marseille dock of Palma.

…. I would not wish to dwell unduly upon the nature of these four waiters on the dock of the bay of Palma, but only long enough to show the enflaming culture that each of them carried about with them like a shadow of the absolute replica of their preconceptions and feelings. - Thus the reader may learn of the mysteries of Palma as if they had actually visited this city of sunshine, where as they say, - ‘the earth meets the heavens,’ forever joyful, gracious and true; as of ancient times.

One can expect to meet not only descendants of the original habitants of the Baleares, but also descendants from Roman and Greek invaders, Italian and French families that had resided here for generations, also there are here, the myriad representatives from mainland Spain who have found their measure of peace and harmony, here.

The local inhabitants of the Baleares hold amongst them…. in their very hearts and minds an undying passion for the recently famous Catalan painters, such as Picasso and Dali. Their local painter heroes are no less respected, and hold a deserving pride of place; gracing the walls of their public buildings and offering an extra additional charm to the visitors’ fascinations.

The writer wishes not to unload unnecessary descriptions of the Balearic culture, its attitudes and sensibilities, but only to present as a storytelling revelation; in addition to introducing a few of the principal players in the unravelling of the pristine plot, with all the expected complexity and detailed attention to the naturalistic intricacies unfurled with, the under-belly of Palma’s more hidden secrets - within the region; from ports-of-call such as Barcelona, Valencia and Marseilles, and even references to other more remote influences; as Palma sits ensconced like a pearl in this wider, broader shell of curled and pearly reflections, complete with encrustations so natural, that the actual visitor or tourist would normally overlook them. This is not just any penny-anti tin-pot, trumped-up and cracked down, Platonic plastic placebo, short and easily read, fleetingly glimpsed on some cheap, pretty monstrosity of a commercial brochure found by an anonymous passer-by, glanced at only to be instantly forgotten, not at all like such, as those! - though such brochures may in fact be free; this work deserves even greater attention than they, for it would come at such a paltry cost to the purchaser compared with such glib shockers; it contains intrinsically within, the richness and immensity, one may be expecting. This is not some dragged up unthoughtout delusion of a tale - not at all some subjective figment of the author’s imagination, dredged from the slimy bottom of a pre-deluvian jungle swamp. This is Palma today; right here, right now! - It is in fact a diamond studded precious jewel of a novel that is certain to provide all who peruse its pages with untold and lasting pleasures, unique to this region, in this part of the Mediterranean Sea. This is how the Balearans’ conceive and intuit their homeland, with a sense of an imminent infinity they alone can know; and all other visitors feel similarly, each to a greater or lesser degree. Not only will I startle, but also amaze, for that is my intention; so that the reader can feel comfortable that their assumptions are verified and their sense of the mystery of it all, appeased. - To get to the hearts of the natives of these islands would be impossible for the writer, or for any visitor, foreign expatriate resident or other; so a resemblance of this is offered, humbly, and with a most satisfying sensation, the very pinnacle of it, in presenting this immense achievement of my writing career, to date. - so just sit back and let your eyeballs sink back into your unconscious mind as you read this stunning story, so well meant, so well told…. this is a work of fine literature such as will be readable in a thousand years just as La Palma de Mallorca is the same as it was a thousand years ago. The layerings’ of various cultures over the last five hundred years and especially in the last two hundred years, only add icing to the cake, or more appropriately, olive oil and vinegar to the salad, that is…. La Palma de Mallorca.

* * *

Franz the German man moved smoothly down the gangway. His youthfulness, and obvious vigour, contrasting with those in front and those behind. Immediately he sensed the vitality of the atmosphere, a subtle passion hanging on the warm fresh breezings’ of the people there. He was not aware of others, just of a certain aura; he stepped gracefully onto the dock, looked to his right, then to his left, as some of the passengers who had disembarked ahead of him gathered to one side to await the unloading of their luggage.

Franz had little luggage only that which he could easily carry. Around his neck he carried a finely crafted German leather shoulder bag. He had checked the Google map on his mobile phone before leaving the bedecked and glorified presence of the ferry, which now loomed largely beside the dock. Franz strode firmly and confidently past the gathering of people surrounding the gateway, that had welcomed him onto the pier of Palma…. peering to the near distance he saw large buildings, quite modern looking but still having a certain charm about them, or perhaps Franz was simply projecting an expectation of his own, onto them; for he had conceived of Palma, as all of a piece, so charming, and with an older ambience to it that told or suggested, times past, ages upon ages past, and a people like as he had never known in his short life in Germany. His view; his childhood in Strasbourg, which he considered as German even though it sat on the border and is officially French, his adolescence in Munich, and his maturing attitude, was - as he had been aware of, since deciding to travel, and live, in Palma de Mallorca, expectant. His family back in Strasbourg was an old Strasbourg one…. his relatives had come from Germany many generations ago.

Streets led up a hill opposite the pier but Franz knew he should take a long walk along the straight pathway that stretched out away from him to a far off destiny, becoming ever nearer. He could see the beach of Palma over a low wall to his left, a gleaming, yellow-golden stretch, and on his right the brightly adorned shop fronts, quite tall and pleasant looking were the buildings that fronted onto the walkway. There were palms lining the side of the walkway, and Franz, as he gazed with the potent sense of awe of having at last arrived, appreciated the vistas presenting themselves to his roving eyes, squinted at the warmth of the air which seemed to instantly seep through every pore of his skin; telling him that he was in fact now in Palma, his destination and resting place for the foreseeable future.

He walked leisurely for what seemed like half an hour, a suitcase carried in one hand, and he wheeled another behind him. He came to yet another destination, a building quite different from the others, an older building with charms, graces, and dreams seeping from its façade, it was Madam Ola’s Pension - and next to that, Madam Ola’s Tapas Café. Franz felt satisfied with the front of these buildings, they had a cheerful welcoming prospect.

Madam Ola’s Pension and adjacent Café stood conspicuously on the far northern end of the walkway, looking like some forgotten relic of a by-gone era. They were the only vestige from the past that stayed, aloof and ancient, when the landward side of the beachfront had been re-constructed with nothing less than eight-storied hotels or apartment blocks. Most of the buildings to the left and right of Madam Ola’s were up to ten stories high and many, soaring in a stately and modern composure to the majestically stunning stature of twenty floored, glass and aluminium edifices, outlined themselves in stark relief against the azure skies above Palma. The walkway itself snaked far away into the far distance, at first straight and white, an expansive tiled, gleaming white paved level view that promised a leisurely stroll unto its pedestrian inhabited limits; when seen from Madam Ola’s.

Madam Ola’s Pension was itself only of three stories and Madam Ola’s Café right next door was just a little less tall at two stories. It was a land-mark on the walkway, and any passer-by would take in its sand-stone façade, in an appreciative and grateful way, for its relief from the other edifices, its contrasting conspicuousness rendered it a sight that relieved the wondering eye cast apart from its travels, as both eyes of the tourist observer scanned its rustic appearance and picked up on the stories from a long age that it could tell, when the whole frontage of that sea-swept shore, the built side, was still young, and all its buildings looked bright and new - oh! The long lost past. - all part and parcel, that made up the expansive and effusive mystique of La Palma de Mallorca.

Palma a tourist haven of renown and vibrantly painted Mediterranean culture was only second in the Baleares to that of the more famous and trendy resort of Ibiza where the young things flocked each summer and congregating; the partying carried on all the days long, from sun-up to sun-down and far into the long and heated nights, within the after-glow of hot and tepid scorching - seemingly everlasting days, to recover by dancing and drinking and snacking on the tapas provided by the staffs of that glass menagerie, apparently transparently revealing their interiors to restful but always potently excitable visions, nestling in the shadows of the daunting fact, that one had arrived; one was here, really engulfed in the unstoppable surge of its driven passions: an icon on the tourists’ itinerary in this part of the old world, its past practically forgotten as the lone but not solitary presences haunted its shores, part-taking in many and various, pasa tiempos, without a care for the excesses of indulgence or the aftermath of dissipation that would inevitably follow on this island of Ibiza . . .

On that frontage of beach strewn wonders stood Madam Ola’s Café, set back from the walkway front of the Pension and having a dozen tables and many cane chairs scattered about, sat a young man.

He had about him the diffuse familiar air that had sunken into his apparition, absorbed and assimilated and to all observation points-of-view just another inconspicuous figure that one would note on first sight and then, on the following days, at the same hours of each morning be there, a seemingly built-in detail that high-lighted the sweeping glances that at once took him into consideration along with the previously mentioned, now expectorated, sighting of Madam Ola’s stately, and stated presumptuousness’s; - Café. If one were to observe particularly one may be privileged to catch vision of the named Madam Ola, ensconced in her favourite pose, front left widow, her face showing no sign that she was one amongst all the establishment owners along that sea-front who had known true love, she privately believed, though not exclusively, that she was not the only one, but one amongst many: she may be observed on this occasion, looking down.

If one allowed one’s gaze to settle for an instantaneous fraction of hidden moments, one could notate the man’s youthfulness, and even this did not seem incongruous or out of place against the pock-marked and stained walls, be-shadowed by the crimson and white striped awning of Madam Ola’s now beckoning, cave-like open doorway of darkened premonitions and bespoken omens, the said, - Café.

The young French visitor to Palma had only been there a week but already he was a fixture, a pleasant item for commentable interest along that stretch of beach-front, and he could not, and would not be denied. You see, this young French visitor had a purpose and a mission, an actually fastidiously worked through, and thought-out set of reasons why he should so adorn that city of distant fascinations - he was a writer of fictions who never tired of observing and noting in a small leather-bound writing book, his most pertinently pointed perceptions of Palma.

He did fleetingly have reminiscences of his recent past, of passing through Marseilles, of staying there a week, desolutely, and then because it was a French city that had not held his attentions; no charm for him, because it was still his familiarly conceived notion of the France he wanted to be apart from, he completed his journey as he had planned…. to Palma, he did go - for he was aware somewhat of the charms it offered, and it was not the crushing images of decadence that he had discerned in tourist brochures - of Ibiza. - No, he had wanted someplace that still was welcoming with secrets almost hidden from his viewing platform, his launching pad, his old accustomed and out-worn City of Paris. - It was as though he had re-visited the haunts of his childhood, the back-ways, by-ways, of Paris, the less salubrious suburbs, long forgotten but now resurfacing, living in his presence; as he walked his lonely way through the forgettable parts of Paris. His feelings and reminiscences were similar to any young lively person out to discover a Brave but ancient new World.

The young German entered at the first front door to the Pension, which was open for him - he saw a passageway in the darkish interior, and there were two doors, one, further along the passage. The doors were to his left and then, he saw a stairway at the end of the passage cloaked all in a sombre shadow. All was still, all was quiet, Franz liked that, he sensed a premonition that he could rest in peace here until his job was done, until fate once more called him away to a future he could not picture. Walking along the passage, he passed the first open door and saw that it was a lounge room with comfortable sofas, armchairs, and several desks with chairs. The second door near to the rising staircase was a dining room containing row upon row of long and wide wooden tables and comfortable looking padded, black coloured benches.

There was nothing odd about Madam Ola’s Pension, there were the expected pictures on all of the walls. Franz noticed that they were actual paintings most likely painted by local artists. The Pension had a rather ancient, quite distinct musty air to it, in short it would be satisfactory for his stay in Palma; and its location, so close to the thriving hub of the foreshore and port, and the Marinas so handy, should he need to visit them; it was all so conveniently conventional, and altogether matching with the important factors that he had calculated into his plans for Palma.

Little was Franz aware, of what he would be feeling about Palma, which had just been a shimmering ghostlike apparition in his mind’s eye previously, part of the whole mystery of the Mediterranean, its history, its various cultures and the hidden charms it promised. He had not surmised that this new to him and large bustling metropolis, the capital of the island of Mallorca, and also capital of the Baleares; a Spanish province, would be not simply the principal location for carrying out his work, but much more, it would give him a sense of home; not Strasbourg, not Munich, not Germany at all, but an entirely newly discoverable place, where his dreams could come to rest, and where he could find the eternity of peace and harmony that untold foreign adventurers did also find here, if their number took the trouble to seek out the source of their questing, voyaging, or perhaps only drifting, solitary souls.

There appeared to be no-one about on the ground floor of the Pension which stood in its modest majesty three stories high. Franz heard sounds coming from back of the ground floor, the sounds of plates and bowls being stacked one on top of another, and also, metal pots clanking with tinny reverberations echoing back there, passed the stairway, in darkened shadows of hidden secrets - Franz strode back there and saw another doorway, again to his left, and looking through the doorway which was bereft of an actual door, he saw a large and dimly lit kitchen its light-shades suspended low over long and wide benches as a woman, apparently the cook stood stacking the crockery and moving aside the pots and frying pans that decorated every surface. At the far side of the room was a younger woman, whom Franz assumed to be a kitchen hand or helper in some general capacity.

To his right he noted a door at the end of the passage with a modelled glass panel. ‘Where does that lead?’ he thought.

He stepped into that kitchen which reeked of a thousand odours, of spices and herbs, and steamy things, the ambience was heavy with the steam from pots on the stove, bubbling with a busy, pleasing sound, although this was unfamiliar to Franz, it was as he may have expected. The cook and the kitchen hand both had long frizzy black hair tied back and up, from their faces, as they concentrated on preparing the food that would later, for lunch or dinner, be served in the dining room. They looked up from their labours at Franz, their pleasant faces glowing, shining from the dampness of the steamy air within their workplace. They did not say a word, just looked, as though perhaps he had not in fact truly appeared, a presence, an apparition, a figment they may have been thinking of, as only of their imagining.

‘Is the manager here?’ said Franz, in a casual and friendly manner, his tone he hoped would not be startling to them.

‘Madam Ola’s in the Café next door, you’ll find her there every morning; she can fix you up!’ replied the cook, who was quite plump, even quite over-weight, and that seemed as it should be.

‘Thank you ladies,’ said Franz as he exited the room, leaving the two to go about their daily chores not too disturbed at his interruption, although a quite casual thing for them, it set the tone and mood for Franz; a happy, cheery feminine presence here in the back room of the Pension. He expected he would hear and perhaps see them both quite often; he planned now to stay in this Pension, and strode purposefully along the passage towards the light streaming in from and flooding the entrance to the Pension.

There had been no electric lights on in the Pension; only in the kitchen did the low slung shades glow with a cozy, cheering mirth. As he passed the regularly placed and spaced chairs and tables in front of the Café and then under the awning that sheltered the front part of the Café he could see through its cave-like opening that there were no lights within the Café either. Upon his entering he immediately spotted a young woman, who looked exactly the same as the kitchen hand in the kitchen of the Pension, only she wore a smear of bright red upon her lips which shone under the well illuminated bar that she was tending. Franz who glanced from side to side then spied there in the filtered light of a large curtained window, a person whom he presumed and would in fact prove to be, the owner of both the Pension and the Café or perhaps just their manager, sitting. She did not look up from her table, and the official looking forms and papers scattered on the table’s top. Franz looked further about the interior of the Café. Nothing unusual or untowards here, it was a pleasant, quiet place. Here there was no blaring music, no video screens displaying singers or football, it was all of a piece, and Franz felt comfortable with his first impressions -

so comfortable was Franz…. that he lingered perhaps an instant longer than was necessary, he just breathed in the living history of the place, as though each piece of furniture was telling him the story of people who had passed through that cave-like entranceway and, just leisurely relaxed, took a drink and a tapas, letting the world outside disappear, forgotten in moments of reflective talk and idle conversation. - Madam Ola looked up at him, big eyed, with long and wavy black hair surrounding a pleasing mature face, and she smiled.

Franz walked over to her, he held out his hand and said, ‘I am Franz the German, I would like to stay in your Pension. I don’t know for how long, but can you tell me, is there a room or even a bed upstairs somewhere available for me?’

Madam Ola: - ‘Hello, Franz, yes we have a bed in the dormitory, you would have to share with five other men, they are all Spanish. If a room to yourself on the third floor becomes available, I’ll let you know . . . I’ll let you know. I’ll just get the check-in book and some pamphlets and other papers from behind the bar. You’re welcome to be a client of mine, in fact, you can be my guest.’

That was how Franz’s stay at Madam Ola’s Pension had begun, not that he was to have any great converse with Madam Ola, but he did feel relaxed and comfortable in her presence. She showed him up to the dorm on the second floor and guided him to a bed by a window that looked out, with much visual content, onto the walkway and the beachfront. On the way up he noted, to his delight, on the landing at the top of the stairs, opposite, was a small half-round table. On that table was a large painted porcelain vase on a lace doily. In that vase was a huge bunch of splendiferous roses the perfume of which filled the landing and the whole dormitory. In the dorm, one side of the bed was a low cupboard and on the other a small low table with a chair. There was much light from the big windows at the front and back of the large room. There was lots of space here for everybody; there was even a sofa with a small table beside it, on which resided a jug of natural mineral water. Franz felt well pleased with this setting and the accommodations in general.

He would just relax now on the sofa, and send a few text messages on his mobile phone. Whatever else he could do he could do later, perhaps a stroll before dinner, just to let the exciting airs of Palma and its long beach become a little more familiar and ‘real’ to him. And then to dream, and then on the days that followed his arrival - to live out his dreams and merge and blend into the scenery - that is the living, breathing soul of La Palma de Mallorca, his plan!

A thick heavy mist hung over all of Palma most mornings.

Franz awoke the following morning to the refreshing smell of salty air that had somehow seeped in passed the window off the salted sea that lapped the shores between Mallorca and the mainland. He had anticipated hearing the first birds of the dawn and so had left his window ajar. He was fresh and as piquant unto himself as if, he had once again been a baby, and like a lively babe he hopped out of his bed, throwing aside the covers and flung the glass door of the window-opening fully open. He stuck his whole head and upper body out of the window almost falling as if to topple, and there took within his chest the full blast of that Striate of salty waters, so strong that it knocked him back for an instant, for he was not used to an ocean or a salty sea. He had lived all his life inland, far from any coast. Now he refreshed himself with thoughts of what awaited him…. discoveries he could not have conceived of previously, vague pre-emptive yearnings, that had called to him, especially in the cooler evenings as he had looked up from his bedroom window in his parents’ home, or later yet, when he had observed the scudding dusky, silent splendour of pink-cloud over Munich: now all that was receding from his awarenesses …. those feelings were being replaced in their immediacy by the daunting prospects of a life in Palma. The past now seemed so dim and dark; as from his first sensing of Palma, descending onto the dozy dock. - The excitement of a chilled thrill surged through him and seemed at the same time to chill and heat through to the marrow of his bones. He had never in his life before felt in such a way, not just bemused …. but transported upon the winds of destiny, and he sat back on his bed, beyond himself, breathless and breathing deeply, in sudden bursts of impatience to confront the day, brave the storm, in all its tranquil, potentiality - now, to sit and rest, then when he was fully collected unto himself, he would go out into this world of wonders - he felt he could not be surprised; all of this place named Palma would be within his apprehending apparatii, within his grasp, graspable, tangible; and real; although at that instant totally inconceivable!

He did not venture out of the Pension for the duration of the rest of the afternoon, but instead sat in one of the comfortable looking armchairs in the filtered light of the Pension’s front lounge room - he gathered his energies within himself, customizing himself to his actual being, like a statue becoming filled with a new and vitalizing force, here in this city of - La Palma de Mallorca.

Madam Ola did pop in to the lounge room at one point. ‘There is only one other here who speaks English,’ she said. ‘He stays in a room to himself on the third floor, he’s French…. he has black hair and dark swarthy skin, you can’t miss him if you come across him. He usually sits out front of the Café of a morning. His name is Sebastian – see you later’ - she disappeared back into the passage, moving towards the front door.

Franz popped, bouncingly down the stairs bright and early the next morning, light as a bubble, brighter than a button and intending to greet the day by plunging straight out into the dazzling sunshine in front of Madam Ola’s Pension. As he passed the doorway to the lounge-room he noticed someone sitting at a desk on the opposite side of that room. He knew it was the Frenchman, Sebastian, straight off. The man had black hair and his dusky skin showed on his neck where his very short hair tapered down to reveal a stretch of neck before it disappeared into his red and white checkered shirt. The man’s skin had a darkened yellowish shine to it and Franz sensed that this man was from the north of France where he had spent most long and cold winters indoors where there was no natural light to heighten this tinge upon his pallid skin. He was not, as Franz had first thought, an Italian for the Italian winters where not near as bleak as those climes more to the north. Franz strode up to the Frenchman with some aplomb and blurted out, ‘Hello, I’m Franz the German, and I take it that you are Sebastian the Frenchman. Madam Ola told me that you would be about the only other English speaker staying at this Pension.’

Sebastian turned, looked up from his lap-top and smilingly said, ‘Yes, I’m the Frenchman - but as you may get to know me, I’m a little bit of an expatriate, not actually a loyal and devoted patriot, except for French food of course. Glad to meet you Franz – listen; I’ll be about another half an hour so if you just wait at the Café next door I’ll be with you shortly and we can have a little chat. How does that sound?’

‘Excellent! I will see you outside then, take your time. I’m in no hurry, no rush today,’ replied Franz, also with a broad smile. Franz had this sort of instant memory of the Frenchman, wearing frameless glasses with golden arms resting against the dark hair of his head.

Franz ducked outside as if a wind was behind him and stood soaking up the warming rays of Palma sunshine. He then seated himself at the nearest table of the Café, sat rather still and looked about at the sweeping scenery, all too glowering with a vibrant sense of pleasing charms, not in hiding, not in any way out of his preconceptions of Palma but shining, everything gleaming, and new to him. - It wasn’t long and a waitress appeared who looked just like the one behind the bar yesterday, but Franz couldn’t be sure if it was her…. he ordered a cup of coffee with milk, and a glass of fizzy water, sitting back then to continue his amusing perusal of all this, all this stunning seafront, the beach across the way, and also his eyes settled on the actual rolling waves of the sea breaking in a gentle smooth rhythm hypnotically entrancing - the Striate that was between Palma and the mainland.

Sebastian the relocated Frenchman sidled up to him, saying a gay good-morning, and seated himself opposite Franz. Their converse proceeded happily and the two, after just an hour, during which time Sabastian also ordered a coffee and drank it along with Franz, felt that they had joined forces in some small but not insignificant way, in their common situation in Palma, and in that Pension; on that sunny Café front whilst passers-by ambled to and fro in front of them. In those early days in Palma Sebastian always asked for a croissant and Franz always had one of those little cakes that were ubiquitous in Spain, called magdalenas.

They had at this early meeting established an easy-going rapport that would be to their delight in the weeks following, and for months after in their searching curious explorations of each other, and of course, of Palma, to their greatest mutual satisfactions.

‘And what would your job or occupation be?’ asked Franz.

‘I’m a writer of fiction novels, how about you?’ replied Sebastian.

‘Aren’t all novels fictions?’ asked Franz.

‘I only call them fictive because I’m proud of what I have done. I think I can write really well, and I came to Palma because I believe I can write even better - I hope Palma inspires me - I think it has already. I have been here for a couple of weeks,’ said Sebastian.

‘I am here in Palma to do some research for a German political party,’ said Franz.

‘What party would that be, if you don’t mind me asking?’ continued Sebastian.

‘The Green party, of course,’ replied Franz - steadfastly, confidingly!

* * *

This book, this novel - the very conception being held in the hand of the reader, or otherwise read on the Kindle, to interject, but only to entice the reader onwards to undiscovered territories, may be long by any popular standard of post-modern fictions, however if the readers’ hold within their hearts’ the slightest fascination with La Palma de Mallorca, the writer believes the armchair traveller and the avid appreciator of fine literature will be