They weren’t in the first flush of youth, but played enthusiastic covers of the Rolling Stones, ZZ Top and Steve Harley, all of which Maddie recognised as favourites of her rock chick mum’s. It was tempting to join in the dancing along with the hardened crowd at the very front but then Maddie could picture her mum, leather-jacketed and chain-smoking, who’d have been tapping her feet in time, no doubt head-banging to the music and flicking fag ash around her with careless laziness. Besides, she needed to find Ivan’s house and didn’t want to be late.
Maddie turned away and carried on walking along the busy promenade past the many restaurants, from which delicious smells spilled as waiters, trays held high, whizzed in and around tables with speedy efficiency. To her left, the sea sparkled in the low sunshine, an incredible blue that had her fingers itching to grab a paintbrush and capture the scene. She’d stowed her watercolour pencils and sketchbook in the drawer under her bed in the cabin in the hope she might get some days off, although from reading that manual it was looking less likely. Ahead of her, she could see the busy port, with queues of cars waiting to board and another stream of cars disembarking from a recent arrival. A large white ferry was chugging away out towards the islands that could be seen in the distance. This was the gateway to the Dalmatian islands and she couldn’t wait to set sail and see them for herself.
Busy, busy, busy. And she loved it. There was a sense of life and vibrancy about the place. It had that European smell, the joie de vivre and the delicious warmth in the air. She’d missed living in Paris. Missed the cosmopolitan lifestyle. Now, here was her chance to live it again.
‘Welcome, welcome, Ivan’s friend. Come, come.’
Maddie, wide-eyed from leaving the thronging crowds of the narrow street and stepping into the cool quiet calm of the ancient apartment building, offered the bunch of flowers she’d bought in the market around the corner and stared curiously around at the stone-lintelled windows and the big archway over the door.
Ivan’s apartment, at the top of worn stone steps, was in the middle of a wild warren of streets dating back to Roman times, lined with stone buildings within the boundary of Diocletian’s Palace, which she’d glimpsed briefly on her way here. It was like stepping back in time.
Modern manners and the proffered bunch of flowers brought a torrent of smiles and Croatian from the prune-faced wiry lady who stood at the heavy wooden front door.
‘This is my grandma, Vesna. She speaks a little English,’ Ivan said.
‘Hello,’ said Maddie, smiling as the tiny woman studied her with dark raisin eyes before dragging her in through the door and closing it behind Maddie.
‘And this is my wife, Zita.’ A tall dark-haired woman appeared from the other room. Maddie guessed she was in her early forties although, with her flawless olive skin, it was difficult to tell.
‘Thank you for having me,’ said Maddie, feeling a little uncertain and worried that she was encroaching on family time.
‘Company is always good,’ said Zita with a broad smile, her dark brows lifting. ‘You’re very welcome. Both grandma and my mama are here today. They’re very excited to meet you.’
‘Really?’ asked Maddie, frowning and glancing at Ivan in question.
Zita laughed. ‘We love company and any excuse to celebrate together with some food. This is the Croatian way. We love our food and we love our family.’
‘Gosh, your English is amazing.’
Zita tossed her heavy black-brown hair over her shoulder. She was a striking-looking woman with dark eyes and strong features and when she spoke her face danced with lively animation. ‘I went to university in London, UCL. That’s where I met Ivan. We worked there for some years and then came back to Split when our family was young and that’s when Ivan bought the boat. He hires it to the charter company but skippers for them. I work at the airport, so I use my English. Every year the airport gets busier and busier.’
Maddie followed her through to the kitchen, a hive of bustling activity where diminutive Vesna and another, much taller, lady presided over two big pans like a pair of mad professors, throwing in seasoning and bay leaves from a large glass jar on the side. They were both talking away, shooting shy smiles towards Maddie and patting a little boy on the head every time he came within their reach, as he darted backwards and forwards through an archway to a long table with handfuls of cutlery clutched between his chubby fingers.
‘This is my mother, Tonka, and that’s Bartul, our son. He likes to be busy and help Nona Tonka. Both Nona and Mama are very excited because Ivan said you wanted to learn about Croatian food.’ Zita spoke a few rapid words of Croatian and Tonka turned round and responded, waving her hand towards the big steaming pan in front of her.
‘She says she hopes you like fish. She wants to show you a traditional fish dish brujet.’
‘Can you tell her that I’d like to learn, though I don’t know much about fish?’
When Zita relayed this, Vesna looked horrified.
Zita translated again. ‘She says, “But you live on an island”.’ They all laughed at that.
Vesna beckoned Maddie over as she grabbed a large plastic bottle and poured a generous glug of dark green liquid into a large frying pan.
‘Is that olive oil?’ asked Maddie, looking up at a shelf of assorted plastic bottles in varying sizes, all containing the same liquid.
‘Yes.’ Zita handed her the bottle. ‘Smell.’
The distinctive fruity smell of olives hit her. ‘Wow, that smells good. Fresh. Like … well, like real olives. You can almost imagine them being crushed.’
‘Picked last October.’ Zita tilted her head with a definite hint of pride. ‘Here every family has their own piece of land with olive trees. We have a plot on Brač, up in the hills. In the autumn the whole family goes to the island for the week – everyone helps. And then the oil is pressed at a local co-operative. You must take a bottle back to the boat.’
‘Thank you, that would be great,’ said Maddie, thinking she’d save it to make a really good salad dressing.
‘And you must have a glass of wine.’ Zita pointed to a row of outsize glass jars tucked behind the archway.
‘Wow,’ said Maddie, eyeing the big jars of deep blackberry-coloured wine with their traditional wicker weave which looked fabulously rustic. ‘What do you call those? And is the wine homemade as well?’
‘In English you’d call them demijohns.’ Zita laughed and shook her head. ‘And yes, the wine is homemade but not by us, but there is a family connection of Ivan’s – his cousin makes the wine.’
‘Here, try.’ Ivan thrust a thick glass goblet of the wine into her hand, having poured several from a jug on the side.
‘I don’t know much about wine,’ said Maddie, gingerly tasting it.
‘All you need to know is if you like it,’ said Ivan, lifting his glass. ‘Živilli.’
‘Živilli,’ said Zita.
‘Mmm, that’s good,’ said Maddie.
Zita took a sip from her own glass. ‘Dalmatian red wines are very good. We have many.
