Free Under a Croatian Sun by Anthony Stancomb Page A

honey before bed. I added whisky.
    Cuts – St John’s Wort. Crush until a paste and put on the wound.
    There was also a potion for blood pressure – one dessert-spoon every morning of lemon, onion and sugar mixed in equal measures. I didn’t think it was working, but Ivana was adamant it was. Without a doctor at hand, it was hard to prove either way,but Ivana has never been one to let things like that get in her way, and I was made to keep taking it.
    Ivana’s infiltration of the aged underbelly of the village continued, but, although I was let off the hook on many occasions, I still found myself spending more evenings than I would have cared to on people’s kitchen tables, wondering how fate and one’s wife could bring a man to such a state of indignity. Wives and grannies never treated their men like this back home, but I suppose Health and Safety probably clobbered the last healer to the ground sometime in the reign of George V. It was just my bad luck to have ended up in one of the few places left in the Western Hemisphere where potions were not only legal, but also family sized and Triple X strength.
    I was then struck by a really terrifying thought. What if Ivana took an interest in potion making herself and started brewing up with my bowels in mind? It didn’t bear thinking about.
     
    Matters of health were by far the most common subject of all village conversations, even among the middle-aged, and the most common form of salutation was
Zdravi Bili!
(Be Healthy!). This salutation was not only exchanged when taking your leave, but it was also a greeting. There was, however, a downside. While islanders were naturally reserved, once they started on the subject of health, natural propriety was cast to the wind and it was open season. This meant that no one had the slightest compunction in laying bare the personal intimacies of their family members in public – and, as someone who blushes at the mention of any bodily function, I found it excruciatingly embarrassing.
    I was queuing at the corner store one afternoon when an elderly lady came up to me and without any preamble said, ‘What happened to you after your meal at Jacov’s on Sunday?We were there having my Dina’s birthday lunch and we all had terrible wind for the rest of the day. It’s those chickpeas Jacov puts with everything he cooks. I know it is. I was making such terrible noises I didn’t dare go to evensong. Were you the same?’ And she waited for an answer as if she’d asked me the way to the bus station.
    Bereft of speech, I stood there like a ventriloquist’s dummy propped up against a wall with its mouth open.
    The same happened at the market. ‘I always buy my Pero these beetroots,’ a septuagenarian neighbour said to Ivana as we were choosing our mangold. ‘He’s got such a problem passing water these days. Does yours have the same problem yet?’
    Ivana was chatting with the next stallholder and didn’t hear, so the old lady turned to me. ‘Does it sting when you do your pi-pi?’ And she fixed me with a gimlet-eyed look that required an answer.
    I felt my face reddening as I tried to attract Ivana’s attention. ‘Well, um… yes, beetroot is really good for you…’ I stammered. ‘Yes, it’s such a good vegetable…’ But Ivana was still steadfastly refusing to look in my direction and so I burbled on. ‘And tomatoes are really full of good things, too, aren’t they… Just look at those ones there… Magnificent specimens…’ I willed Ivana to look up, but obdurately she still wouldn’t pick up on my distress signals. Mercifully, a stall holder then said something to the old lady, and, seeing her momentarily distracted, I made a quick escape.
    From then on, I was on red alert every time I went to the market in case another inquisitive granny might be lurking behind a pile of beetroot, but it was a small price to pay. Health talk was definitely the way to the hearts and minds of the grannies – and they were a