The Hermit

by Thomas Rydahl

She types some more. The date. Images of the beach appear, but nothing that resembles anything from those dates. What he sees are a mix of summer and winter images. You can tell the difference in the sky: white-metallic in the winter, white-yellow in the summer. She shows Erhard a few. One is of the slope, another of the sea as viewed from the beach. Then, a short time later, more surfer photos, two women on a towel, and a man standing up through the sunroof of a rental car. There are a surprising number of photographs, and seeing them appear and disappear makes Erhard’s head spin. They are photographs sent through the air and into air. Cables he sort of gets, but not these new smart phones.

  Searching takes time, much more than Erhard had anticipated. He thought it would be like using a card index, where one looked up relevant dates. But Alina keeps reminding him that images are everywhere and that the connection is bad. Each image takes a long time to emerge. She tries to explain this to Erhard, but he doesn’t comprehend. The sun sets. He prepares instant coffee. While pouring water into a mug, he forgets yet again that she’s his hostage, that she’s being held against her will. She’s not some neighbour’s daughter who has stopped by to show him her holiday pictures. He hands her the mug, and she sets it down beside the mattress.

  – Maybe there are no photos of the car, he says.

  She’s brought up another endless thread of irrelevant images: tourist snapshots of beaches, Las Dunas and its unnaturally blue skies, giant mounds of olives at the market in Morro del Jable.

  – I don’t think so, she says.

  – I’ll drive you home tomorrow, he says tiredly. He lies down on the sofa.

  – You promised you’d drive me home today.

  – But you didn’t find anything, he says.

  – You promised to drive me home as soon as I helped you.

  – I only promised to do that if you found something. I’ll take you home tomorrow.

  She kicks her mug across the floor, splashing coffee onto the stove and a stack of books along one of the lower shelves. He lies still, listening for her movements, but hears only her chain. He’s looking forward to getting rid of her, but right now there’s something tingly and strange about having her here. Inside the walls of his home. The walls are too thin, the rooms too cramped. He buries his head between the pillows in the sofa and…

  – … Ola, Fourfingers, fetch your car keys.

  He wakes up when a pair of shoes and a hat plunk his head.

  – I’ve found something.

  She’s seated on the kitchen floor, the chain pulled taut, and waving her mobile. It’s not yet dawn, but the sky is brown. Before long, the sun will rise above the sea and shine a cone of bright light through the frosted windows.

  – I’m almost out of battery, so you need to see this now. Right now.

  He listens for dishonesty in her voice. Why did she keep searching after he fell asleep? What if she hasn’t found anything at all, but just invented some excuse for him to go over there, tired and unprepared?

  When he sets his feet on the floor the usual ache in his back returns, part of his routine morning stiffness. He just needs to get moving – to deal with it. He pushes off from the edge of the sofa and stands. She doesn’t seem hostile. Mostly, she seems eager. Her legs are splayed like a little girl playing marbles.

  – See. Some surfers from that day. And there’s a car.

  With her thumb she sweeps the images downward. When she finds what she’s looking for, she taps the image and hands her mobile to Erhard.

  Though he doesn’t show it, he’s impressed. Surprised. He didn’t think she could help him. Her reaction last night had been expected, predictable. Whores aren’t exactly known for their intellectual capacity. But Alina, something tells him, is not like the others.

  The image is small, and it’s difficult to make out what it is. As usual, it takes a few seconds for his vision to focus. He lifts the mobile up to his face. It’s an early morning shot, much like now. The sand is shiny, golden, flat. He sees the VW in the background. That’s the one, no doubt about it. It’s black and doesn’t belong on the beach, a foreign object. And the glaring, dark windows conceal the boy in the box.

  Erhard feels a jolt. He’s found it. A photo the police don’t know about. A clue. There’s water along the car’s front wheels. Erhard thinks about the boy lying in the back seat. Dead. The photographer wouldn’t know at this point. Or ever. He’s just taking a photograph.

  – There are more images, Alina says. – Someone named MitchFever.

  Erhard reads the name on the narrow, black band along the top of the image. The name reminds him of a child with a warm forehead. – How do you bring up a new image?

  She flicks the photo with her finger and the image becomes that of a boy’s back. He’s wearing a wetsuit and carrying a surfboard on his head. Then the screen goes black.

  – Shit, shit, shit, Alina says.

  ‌

  31

  Her charger’s in the flat she rents above the bar in Calle Taoro. But instead of going to get it, Alina suggests that Erhard find a computer. Even better: a computer with high-speed Internet. He doesn’t know where to look for one. There’s the break-room computer at work, or maybe one of Raúl’s, or Ponduel’s – Ponduel studied computers. Of course, Ponduel’s an asshole. None of these options sound appealing.

  – Anyone with Internet access can help you just as well as I can, she says. – Now that I’ve helped you get started, you have to drive me downtown.

  Erhard stands up so fast his head is dizzy. He walks across the room where, because of the chain, she can’t reach him. He wants to drive her downtown so she can help him find the image again. But it won’t do, taking her to dispatch or up to Raúl’s place. How would he explain that? She’d probably try to run, or cry for help.

  – I’ll get your charger. No computer.

  – So drive me home, and I’ll help you at my place.

  He has the feeling she’s got ulterior motives.

  – No, you can stay here. I’m sorry.

  This makes her angry, but then she holds herself in check.

  Before he lets her go, he wants to talk to Diego Navarez or hear on the news that the police are continuing their investigation. But that’s something he doesn’t dare tell her. He can’t bear to hold her hostage.

  – I’ll give you the money I told you about. Find the images for me, and I’ll give you the money.

  She laughs that sickening laughter of hers. – How the hell can I trust what you say, Fourfingers, when you change your mind all the time? You’ve promised me three times now that I could go.

  – OK. Honestly, I don’t know anything about computers. I need your help.

  – I can see that. But I’m not exactly a computer geek. Let me go and I’ll find someone who can better help you.

  – What does your charger look like?

  – Fuck you, she says, spitting at him.

  For some reason, he waits in the car for a few minutes before crossing the street. It’s so early in the morning that the flats appear drawn and sleepy. Music emerges from La Mar Roja on the corner, which is the sailors’ preferred wine bar and always open. An anxious young man with a fag between his lips is seated on a low wall across from the bar, kicking his legs, smoke pouring from his nose as fast as he puts the cigarette to his mouth. He’s staring at the bar as if he’s going to rob it, another of the city’s many current or former drug addicts, so wretched that he can’t even earn money selling leather goods or making sand sculptures. Farther down the street, a man sweeps the sidewalk with a stiff broom.

  Erhard heads towards the doorway directly to the left of the bar. Above the entrance, there’s a large painting of a schooner in the process of being swallowed by a whale. He lets himself in and reviews the names taped on the sea-blue wooden post boxes. He doesn’t see her name anywhere, only men’s names. Then he spots it on the top floor. Angelina Mariposa. That must be her. He considers taking the stairs, but chooses the lift instead, which is already h
olding in the lobby.

  The key slides right into the lock, and then he’s inside, closing the door behind him.

  It’s very dark. Thick curtains block the sunlight as well as the view, and he draws them back to find his way around. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking for, but he’s seen chargers before, so he scans the room for electrical outlets. Although the flat isn’t new, it has been remodelled, and everything is square and sharply defined. On a curtained shelf, he finds at least thirty pairs of shoes resting on cheap wooden racks. Pink shoes and black stilettos with thin laces. It makes him laugh. He owns only one pair of shoes himself, and he’ll wear them until they fall apart. He quickly locates the charger in the tiny black kitchen; it dangles from an outlet above a table for two. There are two wine glasses on the table, one filled with white wine, along with salmon-coloured nail polish resting on an American magazine. There’s no cooktop, just this small table and a black refrigerator. Like him, she’s apparently not much of a cook, and he wonders how she gets her meals. Does she go out every night or do men pay for her dinners? He grabs the charger, then studies the black-and-white photo magnet that he finds on the fridge. It’s a pretty photo. In it she’s raising a champagne glass at the photographer and laughing as though she doesn’t have a care in the world. Directly above her cleavage a caption reads: Good company?

  At the bottom of the photograph: alinacompania.es.

  Erhard can hardly believe that the woman in the photo – who looks like a film star – is at this very moment chained up in his living room.

  While leaving her flat he catches a whiff of something. He follows the scent into the bedroom, a darkened cave with a queen-sized bed underneath a pile of undulating black blankets. The scent is powerful – cinnamon and citrus. Normally, his sense of smell is not great. To his left he spots a wooden wardrobe painted black. He opens it, then runs his hands across the sequined dresses and a few suits of almost transparent fabric. He’s often dreamed of walking into a lingerie shop and examining all the pretty fabrics and feeling the thin straps between his fingers, but now that he has the chance, he doesn’t really dare. And yet he removes some things from the drawers: a pair of soft white trousers, a t-shirt embossed with large letters, and pink underwear with blue lace that looks like something a child might wear. He bundles them all up inside a pair of Alina’s trousers. Then he walks out of her flat, slamming the door behind him.

  He waits for a lorry to pass before crossing the street to his car.

  – Erhard!

  He turns, but he already knows who it is. It’s one of the few who pronounce his name so that it nearly sounds Danish.

  Raúl Palabras waves to a man heading in the opposite direction, then trots across the street. He looks relaxed, his shirt unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up, and his hair meticulously combed.

  – I was in the bar and saw you come out. What are you doing here so early?

  – What are you doing? Going home without Bea?

  – Pesce and I had too many beers. She went home, Raúl says, taking one of Erhard’s hands and touching Erhard’s elbow with the other, as if he were about to swing him around. It’s Raúl’s style. – Would you drive me home?

  Erhard doesn’t see how he could say no. He doesn’t have a reason to say no. Besides, he’s heading in that direction. – I can drop you off, he says. I’ve got to earn my living somehow, I guess.

  – Oh, yes. Money.

  They look at each other.

  – What have you got there? Raúl asks, staring at the clothes and the charger.

  – Just a few things I needed to pick up for one of my customers.

  Raúl grins. – Oh, Old Man. You’re getting mixed up in something, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes.

  – Sod off, Erhard says, opening his door and climbing in. Raúl dashes around the car and hops into the passenger seat. They drive. Erhard manages to toss the clothes in the backseat, so that Raúl doesn’t notice they are girls’ clothes. There’s no way he could explain it to him now. No, he’s not ready to tell Raúl what happened.

  They head down one-way streets, and Raúl tells him how busy he is and that he’s sick and tired of people not doing what they’re told. Erhard laughs at his stories. They arrive at Raúl’s flat.

  – Come on up, Raúl says. – Let’s have a Sunrise and watch the sunrise.

  – The sun came up long ago, Raúl.

  – Then a Bloody Mary. Come on. I need you, Hermano.

  Something he says when he’s most desperate.

  – What, to get plastered? You should go up and sleep with your beautiful girl. She’s probably worried about you.

  – No she’s not. That’s the problem. She hates me.

  – Shut up, Erhard says. He doesn’t believe that at all.

  – Bloody hell, Erhard, she’s going to leave me.

  – Did she tell you that?

  – No, not exactly. But she doesn’t love me like she used to. I just know it. Come with me. She’s crazy about you, you’re like her favourite uncle or something. We’ll wake her up with Bloodys and breakfast.

  It’s Saturday. He won’t be able to work this morning. Maybe tonight. He can go home to Alina afterward. She’s not going anywhere. – OK. One Bloody Mary.

  He wants to drive into Raúl’s car park beneath his building, but it’s being renovated, Raúl says, and he doesn’t think there’ll be a spot. Instead they park at the abandoned construction zone near HiperDino, then amble down the street towards the harbour and Raúl’s flat. Lying on the street next to the building’s entrance is Crazy Enrique, sleeping with his baseball bat. Raúl shushes Erhard as they edge past him and go up the broad stairwell. For some reason Erhard glances down the street right as they enter, and he sees the same anxious man who’d sat on the wall opposite the bar. It must be a coincidence. This flat borders the busiest section of town, and maybe the man just walked down here to sell or buy something or sleep on the beach.

  – What did you say you were doing at La Mar Roja? Raúl asks.

  – Do you remember the incident with the car on the beach? The night of the storm?

  – The car theft? Raúl says, his back to Erhard. – Yeah, is there anything new? I heard they found the mother.

  – That’s what they say. But they’re lying.

  Raúl pauses. – Who? The paper-pushers?

  That’s Raúl’s word for the police.

  – Yes. All they did was find a prostitute who’s got nothing at all to do with it. And someone paid her to confess.

  – What makes you think that?

  – I’ve done some investigating.

  – Playing Colombo now, are you?

  Raúl unlocks the door of his flat, and they enter. From the entranceway one can see through the French doors and into the living room.

  Beatriz is sleeping in front of the TV. On the screen are some black dancers, a motorcycle, and a man dressed as a dog. She stretches lazily and reaches for Raúl, pulling him into a kiss. When she asks where he went off to, Raúl gently closes her eyes and tells her she shouldn’t get pissed.

  – But I wasn’t that pissed, she says, laughing as she squeezes Erhard’s arm.

  – Come, Raúl says. – We’re going to have some Bloodys.

  – Oh no, Beatriz groans. But she follows them up to the rooftop terrace anyway. The stairwell is located around the corner of the balcony. Narrow and rickety, it clings to the house and climbs up to the already scorching private terrace, which is furnished with an outdoor sofa, an African-inspired coffee table, a pair of wicker chairs with thick pillows, and a small worktop with a fridge and a sink under a large umbrella. Beatriz plops tiredly into the sofa and crawls beneath a thin blanket.

  – Erhard’s playing amateur detective, Raúl says. – Remember the car down at the beach?

  Raúl walks over to the little prep counter and begins removing items from the fridge. White liquor, juice, fresh lemon. The kinds of things that are always available at Raúl’s place.

/>   – Throwing away kids like that isn’t normal behaviour, Erhard says.

  – I can’t stand it, Beatriz says.

  Raúl laughs. – Even an old dog has a good nose. Isn’t that what people say?

  He squeezes the lemon over the glass, squirting juice into the air.

  – Who says that? Beatriz says, laughing.

  – Here I was thinking that the Hermit was just living in his own little world of piano tuning, alcohol, and cab driving.

  Erhard laughs because Raúl has never called him the Hermit. Then he tells them about the box filled with newspaper fragments. His curiosity piqued, Raúl asks if the police found any DNA or fingerprints. Like you see on television. Erhard explains what Bernal told him. That finding DNA is not as easy as one would think. Beatriz is mostly interested in the little boy. About whether he’ll get a proper burial. Can’t they find the mother? she wants to know. Raúl thinks it was just a horrible accident: a car thief finds a child on the backseat – oops! – and so he leaves the car on the beach and hurries away.

  – You’ll see, Raúl says. – In the end, they’ll discover that the prostitute was the mother.

  – No, Erhard says. – I’ve talked to her. It’s not her.

  Silence.

  – What did you say? Beatriz says.

  Erhard tells them how the police have charged the wrong person.

  – She’s lying, Raúl says.

  – No, I’ve pressed her on it. It’s not her.

  – That’s crazy, Beatriz says.

  – Did you see her downtown? Raúl wants to know, his back still turned to Erhard. He hammers the pestle which he’s used to crush celery and lemon and spices against the edge of the sink. The scent is tangy.

  Erhard glances cautiously at Beatriz. – She’s over at my place. Hiding. She’s told me everything and is ready to tell her story. But she’s afraid of the police.

  – Erhard, Beatriz says excitedly. – Wow.

  Raúl hands them each a bright red drink with a large spoon poking up from the liquid. He loves to eat the mashed celery stalk after he’s drunk half the glass. – I’ve made it extra spicy for you, Hermano.