The Hermit

by Thomas Rydahl

  Alina’s lying in her underclothes. Apart from her face and her ankle that’s poking out to the side, her body resembles a mannequin, an advertisement for cheap lingerie.

  He walks into the bedroom. Before he touches Beatriz, he listens. Listens to her breathing; it’s rhythmic, but with a faint wheezing, like a plastic bag filling and emptying. He hears the air passing through her nostrils, soughing through her nose hairs. But he can’t hear any words. On the one hand, he’d like to hear the words again, but on the other, they make him nervous and uncomfortable. As he watches, he notices a hint of a scar above her mouth, as if she’s been operated on for a cleft lip. He’s never noticed that before. But it looks so healed and natural that it’s almost a joy to see.

  He carefully removes her arm from her robe and pulls the robe off underneath her back. He takes off her thick athletic socks, too, which probably belong to Raúl; they’re splattered with blood. And the pendant. He tilts her head slightly to the side; it’s hard to see just what he’s doing, but his fingers are familiar with this kind of jewellery, and finally he manages to open the tiny lock and remove the necklace. As he walks back to the office, he notices Beatriz’s fantastic nails. The one on her middle finger is dangling loose, revealing a pale, cracked nail underneath. He needs to remove them all. If he’s to turn Alina into Beatriz, those nails will have to be part of the ensemble. He twists the loose nail free, then begins to remove the others. They’re firmly attached, but he’s able to wriggle them off. Only the thumbnail requires a strenuous effort.

  In the bathroom he finds a special glue that looks just right for the job, and he affixes the nails on Alina’s fingers. One by one. Calm, thorough. He has never glued nails, but it reminds him of the model airplanes he used to build as a kid. After a few minutes, the nails are all fastened. Alina’s thumbs are a little too big for Beatriz’s nails, but the rest fit quite nicely.

  He arranges Beatriz on the passenger seat so that she looks like a sleeping customer. With pillows and a blanket, she’s packed in so tight that she won’t slump or slide to the floor. He drives slowly through the city and around Majanicho; he doesn’t dare take Alejandro’s Trail, which is too uneven and bumpy. It’ll take an extra ten minutes, but he still has time.

  He carries her into the living room and swaddles her in a blanket that he’s shaken free of dust and crumbs.

  At 6.15 p.m. he hears the doctor’s car and goes out to greet him and to help bring in the equipment, which isn’t much more than a mouthpiece connected to a small machine by a thin tube. The doctor fastens it to Beatriz’s mouth, then pulls an elastic band around her head. The device is already on, and Erhard sees Beatriz’s abdomen heaving unnaturally, like bagpipes. The doctor explains that she needs to hyperventilate to create rapid circulation in the damaged regions of her brain. Erhard just watches her belly rise and fall underneath the all-too-large t-shirt. The respirator inflates. It blinks and glows.

  Afterward, the doctor gives her a thorough examination and takes her blood pressure. At last he affixes a catheter to collect her urine in a bag, then instructs Erhard to change the bag as soon as it’s more than two-thirds full.

  – If we can’t bring her out of this coma in two or three days, we’ll need to insert intravenous nourishment, the doctor says. It’s important that Erhard keep an eye on her; it’s important that he call as soon as the machine beeps or something happens. – If she’s going to be here, you’ll need to be vigilant. The doctor acts peevish to make it clear that he disagrees with Erhard’s plan.

  Erhard glances nervously at the wall outlets, which throw sparks. He’ll need more power from the generator, and he’ll need to buy a new one, especially if more devices will be added. The doctor rejects Erhard’s offer of a beer, then walks out to his car, promising not to tell anyone.

  Erhard watches Beatriz for the next hour and a half. It occurs to him that the two women have already exchanged places. Alina’s story ends right in the place she’d always striven for. Beatriz’s story concludes right where – perhaps – she feared it would. He considers building a partition in the living room so that she can have her own room, then decides that if she’s still here in a week, he will do that. Maybe he could construct a private loft? It would be easy to take care of her that way, and easy to check the devices.

  He latches the backdoor, then puts an extra padlock on the front door. Something about the episode with Alina makes him worry that someone will pay him a visit. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and probably no one will stop by, but still.

  He drives out to Tindaya.

  The island is so small that he knows every nook and cranny. And he knows where Lorenzo Pérez-Lúñigo lives: a large yellow house that’s passed through five generations of doctors. Lorenzo married into the house via Adela, Dr Agosto’s eldest daughter. Together they have four adult sons, and a stable of horses in the fields behind their house. He parks on a small private road that skirts the grounds. Then he strolls around and up to the house, which is quiet, sealed off. When Adela opens the door, she seems ill.

  – We didn’t order a cab today, she says.

  – Happy New Year. I need to speak with Lorenzo.

  – He’s no longer practising.

  – I know.

  – One moment, she says, closing the door.

  Five minutes later Lorenzo opens it.

  – Yes, he says, perceptibly startled when he recognizes Erhard.

  – I need to speak with you. Alone.

  Lorenzo scrutinizes Erhard, possibly considering what will happen if he says no. Then he steps outside and follows Erhard.

  They walk onto the street. There are never any cars here, but the neighbours sometimes peer through their shutters. Erhard guides him up the narrow road where the car is parked.

  – How can I help you, Señor Jørgensen? the doctor says with a kind of affected highbrow manner that doesn’t match his typically vulgar style.

  – Let me be blunt. I’ve kept quiet about your little secrets for more than ten years.

  – Dios mío. What secrets are you referring to?

  Erhard gives him a look, but Lorenzo doesn’t notice, so Erhard has to explain: – All those times you showed up plastered at car accidents, or that incident down at the shipyard, when your blood-alcohol level was far above what it should’ve been.

  – That wasn’t unlawful. I rode in a taxi.

  – But it’s not good form, so far as I’m aware. And there’s probably a good reason you once gave me a 100-euro tip.

  – Are you complaining about tips now?

  – Only when they’re a type of payoff.

  – It was never a payoff.

  – What about the time I found you out near Molino?

  Lorenzo stares at Erhard in alarm. He doesn’t like to hear any mention of that episode. The doctor had crashed his car in the ditch early one morning, and he’d stood by the side of the road six miles from the closest village. On the backseat of his car was the naked body of an elderly person. Before Lorenzo called the mechanic to request a tow, he wanted Erhard to drive him and the body back to the Department of Forensic Medicine at the hospital in Puerto. It wasn’t the first time that Erhard had dealt with a body. But Lorenzo’s arrogance – as if it were part of Erhard’s job description to haul corpses – had made Erhard obstinate and sceptical, even though Lorenzo gave him a handsome tip. In the end, Bernal had saved Lorenzo from a police report. Though it probably would’ve been dismissed anyway, it would have ignited devastating rumours in the circles where Lorenzo Pérez-Lúñigo most wishes to be regarded as a respectable and brilliant official of the highest sort. Possessing a corpse in some godforsaken part of the island would’ve been awfully difficult to explain, and it would’ve called to mind some very unfortunate images. Lorenzo had understood that.

  – What do you want? Why do you come here with this?

  – Do we agree that you owe me a favour?

  Lorenzo stares unhappily at Erhard. – I thought I’d already demonstrated my
gratitude. So what do you want, Señor Jørgensen?

  – I want to bring peace to a good friend.

  – I can’t do that. I’m not a murderer.

  – Lower your voice, Lorenzo. Nobody’s killing anyone. You just need to dispose of a body and pass it along quickly to the mortician, that’s all.

  Lorenzo glances around. – What do you mean?

  – Sometime in the next day, Beatrizia Colini’s body will be delivered to you for your examination. You need to report that her death was the result of a fall down a stairwell. You can note other small things, but you have to conclude that Beatrizia Colini died following an unfortunate tumble in which she struck her head.

  – What have you done, Señor Jørgensen?

  – I haven’t done anything. I’m just making sure that my friend Beatrizia’s reputation remains intact, and that the Palabras family isn’t involved unnecessarily in her death.

  As soon as Erhard utters the name Palabras, Lorenzo flinches as if he’s bitten a lime. It was exactly the effect Erhard was hoping for.

  – Lorenzo! Adela calls from the door.

  – Do we have an agreement? Erhard asks.

  – Can I trust that you will never visit me like this again?

  – If you do this, I will never come here again.

  Lorenzo turns and walks back to the house. – Coming, Adela, he says in a baritone voice.

  When the door front door closes, Erhard climbs in his car and collapses in the seat. Only now does he realize how nervous he has been during the entire conversation. He starts the engine and heads back towards the city.

  As soon as there’s some shade on the balcony, he carries Alina to the rooftop terrace. Halfway up the stairs he lets her slide headfirst out of the tarpaulin. He turns her around and lays her head on a pillow, so that he doesn’t have to look at her face. Rigor mortis has begun to set in. Erhard wipes the blood from the tarpaulin and the wooden balcony floor.

  Erhard is unsettled and indecisive, pacing between the balcony and the bedroom. He drinks the expensive coffee. The sun is red, and he gazes across the city and the beach at the kite surfers out near the Dunes. The city noise below makes him sad. Children shout when they leap off a buoy down in the harbour. One of the city’s many impatient lorry drivers honks as he squeezes his load of cucumbers or beer into some narrow alley. Erhard has always loved the city. This city. God only knows how much he hates other cities, particularly Copenhagen; no other city is so hyper-regulated and boxy with tower blocks as Copenhagen. But Corralejo is incomparably unique, marked by aridity, an excessive desire to please, and a population of inbreds. It’s just the place for Erhard. A provincial hole with long opening hours, a little city with a big city’s attractions. But even if he had the money, he’s not sure if he’d choose to live here. The noise, the smell, the nightlife, the bars, the friendly women, and city living as a whole – it would be the end of him. It has always been a pleasure to visit Raúl, to sit on the terrace with two attractive friends and enjoy the moment. Now he wishes, most of all, to go back to last summer, when they went to a fish restaurant near Morro Jable. That evening when they sat together in the car and laughed at the thunder.

  He calls Raúl’s number again. But he knows that he won’t answer. So he dials 112 and requests an ambulance.

  Then he waits on the street for it to arrive. The paramedics need to carry the stretcher up the stairs. As they climb, Erhard tells them how he found her, and how he kept his eye on her. His nerves are calmed when one of the paramedics seems unconcerned. As if picking up dead women is an everyday event.

  When the paramedics see her, they sit down and wait for the police and the doctor who’ll perform the post-mortem to arrive. Although Erhard has predicted this, it still makes him uncomfortable. He prepares coffee in the kitchen so they won’t notice his trembling hands. Five minutes later the doorbell chimes and he hopes it’s Bernal, whom he knows. But it turns out to be a young policeman, a tall, Arabic-looking man who might very well be a troublemaker. Erhard states his full name, but the officer just introduces himself as Hassib, then asks Erhard to tell him what happened. When Erhard tries to explain, Hassib doesn’t pay attention. Instead he stares at his mobile. Behind the policeman, a young, short-haired doctor in a suit enters the flat. The new health inspector.

  – The wealthy and their fucking lifestyles, Hassib says, watching the inspector as he pulls back the plastic sheet they’ve covered Alina with. He examines her without touching her; he photographs her, close up and from a distance, then rolls her over and repeats the procedure. He also takes photos of the stairwell. He sees a tooth on the floor and photographs that, too.

  Erhard observes everything while he drinks his coffee. The officer speaks with the doctor briefly and in a hushed voice, then they strap Alina to the stretcher and begin carrying her downstairs. The inspector asks Erhard for the name of Beatriz’s doctor, but Erhard doesn’t know. Ask Emanuel Palabras, he finally says. The inspector thanks him and hands Erhard his business card, which is printed on cheap paper, before he exits the room, his mobile phone stuck to his ear. Hassib walks around the flat, circling Erhard until at last he’s standing beside him in the kitchen.

  – So when did you find her?

  – Around eleven o’clock. We’d gone out and had a few drinks, and I slept here. When I woke up, I found her. Then…

  – Eleven o’clock? Why didn’t you call earlier?

  – She cried out in ways I didn’t understand, so I thought she was just hurt. When she was better, I was going to drive her to the emergency room.

  – Emergency room? That woman is a mess.

  – I thought she’d get better.

  – But she’s dead, don’t you get it? Someone may have pushed her. Since Raúl Palabras hasn’t turned up yet, he might be our man.

  – It’s not him. He would never do that to her. It must’ve been an accident.

  – Where did you say he went?

  – I didn’t say. I don’t know where he is. I’ve called him, but he doesn’t answer.

  – If you know where he is, you need to tell me now. If we don’t get any more information, we’ll have to charge you.

  They would do something like that, Erhard thinks. Take the first and best suspect. – All I did was sleep here, he says.

  – If you talk to your friend, tell him he’s better off turning himself in.

  Erhard doesn’t know what to say. He plucks a sour grape from a bunch on the table.

  – Where did you say you slept?

  – I didn’t say. In the bedroom, Erhard says, pointing.

  To his amazement, the policeman strides through the living room and into the bedroom, then snaps on the light and looks around. – Where did Palabras sleep?

  – I don’t know. I was pissed. We sat up on the terrace this morning drinking Bloody Marys and talking. I got really tired and pissed and wanted to go home, but they asked me to sleep down here. So I did. When I woke up, Raúl was gone and…

  Erhard notices that the policeman is not writing anything down. He’s investigating the crime scene because that’s what he’s supposed to do, but he doesn’t actually care.

  – How much did she drink? The girlfriend.

  – Not much, I don’t think. We woke her up when we arrived, and she came out to the terrace with us. But she was tired and yawned the whole time.

  Erhard’s surprised at how well he’s lying. All he has to do is recall the events of the morning and alter them slightly.

  – How long have they lived together?

  – Eight or ten years, maybe. Eight.

  – They were happy together?

  – Yes. He was crazy about her. And vice versa.

  Erhard considers the words she’d uttered: Help me. Let me go. Do they mean anything? Are they just something Erhard imagined? He hopes not. Now that he’s set everything into motion so that he can hide Beatriz. To save her from someone who wishes to do her harm. It can’t be Raúl.

  – But why did
you sleep down here? asks the policeman. He rounds the bed and opens the wardrobe.

  – How should I know? Hospitality, I guess. That’s the way Raúl is.

  – Where did they sleep?

  The policeman riffles through Raúl’s collection of suits.

  – Maybe on the sofa. Or up on the terrace.

  – Have you ever witnessed Raúl Palabras abusing Beatrizia Colini?

  – Abusing?

  – You know, hitting her? Slapping her around?

  – Never.

  The policeman goes to the living room. On the way he peers through the half-open door into the office. – What did you say was in here?

  – The office. They never use that room.

  The policeman switches on the office lights, and a twinge of misgiving runs through Erhard: Did he remember to clean up in there? For some reason, he hadn’t thought the police would spend any time searching inside the flat if the body was discovered on the balcony.

  Hassib walks around the desk and strokes the closed laptop. – Whose is this?

  – I don’t know. Maybe Raúl’s?

  – I’ll take it with me, the policeman says. He picks up the computer and the attached cord.

  – What’s going to happen now? Erhard follows the police officer into the living room and onto the balcony. The red stains on the stairwell and the woodwork are still there. – What will happen to her? Will she be taken to forensics now?

  – We have to find her family. Do you know where they live?