The Hermit

by Thomas Rydahl

  – She doesn’t have any family here on the island. Maybe on Gran Canaria.

  – Girlfriends? Ex-boyfriends?

  – Not as far as I’m aware. It was always just Raúl.

  – Work?

  – A few days a week. Down at the boutique on Señora del Carmen. The one with the elephant. She’d just started.

  – Does she have a mobile anywhere?

  – I’ve looked, but I haven’t found it.

  – Let’s give Señor Pérez-Lúñigo some peace and quiet to find out what happened to your friend. Anyway, we’ll seal off the flat. What is your name and address? We’ll need to speak with you again, I’m sure. He unwraps a long white stick of chewing gum and folds the stick three times before popping it into his mouth. – And we’ve got to find that bastard Raúl Palabras.

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  34

  He’s hardly able to breathe until they’ve gone. He stands listening, his ear pressed to the door, as the paramedics and the police officer chat all the way to the lift. He hears the lift rattling down the shaft.

  The corridor falls silent. Sitting at the dining table, he stares at the front door, anticipating the policeman’s return. But he doesn’t return.

  Evening comes. He loves the evening. Aromas swirl up from the street: cinnamon, caramel, urine, sea.

  He has to save Beatriz. When she opens her eyes, when she wakes up in a few days, she can tell him what happened. Maybe she can tell him where Raúl is. Erhard can save both of his friends. Suddenly Emanuel Palabras comes to mind. Maybe Raúl called him? Or maybe Raúl’s at his place? He decides to drive home and give him a call. It’s time for a Lumumba.

  The house is darker than usual.

  Knowing that Alina died at his house, right around the corner where the field begins, makes everything feel unsafe and barren. More than ever.

  He checks the generator and snaps on the light, then brings pillows from the sofa and a dining room chair into the bedroom and sits watching Beatriz’s body fill with air, empty, and fill again. The rattle of the wind, a tug and pull, hypnotic and exhausting.

  But he doesn’t sleep. He sits rigidly, like a night watchman, and listens to Beatriz’s inhalations, thinking of Raúl the entire time, that he’s dead, and thinking of the little slit in the blanket through which he can insert his hand and feel her vagina. It’s terribly wrong of him, but even now, after having been unconscious for more than twelve hours, she still smells of juice and cinnamon and warm raisins. Just because there are no other women in his life. If there were, his sexual fantasies wouldn’t be about Beatriz. He tries to imagine Emanuel’s Maasai girl and her little ass, which he could see through her sheer dress. But he can’t. She’s too much and not enough. What the hell does he know about women? It’s been so long since he’s had one. There have been women in his life, brief encounters, mostly with the prostitutes he could afford. But he has always picked the older models, so that it wasn’t too embarrassing or strange for either one of them. Not to mention to give them a little business. The young ones have enough work. Those his own age just hang about reading magazines or eating yoghurt. Twice he’s picked the same woman, a Spaniard by the name of Afrodita. That wasn’t her real name, of course, but that’s what she called herself. She was a rather uninteresting woman who might’ve been mistaken for a cashier at a souvenir stand. The first time was at a place called La Mouscita in Puerto – which is now a pizza joint – and he’d actually pointed at another woman, a more exotic-looking mulatto; but the manager had misunderstood Erhard, and Afrodita almost appeared grateful when she was nudged forward. He didn’t have the heart to correct the mistake. Besides, it turned out, she had a strange but pleasurable fellatio technique which Erhard could feel the effects of for weeks afterward. The second time, he’d planned in advance to go right after the mulatto, but she wasn’t there; she might have been out sick or had the day off to attend her little brother’s wedding. During the hesitation that followed, he made eye contact with Afrodita, and he felt that he owed her another round for old time’s sake. He asked her to focus on sucking him off. He enjoyed her talents, but more importantly, he wouldn’t have to watch her remove her clothes. Not because he didn’t like her body, but because the first time she’d been so meticulous about removing and folding her clothes. He’d guessed that she’d once worked at a clothing shop, not a souvenir stand; it took such a dreadfully long time. So much time, in fact, that he lost interest in sex and didn’t get aroused again until she began to breathe warmly on his penis. Afrodita on her knees like a cleaning woman. Afrodita scouring the bottom of a boat. Afrodita diving among turtles. Afrodita talking to him under the water, bubbles pouring from her, downward, between the rocks where she gathers oysters.

  Erhard wakes up every half-hour. He listens to Beatriz’s breathing, listens to the device. And every time his eyes scroll down to that dark slit that fits perfectly with his hand. Drowsy and horny, he turns back to his pillows. The night seems endless.

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  35

  The hills lie in shadow, and the sky is as yellow as an egg-yolk.

  He’s standing among the rocks watching the goats trot towards him one after the other. Laurel’s little bell jangles each time he plants his front hooves on the ground.

  Emanuel Palabras had been strangely detached on the telephone. He hadn’t seen Raúl for weeks, he said. When Erhard told him that Beatriz was dead and that Raúl was missing, he said Raúl was his mother’s child. Then he laughed as though he were sitting in a sauna shooting the breeze. Erhard has always felt oddly connected to Palabras. Two men out of step with modern times. A generation with a strong work ethic and a rawness towards life. One shouldn’t get mixed up in things one doesn’t understand, Palabras said several times, his pent-up irritation at his son on full display. In the end Erhard had to change the subject: How’s it going with ‘Coral’? Palabras just grunted and ended the call.

  He herds the goats back to the house and feeds them. When he scatters the food the pellets clatter against the stones, and he watches the animals sniff at each one before licking them up with their grey tongues. He returns the ladder to its proper place on the other side of the house. Not so far from where he’d found Alina. It amazes him that she’d carried the ladder around the house before she’d crawled up on the roof. Why not just climb up on the same side?

  The most important thing right now is to ensure peace and quiet for Beatriz. And to get a new generator, a better, more reliable one. Maybe one of those kinds that turns on and off automatically at night when he goes to bed. He’s wanted one of those for a long time, he’s just never had the money. Of course, it also wasn’t a necessity until now. If it costs less than 1,000 euros, he can buy one. The appliance shop won’t open till the morning.

  He goes inside and eats a bowl of corn porridge, keeping an eye on Beatriz and the small drainage bag while listening to the radio. He finds his book and plops into his plush recliner with its worn fabric and its clawed-up armrest, a result of the previous owner’s cat. He reads a few lines in the story about the speckled band. ‘The least sound would be fatal to our plans,’ Holmes says, growing still. Two women die in the story. It’s ironic that Solilla’s book recommendation has become relevant these past few days. In some way, the red thread leads him to the boy in the cardboard box. Though he can’t quite see how, he can’t help but think that it’s all connected.

  Did someone beat up Beatriz and do away with Raúl? Someone who frightened Alina so badly that she jumped off the roof? What did it have to do with the boy? Did someone see Raúl and Beatriz out near Cotillo that night of the lightning, and guess they were involved? Raúl and Beatriz weren’t celebrities, but when they entered a room or a restaurant, heads turned. They were memorable. And everyone knew the name Palabras. People whispered it at the farmer’s market and said it aloud at the Yellow Rooster – when the men had had enough to drink.

  He hasn’t gotten anywhere with that image Alina found on her mobile. The image from the be
ach, the car parked at the water’s edge. He caught only a brief glimpse. She had her phone when he left to get her charger. That was the last time he saw Alina alive. The mobile must be somewhere nearby. He lies down on the floor and peers under the shelf and the chair. He lifts the mattress in the hallway. At last he spots it on the coat rack, balanced there as if someone had set it down to put on a jacket, then forgot all about it. He presses the buttons, but it’s still dead. He can’t remember what he did with the charger. It seems like several days ago, weeks even.

  Why must everything be so bloody difficult? If he’s ever going to find something on that mobile, he needs some assistance. He thinks about Jorge Ponduel, whom he’d prefer to avoid. He’s a hot-tempered majorero whose worst day of life came when the goat-cheese producer Quesotierro dropped its sponsorship of UD Fuerteventura, the island’s only good football team. Ponduel loves electronics of all kinds and likes to discuss loudspeakers, monitors, and strange devices that can hoover by themselves, items which he has bought or wishes to buy. And he likes to complain about old equipment that’s either broken or just Japanese crap. As far as Erhard recalls, Ponduel works the morning shift Monday to Friday.

  Erhard doesn’t usually drive his cab on Sunday afternoons. But he’s restless – and anyway, he needs the hours. Before he leaves, he pulls the curtains closed and turns off the light. Only the respirator lamps reveal her silhouette. In the darkness she looks like someone transforming into a corpse. If Raúl’s the one who beat her up, then he can go to hell. If Raúl is innocent, he’ll thank Erhard one day for having saved her life.

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  36

  There’s a new salesman in the appliance shop. A stylish Turkish guy with a fashionable goatee. Immediately he begins discussing something he calls the fuel economy. And sound investment-strategy. He shows Erhard a catalogue with photos of big blue generators.

  For Erhard, the conversation is one of those that too quickly moves away from its starting point. The man is clever, but all he does is make Erhard feel stupid. He’d thought he could go home with a new generator today; he’d thought he could get it all taken care of in fifteen minutes. But he’s already been staring at this expensive catalogue for thirty minutes, and he’s none the wiser. Except that he’s now aware that his current generator is a kind of miracle; it came with the house and has only been repaired four times. Erhard has just about had it with all this sales chatter. He needs fresh air.

  – Up to 100 kilowatts, and it’s all controlled by this remote control, the salesman says.

  His name is Jorge, according to his badge.

  – It seems a tad too fancy, too big, so…

  – You said you’d like it more automated.

  – Yes, but not… not like that. I’ll come back another day. Is your boss here tomorrow?

  – My boss? You mean Christiano? No, he’s not here any more. I’m the new owner. What’s the problem?

  – I just want a generator that’s better than the one I’ve got. Not some fine, pretty machine with all these bells and whistles.

  – How much do you have?

  – What do you mean?

  – Money. How much do you want to spend?

  It’s a very direct question, and Erhard has never heard anything like it. Young people. They do whatever the hell they want.

  – That’s none of your concern.

  – If you want to know how much you can get for your money, it’s easier if you give me an idea.

  Erhard sees the time above the door of the shop. It’s almost eleven o’clock. – I have around 1,000 euros.

  Jorge claps the catalogue shut, possibly insulted but not defeated. – OK. You know what we’ll do? We’ll go out here.

  He exits the shop and starts towards the courtyard. Erhard follows him. He stops beside a broad door and removes some cardboard that covers up appliances on pallets.

  – Here, you can have this generator for fifteen hundred.

  Erhard sees a colourful, welded-up apparatus with a big tank and what looks like a black suitcase fashioned to a radiator.

  – Forty to fifty kilowatts on a good day and at least twenty years of loyal service on an Atlantic fishing vessel. Not good as new, but damn well better than most of the things you can get for fifteen hundred or two thousand euros.

  It looks older than the one Erhard already has, but his produces, at most, only twenty-five kilowatts and has only three power outlets. This one has six.

  – Can you add a power switch with a timer? Erhard asks.

  – Yes, Jorge says without blinking. – For 2,000 euros you can have a timer.

  – Seventeen.

  – Nineteen.

  – OK. But I want it delivered to my house today.

  – Will you be paying cash?

  – I have one thousand.

  – You’ll get it as soon as you pay the entire amount.

  – Your old boss let me pay in instalments.

  – He’s not here any more, the smartass says.

  Which is a problem for Erhard. He needs more power in order to leave Beatriz all day. Right now there’s enough for only four hours on one tank-full, at most. That means he has to drive home and fill it with diesel in the middle of his workday.

  – If you want to sell this old scrap metal, you’ll have to accept the thousand euros today and deliver it to my house today. Then I’ll return with the rest of the money, the eight hundred euros, later this week.

  But that’s not how it turns out. Erhard can have it for 1,850 euros, excluding delivery. Twenty-two hundred euros in all. In exchange, the salesman promises to wait a week before selling the generator to anyone else.

  He drives slowly down Atalaya and then Primo de Rivera, and finally Milagrosa. A customer practically leaps onto his taxi when he turns a corner, but he points at the Not in Service sign. He circles the block, then heads down Calle Nuestra Señora del Carmen.

  Erhard is searching for Ponduel, but he can’t find him anywhere. He pulls up alongside Alberto, who’s reading a newspaper in his car, and rolls down his window.

  – Morning, Alberto.

  Alberto lowers his newspaper and says hello.

  – How’s your arrangement with Muñoz going?

  – Good, Señor Extranjero, Alberto says.

  That means it’s going well, perhaps really well. Because of the arrangement, Alberto is now actually making money. Erhard pretends not to hear extranjero, which is the term natives use to put non-natives in their place. – Have you seen Ponduel?

  Alberto looks down the street and points over his shoulder with his thumb. – Try number 62.

  – Isn’t he working today?

  – There’s nothing to do. There’s a strike in London, Berlin, Madrid. No flights until tomorrow.

  Erhard parks opposite number 62. An electronics shop. The owner is a well-known figure – an Irishman who loves poker and beer.

  There’s no one in the shop. Erhard heads into the backroom through the beaded curtains. He’s never been in the backroom before, having declined the invitation to play numerous times. The door to the rear courtyard is open. The owner, Cormac, is telling a story about doing business with the Chinese. With his index fingers he’s tugging the skin around his eyes upward. When he sees Erhard, he lowers his hands. – Hermit! he says excitedly.

  Ponduel just gawks at Erhard, annoyed. As if he were a little boy unhappy about being picked up by his father. Erhard shakes Cormac’s hand.

  – Ponduel, you’re the one I’m looking for.

  – That figures, Cormac says, laughing. Probably already pissed.

  – What do you want? Ponduel asks.

  Erhard had forgotten just how unfriendly Ponduel actually is. Not a bad person, just unfriendly. Does he really want this man’s help? he wonders. They might have to spend several hours together, but he can’t think of another alternative.

  – I need your smart head, Ponduel.

  – As far as I can recall, you’re not the type to ask for help.
<
br />   – But I am now. I need someone who knows computers.

  – Oh yes, this man is a genius with a computer, Cormac says, handing Erhard a beer.

  Ponduel seems reluctant. – What is it? I don’t do that kind of thing any more. There are teenagers who know more than I do. Ask one of them.

  – This is different. I need to find something on the Internet.

  – Hell, I could do that, Cormac says.

  – What? Ponduel asks.

  – A photograph.

  Cormac erupts in laughter. – Oh, we know what you mean, he guffaws.

  Erhard doesn’t know what’s so funny.

  – What kind of photo? I need more than that.

  Erhard’s afraid it’s going to become complicated now. – I don’t know.

  – Where was it taken? Who took it?

  – I don’t know.

  – So it’s like finding a needle in a haystack.

  – I know it exists. I’ve seen it on a mobile phone. But I can’t find it any more.

  – Forget it, Ponduel says, gulping the last foam-filled swallow of his beer.

  – I’ll pay you. Just let your taximeter run while you help me.

  – Eager, are we? Cormac says, ambling out to the shop when a customer arrives.

  – What’s the image of?

  – I’ll tell you if you help me.

  – Tell me. I can’t help you unless you tell me.

  – It’s a photograph taken at Cotillo Beach, and it shows something very important. I found it with a friend, but she’s dead now. I would like to find it again.

  – Who’s dead? Cormac says, returning.

  Erhard hasn’t thought this through properly. Cormac doesn’t seem like the type of person you discuss this kind of thing with. It could get around quickly. – A lady friend, he says simply. – She fell down a stairwell.

  – Where’s the mobile phone? Ponduel asks.

  – I thought we could use a computer. The screen’s bigger.