The Hermit

– She knows nothing. But I’m supposed to call him back today. What do I tell him?

  – I’ve told them that a doctor examined Beatriz while she was alive, but that she’s dead now.

  – She’s dead? The line crackles.

  – No. But that’s what the police think. And they need to continue thinking that.

  – I don’t understand.

  – Don’t call them. If they call you, you only examined her when she was alive and dying. That’s it. We’ll talk more tonight.

  Erhard sits down and watches them at the piano. Aaz is so tall that his mother looks like a little girl sitting beside her father. In his mind he thinks of her as an old woman, but it occurs to him that she’s probably the same age as himself. But she’s not his type. Or rather: Erhard isn’t hers. She may no longer be wealthy, and she may have sealed herself off in her lonely world, but he’s got the feeling that she has lived a life of culture, and she’s more sophisticated and distinguished than anyone he’s met on the island. She has these eyes that penetrate everyone as though she once, long ago, used up all her energy and just can’t do it any longer. It’s not that she’s unkind or cynical, just tired: tired after a stretch of arduous longing. She’s almost – almost – like Erhard, just a little happier, a warmer human being. Maybe it’s because she’s a woman, and women have always seemed more willing to love and be loved than men.

  A small TV rests on a crocheted doily, and the local news is on. Mónica has turned the volume down. There’s a feature about the casino. Now something’s wrong with the environmental-approval paperwork. Critics reference the oil spill that happened in 2009, when a large cruise ship with a casino on board ran aground near Puerto and flushed 5,000 litres of oil into the water just beyond the harbour. Seagulls and fish were smothered in oil, and the entire area had to be cleaned up – while facing sharp criticism from a Spanish delegation from Greenpeace that had sailed out to meet them. It would be much different with a casino on land, of course, but casino operations on the Grand Canary islands at the beginning of the aughts prompted several suits due to the horrible working conditions for custodial staff and croupiers – and illegal rubbish disposal. On the television, Regional President del Fico and one of the island’s heavy-weight entrepreneurs are walking around the harbour as it appeared a few months ago. Back then it was basically just rocks, kelp, and old rowboats. In the background, a fisherman is fixing his net, which is all tangled up. Then they show images from the harbour: white yachts and a champagne bottle floating in the water.

  Erhard rises to turn off the television. But Mónica comes over and changes the channel to a children’s programme featuring a turtle and a fish talking underwater. They aren’t really underwater; they’re hand puppets performing against a painted backdrop.

  – I don’t want him watching the news. He doesn’t need to do that, she says.

  Then she prepares strong Italian coffee. Erhard says nothing, but returns to his chair and lets her pour him a cup. Her arms look old, but he can see the strap of her black bra on her brown-skinned shoulder. He glances over at the computer on the desk.

  – Do you know how to use one of those?

  – I love it.

  This surprises him.

  – I’ve never learned how to use one.

  – It’s like using a typewriter. Just easier.

  – I never learned how to use a typewriter, either. I know everything about pianos, but nothing about computers.

  She smiles falsely. – Does it even matter? You manage without one.

  – I might as well just say it. I have a problem, Erhard says.

  – Excuse me, Mónica whispers, as if Aaz isn’t allowed to hear. – What do you mean?

  – I need to find a photograph on the Internet.

  – Are you asking for my help?

  – If I could’ve, I would’ve done it myself.

  – But are you asking me to help you?

  She makes it sound as if he’s asked something else entirely.

  – Yes, he says.

  – Why do men have such a hard time asking for help?

  He watches her sit at the computer and strike a few keys. She glances up, then turns to him. – So are you going to help me or not? he asks.

  She points at the seat beside her as if it’s a piano bench they will share. He gets up and sits beside her. He can feel her hip against his. He describes what Alina found. An image from Cotillo. Taken by some surfers.

  She clicks on a page and quickly finds a bunch of images. Hundreds, thousands flowing down the screen. – Do you recognize any of them?

  – No, he says. What he sees are images of tourists, all similar. – The photograph was taken around New Year’s Day, a few days afterward, maybe a week? He tries counting backward. – 5 January?

  – Such pretty photographs of our little island, she says.

  She may be right. The sun, the waves, the young men and women. But he’s only interested in one photo.

  – I’ve never been out there, Mónica says.

  – That one, can I see that one? He points.

  – It’s not easy getting out there. And it’s much too hot.

  But it’s not the right photograph. It’s not even from Cotillo.

  – The photographer’s name, Erhard says. But he can’t remember the name. It had something to do with a child.

  – A name would help, she says, her hovering hands prepared to type. He’s surprised at how natural all this seems to her. All these women and their computers.

  – Did you take a computer class?

  – No. I had a friend, and we wrote emails. That got me started. But today I use it for everything. Mostly to listen to music, or read up about Aaz’s illness, and succulents. They’re a kind of plant, a cactus, she goes on to explain when she sees the confusion on Erhard’s face.

  He can’t recall the photographer’s name. He’s about to say Mix. It’s something that sounds like Mix. And something to do with a child. Fever. – Fevermix, he says.

  – I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.

  – MitchFever! That’s what it was.

  – How do you spell that?

  He spells it for her. He remembers now. The name was written inside a little box on the image. A child with a fever.

  She keys in the name. That changes the search. Now there are fewer photographs. At the top of the screen, he sees the image of a girl lying in her bed, shirtless, and he senses Mónica’s discomfort. She glances at Aaz and scrolls down the page. – What is it we’re looking for here? she whispers. – Is it something naughty?

  – No.

  He’s just as startled as she is.

  – You promise?

  – Yes. Just keep doing what you’re doing, I’ll look for the photo.

  The beach. Some boys in wet suits. Feet in the sand. More photos of the girl. In a chair, at a bar, wearing a hat, kissing a girl. Mónica shifts uncomfortably. She’s more prudish about these matters than Erhard had thought.

  – There! That one.

  Mónica clicks on the image, enlarging it instantly.

  It’s the same image. Just better. Closer. Clearer.

  – It looks as though the website is called Magicseaweed. And the photograph is called 01062011_42, she says, writing the number down on a notepad beside the computer. – So you’ll remember. The photo is in a folder called heather_weekend. She points at the screen. – From 6 January. Does that sound right?

  The photograph: The VW is parked on the beach. The sand is rather dry, greyish. There’s water up around the front wheels. And behind the window: the boy, his dark eyes.

  – Is there a way to see more images like this without losing this one?

  – Yes, now that we’ve found it, we can find it again without any trouble. Tell me, what is it you’re looking for?

  – The car.

  Mónica clicks on something and another image pops up.

  It’s the same angle. Down on the corner where the surfers always sunbathe. The date
reads 5 January. The photo is called newyear_cotillo. Someone named Carlos III Santierrez posted it online. The beach is empty.

  – So it’s in the first image, but not this one. Can I see the other one again?

  She pulls up the first image.

  It seems to convey the same mood as the one Erhard saw at police headquarters. The car’s black windows seem to merge right with his soul. As if the darkness is continually expanding and he’ll eventually be able to stick his hand through it to pull the boy, unharmed, out into reality.

  – What is it with the image? The car?

  – Does it say where he lives, Mitchfever?

  – I doubt it. It’s probably just some funny name he came up with. That’s what many people do. Use another name. She types MitchFever into a narrow field and a list pops up.

  In one way he’s happy that he doesn’t need to figure out how everything works. It would require too much effort on his part, much more than it took him to learn how to play instruments or understand music. And why would he need to? When this is over, it might be another several years before he’ll need to find something else. Still, when he sees what one can do with a computer, how easy it is to find information and images and news, he has the urge to discover what’s going on in Denmark, maybe even find photos of his family. Perhaps Annette and the girls, if he could figure it out.

  – I think it’s a young lady, Mónica says. She clicks on some text. A new page shows a tiny image of a girl who looks like a boy, with short, dyed hair and large glasses. – It appears as though she lives here on the island. Down near Marabu. I can’t find her address, but many of the photographs were taken down there.

  – How do I find her address?

  – You could drive down to Marabu and show her photograph to some of the locals. Surely they know her. She sure knows how to attract attention.

  – She’s just a child, Erhard says, staring at a photograph she’s taken of herself in the mirror. Her wetsuit is pulled down around her waist, and one arm covers her breasts.

  – A confused little girl, Mónica says.

  – Shouldn’t she be living at home with Mum and Dad?

  – I hope she is.

  – Not judging by these pictures.

  – Look. The images all have numbers, Mónica says, pointing at the screen. This one’s called 11122010_107. And the next one’s 11122010_144.

  – What does that mean?

  – It means that some photos haven’t been posted online. Maybe there’s something she doesn’t want to show her mum and dad, or someone else.

  – And the photographs from Cotillo?

  Mónica returns to the photos from Cotillo. She toggles back and forth between the images. – Yes, she says. Here’s image number 43. The next one is number 010620111_48. Four images are missing.

  Erhard drives Aaz home.

  Aaz’s hand is sticking out the window. Just like the trip down here, Aaz is happy, easygoing. He keeps smiling, looking about as if everything’s lovely, even though he’s completely walled off from the world. He’s never been to the movie theatre in Puerto or down to the corner to buy an ice cream with five scoops.

  Normally Erhard keeps the conversation going, but now he doesn’t know what to say. Your mother’s a nice lady, he wants to say, but why has he never said that before?

  It doesn’t usually bother Erhard, but he notices that Aaz shows no sign that he’s just said farewell to his mother, whom he won’t see for another week. And it calls to mind the thought he has every time he tries to understand why he drives Aaz each Wednesday, for free, when the boy – who except for a few smiles deep in his eyes – shows no sign of recognition or happiness. On the one hand Erhard drives him out of pure love, but on the other hand, it’s because of the selfish, distant hope that Aaz will one day say thank you. Thank you for taking the trouble. Thank you for talking to me.

  He’s touched that Mónica helped him, even if she wound up thinking Erhard was after something other than the car: the girl photographer. He wanted to say, What the hell are you talking about, woman? But he didn’t want to seem ungrateful. She could be my own daughter, he wanted to say. The girl was quite a bit younger than his youngest, Mette, who is over thirty now, but it wasn’t that far-fetched. He could see why she would think that. He’d stared too long at the photo the girl had taken of herself in the mirror, and maybe also at a photo from the beach in Morro, where she lay on a blanket without a stitch of clothing on. He’d never visited a nudist beach, and the sight of the girl had completely taken his breath away, even if he couldn’t really see anything. It wasn’t his fault. Mónica reacted as though he shouldn’t feel that kind of desire any more. As if he ought to have given up on his sex life years ago. But desire didn’t seep from one’s body the nearer one came to seventy. On the contrary, he could almost say. Sometimes, all his years of inactivity caused him to tingle with an abstract arousal at gouges in the tabletop or goat nipples, or things that resembled things that resembled things he once had access to, closed country now, accessible only via the narrow gate of his memory. His shame overwhelmed him. If he’d felt any lust staring at those photographs, it was gone now.

  At Santa Marisa Erhard says goodbye, but Aaz says nothing. Just walks through the broad front door. He doesn’t turn around, and doesn’t wave.

  The doctor stands on the crate examining Beatriz. – You can’t keep her here, he says, rocking her slightly so he can get his hand underneath her. – She needs to see a neurologist in Puerto. She’s dehydrated, and her stool is dry.

  That’s where the strange smell is from, Erhard guesses. Like a pottery workshop. He can’t bear to watch. Instead, he rummages around in the kitchen. – Can’t you do something?

  The doctor looks unhappy. – You can’t keep…

  – A miracle can occur just as easily here as at a hospital.

  – I’m not talking about miracles. I’m talking about equipment. If she has intracranial bleeding that isn’t treated.

  – Either she stays here and survives, or she goes to a hospital and dies, Erhard says, sounding more confident than he feels.

  The doctor removes a plastic tube from his kit and steps up on the crate again. – Did you turn off the respirator at any point?

  – No, not at all.

  But there was the time he turned the respirator off to move her, and also that one night that he didn’t manage to fill the generator with diesel. For a few minutes there was no current, and the respirator whistled. But he got it started again, and she was still alive. He needs another 950 euros to purchase the new generator.

  – It’s a little difficult up here, the doctor says. – I’m sorry that I’m not sedating you, Beacita. He jabs a long nail into her neck, then the plastic tube. It looks unpleasant. Erhard can’t bear to watch. – How much has she urinated? the doctor asks to keep Erhard’s mind occupied.

  – I don’t know. Two or three bags.

  Shortly afterward, the doctor steps off the crate and hangs a large bag with some white mixture on a nail. He taps it and liquid begins to flow down the tube into Beatriz’s nose. Then he stands in the doorway.

  – Have the police contacted you again? Erhard asks.

  – No, not yet.

  – Tell them everything, just like it was. That you found her unconscious, that you examined her but could tell her injuries were too great. She died while you were there, and I’d told you I would contact the police because I’d been in the flat.

  – I’m not allowed to do that. I must report deaths.

  – You were there as a friend, as a favour to me.

  – I could lose my licence.

  – But you won’t.

  – They’ll consider it neglect.

  – Tell them I threatened you.

  – How?

  – I told you that it would be your fault if Raúl got off scot-free.

  – What do you mean?

  – You could tell it was an accident, but that I was beside myself, and certain that Raúl ha
d done it.

  – But didn’t you say it was an accident…

  – Yes, but if the police need to know why you didn’t do anything.

  – I’m not sure about this, the doctor says.

  – Maybe they won’t call you again. Her funeral was yesterday.

  – What? How?

  Erhard doesn’t want to explain. – Let’s just say they’re convinced that Beatrizia Colini is dead.

  – What about her? He points at the pantry.

  – She doesn’t exist. She’s free.

  The doctor stares at him. At first he’s frustrated, squinting, then he softens, relaxes. – I think I understand, he says. – But you need to… She needs glucose. He points at the white bag. – And you need to turn her. She’s on her right side now. Tomorrow you’ll need to roll her onto her back, and then her left side the day after that. If we’re lucky, we can help her just as well here as they can in Puerto.

  – It’ll be no trouble for me to reposition her.

  – I’ll get you more glucose. Without attracting too much attention. And some more bags for her faeces.

  Doctors can make anything sound ordinary.

  – Thanks, Erhard says. He has trouble saying that word, but he owes him as much for all that he’s done.

  The doctor simply nods as he packs his kit with all his equipment.

  – Have you ever… have you ever heard the dead speak? Heard their voices after they died?

  – Personally? No.

  The doctor scrutinizes Erhard.

  – How then?

  – I’ve heard of couples who claim they’ve heard their spouse speak following their death.

  – You believe them?

  – I believe they’ve heard it, yes. But not that they’d actually heard a voice.

  This annoys Erhard. – What do you think they heard then?

  – I don’t know. It’s their imagination. A hope. A kind of phantom conversation. Pain over something left unsaid. Did Beatriz say something to you?

  – She said something when she was still conscious. Before you got there. She told me that I should help her.

  – And so you have.

  – Yes.

  – I still don’t understand why the police believe she’s dead.