The Hermit

by Thomas Rydahl

  – That’s my secret.

  – What about when Raúl returns? He may be charged with murder.

  Yes, Erhard thinks. – He won’t return, he says. – And if he does, that’s his problem. I don’t think Raúl hurt her on purpose; it was his behaviour, his lifestyle, that did it. He’ll have to explain what happened.

  – And if he’s convicted?

  – You said it yourself at one point. He’ll have to accept his punishment. And I’ll have to tell the authorities what I know. I’ll have to take it as it comes.

  The doctor circles back to the beginning. – I could lose my licence.

  – Not if you tell the truth, and only lie about everything that has happened since I brought her out here.

  – My wife is worried. She’s afraid of Los Tres Papas.

  This surprises Erhard. – They’re just a group of boys in oversized jackets. With padding in their sleeves.

  – I thought you were with them. That you were some kind of gangster.

  Erhard laughs, but it’s not actually funny.

  – We thought you would threaten me or kill me.

  – Why the hell did you come out here then?

  – My wife didn’t want me to, either. But what can I do? I can’t leave the island. I can’t run from my problems.

  Suddenly he seems less bureaucratic and more alive, even though Erhard still doesn’t like his sand-coloured tie, his sand-coloured shirt, his sand-coloured slacks, or his sand-coloured face. – Why do you think that about me?

  – It’s no secret. Everyone knows.

  – Knows what?

  The doctor doesn’t wish to say. He claps his kit shut. – I’ll see you in a few days. I’ll come out and examine her again. If she shows no improvement soon, she’s as good as dead and the lie will be true after all.

  He starts towards the door. Erhard notices Alina’s mobile lying on top of the box next to the door.

  – What does everyone know?

  – That Raúl Palabras works for Los Tres Papas.

  There’s still some workday remaining, and he feels the need to earn some cash. He tells dispatch that he’s available and listens for a call to head south. He drives down 101 and FV-2. He gets a one-way trip from Puerto to Pájara, but otherwise it’s just an ordinary Wednesday evening, warm and rather dull, interrupted only by the radio announcer’s observations about football matches in Spain. Historically, the entire island has rooted for Madrid, but in the last few years, young people have begun to side with Barcelona, which is evident from the cheers, snatches of song, and cussing on the radio. Erhard doesn’t care about any of it. He laughs at them. He’s never played football. Not even in school. He had crooked feet, he was told, and for many years he thought his condition would worsen if he ran around too much. Maybe it was just something his father said. His father thought football was for yokels, a loser’s sport, he sometimes said. Look at all those filthy boys playing football because they don’t know how to use their heads or their hands. They don’t even care to learn a sensible trade.

  He approaches Risco del Gato, which lies right where the sun is setting; the town’s skyline is practically burned away by the strong sun. He sees the sign pointing towards Morro, and turns up the FV-2, but chooses instead to drive around Risco del Gato on the dusty north country road. On his left side he sees, for a long time, Zenon’s olive grove, the pride of the island. The only business with several hundred employees – at least until a few years ago. There’s no one in the fields today. Or in the courtyard visible through the fence and between the two giant buildings that face the road.

  Erhard tries to recall what the photographer girl looked like. When he left his house, he didn’t think it’d be very difficult to recall her face, but the farther he drives the more it seems to be supplanted by other things: the woman with the shopping bags, a little boy swinging on a playground outside of Risco del Gato, a painting on a wall, the olive trees with their soft leaves. Now he remembers only words like ‘short’, ‘white’, ‘glasses’. He hopes it’s enough, he hopes things work out on their own once he arrives in Marabu.

  Not until he sees the dashboard clock, a digital affair with green numbers, change to 7:02 does he recalls his meeting with Luisa, the hairdresser’s daughter, who is now fifty minutes away by car. Erhard has no telephone. Nor does he have her number for that matter.

  There’s nothing to be done about it now. He doesn’t even remove his foot from the gas pedal. C’est la vie. He didn’t need her help any more, anyway; he’d solved his problem without her. He notices his own severity. Of course he’s embarrassed that the girl will ring the buzzer and wonder why no one answers. If he could, he’d call Petra at once and explain the situation to her, and she could then relate it to her daughter when she got the chance. He had pictured Luisa wearing a red snug-fitting blouse, he had imagined the scent of her hair or the sound of her hoarse voice as she explained to him how computers function.

  To hell with it. There’s probably a reason that he’s forgotten her, and their appointment. He’s been busy with Beatriz, Aaz, the doctor, the boy. He owes Luisa an apology, maybe he’ll buy her a box of chocolates for her trouble. He’ll drive past a supermarket on his way home and, if he has the time, deliver the chocolates to Petra’s tomorrow morning.

  He approaches the coast.

  The beach is dark and small, and the water is relatively calm though there is a good breeze. He sees a few windsurfers and kitesurfers on the edge of the horizon. Now and then they streak through the sunlight like birds. Gravel plinks against the undercarriage. He drives until he spots a place on the beach where several people are seated beneath an umbrella under the shade of a small wooden kiosk, one of those places where you can rent kitesurfing equipment or buy ice cream. He gets out of his car and crosses the hot sand. He scrutinizes the faces he sees. Although there are people of all ages, a few of them are girls and boys the same age as MitchFever. Erhard walks around the kiosk and spots a woman his own age selling coffee and ice cream inside. He buys a cup of coffee that tastes of chlorine, and drinks it while watching a group of young people lying on blankets and towels, arms and legs all mixed up. Next to them are surfboards and duffels. Somewhere in the distance music plays.

  The woman in the kiosk asks him if he’s going out today. By ‘out’ she means on the waves. Erhard shakes his head.

  – I’m looking for a girl with short blonde hair. She looks like a boy.

  The woman laughs. They all look like boys, she tells him.

  – She’s with a group of young boys and a Spanish girl with long black hair.

  The woman laughs again and points out that Erhard could be talking about anyone. Look around, she suggests. Just as Erhard’s about to repeat his question, it occurs to him that she doesn’t wish to help him. She doesn’t wish to get mixed up in anything. These are her customers, and she doesn’t want to ruin her business.

  – I’m not a policeman if that’s what you think. I’m just… a cab driver.

  The woman grins and scrubs the countertop with a rag. Erhard gazes across the beach. He thanks her for the coffee and starts towards a group of youths. Most of them are asleep. One of the boys is awake, and he’s watching the waves. Erhard speaks to him briefly. He’s a shy but friendly guy. But he doesn’t seem to like adults or even talking to them. He doesn’t know a girl with short blonde hair. But he says the name MitchFever sounds like that American girl who often surfs with some older guys. Erhard gets him to point him in the right direction, then he starts to go. – Hey, the boy calls out, you can’t walk there, it’s a couple of miles on the other side of Marabu, close to Morro Jable. Erhard heads back to his car.

  ‌

  39

  On the beach he waits for five surfers. One is skinny, feminine in appearance, could easily pass for a girl. It’s impossible to tell from here. He’s sitting on the sand, his toes buried in the moist layer just below the surface. Erhard recalls that time he’d waited for Raúl on the beach up near the
Dunes. It was a Friday evening, they were both pissed, and Raúl wanted to surf before they went to a party. The water trickled over the shore, then retreated. He fell asleep, and when he awoke, the sun had gone down and the sky was aglow with stars and he could see Raúl riding the darkened waves.

  One of the surfers lowers his sail and carries his board up to the beach. He’s a hundred metres away, but he’s walking in his direction, Erhard thinks, because the surfers’ duffels are lying between some rocks, and their car is parked along the road. Erhard stays put, not getting to his feet until the surfer is right beside him. He explains what he’s looking for, a girl with short hair, an American. The surfer studies Erhard, then asks if he’s her father. Erhard laughs. He wonders whether or not it’d be advantageous to say yes, he is, but decides that, judging by the way the surfer asked the question, the father isn’t a popular person in the girl’s life. He’s heard she’s a good photographer, Erhard explains, and he wants to speak with her about an assignment. This catches the man off guard. He begins to remove his wetsuit, and his bathing trunks, and figures Erhard is talking about January, an American, a fucking good surfer. She lives down near Morro Jable, but works at a beach bar in Marabu called Great Reef. He doesn’t know her, but everyone’s heard of her. Erhard asks why. Because she’s a little wildcat, if you know what I mean, the surfer says, disappearing into a large towel.

  Erhard drives back to Marabu. This time down to the city beach, where he parks behind a supermarket that abuts the water. He has never been down here. In his many years as a cabbie, he has never driven anyone to this place, and he doubts that he can find the beach bar the surfer mentioned. But when he reaches the sand, he discovers how impossible the bar is to overlook; it’s the only building on the beach, and there’s a huge metal sign on the flat roof with the bar’s name etched on a surfboard. Bleached deckchairs are arranged on the sand, but no one’s outside. A handful of people stand inside the dark room leaning against a bamboo bar. They’re all surfers except for the one farthest away, whom Erhard recognizes as one of the island’s sand sculptors, a black man. But Erhard’s eyes roam immediately to the girl behind the bar. Her hair is blonde, and not exactly short, but close enough.

  He approaches the bar and glances down at a bucket containing bottles of cold San Miguel beer. He opens one bottle and chugs half of it before setting it on the bar. The men don’t stop talking.

  The girl is seated on the floor, and she’s busy filling a cabinet with Cokes. Erhard looks down and gets a glimpse of her fine-skinned, youthful white neck. He turns away. She stands up and puffs on a fag that was resting in an ashtray on the stereo system.

  – MitchFever, Erhard says.

  The girl spins towards him, startled, and it occurs to Erhard that there’s a great deal of mistrust and fear within the surfer community. As if they all expect to be sent home to their beds.

  – Don’t worry, I just like your photographs, Erhard says in English, and quickly senses that this only makes her more uncomfortable. He swigs from his beer, giving her time to respond. She says nothing.

  – I’d like to buy two of your photographs, he says, switching to Spanish. How does 100 euros sound?

  – Photographs? What do you mean?

  It sounds as if she doesn’t even know the word.

  – The ones you took of local beaches. I saw a couple from Cotillo Beach that I really like.

  – Oh, those, the girl says, approaching the bar. – On my blog?

  – No, on the Internet, Erhard says, as if he’s always finding stuff he likes on the Internet. – I’m interested in Cotillo Beach.

  – Are you some kind of journalist?

  – No, I’m a cab driver. My name is Erhard.

  The girl relaxes. – January, she says.

  – How’d you come up with the name MitchFever? Is that some sort of artist’s name?

  – Not exactly. It’s a long story. Let’s just say that’s what I call myself on my blog. Why do you want those pics of Cotillo?

  – Just interested in them, is all.

  The girl smiles and lights a new fag. Several of the surfers have left. Only two remain.

  – I’m not really a photographer, you know.

  – Do you have more photographs from Cotillo Beach? That aren’t on the Internet?

  – Yeah, a few. I always take a ton, then can’t be bothered to upload them all. My connection is really slow.

  – I see. Do you have any from the 6 or 7 January?

  The girl eyes Erhard. Suspicious again. – Why?

  – Do you recall the beach on 6 January?

  – No. Was that the day I hurt my leg?

  – I don’t know.

  – Then I definitely don’t remember. My mother says I have the memory of a cat. Pretty bad.

  – There was a car on the beach, a Volkswagen.

  – So what?

  – Did you take any photos of it?

  – As if I could remember. She laughs. Almost indignant.

  Erhard drains his beer. The two surfers are absorbed in watching something on one of their mobile phones. The girl lights another fag and rests her foot on an old beer crate. She’s pretty in an old-fashioned way, but her fine skin and features are almost ruined by too much exposure to the sun and alcohol.

  – Listen, he says, I need to find out what happened to a little boy who lay dead for several days in that car. As far as I know you’re the only one who photographed the car before the police found it two days later. The picture was called… Erhard begins. Then he fishes out the little note that Mónica wrote for him. It was called 01062011_42.

  – You some kind of detective?

  – No, I’m a cab driver.

  The girls pours a glass of tomato juice for one of the surfers and drops in a couple lemon wedges. She returns to Erhard. – I don’t remember the numbers. I’ve got loads of pics from that beach, I think, and maybe I recall one with a car, but… I’ll look when I get home.

  – When?

  – Tonight. I get off work just on the other side of midnight. I’ll check my hard drive. That’s where I keep my photos. I’ll call you if I find anything interesting.

  – I don’t have a telephone. Can you meet me after you’ve searched your photos? I’ll just sit in my cab waiting.

  She gives him a strange look. Maybe she still believes he’s an odd duck trying to lure her into something. But then she nods.

  In the end, Erhard buys a sandwich from a nearby shop and waits at one of the tables in the bar. For three hours he gazes out at the water and reads his book, while she smokes a pack of cigarettes and watches television, switching between a football match and a snooker game. She wipes down the counter a few times.

  Shortly after midnight he drives her home.

  He enjoyed waiting for her. Sitting patiently and watching her clean up. Walking beside her to his car and asking if she’d had a good day. She lives on the roof of an old furniture shop in Morro Jable, where the owner has built a shack that is visible by the light of powerful streetlamps. An old stairwell leads to the roof, and Erhard follows her, but stays outside her shack, which seems small and intimidating.

  She’s inside for a long time. He counts the minutes because he knows he needs to get home and fill the generator with diesel. He pictures January’s place filled with bottles, surfing gear, rickety shelves with Lonely Planet books, and maybe those vampire books that young girls always seem to be reading when they’re in his taxi, books they pick up in the airport probably.

  The door opens, and the girl exits with her camera. She explains that she needs to click through hundreds of photos to get back to 6 January. Erhard watches while she scrolls through photographs of the beach, the bar, the surfer boys, and the same girlfriend over and over. She lives a colourful but monotonous life. All the photos could’ve been taken on the same day.

  Finally she reaches the photos from Cotillo.

  Erhard can tell right away. The light is very peculiar there. Unfiltered. Nearly blue
. At first they breeze past a bunch of images of her friends surfing. Then they’re on land. He spots the car in the background of a photo showing her girlfriend wrapped up in one of the boy’s arms. Erhard takes the camera from her and goes through every shot, many of which he hasn’t seen. At one point January seems to have been chasing her girlfriend around the car and snapped, perhaps by accident, two photos.

  One is of the car’s doors – the left rear passenger door – along with the handle and the lower part of a window.

  The second photo was taken at a more directly downward angle, so that one can see the car’s left rear tyre. There’s a bright streak underneath the petrol cap. As if the water reached this level or the waves lapped against the side of the vehicle.

  There are no more pictures of the car. Only those two that Erhard has already seen on the Internet. The rest of the series shows the youths arriving at the beach and getting ready to surf, January wearing a hat. In one image taken with an outstretched arm: the girl herself.

  The next day he buys a box of chocolates, but he forgets to take it to the hairdresser’s because two businessmen climb in his cab and they’ve got to hurry to the ferry, and it’s Thursday, which means the doctor is bringing fresh supplies before siesta: an IV, a catheter, and some bags of what he calls glucose mix. The doctor shows Erhard how to take care of the bags that provide her with liquids and sustenance, and how to drain and clean the little container that collects urine and faeces. When the apparatus is plugged in, the light in the room flickers. He needs to fill the tank with diesel more often, the doctor says, and Erhard wants to yell at him, but instead sends him kindly on his way.

  He earns 103 euros on Friday, only 42 on Saturday. On Saturday he sees something white sticking out of the mail box near the side of the road; it looks like a flag, but it’s his post. Just the very word: post. It’s been months since he last received mail, and this is a large envelope with no return address. But he knows who it’s from. The photographs are printed on ordinary paper, and the quality’s not great. But it’s good enough for him to see the car, its nicks. He’s thought about those nicks. He hangs the two photographs up on the fridge and lays the envelope on top.