The Hermit

by Thomas Rydahl

  – May I see?

  – Sure, just walk around the building. Have fun.

  Erhard looks at her as he gets to his feet. – There’s too much syrup in your Mai Tai. Don’t put so much in or use more fresh lime.

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  44

  He doesn’t care to rummage through the rubbish bins. It was just something he came up with to irritate her. Why would he? What would he search for? What good would it do him to see where they threw a bunch of newspapers months ago? So he walks up and down the street and finally into a bar that’s broadcasting horse races on its many televisions.

  At around eleven o’clock he eats a ham sandwich and drinks the cheapest beer on the menu. He doesn’t speak to anyone. He practises being the director: crossing his legs and looking dignified, smiling a little, and waving at the waiter – a small man with a waist apron underneath a pair of man-boobs. Erhard orders another beer. A woman sits at the bar, and he dreams of impressing her in conversation. He knows his newfound confidence is only because he’s on Tenerife. At home he wouldn’t puff himself up like this. At home he would’ve already gone home. The woman, who’s at least twenty years younger, is seated with her back to him, but he can see her spine through her thin yellow dress. She doesn’t even glance in his direction, but seems mostly interested in writing something on her mobile phone.

  After he’s eaten, he goes down the hill to find the beach and a place to sleep. He’s tired, wiped out. He brought an extra beer from the bar. Café Rústica, just as the woman had said it would be, is packed. People are hanging from the windows and sitting on the patio as the music thumps and vibrates. The nightlife vibe is different here than on Fuerteventura. There’s a different kind of abandon, as if young people here are wealthier and more willing – which is probably true. He walks slowly past the cafe and pauses on the path leading around the building. He can see and smell the rubbish bins, which by the light of the streetlamps resemble parked tanks. A couple is making out intensely around the corner. Erhard coughs loudly so that they know he’s there, then saunters past them and down the alley. On his right is the cafe, a high wall lacking windows. Around thirty metres ahead, a yellow square forms an open door from the kitchen to the alley. On his left, a tall fence encloses what appears to be a container terminal. Erhard spots movement, and a posse of soft, mewling cats scuttle between his legs. In the darkness they’re all blue. The stench is powerful. Not from the cats, but the overflowing rubbish bin. Cinched rubbish bags are poking up from underneath the lid. He starts towards the open door, through which he hears rap music. A young man, a Moroccan dishwasher wearing yellow rubber gloves, strolls outside smoking a cigarette. The light from the doorway illuminates the fence and a row of wicker baskets, bottles, cardboard, and rotten fruit that smells sweet and hot. Erhard stands quietly until the dishwasher discovers him and nods. A young man like that doesn’t dare speak. Besides, it’s not illegal for Erhard to be here.

  – Newspapers? Erhard asks, nodding at the rubbish bin. The man, who doesn’t seem to understand him, just nods again. – Are there newspapers here?

  Erhard points at the bin.

  – No, you put newspapers over there. They have to go in the container for recycling.

  Erhard returns to the tall black container that he’d passed earlier. He peers inside it. It’s nearly filled with Spanish and English newspapers. He pulls out a few. They are from yesterday, Tuesday, Sunday.

  – What do you need them for? the dishwasher asks. If you need them for sleeping, then you can borrow a blanket from me. It’s going to be cold tonight.

  Just as Erhard’s about to respond, he sees a broad hole in the fence next to the newspaper container.

  – What’s in there? Only containers?

  The dishwasher has lit another cigarette and now sits on a folding chair beside the door.

  – Storage, freight, import/export, furniture, antiquities. Anything that fits inside a container. They get angry when people go through there, but they won’t put up a new fence.

  – Why would anyone go that way? Is it a shortcut?

  – People host huge parties in the waterfront houses sometimes, and it only takes five minutes to get down there if you go that way. Otherwise you have to walk around, and that takes maybe fifteen.

  – Do you have a torch? Erhard asks. But he doesn’t wait for a response before stepping through the hole in the fence.

  He gets all the way through the container terminal without noticing anything particularly interesting. Partly because the area is dark, lit up only by some old streetlamps with tyres around their foundations, and partly because there’s nothing particularly remarkable. The dishwasher was right. Many of the containers are sealed with heavy-duty padlocks. There’s all sorts of stuff in the open containers. Boxes and bubble-wrapped items, or things packaged in glass cases or foam. Some containers hold steel and old bicycles. Down near the driveway, one hundred metres before the guardhouse and the barrier that blocks entry to the terminal, stand several refrigerator containers, a couple of RVs and small trucks, and what appears to be construction materials for a house. He passes the guard, who’s watching a Sylvester Stallone film, and continues to the beach. There he sits next to a bonfire with a sand sculptor and his dog.

  The two men share the beer Erhard has brought, and they give the dog a slurp from a metal tray. The heat, the bonfire light, and the sound of the sculptor’s voice tires him out. The man talks about Lanzarote in the 1980s, when Moroccan fishermen filled their boats with people and knowingly crashed their cutters against the coast so they would have to be saved and brought to land. Erhard thinks he’s met this man before and wonders if he’s that well-known businessman who was convicted of fraud. Then he falls asleep. He wakes briefly when the sculptor lays some old towels, coats, and blankets over him, but otherwise sleeps. The sun rises. The sculptor must have packed his things and headed to the beach with his dog early; Erhard sees their footprints in the sand when he wakes around eight o’clock. He sits for a long time staring at the water.

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  45

  He’s back on Fuerteventura after lunchtime. He finds his car parked alone in the small car park next to the harbour. A seagull’s on the roof. He shoos it off and drives northward, wondering how he’ll avoid screwing everything up. It’s up to him now; he can’t resort to his old methods of problem-solving.

  He arrives fifteen or twenty minutes late, and he spots Aaz standing at the door of Santa Marisa’s, along with Liana, one of the nuns. He steers the car up alongside them and Aaz climbs in. The nun lowers her head to the window and taps on the glass with her thin finger.

  – It’s very upsetting to him. You need to be punctual. He doesn’t like to wait.

  – I’d arranged with Mónica that I would pick him up at 3.15 today.

  – It’s bad enough that you changed the appointment. He knows how to tell time, you know.

  – I know that, sister.

  Each time Erhard talks with the nuns, they say something that makes him feel like an idiot.

  – But the worst of it is that you’re fifteen minutes late. It’s 3.30.

  – I’m sorry. He hates these kinds of petty arguments. He hadn’t planned to be late, after all. It just happened.

  – I’ll let his mother know you’re running late. She’s probably worried.

  – Thanks, Erhard says. He prefers that Mónica not be told.

  They leave Corralejo and head through Las Dunas. Erhard sprays washer fluid on the windscreen. Aaz likes that, laughing as if everything were normal. He holds absolutely no grudges and it’s liberating to be around him.

  – I’ve been over the water. To Tenerife.

  Oh, what were you doing there?

  – Trying to find the mother, you know, of that little boy.

  You learn anything?

  – I don’t know. Maybe.

  What does it look like over there? Is there sand and rocks like here?

  – There are green palms, just lik
e they have at Santa Marisa. Cliffs rise from the water. And the wealthiest residents build their houses along those cliffs. There was a beach with white reclining chairs, where men rake the sand in the evening, and a small bay where I sat with an old friend and watched the sea turn black, and we talked about you.

  Aaz glances at Erhard. The boy understands everything.

  – Some day you can go with me on the boat and cross the water to the big island. When Liana isn’t so angry any more. Maybe your mother will want to come along.

  Erhard wishes to tell him about Emanuel’s job offer. About the better days ahead. But he’s suddenly afraid it’ll only confuse Aaz and make him nervous if he says too much about such changes. He needs to consider what he says before he speaks.

  When they drive through Antigua, they laugh at a man chasing a hat caught in the wind.

  He’d like to let Aaz walk in by himself, but Mónica is standing outside, waiting. Erhard gets out of the car with Aaz and nods apologetically at Mónica, trying to absorb the worst. Aaz brushes past Mónica and into the house.

  – Did Liana call?

  – What happened?

  – I was just delayed.

  – I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself tangled up in, but I hope it doesn’t mean that Aaz can no longer count on you.

  – I’m not tangled up in anything.

  – It’s OK if you call me and ask me to change the time like you did yesterday, but don’t start forgetting your commitments and arriving late and…

  – I’m not tangled up in anything.

  – You show up here early in the morning, then suddenly you’re going on a trip. Something is going on.

  – It won’t affect Aaz in any way.

  – You won’t be late again?

  – I promise.

  His promises are piling up, he thinks.

  – Did it have something to do with that address I found for you?

  – Yes.

  – Is it something illegal?

  Erhard laughs.

  She repeats her question.

  – No. It’s… it’s… something good. I’m looking for someone.

  – The girl in the photograph?

  – No. She just helped me with something, he says. It would be foolish to involve Mónica in this, he thinks. But in reality he’s afraid to tell her what he’s up to in case he doesn’t find the mother. – I’m just looking for an old friend who’s gone missing.

  – Hmm, she says, dubious. – Who?

  – Raúl Palabras, he says, because he can’t think of anyone else.

  – Is he your friend?

  – Yes.

  She stares at him at length, and he suddenly feels old. As if she’s judging him for the first time, really seeing him and his wrinkled face. – It doesn’t matter what you do and who your friends are. As long as you don’t let my son down. As long as you don’t do it again. Tears well in her eyes.

  He wants to lay his hand on her shoulder. But she’s already on her way back into her house.

  – I was going to invite you to an early dinner, she says, but I guess that doesn’t matter any more. Just be here at eight o’clock.

  It’s the first time she’s ever given him an order like that.

  He doesn’t even care to defend himself. There’s no way he can eat dinner with them. The doctor was at his house the night before and then again this morning, but it’s time Erhard went home and filled the generator with diesel. He slumps back to his car.

  He hasn’t argued with a woman in seventeen years. Not since Annette. In a way, it’s familiar and exhilarating, but still trite and annoying. Like playing Ludo with different rules. There are no established truths and nothing to refer to, only a feeling that everything they’d discussed had nothing at all to do with what their conversation was actually about. He wants to drive off and never return.

  Or he wants to do precisely what he’d promised her. What he’d promised Aaz.

  A bloody maelstrom of emotions and thoughts swirls in his head.

  ‌

  46

  As he’s filling the generator with diesel, he hears the telephone ring inside the house. A rare event. Since he hasn’t even filled half the tank, he ignores the call.

  After he goes inside, empties the drainage bag, and affixes a new one, the telephone rings again. He can’t just drop the bag he’s holding. He studies Beatriz, and can’t shake the feeling that he’s let her down. Several days have passed since he last stood at her bedside and spoke to her. He doesn’t know what to say, so he just stands there growing tired as the machine regulates her shallow breaths.

  The phone rings a third time. He glowers at the green plastic device and lifts it reluctantly.

  – Where have you been? Emanuel Palabras blurts out.

  – South.

  – I’ve talked to Marcelis.

  – Did you fire him?

  – Easy, my friend. I’m just telling you what I’ve done. Now that the air has been cleared, we can put the shop in order.

  – I haven’t accepted your offer yet.

  – But you will.

  This irritates Erhard. He has a strange feeling this is how things will play out: Papa Palabras will dictate how they do their work. But he won’t let his irritation control him.

  – Yes, he says.

  – Good, my friend. Good.

  Erhard wants to know more about the business and its finances. Wants to look through the company’s books. Palabras doesn’t understand why – it’s not something Raúl ever cared about – and he thinks it’s a waste of Erhard’s time. Raúl has been gone for more than ten days, and before that he was derelict in his duties, so Erhard needs to get down to business.

  – What do you expect me to do?

  – Keep an eye on the lazy drivers, sign some good contracts. You’ll have to figure it out.

  – I have some experience with accounts, from the old days.

  Silence.

  – You never cease to amaze me, Piano Tuner.

  – I’ll need a thorough review of the finances if I’m going to work with Marcelis.

  – Surely the man can set aside a few hours to take you through it? During a nice lunch, Emanuel adds, then shifts topics. – I want you to move into Raúl’s flat. I’ll pay the rent. You can live there until we sell the place in a few months, when the market’s better. By then you’ll have saved up some money and can buy your own. They say the housing market will improve this year.

  Erhard doesn’t know what to think. – What about Raúl? What if he returns?

  – Don’t say his name again.

  – He’s your son, Palabras.

  – He’s dead.

  – Nobody knows that for sure. The police say he left the island, but you know him. He might be in Dakar, or Madrid for that matter. It’s only been, what, eleven days? He’s been gone for a month before.

  – He’s dead. The flat needs to be cleared, and all his shit hauled away.

  Erhard can’t tell whether Palabras knows for certain Raúl is dead or has simply made a decision. – Can’t you just pack it all up and store it?

  – Why are you defending him?

  Erhard stares into the darkness of the pantry. – How did he die?

  – He took his own life after bringing shame to his father.

  That doesn’t sound like Raúl, Erhard thinks. He wouldn’t kill himself or regret doing anything against his father. – How do you know?

  – Why do you keep digging around in something that doesn’t involve you, Piano Tuner? I’m telling you, I don’t want to hear anything more about him.

  – I can’t move into his flat with all of his things, it’s too strange. What about all his papers and cookbooks? And his collection of eighties records and photos and wine?

  – I don’t want to hear anything more about him. Drink the bloody wine and throw the rest out. Get someone to take the shit away. Do whatever you wish. Move in if you want. If you prefer your majorero cave out in Majanicho, fi
ne. As long as you’re presentable and punctual at work. And don’t be stingy when you go out to eat with clients.

  – I’ll think about it, Erhard says. He already has the key to the flat. But he doesn’t tell Palabras. He doesn’t say that he’ll happily trade the cave for the flat. Moving into the flat would make everything easier. Beatriz could return to her own things, and get a nice bed, and he wouldn’t have to run around keeping an eye on the generator. If Raúl doesn’t return any time soon, or if he really is dead, it doesn’t make Erhard a bad person if he lives a good life for a few months. Just until Beatriz is doing better, and he has the money to buy something else. Something worthy of a director.

  – Seize your opportunity, Piano Tuner. I’ll arrange a meeting with Marcelis. If you have any problems with him, call me.

  Palabras hangs up.

  Erhard pours himself a glass of wine, then goes out and pulls some trousers, underwear, and towels from the washing machine. They’ve been sitting in the machine for too long, and now they smell. He hangs the clothes on one of the lines. Laurel’s munching on a piece of fabric that appears to have come from one of Erhard’s shirts. This happens every now and then. The clothes blow off the line, vanish, and the zipper or buttons turn up in the goats’ shit. He fills a cup with feed and scatters the pellets on the ground; the goat shuffles away from the clothesline and over to his food. Erhard hopes it’ll attract Hardy, who might be close by, perhaps resting behind a large rock, but he doesn’t see a trace of him.

  He thinks about Bill Haji and the wild dogs.

  Could the wild dogs be getting more desperate for something to eat? Could they capture and devour a goat? Maybe if it was injured or stuck between two rocks. He glances at the ground where someone has dug into the hard soil – one of the goats? Everything happens for a reason. There’s a story behind everything. Just as the car on the beach and the cardboard box and the newspapers have a story, a series of actions, regardless of how incomprehensible they might seem.