The Hermit

by Thomas Rydahl

  While he waits, he pulls his book from his briefcase. It’s one of the books he brought with him when he moved into the new flat. He chose it because the cover showed an image of a black telephone on a wooden floor. The story’s about a female otologist who is recruited to join a team of experts who are tasked with capturing an international terrorist. The culprit, described as a computer genius, has made a machine that rings up people and kills them with an ultrasonic sound. Ultratone. Hence the title. Erhard knows the plot only because he’s read the back of the book. He’s still reading the first chapter, where we meet the doctor at a conference as she’s reviving an old fling with an investment expert from New York City. He reads a passage several times. In it the doctor waits, hot and horny, at her lover’s hotel room, until she calls the front-desk clerk and discovers that he has checked out. He’s gone. It’s a ridiculous novel. Erhard knows that. But he thinks about the doctor, the emptiness she feels in a strange place, and it almost makes him weep.

  He manages to sit up in his chair just before Ana enters with the papers and walks him through them, pointing with a pen that’s wet with spit because she’d had it in her mouth. Cute. After she has left, he studies the papers disinterestedly. He has nothing to add. It occurs to him that the Volkswagen Passat is a more popular vehicle than he’d previously thought. Through the years, Taxinaria has owned more than fifteen Passats, which had their heyday shortly after 2000.

  He walks with Ana to the lunch room. Though everyone apparently eats in the same room, the drivers have their own area behind a row of potted plants, while the others – management, Ana, the sales staff, and the telephone girls – sit closest to the kitchen. At TaxiVentura he’d often heard the drivers go on about the girls and the bosses who were too hoity-toity to sit with the likes of them, but now it occurs to Erhard that it might create problems bringing the two together in an ostensibly equal space, since there is a deep cleft between those who labour in an office for thirty-five hours a week and those who drive a taxi seventy hours a week. With an inverse salary distribution.

  He eats pan-seared potatoes and lamb skewers. One of the advantages of working here is that he doesn’t need to bring his own lunch. Meals are prepared in the restaurant, Muñoz, next door and carried over on large trays. It’s nothing special, but it’s much better than what he could ever make. He doesn’t talk to anyone. Ana’s absorbed in conversation with some of the women whose names and voices he’d heard on those occasions when, out of curiosity, he’d switched over to Taxinaria’s frequency. They’re discussing the drivers who suddenly turn up in the office bearing flowers or chocolate and making wild gestures, because they’ve sat far too long in their taxis listening to the bickering and the commentary, and they’ve fallen in love with the soft voices on the radio.

  So did Erhard once. It was many years ago. Michela was her name. The way she talked, every driver thought she was speaking directly to him. For weeks he considered how to go about it, how he would approach her. The problem was, there were few valid reasons for a driver to enter the office. In the end he decided he would wait for her to get off work, then drive her home. That was convenient and offered the least amount of risk. But the day before he was to carry out his plan, he’d learned that all the other drivers – even Luís – had the same thought in mind. Suddenly the idea seemed silly and uninspired, and he felt a kind of disgust at his own desperation. Since then, he’s seen the pattern emerge time and again. The drivers are bored, lonely souls, and the girls have refined their voices for years, developing a poisonous instrument as compensation for the immoderate bodies they conceal behind garish dresses. At Taxinaria too, the two girls with the most passionate voices are decidedly plump, while the other three – including the Tunisian, Alissa – have coarse, horse-like features that make them appear big-boned. They talk over one another about their husbands and boyfriends, their dogs, and a new film that was screened on the wall of a house down near the harbour. Ana listens and laughs guardedly as if she’s never heard of anything like it.

  He heads back to the office. He has no interest in reading the novel about the telephone terrorist. He picks up the car paperwork again. It’s a print-out from a dealer’s website. At the bottom of the last page he sees a name and telephone number. He lifts the telephone and dials the number. If he’s lucky, he can reach him before siesta.

  – Autovenga, good afternoon.

  – Hello. I’m calling from Taxinaria. My name is Erhard Jørgensen. May I speak to Gilberto Peyón?

  – Speaking. New or used?

  – Hardly ever used.

  – I’m not sure I follow.

  Erhard can tell that Gilberto needs to warm up a little before he begins asking him for favours. – The best you have, he says. – I’m the new director here and I’m looking to purchase a few new cars.

  Erhard hopes the office door is closed.

  – Where did you say you were calling from?

  The line crackles.

  Erhard starts from the beginning, and this time the man is livelier.

  – It would be a pleasure to supply you again. I don’t mean to offend, but I thought our partnership was over?

  – Why? Erhard asks.

  – Palabras said he could get others to supply him with cheaper vehicles.

  – Emanuel?

  – Raúl. But I’ve heard that he’s dead.

  – Don’t believe everything you hear.

  The car dealer laughs. Confused. – That’s true.

  – I’m looking for the best of the best, Erhard says. He guesses that the dealer is the ambitious type: the eager salesman who in four years hopes to run his own dealership.

  – Let’s cut a deal.

  – But first, Erhard says. The line clicks as if the salesman received a shock through the phone. – I need some information about a particular vehicle. A vehicle that was ordered… for a colleague.

  – With us?

  – I don’t think so. But I wondered if you might look it up somewhere and see what has been ordered? My old colleague was the one who ordered it. He was a bit sloppy. I hope you’re not as sloppy.

  – No, we’re not.

  – Good. It’s a blue Volkswagen Passat from 2010, 2011, or 2012.

  – From Spain?

  – Maybe, but via Amsterdam.

  – When was it ordered?

  – I don’t know.

  – Under what name?

  – I don’t know.

  The line goes quiet. – A Passat, you say?

  – Yes.

  – One moment.

  A long silence.

  – Hello. There have been no Passat orders to the island since the end of 2010. No Volkswagens at all, in fact.

  – How many other companies import Volkswagens to the island?

  – There’s Bruno Tullo out near Vallebrón, but I don’t think he sells any more. In fact, I think he’s dead.

  – OK. Then let me ask you: How might a Passat stolen in Amsterdam, without plates and with thirty miles on the odometer, now be parked in Cotillo?

  – I don’t know. That kind of thing… we don’t do that kind of thing.

  – No, I hope not. But how would one do that?

  – There have been cases of stolen vehicles here on the island, but they are rare. They’re hard to hide. Everything needs to go through Puerto. Through Ruiz.

  – Ruiz?

  – The customs officer here in Puerto. Trust me, he doesn’t let any cars slip past him. Ruiz has earned his fair share on each and every car that drives on the island.

  – So, theoretically, one could convince Ruiz to allow a car onto the island, even if it’s stolen?

  – Theoretically, yes. But not if you knew Ruiz. He may be an idiot, but if I may say so, he’s a stickler for Spanish law. If he found out there was a car on the island without his approval, he would find the person who brought it here and force him to pay the duty. He’s not someone you try to cheat.

  – How do I find him?

 
; – He’s at the harbour. At Customs.

  Erhard jots this down. – Listen, if you do me a favour and get in touch with Ruiz and ask him if knows anything about a dark-blue Passat that was brought to the island in the last three months, then I’d be more than happy to strike a deal with you. Two cars on the expensive side.

  The salesmen sounds more upbeat, but also uneasy. – I’m happy to hear that, Señor Jørgensen. But Ruiz is not so easy to get in touch with. He doesn’t like taking phone calls.

  – Then stop by his office. The harbour can’t be more than a few miles from where you work.

  When the conversation is over, Erhard is dripping with sweat. Every muscle in his body quivers tensely, ready to snap. He slumps over his desk. All he wants now is for Ana to fetch him a glass of water.

  He spends the afternoon on a walk. On the street he bumps into a few of the drivers having a cigarette, and one who’s filling in a crossword puzzle on his telephone. He talks to them briefly. Mostly he listens, twice adding that he hopes his many years behind the wheel can help make life better for the drivers and also for Taxinaria. They seem to like the idea, but aren’t as excited as he’d hoped. We’ll see, the man who was doing the crossword puzzle says, before heading back to his car.

  Time passes incredibly slowly.

  It’s not even siesta yet, and he feels more tired than he’s ever been following a fourteen-hour shift. Maybe his body can’t tolerate office work. Maybe it can’t tolerate the absence of a cold beer or a warm whisky. He ends up sprawled across the broad windowsill with a cup of coffee, reading the terrorist novel. The otologist is off to meet England’s prime minister in a secret bunker on the Isle of Man. Before dinner, she changes into a fancy gown and spends more than one page describing her appearance in the mirror. The gown highlighted my thighs and all those years I spent on the Stepmaster in the living room. My breasts were as inviting as any woman’s could be after giving birth to two children and without plastic surgery – with only a little padding in the beige-coloured top from Victoria’s Secret. The book was written for another time, another gender, another universe, and Erhard feels like a visitor, a slimy little Peeping Tom. Just as he’s about to throw the book away, Ana knocks on the door with a message from Gilberto.

  – He asked me to tell you that Ruiz doesn’t know the vehicle in question. She gives him a quizzical look.

  – Thank you, Ana, Erhard says, then has to come up with an excuse. – It’s something to do with the new cars. He helped me find the right one.

  She nods and closes the door on her way out.

  He throws the book in the rubbish bin. The image of the otologist in her bra is hard to let go of.

  ‌

  ‌The Cargo Ship

  ‌7 February–17 February

  ‌

  50

  Erhard figured that Aaz would somehow notice the new car. But the Boy-Man’s sitting rigidly in his seat, as usual, and they make it all the way to Las Dunas before he rolls the window down, and something in his movements seems to register that it’s a new car, a new way to roll down the window.

  So you finally got a new car.

  – Do you like it?

  Better than the old one.

  – The old one was OK.

  The old one was terrible, its suspension hurt my butt.

  – Watch the language, young man.

  You have to admit that this one is better. The air conditioning is better. It sounds better. It smells better.

  – It’s nice, I admit.

  What do you think about taking over Raúl’s job and his car?

  – Don’t you think I deserve it?

  One doesn’t always get what one deserves.

  – If Raúl returns, I’ll just say thanks for letting me borrow your car and go back to my old job, my old house.

  What if he doesn’t return? Then you’ll be trapped in that mind-numbing job.

  – It’s better than sitting in an old Mercedes every day, on the same dusty road, earning a salary that can’t even support an old man and his two goats.

  You’ve never complained.

  – Trust me, Aaz, it hasn’t been fun. Why can’t a man have a taste of the good life after many years…

  What if Raúl comes back? Will you be able to return to your old life? After driving the new car, living in a luxury flat, drinking expensive wine with the upper crust, and playing doctor with his girlfriend? You can’t.

  – He threw his life away, don’t you agree? What I’ve done is pick up all the pieces. I can always, always, return to my old life. The Mercer was never mine, so I’ll never see it again, but the house is only locked up as if I’m on holiday.

  So you’ll just say, ‘Thanks for letting me use your flat and car and luxurious life’, then go back to Laurel and Hardy?

  – I’ve lived on this island for nearly twenty years, and during that time not a damn thing has changed. Now that an opportunity has presented itself, are you telling me not to take it?

  Will you stop driving me?

  – No. It’s my favourite thing to do every week, driving an overgrown boy who talks my ear off. Why do you think I’ve got myself such a fine car?

  Will we have time to drive out to see the kites on the beach?

  – Yes, Aaz. Someday I’ll get a note from your mum, and then we can go see the kites. You can sit on the beach and drink warm tea, while I try to stand on one of the surfboards. It’ll be quite the sight.

  Mónica is standing outside the house today, as if she has been expecting them for some time. She has prepared omelettes, which Aaz loves. They sizzle warmly on the plates. Cautiously she asks Erhard if he wishes to come in. It doesn’t feel like a matter of course. She slices off triangular chunks of omelette and serves them with rosemary. As they eat, they listen to the canaries in the garden. He tells Mónica the news.

  At first she’s indignant, and practically laughs at him. She knows the Palabrases and isn’t crazy about them. She shifts in her seat, picking at the little vase of flowers from the garden which rests in the centre of the table. She thinks Erhard’s trying to back out of their agreement, but he assures her that he’ll continue to drive Aaz every Wednesday. Hopefully he’ll even have time to take him to the beach now and then. Or maybe the flea market in Gran Tarajal. Mónica quietly tines small hunks of egg with her fork.

  After the meal, she turns on the telly and lets Aaz sit in the plush chair to watch the programme with the turtle and the fish who run an underwater grocery.

  Erhard helps clean up the kitchen. He rinses a plate and sets a jar of sun-dried tomatoes back in the fridge. There’s something private about gazing into the fridge. He doesn’t inspect the shelves, but gazes straight ahead as he sets the jar on the lowest shelf. He can’t bear the thought of seeing Mónica’s little weaknesses: the jam, coconut macaroons in a little bag, or tinned pickles.

  – We need to leave in half an hour, he tells Aaz.

  – As long as this doesn’t happen every time, Mónica says. – I’d hoped he could stay for dinner.

  He’s arranged to stop by Autovenga and check out two vehicles. He’d figured he could drive Aaz back before then.

  – Then I’ll have to return later, he says.

  But it has no mitigating effect on her.

  – Forget it, she says. She’s standing at a small mirror in the corner, near the refrigerator, and applying lipstick. – I release you from your duties. We’ll manage without your help. We’ve done it before.

  Erhard doesn’t know how to respond. But he’s certain she means to wound him. She doesn’t realize that he’s not helping for Aaz’s sake or hers; he’s helping for his own. But it sounds all wrong, selfish.

  – I’ve already made sure that I’m available every Wednesday morning so that I can drive him, Erhard says.

  But the truth is he hasn’t told anyone what he does on Wednesday mornings, and he won’t ask for permission like some kind of teenager, especially not from Marcelis. When he left the office, he tol
d Ana that he was going to meet with Autovenga. Which is true, but he didn’t say anything about giving someone a free taxi ride. He can damn well do whatever he pleases.

  Mónica brews coffee in the Italian kettle. He drinks it as he watches television, while she goes out in the garden.

  – Come visit me on Saturday, he tells her when she says goodbye to Aaz through the rolled-down window. The words just come blurting out of him. Maybe the result of guilt, maybe something else, but so what? He doesn’t know what he would do with Beatriz, but perhaps he could just lock the door, like he did when Emanuel stopped by.

  Mónica doesn’t seem to understand, but also doesn’t seem hostile to the idea, either. At most reluctant.

  – To thank you for letting me drive your son and for your help with the computer. He imagines Aaz saying, C’mon, Mum, let’s do it. On one hand, he hopes she’ll say no, that she’ll reject his invitation. But on the other, he would like to see Aaz. And her. Under different circumstances. He would like to show her that he has something to offer. – If there’s a football match, Aaz can watch it on my widescreen telly.

  – Is that wise? she asks. Predictably.

  – Maybe not. If Barça loses, he’ll probably smash the entire flat.

  She flashes a faint smile.

  – Are you sure about this?

  Her doubt seems so deep-seated, so heart-wrenching. He has heard the question his entire life, and he has often asked himself the same thing. He has to turn away before he can respond. – Yes, he says simply. He can’t emphasize it enough, and yet he has nothing else to add.

  She glances at Aaz, who stares straight ahead through the windscreen as if they’re rolling across an interesting landscape. – Then we’ll be there.

  All he manages to do is give her a smile before she retreats from the window, and says: – Pick us up at noon.