The Hermit

by Thomas Rydahl

  Gilberto seems reluctant.

  – Who ships the cars between islands and to the continent?

  – What do you mean? Individuals? Businesses?

  – Who’s responsible? Is it a big company or a bunch of small ones? Where do your cars come from?

  Gilberto sits up in his chair. – Why do you ask?

  – I just want to understand the vehicle-import business, that’s all.

  – Does it have anything to do with the boy?

  Erhard is no longer surprised that people have heard of his interest in the boy’s parents. And yet he hadn’t expected to run into the gossip here, at a car dealership in Puerto. – Why do you think that?

  – Because… because my wife told me that some crazy Norwegian is trying to find the boy’s mother. All the women on my street are talking about it.

  – And now you think it’s me?

  Gilberto stares at the tabletop. – How should I know? You’re the only Norwegian I’ve met.

  – And you’re right. I’m the one.

  The car salesman seems relieved. – I’d like to help you, so it’s not that. It’s good that you’re trying to find the mother; she shouldn’t get off scot-free. It’s just that…

  There are always two interpretations of the story, Erhard has noticed: either the mother is a criminal who killed her son, or the mother and son were the victims of a crime. He doesn’t know which one he believes. He hopes it’s somewhere in the middle. The real story will emerge one day, and he’ll have to accept it.

  – So, Gilberto, who ships the cars?

  – To the island? Importaciones Juan y Juan.

  – And when you include the other islands and the continent?

  – I don’t know. There are a number of import companies.

  – Can you find out?

  – Maybe. Right now?

  – If you can.

  With difficulty, Gilberto gets to his feet. Erhard follows him from the cafeteria and across the courtyard, where they walk past a few cars that have been stripped of doors and tyres. – Interested in old wrecks? Gilberto asks when he sees Erhard staring. – Something you can fix up?

  – How much? Erhard asks, not because he would know how to fix any of these cars, but because he could buy one for the workshop.

  – Those? One hundred euros. The one over there, fifty.

  – What’s wrong with it? It looks to be in better shape than the others.

  – Some moron put a lawnmower engine in it. If you have a son, he would probably enjoy it.

  – No thanks.

  They pass through the auto workshop where the mechanic who’d earlier brought Erhard to the cafeteria now sits smoking a cigar, and then enter the display floor. Gilberto waves the smoke away from his nose. – We’re a little behind on the smoking ban. If we banned it, we wouldn’t have any mechanics tomorrow. My apologies. Gilbert sits down crookedly on a shabby office chair, then begins punching keys on a computer keyboard. He moves the mouse around and apologizes for something Erhard can’t see. – You know what, it’s probably easier if you saw it yourself. He spins round in his chair and grabs a little red book. – These things are sent to us once a year, but perhaps it’ll come in handy now. Let’s see.

  Erhard spends a few days calling the companies in Gilberto’s book. The conversations are brief, and uncomfortable. There’s something about their industry – their very nature – that causes them to react hostilely when he rings. At one of the companies, the man who answered the phone doesn’t understand how Erhard got the number. At another – a large shipping firm in Spain, TiTi Europe – a woman repeatedly inquires as to whether he’s a reporter for a newspaper that Erhard isn’t familiar with. Every time he rules out one company, he strikes it from the book. Many don’t pick up the phone and he has to call back later.

  He’s nearly through the entire list when he realizes that the companies are responding strangely because they don’t want to get mixed up in anything. During each call he asks whether or not they’ve had an accident on board one of their ships in the past three months. None have. In fact, they’ve never had any accidents. In the beginning Erhard crossed off all the companies, but the more that refuse to admit to ever having an accident, the more he knows they’re lying. He’s not sure which companies are lying, but he knows that some of them are.

  And he knows why. They have no reason to tell him the truth. When Erhard calls, it’s easier for them to say No, we’ve not had any accidents, than to investigate the matter. TiTi Europe was close to transferring him to their CEO, so he could explain their mistake-free business model. But then the woman changed her mind and lost interest in transferring him. Finally he had to hang up.

  He’ll have to do something else to get an honest answer. He needs to start over, but ask a different question. He spends most of the afternoon thinking of another way forward, but he can’t come up with anything. He’s given the vehicle contracts to Ana and expects Marcelis to visit him at any moment, indignant and hurt, the paperwork in his hand.

  But he doesn’t. The office is dead, the corridors are empty. And that afternoon, for the first time, Erhard misses sitting in a car without knowing who’ll be his next fare.

  He wants to see Aaz again. And Mónica.

  His downstairs neighbour still hasn’t listed her name on her door. Every day he hopes to run into her on the way up or down. Just to see her, to ensure that she lives in the house and isn’t a prostitute going door to door. It’s possible her interest in him was completely sincere.

  Tuesday. Driving out of the underground car park to the high street, he passes the drab-looking office where, from early in the morning, a young man sits in a light-blue suit talking on the telephone. Erhard had always thought it was just some anonymous travel bureau, but now he sees seventeen sheets of A4 paper taped to the window, with one letter on each spelling out the company’s name: Mercuria Insurance. Insurance isn’t a lucrative business on the island. The residents may be pessimists, but they are sceptical pessimists. Whatever happens, happens. And if it doesn’t happen that often, well, there’s no reason to pay for it not happening. The island’s unique conditions, the wind and weather and the alcoholic population, mean that claims, by and large, are never paid out – and claims are mostly something one hears about when an American tourist collides with a breakwater in his sailboat or an Israeli lands a bacterial infection from a swimming pool. But every now and then, an EU directive goes astray and reaches the island, and then everyone with a boat or who works with transport must suddenly be insured.

  Erhard can’t imagine anything worse than being an insurance salesman. Not even funeral directors sell a product that you hope to never use. Every business sector has its own terms and conditions. Taxi drivers are helpers. They rescue busy people, or people who don’t know how to get where they’re going, or who want to get away from some place. As a piano tuner, he saves the beloved instrument; he makes it sound better, bringing order to chaos. Insurance salespeople are the irritating messengers. The one who tells you that, sometime in the future, something awful might happen to you, your family, your car, your house. And if the worst possible thing happened – what you didn’t want to discuss or imagine – they’ll help you out with some money. Money which seems completely meaningless in the big picture, almost like an insult. Buying insurance is like making a huge wager but one with tiny print. It’s a grotesque product for a grotesque era.

  Erhard thinks about compensation. Bad luck’s lottery ticket. Just hearing the word compensation almost makes one want to tell half-lies or half-truths. That’s how it is for most people. Maybe even for larger companies in the logistics business?

  Erhard swerves into the lot and parks the car, then enters the Mercuria Insurance office. It resembles an office-furniture exhibition in a modern style that Erhard doesn’t like, and it’s illuminated by a row of light-blue fluorescent tubes four metres off the floor, which makes the man at the desk seem pale and bloodless. He is on the telephone but look
s up when Erhard enters; he’s clearly not used to customers dropping in. Erhard raises a finger to his mouth, indicating that he’ll keep his mouth shut, while grabbing a business card from the table rack. The name on the card is Jorge Algara. The man continues talking into his headset, but he gestures excitedly with his hand that Erhard can take as many cards as he wishes. He takes only one.

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  53

  Shortly after eight o’clock, he returns to the top of his list. Direct Logistica SL. He softens his voice and tries to speak without an accent. It’s almost comical.

  – Good morning, my name is Jorge Algara. I’m calling from Mercuria Insurance in Las Palmas. I see that you’ve got a large claim to be paid out to you, but I’m missing some details about the incident.

  Silence on the other end of the line.

  – What do you need to know? she says.

  Everyone wants to talk to him now.

  Some are still sceptical. Many cannot answer his questions and transfer him to someone who can. But most research their logbooks, explaining to him precise details about their shipping schedules. At first he writes everything down, but after a few conversations he begins to draw a map with dates and times. He asks whether they’ve heard of any wreckage in the area, and requests they provide him with bank account information so the money can be transferred. If they ask for an email address at which they can contact him, he gives them the real Jorge Algara’s address at Mercuria Insurance. When the morning is over, he takes a break and studies his drawing. None of the companies have transported cars to or past Fuerteventura in the relevant time period. None have seen wreckage or any scrap from the tsunami. Just one company had an incident involving a collision near the islands; it was in January, but none of the ships involved were damaged. He’s learned some useful information, but he still has the feeling that people aren’t telling him everything. He examines his list. Nineteen companies left to call.

  He sits in the rear of his office talking softly so that Ana can’t hear him, even though he thinks she’s at Marcelis’s desk this morning. But surely she can’t help but notice all his activity. She brings him coffee, despite the fact that he’s told her repeatedly not to, and slips out again in order not to disturb him. He eats lunch with the telephone girls, who’ve grown accustomed to him and discuss the actor Tito Valverde, who plays Gerardo Castilla in El Comisario, Crown Prince Felipe’s divorce, and one of the girls’ dog; he had been staying with a neighbour and was given cat food to eat, which seems to shock several of the girls. Erhard hears their voices, but doesn’t pay close attention to what they say.

  He makes more calls. Since the first time he rang TiTi Europe, he’s known that they were withholding information. They were hostile and suspicious. He preps himself to call, walking around his office talking softly to himself. The trick is to get in touch with one of the employees he didn’t speak with last time. When the receptionist answers, he immediately requests to be put through to the accounts department.

  – Alfonso Diaz, accounts payable.

  – Good morning, Señor Diaz, my name is Jorge Algara. I’m calling from Mercuria Insurance in Las Palmas. I can see that you’ve got a large claim that’s to be paid out to you, but I’m missing some details about the incident. This is again followed by silence.

  – I don’t believe so, he says.

  He’s the first to begin that way.

  – Are you telling me that you’re not interested in receiving a payment in connection to a collision in January?

  – We’ve had no collisions in the past fifty-four months.

  – Impressive. But you’re right. According to my papers, it was a near-collision.

  – A near-collision?

  – That’s a word we in the insurance business use.

  – Whatever it is, we’ve not been involved in anything, nothing like that. But I’m here in accounts payable. I can transfer you to our traffic supervisor. He’ll have more information for you.

  The traffic supervisor is one of those Erhard spoke to last time, and the conversation didn’t go well. If he’s transferred there, it’s over. – It’s accounts payable with whom I need to speak. The other party has just acknowledged its role in the matter and is willing to pay 30,000 euros, at face value. If you would check some information, I will then simply ask you to provide a bank number so the money can be transferred.

  The hook is cast. Silence.

  – One moment, please. The man on the other end fumbles with the receiver. It’s as if he holds his hand over the microphone, so Erhard can’t hear his conversation. A woman and a man. He hears the word no several times. – Hello, Alfonso Diaz says. – Have you called before? I’ve been told that you called earlier.

  Erhard doesn’t know what to say. What would someone say who hadn’t called before? – No. I’m calling from Mercuria Insurance.

  – Are you the one who called about the Volkswagen Passat?

  – I’m calling from Mercuria Insurance.

  – We can’t help you. Then he lowers his voice. – We’re not allowed to provide the information you’re requesting. Don’t you read the newspapers? We don’t operate the Seascape Hestia. I can’t help you.

  – So you’re not interested in a payment of…

  – Goodbye.

  The man hangs up.

  Erhard is incensed. He stares at the telephone and can’t help but throw the receiver across the room, until the cord stretches taut and the plastic device falls to the floor and shatters. Goddamn them and their secrets. Are there rules for what one may say – or do they know something about the little boy? He can’t believe it. To abandon a child is too low-class, too cynical, for any company to cover up. No, they’re keeping silent because of something as meaningless as money. These companies, which, even in a recession, earn unimaginable sums importing unimaginable quantities of discount products made by children in Asian sweatshops; these companies, which are controlled by nouveau riche Russians and pampered heiresses who eat Argentinean beef and light their stoves with stacks of euros. Whatever rule, whatever consideration, is about money and making more of it, never less. He has the urge to visit them – no, not visit them – to find their office and break in. Find what he’s looking for and set the place on fire.

  The door opens, and Ana pops her head in. She looks at Erhard, who’s sitting against the wall on the far side of the room, then at the floor where the telephone’s smashed to pieces.

  – I’d like a new telephone, Erhard says.

  – What happened?

  She seems shocked, even though she must be used to this kind of outburst from Marcelis, who is known for throwing his pens.

  He’s too embarrassed to respond.

  She leaves, then returns with a dustpan and a small broom. – Telephones are pretty cheap nowadays, she says.

  He says nothing.

  She peers down at the fragments and carries them out.

  – Thank you, he calls after her. – I won’t do that again.

  The door closes.

  Seascape Hestia?

  It occurs to Erhard that the man from TiTi Europe’s accounts-payable department had actually tried to help him. Seascape Hestia must be the name of a ship. A ship that was located between Gran Canaria and Fuerteventura at the right point in time. The man from TiTi must have known there was something about that ship. He didn’t even have to look it up; he hadn’t enough time for that. He already knew. Something must’ve happened with that ship, perhaps something everyone knows but no one wishes to discuss.

  There was also something about what he’d said: Don’t you read the newspaper? The man from TiTi Europe hadn’t been commenting on Erhard’s lack of information. He’d given him a clue: The ship you seek was written up in the newspaper. Or, put another way: Find old news about Seascape Hestia and maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for.

  Shipping routes were seldom in the news, unless a ship capsized. But what if there was a collision? Erhard hasn’t even considered researc
hing newspaper archives. It’s a good idea – except that he doesn’t know where or how to start. He would need to study an entire month’s worth of newspapers that are more than forty days old. And local or mainland newspapers? Could he go to La Provincia and request newspapers from January? Maybe the library in Corralejo has a newspaper archive he could rummage through?

  He grabs his notebook and jots down Seascape Hestia, so he doesn’t forget the name. While he writes, he realizes that the office – which gets no direct sunlight after three o’clock – has grown dark. He rips out the sheet of paper and shoves it into his shirt pocket, then pulls on his sweater. It’s time to have another chat with Solilla, the bookseller, and to get hold of her friend again.

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  54

  A flock of labourers emerge from the harbour and walk up the street. They’re not all men, some are women in overalls, still wearing their helmets, their work gloves tucked under their armpits. Standing on an empty construction site behind a linen shop, Erhard gazes across the street at the glass building where the newspaper is housed. It’s a dull yellow structure. The door opens, but apparently because of the wind. Or maybe because they’re electric doors. Diego exits a few minutes later.

  He crosses the street and heads seemingly at random towards Erhard.

  – Señora Solilla asked me to find everything published in January concerning the Hestia. There were five or six articles, but everything’s online, I think. He glances down at the file he offers Erhard. – This was all I could find. The printer protested a bit. But this must what you’re looking for, I think.

  – OK, Erhard says.

  – Still the same case? Diego glances down the street to his left, then his right.

  – Maybe.

  – I don’t know what it is you’re looking for, but if there’s a connection to the dead boy, I hope you can prove it. This might peck some of the rich boys on their toes.