The Hermit

  Step on their toes, Erhard thinks to himself. A journalist who doesn’t know his metaphors. – Ouch, Erhard says, suddenly bitter that the journalist doesn’t care to write about the case.

  Diego shrugs. – Well, good luck, he says and returns to his office.

  A Judas kiss, Erhard thinks.

  Back in the car, he opens the file and reads it. There are six print-outs. Four articles about the same subject. The first is one column on the body of the British engineer Chris Jones, who was found in fishermen’s nets off the coast of Gran Canaria. The follow-up article links the engineer to the Seascape Hestia, which sailed from Gran Canaria and was expected in Lisbon two days later, but was now docked in Port Agadir, Morocco. The end of the article references a possible hijacking. Then there’s a long article from El País about the Hestia, and the author is clearly fascinated by the muddled case. The only crewmembers left on board were a Ghanaian captain, who claimed that he’d been brought to the ship by terrorists, while the eight-man crew had abandoned ship. According to Spanish authorities, the cargo had consisted of construction materials, plastics, tinned goods, and European cars. But the cargo hold was empty, and the Ghanaian captain didn’t know when or how that had happened. The last article is very short. It notes that the Hestia was to return to Holland, where it had been registered, and the investigation and search were to continue for the presumed Spanish crew. The Ghanaian captain had been released and not charged with a crime.

  Erhard tosses the stack of papers onto the floor of the car. Every time he manages to turn over one rock, he finds new rocks under the first rock. Now he knows that the ship is Dutch. Now he knows that the ship carried European cars. But he can’t solve a crime by reading old newspaper articles. Who the hell knows what happened on board that ship? The dead engineer, the hullabaloo surrounding the Ghanaian captain, the missing cargo – it all sounds like a desperate cash-grab.

  The car smells like the box of books that’s resting on the passenger seat. The books once belonged to a cigar smoker. Although there are more than twenty titles, he figures he’ll only read a few of them: Chatwin, maybe Márquez – whom all Spaniards love and hate. He bought the others as a favour to Solilla. Including a novel about a guitar that survives the Spanish Civil War and World War I, only to wind up in Downing Street, in the hands of Churchill’s wife Clementine, who played guitar for Roosevelt’s wife when the Germans surrendered in 1945. Sure, why not? Everything is apparently possible. He has followed the car’s tracks. They didn’t lead up the hill and across the island, but out to sea and north to Holland via Agadir. He starts the Merc’s engine.

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  55

  He’s out at the house to feed the goats. But he doesn’t feed the goats. The goats are nowhere to be seen and he doesn’t hear their braying or the cracked bell around Laurel’s neck, and he doesn’t see them darting among the rocks, their white spines like chalk lines against a cliff. The house is more rickety now. Even a house can be lonely when its resident moves out. The windows are wasting away like eyes, and a slamming door is a quivering mouth begging him to stay another day, another week. Maybe the house has always looked like this. Even when he loved it, even when he longed for peace from the voices in the taxis and the crush of people downtown. Even then it was like returning home to a snivelling lover who couldn’t live without him. He observes the house, hating everything about it as he, as in a childhood memory, remembers sitting outside in the rocking chair drinking Lumumbas or enjoying a quick sunset meal of potatoes. If not for the two goats, he would never return. Just as he’d feared, his many years out here have made him angry and unforgiving of the house and its dust, its creakiness, and its clothesline that was always too slack.

  He throws the goat food on the ground. That usually brings the animals. The rattling of the bucket, too, especially Laurel, the most approachable of the two. Not just for the food, but for the hand that throws the food, a hand to stroke its back. Erhard likes the animals, especially Laurel. He doesn’t have a particularly close relationship with them, but he likes having them around, their random movements – without plan or special needs. One time the two creatures had stood a hundred metres apart and, along with Erhard, formed a triangle. A strange symmetry, which, after a few beers, seemed meaningful.

  Wind tumbles across the rocks, and from far away comes the sound of a motorboat or an airplane. Erhard walks around the house. Pausing between the clothesline and a cairn he’d built over the years, he suddenly hears Laurel’s bell chiming in the distance. Like a low gurgle, a tinkling that is barely audible, and yet there it is. Though he doesn’t believe Laurel knows its own name, he calls for the goat. Then he clambers up on a large boulder so he can see across the fields and up the mountain, and loses himself in the greyish-brown landscape. And there, there’s a minuscule movement, a white line, Laurel leaping in the groove between mountain and field.

  Something terrible has happened. It happens. It has already happened.

  Watching Laurel approach, perhaps looking for food, Erhard’s not sure whether he’s afraid for Hardy, or another, maybe Beatriz. Hardy because he’s not around – and he’s almost always with Laurel. If they ever got too far away from each other, they compensated by trotting closer and standing side by side. This tightness seemed even more intimidating on the barren paddock. The rocks made them appear insignificant and vulnerable when they stood together, chewing on whatever they found: cardboard, straw. If Hardy’s not around, then he’s dead. Both goats are over fourteen years old, so it would hardly be extraordinary if one of them lay down and died. He thinks of Bill Haji. Could a group of wild dogs have attacked Hardy?

  He rubs Laurel behind his ear and goes back to the house, casting more food on the ground. Laurel eats calmly, his ears waving like a handkerchief. It makes no sense to grill the goat about what happened to its brother. And yet he asks anyway, repeatedly: Have you seen him? Have you seen something terrible?

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  56

  His unease doesn’t abate.

  He sleeps as if the telephone will ring at any moment, or someone will knock on the door. But the telephone seldom rings. The doctor is the only one who calls. It’s a windless morning, one of those rare phenomena that makes everyone in town stop what they’re doing to recite Hail Marys as they stare out at the water, which looks like blue concrete.

  When he leaves the flat, the downstairs neighbour is there, wearing the same clothes as the first time he saw her, which are exactly as sexy as he recalls but also pitiful. She doesn’t have any other clothes, he thinks.

  – Let me guess? he says. – You locked yourself out.

  – How do you know?

  – One knows one’s neighbours.

  – Can I stay with you until Rainier comes?

  Rainier must be her pimp, Erhard guesses. – Can’t you meet down at Luz?

  – Rainier’s the super, she says, as if she’d guessed what he was thinking. – He’ll be here soon. Can I wait at your place?

  – Unfortunately, I have to go to work.

  – You’re a director, right?

  – What makes you think that?

  – It’s on your door.

  – No, that’s the previous owner, Raúl, Erhard begins to explain before glancing at the door. He’s never seen the sign before. Director Erhard Jørgensen. The worst sign he’s seen in a long time. He doesn’t care to explain the situation to her.

  – Say hello to Rainier for me, and ask him why he put up that sign.

  She remains standing at Erhard’s door. Her attempts at seduction are amateurish, but Erhard’s afraid that one day he’ll succumb, and he reminds himself that it’ll only make his longing deeper. Just like the other times. His erection almost hurts, and he trots down to the car park.

  He picks up Aaz, still uneasy, as if something terrible has happened. Maybe the Boy-Man swallowed his own tongue, or Mónica forced him to move home. But when he drives up the road, Aaz emerges from the gate, one hand in a bandage but appar
ently in good spirits. He shows Erhard his hand. The pinky. He points at Erhard’s hand.

  – No, Erhard says. No, no.

  It’s just like you, Erhard.

  – No, Aaz, it’s not just like me. You mustn’t…

  I know, it was dumb.

  – What the hell are you thinking then?

  If you can handle it, so can I.

  Erhard is completely distressed, he has no idea where he’s going or even where they are. He pulls over to the side of the road; the place seems familiar. He flips Aaz’s hand over. – Did you go to the emergency room? Did the doctor look at it?

  Aaz shrugs. It’s just a wound, that’s all.

  Erhard doesn’t know what to say. He can’t yell at him, nor does he dare make light of it. He looks him directly in the eye, saying nothing. He maintains eye contact until the Boy-Man’s quavering eyes settle and begin to fill with tears. Then Erhard looks away. And begins to drive.

  Erhard’s racing pulse doesn’t return to normal until they are at the airport. Aaz studies the traffic and looks at the planes the way he always does. Erhard tells him about his telephone conversations with the import companies. He also tells him about Solilla and the reporter from La Provincia.

  You’ve made progress then, Erhard.

  – No, Aaz. I’ve shuffled some pieces around. It’s not the same as making progress.

  Imagine. Right now there’s only one person in this entire world who’s interested in finding out what really happened.

  – Hard to believe that the police haven’t figured it out long ago. He thinks of Bernal. A cowboy with a lapful of teddy bears.

  The police are the good guys. Their job is to find the criminals.

  – They don’t have time. Or they can’t. I don’t know which.

  Mum says that a person can do whatever he or she wishes to do.

  – Your mother’s a very fine woman, Aaz.

  Erhard turns up the radio. Stan Getz: ‘Captain Marvel’. From some club recording. Scratchy and shrill, as it should be. He tries to drown out the anger that’s directly underneath his fingers. The island’s police force has pretty much done nothing. They’ve buried the boy. They’ve confiscated the car. Possibly, they made some phone calls. Erhard guesses that they probably haven’t called many people. Not as many as Bernal had said.

  The section of road on which they’re driving is one of the most scenic on the entire island. The road curves and dips, then continues down the hill and up through a rocky pass.

  Liana says that I’m weak and dumb. She says I’m a cry-baby and miss my mother.

  – It doesn’t matter. You’re not weak or dumb because you cry.

  Did you cry when you lost your finger?

  – No. I’ve never learned to cry. It’s something you have to learn. Your father has to teach you, or your mother.

  He goes inside to say hello to Mónica, but she’s on the telephone and absorbed in the call. She wraps the telephone cord around her finger and stares into the kitchen wall. Erhard writes a note to her: Back at 5. Aaz is already sitting in front of the TV and pointing at the turtle.

  Ana has bought him another telephone. It’s one of those newfangled kinds with a bunch of buttons and a little display where you can see the numbers when you dial, or when someone’s calling you. The phone requires a manual, but he doesn’t know how to operate it any more than the last one.

  She has placed a thick envelope beside the telephone. There’s no name on it or sender. He weighs the envelope in his hand, then peers into the reception area, waving it.

  – From Luís, Ana says, when she looks up. – He got a fare to La Provincia. The man gave him a little package for Director Jornson of Taxinaria. He must mean you.

  He tears open the package with his index finger. Inside he finds some printed pages, an article like the others. There’s a pink Post-it note stuck to the top. ‘Found this in the printer. BE CAREFUL. D.’

  He unfolds the article. It’s a long one, and not from La Provincia but El Sol News. It’s about an amendment to European law in the insurance sector, which is being rushed through parliament. Several insurance companies have forecasted such hefty insurance premiums for the shipping industry that gigantic logistics companies no longer believe they will have the wherewithal to sail fully insured fleets. The issue emerged following the recent spate of hijackings in the waters near the Horn of Africa. In Spain, the problem became acutely relevant in January, when a Dutch-registered vessel, the Hestia – which sails for a Canary shipping company, Palalo – was hijacked off the coast of Morocco. Its cargo was stolen. In this specific case, plaintiffs are seeking approximately 55 million euros in damages. A large sum, to be sure, but not unusually so – especially since it involves motor vehicles and construction materials. The security chief for Palalo notes that insurance doesn’t even cover the actual loss which the hijacking inflicts on the company, in the form of lost customers and negative PR. First and foremost, however, they are seeking damages to compensate their clients’ lost goods and associated costs. In the future, Palalo says it will only sail with insured freight. But the security chief believes that, to a greater degree, individual customers will be forced to insure their own goods, or that insurance will become a direct part of transportation costs. A prospect that could lead to a price increase of up to 15 per cent, which would have to be borne by consumers, who are already hamstrung by the financial crisis. For some products, such price spikes could prove fatal. The problem has been discussed for some time by the largest shipping nations. The EU must now determine whether the states will draw up special hijacking insurance to prevent consumers from being saddled with the bill. The security chief concludes: ‘For us, it simply means that our customers, in the future, will be producers of cheaper goods. But for many of the traditional and slightly more expensive export firms, the consequence may be that they will have difficulty selling their products to international markets. And for the Canary Islands, it might alter the selection of products found on supermarket shelves.’

  Although Erhard has seen the headlines about Somali pirates at the kiosk, he hasn’t considered how it would alter everyday life on the island. But it makes sense. He pictures the empty shelves in HiperDino around the corner.

  He returns to the beginning of the article. The Hestia, the Dutch ship, was leased by the Canary shipping company Palalo and sailed with goods worth more than 50 million euros. Palalo. He recognizes the name. He believes he remembers it from the book Gilberto gave him. Was that one of the companies that he’d called? He pulls the book from his bag and riffles through the pages, until he finds what he’s looking for: Palalo in Las Palmas, Gran Canaria. He doesn’t remember talking with anyone there. Now he sees why. There’s no telephone number. In fact, he’d drawn a question mark next to this company, because they don’t have a telephone number. Only a website.

  He calls for Ana and asks her if she can find Palalo’s telephone number. He reads the address aloud.

  – OK, she says. And a short time later: – They don’t list their telephone number anywhere. All they have is an email address.

  Palalo. He gets to his feet and goes out to Ana. – Do you mind? he asks, peering over her shoulder while she manoeuvres around the homepage. He doesn’t know what he expects to see, but his head is boiling, and he needs to find something to refute his suspicions. – Can you find anywhere where it states who owns the company?

  Ana does a few things on the computer. – No, there’s nothing about that here. But maybe I can look it up somewhere else? Boxes expand and shrink on the screen. She types in the word Palalo, and soon after, an overview appears featuring a number of companies. She enlarges the site. Then pauses. – Here’s something. It says here that it’s owned by Palabras ETVE. Was that what you were looking for?

  For a moment Erhard stands perfectly still. What is he supposed to make of that? He knows that Palabras, in addition to what he’s most known for – olive-oil production in Spain, with a smattering of the same here
on the islands – owns many other kinds of businesses. Some hotels, including half of Las Dunas Beach Hotel in the centre of the protected area on the outskirts of Corralejo, a car-rental dealership, the largest tomato farm on the island, a few packing plants on Gran Canaria, several construction companies, a large chunk of Sport Fuerte, and of course TaxiVentura. And now it turns out he also owns the shipping company whose cargo was stolen from a Dutch vessel and, after a detour, wound up, in part, on the beach in Cotillo with a dead boy in the backseat. It could be a coincidence. It could.

  – Thank you, Ana. Erhard returns to his office.

  But it could be something else entirely. He looks around. The windows are like filthy sheets, and the light outside is dimmed by yellow clouds. What does he actually know about this office? Who furnished it? Why does the globe stand right there, next to the telephone? Maybe he’s been sticking his nose in things he shouldn’t have for much too long, but what is Palabras’s role?

  He spins the globe, searching for a microphone. But it’s just a globe, a ball of shoddy plastic, and he finds nothing. He sets the globe down and investigates the pen holder, letter tray, drawers – all empty. What does he know about surveillance anyway? Other than what he’s read in books? These days, you can probably spy on someone through a computer or a telephone. What does he know? He doesn’t understand any of the electronic gadgets that surround him.

  He eyes the telephone Ana gave him. She swept up the remains of the old phone a little too quickly, before Erhard could help her. That someone has kept an eye on him since he got here, he has no doubt. Ever since he visited the Palace that first time with Bernal and rummaged through the newspaper fragments, one thing after another has taken a turn for the strange.

  It explains everything. It explains why Emanuel was so eager to replace Raúl with Erhard, it explains Emanuel’s odd friendliness, it explains the flat, the car, and the contrived party. It explains all too well how an ordinary taxi driver could be promoted to director; it explains why he doesn’t need to do anything except dine at the occasional restaurant. It also explains why Marcelis’s name was on the contract, not Erhard’s. They don’t plan to let him keep the director’s chair very long.