The Hermit

  – So what does that mean for the Seascape Hestia?

  – Up till October 2008, the Dutch shipping company which owns the Seascape Hestia was in charge of registering its seamen. But in 2009, the vessel arrived in Spain and was repeatedly leased to Spanish companies that did not have the same strict requirements. There have been relatively few hijackings on this side of the African continent, so there was not a whole lot of focus on registrations.

  – So the company which sailed the ship when it was captured has the list?

  – They have an old list, written five days before departure. And several of the names on the list, a so-called IMO FAL number 5, were not on board.

  – They found the captain?

  – Yes, he and three of eight crewmembers were on the list, but the rest were not. The list was outdated when they set sail. But even if it had been complete, you would not be able to find any of them. In addition to the captain, the other three whose names are known are all missing. The remainder know nothing about the Seascape Hestia. Except for one, an engineer by the name of Chris Jones.

  The name sounded familiar. – What happened to him? Erhard asked.

  – He was supposed to be on the ship, but he was replaced at the last moment by someone he does not know. But when the authorities found the body of an engineer carrying his papers, they believed it was him, of course.

  – But it wasn’t him?

  – No. Chris Jones seems to have been reading the newspaper account of the hijacking at a pub when he saw his name.

  – So no one knows who was actually on board the ship?

  – It is shoddy and irresponsible, but it shows just how messy the rules are.

  – Or that someone purposefully forgot to fill out the paperwork, Erhard says, thinking about the stolen vehicles that were last seen in Holland.

  – The Canary Islands’ police know more than we do at the moment. They have questioned quite a few of the locals in Port of Santa Cruz, including a colleague of mine several weeks ago. She told me most of what I am telling you now. Much of it is off the record. So no list, no names.

  – OK, Erhard says.

  – Unfortunately.

  – OK.

  – May I speak with André again? the Englishman says.

  – In a moment. Can you get me information on Chris Jones? His telephone number?

  – But he was never on board the ship.

  – I’d like to speak with him.

  The man is quiet for some time. – André tells me that you are pressuring him about something. I do not care to know what, but if I find Chris Jones’s information for you, you will forget what you think you know about André Aritza. Do you understand?

  – I need the telephone number today.

  – I will find the number and give it to André today.

  – Thank you. Erhard hands the mobile back to Aritza and rises, with some difficulty, from the chair. – The Englishman is all yours. He’s promised to get me a telephone number today. Call me at this number when he gives it to you.

  Erhard lays his business card on the table. Aritza picks up his mobile and steps away to talk.

  In the afternoon, he has a meeting scheduled with the director of the water amusement park, but he can’t stomach the thought of it. Since the door to Osasuna’s office is closed, he asks Ana to change the meeting to next week. She makes a few clicks on the computer. He tells her that if a man named André calls, she shouldn’t take a message but send the call directly to him. He’s not sure if he can trust her.

  – Emanuel Palabras called and was looking for you, she says.

  – What did you tell him?

  – That you weren’t here.

  – Good enough.

  – Should I call him for you, now that you’re here?

  – No. I’ll call him myself. His suspicion returns that she reports his activities to Palabras or even just Osasuna. – I’ll call him shortly.

  – Remember to plug your phone in, the new one.

  – Right, he says, and goes back to his office. Which now feels smaller than his old Mercedes. He drops to his knees and plugs the phone into the creaky outlet. The line beeps. After finding a book, he tries to read while staring at the dark-green telephone.

  Around 3.30 p.m. the telephone buzzes. It’s Aritza. He gives Erhard an address on Tenerife. – We have nothing more to discuss, he says.

  – I asked for a telephone number.

  – You’re a piece of shit. Robbie spent hours finding that address for you. There is no telephone number. The man is evidently ill.

  Erhard falls silent. He doesn’t know what to say.

  – But I hope you find out what happened to the boy. Children are the salt of life.

  It sounds strange coming from Aritza’s mouth.

  – Not for everyone, Erhard says.

  ‌

  59

  Back to Tenerife. The flight doesn’t even take an hour.

  He sits rigidly in his chair and stares out the window. A large, invisible wave carries them from one island to the next. The motor is silent, and all is quiet; the small plane’s personnel whisper, and they don’t serve drinks. They don’t serve anything at all; they just walk up and down the aisle smiling and reassuring, looking lovely, even the men. Not like the last time he was on a plane. That too was seventeen or eighteen years ago. He was so blotto that he believed they were about to take off when they landed on Fuerteventura. This is only the fourth time in the intervening years that he’s left the island and the second time within the last month. But this time it’s on the company’s dime. A true pleasure. Part of a little white lie that Erhard has a lunch meeting with a shipping firm.

  When he sailed to the island, he fell in love with Santa Cruz. From above it resembles the big city that it never became. The palms are grey, and the buildings are plastered with advertisements. From the plane he can see a large ad on the roof of the airport terminal, for a new perfume made with lime and anise: a young couple clutches one another, their arms indistinguishable.

  He takes a taxi directly to the address and is dropped off at a little square with some booths and a newspaper kiosk. It’s a sluggish Sunday, and he has an urge to eat grilled lamb at a shawarma bar that reeks of cinnamon and burnt grease. Behind the counter, a Moroccan man is rotating the spit and the flat, dark meat. The meat sizzles, attracting a swarm of men with thick black beards wearing what looks like undergarments, along with some taxi drivers.

  He enters a filthy, dilapidated entranceway with dove shit on the stairwell. He hears the birds above him in the rafters, but he doesn’t look up. Instead he goes calmly up the stairs to the fourth storey. The letter C. There he finds a flimsy white door that seems as though it’ll fall apart if he knocks on it.

  From the fourth-storey balcony he gazes across the road at a large oval track behind a tall fence. He raps on the door. Twice. Three times.

  – Come the fuck in.

  Erhard opens the door cautiously. – Chris Jones? My name is Erhard Jørgensen.

  – Come on in! No need to shout! Chris Jones shouts. He’s pissed. Laughing. – My God, now that I’m dead everyone’s trying to find me.

  – I guess I’m lucky you’re not out to sea, Erhard says, when he sees the man in the bed. The room is dark and there are dog posters on every wall.

  – Hell no, I’m on disability. On the state’s bill. The good life.

  He would shake Erhard’s hand, but he’s eating carry-out chicken from a bag. He notices Erhard’s missing finger, but says nothing.

  Erhard looks around for a place to sit, but finally leans against the wall instead.

  – I was lucky. Isn’t that what people say? Could you ask for a better life than this? A view of the dog track. Grilled chicken. Homemade whisky.

  Jones points at a shelf above the toilet door in the centre of the room. A row of five bottles of brown liquid with a label Erhard doesn’t recognize.

  – You were supposed to have been on the ship that wa
s hijacked? Erhard asks. It’s only been a few weeks, but the man already resembles something that has grown out of cracks in the wall. Decay works fast.

  – Everything was set. Hell, I had all my things on board. But some asshole hit me on the head when I came out of a, ugh, nightclub. And by the time I woke up, the ship had sailed and my life was ruined. End of story.

  – Who hit you?

  He laughs again. – The police want to know that too, but fuck if I know. I didn’t see who did it. And I didn’t ask. It’s that simple. I’m guessing it was that motherfucker who was found with my papers on him. But that’s just a wild guess.

  – Why would anyone want to take your place on board that ship?

  – He was probably one of the goddamn pirates, don’t you think? Are you a journalist or what? If you are, I’d like five grand to be part of your little story.

  – I’m not a journalist, and I don’t have that kind of money.

  – Then why the fuck did you come here and disturb me?

  – I’m looking for a missing person.

  – I can’t help you. Bloody fucking hell, don’t you get it? I got beat up.

  He throws his empty chicken bag at the rubbish bin, but misses.

  – You must hear rumours. From your friends or others you’ve sailed with. Seven seamen are missing, as well as a multimillion dollar cargo.

  – This isn’t a gossip mill. My sister’s the only person who cares to visit me, and those shitty newspapers don’t know fuck all about what happened anyway. They didn’t know I wasn’t the dead man, but some other guy. Just about killed my old Mum.

  – But your friends. They must’ve heard something? I’ve driven a taxi for years, and taxi drivers gossip more than housewives, if you know what I mean.

  Chris Jones laughs guardedly, as if he’s missing a tooth or two. – Hell, I know what you mean. Who are you anyway?

  – I’m just an old man who’s trying to find someone from that ship, that’s all.

  – An old man. A curious old man. But I like that. As long as you’re not the police. Or from the newspaper.

  – I promise you, I’m not from either.

  – Hand me one of those, he says, pointing at the whisky bottles. Erhard retrieves one for him, and the man pours whisky into a dirty cup that’s standing on a footstool next to the bed, and he gives it to Erhard. He himself raises the bottle to his lips and chugs a quarter of the liquid.

  – What happened to your finger? Jones asks.

  He doesn’t seem embarrassed to ask the question. It’s liberating when people ask Erhard.

  – My punishment for a crime.

  – Fuck me, what’d you do? Look at another man’s wife in the wrong country or something?

  – Not exactly, but something like that.

  – United Arab Emirates?

  – Denmark.

  – What? The Danes don’t do that.

  – I did.

  It takes a little time before Jones realizes what Erhard means. – That’s brutal, he says softly.

  They drink.

  – Last week, Jones says, after he’s wiped his mouth with the blanket. – I met one of the lads that I sailed with. Simao. We share a common interest in dogs. Jones whirls his finger around at the posters. – He came up here and sat in that very chair you’re in, stiff as a board he was, feeling real bad about what had happened to me. Then all of a sudden he told me about the Hestia. He knew exactly what happened and where they were all hiding and shit.

  – Hiding?

  – He told me the crew was mixed up in something and was hiding from the police and shit.

  – Mixed up how?

  – No idea. He was probably just showing off. That’s what everyone does. Every sailor has sailed around the world a thousand times, scoring some pussy at every port. Braggarts. Many of the sailors are tiny little men, assholes who don’t care to leave the ship when it reaches the wharf. As long as they’ve got fags and alcohol and Coke, they’d rather stay in their small cabins fucking each other. The scum.

  – Huh, Erhard says.

  – But Simao said something interesting. He said the cargo had been brought back here. The entire fucking thing returned to where it had started. I’d never heard that. Everyone thinks it vanished in the dark heart of Africa. Blame it on the niggers, you know.

  – Interesting, Erhard says, though he’s unable to determine exactly what it means.

  – It’s fucking organized, that’s what it is. Rich men in their offices, laughing all the way to the golf club. Isn’t that what people say?

  – Where can I find your acquaintance? The braggart.

  – If he’s not out to sea, then you’ll find him at one of the dog tracks, you know, the ones with the super-skinny dogs chasing each other?

  – Which one?

  – The big one north of here.

  – What else is he called besides Simao?

  – Simao. He doesn’t have another name. It’s just like Pelé. He has only one name.

  – If I do you a favour, will you do one for me?

  – That sounds naughty, Chris Jones laughs.

  – If you find out where your friend Simao is right now, I’ll find out who beat you up.

  – I know who beat me up. It was the asshole who took my papers.

  – But you told me yourself he wasn’t alone.

  – I’m busy at the moment, he says, waving the bottle.

  – It’ll be here tomorrow. Or one of its four friends.

  – It’s hard to say no to an old man like you.

  – That’s right, Erhard says.

  ‌

  60

  The container ship is called the Nicosia, and he can barely read the name – it’s been worn down by bird shit, wind, and the elements. It’s approximately fifty metres long. The wooden gangway is rickety; it looks all wrong, frail, next to the black wall of steel that forms the hull of the ship. He’d figured he could just begin by shouting for the crew, who would be busy on board, but there’s no one around. So he saunters up the gangway as if it’s all he’s ever known.

  Even when he’s on board he doesn’t see anyone. The deck is filled with cranes and containers and thick cables with pulleys that fasten the containers to the ship. It reeks of iron or even blood. For a moment Erhard wonders if he’s bit his tongue, but it’s the deck that smells of metal, it’s the peeling containers, it’s the chains that form the railing in several sections, creaky, swinging in the wind. He walks along the railing in search of a door. Maybe the entire crew is having a meeting below deck. Maybe they’ve not reported to work yet. Find the ship’s bridge, Chris Jones had told him.

  He sees a door under the stairwell leading up to the roof of the top deck. It’s a small door that’s raised twenty centimetres above the floor, so that it resembles a closet door, and he expects to find shelves filled with torches and ropes and various other equipment. Erhard doesn’t know much about the work, and nothing at all about life at sea. Since many of the seamen he’s met – including Chris Jones – are alcoholics, drug addicts, violent, or just plain odd, he figures it must be a depressing, demanding life: boredom, the constant pitching of the sea, the creaky hull, awful food served on pitiful metal trays. Not to mention all the horny seamen in too-small beds.

  It’s not a closet but a long corridor that runs six or seven yards straight ahead and disappears into the floor. But he’s not going below deck. He walks straight ahead until he turns a corner and sees a steep stairwell up to the wheelhouse that rests like a bird house at the top of the windowless box that is the ship’s hull. It’s more or less what he’s looking for.

  He climbs the stairs and peers through the door window. The room, which looks like what people would call the bridge, is filled with work tables and large, square computers. Sunlight filters through the tinted windows that run the entire length of one wall, allowing Erhard a view of the ship’s bow, the other ships in the harbour, and even the ocean as seen through a gauzy coffee-brown haze that ma
kes the morning sun seem tired. Someone is sitting at a narrow table, his back to Erhard, leaning over a newspaper or some papers. Cautiously Erhard opens the door. The person at the table doesn’t seem surprised, and doesn’t even react. Somewhere a radio is tuned to a pop-music station.

  – Good morning, Erhard says.

  It turns out to be a short, Arabic-looking woman with silky-smooth hair and a hat. She glances down at Erhard’s shoes. They’re cheap trainers, he knows. Not the shoes of a director. Even though he’s promised Emanuel several times, he’s not bought himself a pair of proper shoes. – And you are?

  – I’m looking for Simao.

  She points to the corner, to another door. – He’s asleep in there. But he needs to get up. We sail in forty-five minutes.

  She turns and goes back to her reading.

  He pushes open the door. The little room is pitch dark. By the light from the door he sees a bunk bed and a small man with a full black beard. As Erhard enters, the man wakes up and shifts beneath his blanket, like a child. – Simao?

  – I’m awake, Simao says, though he doesn’t sound it.

  – I’ve never said anything like that, he says repeatedly.

  Erhard has just tucked 200 euros into the pocket of his tattered shirt. Anything over 100 euros would get the asshole started, Chris Jones had said. He’s probably got debts he can’t pay back that have accumulated over the decades; his life is in the hands of the only ones in the gambling world who don’t actually gamble, the masterminds who sit in run-of-the-mill offices and move millions of euros between the islands and never pay taxes. The dog-racing sheet is poking out from under the mattress. Erhard had expected posters on the wall. Of a girlfriend or a child or topless women in mermaid costumes. Or dogs like at Chris Jones’s place. But maybe the bunk isn’t Simao’s, just a communal galley the sailors use when on duty. Simao has gone out on deck. To smoke, Erhard discovers, while he explains to Simao why he’s here.

  – I’ve got a few questions for you. If you answer them all, I’ll give you two hundred more. I know what you’ve said about the Seascape Hestia. Just tell me the same thing, that’s all I’m asking.