The Hermit

by Thomas Rydahl

  After a few minutes, he gets to his feet and snatches a Barça cap off one of the racks. There’s a large royal crown on the front of the cap, and Aaz would love it. Erhard would pay for it, but the owner’s still next door, and he doesn’t want to arouse any more attention than necessary. He tugs the cap onto his head and exits the shop, heading down along the harbour. He passes the narrowest section of the promenade, where the throng is especially dense; people stand quite still, mashed in a bunch outside of Bill Haji’s old nightclub, Azura. The place has been remodelled and is now a cafe and bar, a trendy-looking spot where only the wealthiest tourists care to go. Of course, there are many of those today. It’s decked out for the day’s events, and the staff are dressed in robes like the Virgin del Carmen – complete with fishnet and crown. Lined up in a row, the waiters and waitresses sing and crack oyster shells, like chestnuts, as they wait for the procession. He recognizes the tall girl; she walked beside Haji’s sister at his funeral. He’s heard that the place is now run better than when Haji owned it. It reminds him of something.

  He turns up Avenida Maritima and jogs on the narrow pavement as far as his body will allow, underneath hanging flowers and umbrellas poking out from balconies. Some shops are closing up for the day, their grates slamming down, but many shop owners are ignoring the siesta in the hope of earning some extra money. He makes two turns and reaches Nuestra Señora del Carmen, which is just as busy. The city is in free fall as evening approaches, with families parking illegally and emerging from their vehicles dressed in white, and youths with oversized beer bottles shouting from balconies. He comes to Cormac’s electronics shop and edges past a group of children gawking at some colourful boxes, then enters the store.

  It’s crowded. Ruddy-faced Cormac is busy helping a man purchase a mobile phone. They’re in the middle of the transaction. A young man with thick blonde hair stands behind the counter ringing up a woman’s order. Erhard heads to the video cameras that are affixed atop tripods. He tries to get Cormac’s attention, but he’s busy showing his customer something. Cormac doesn’t see Erhard until he has put the mobile phone inside a box and run the man’s credit card through the machine. He gives Erhard a curious look, and Erhard saunters towards the back of the shop.

  – The strong arms of the law slipped you loose, did they? Cormac says, peering across the shelf of video cameras.

  – How much do you know? Erhard says, low, glancing in the direction of the shop’s entrance.

  – The crazy suitcase man saw you in handcuffs.

  – I wasn’t in handcuffs, but yes, I’m no longer in police custody.

  – You look a little worse for wear, Cormac says.

  – You have to help me.

  – Come this way, Cormac says, nudging Erhard through the beaded curtain and into the backroom. – What’s going on?

  – I need to borrow one of your video cameras for five or ten minutes.

  Cormac doesn’t seem thrilled. – It’s the Virgin del Carmen Festival. I’m busy.

  Erhard looks at him. – You’re my only hope.

  – For what?

  – To confess my sins. I need to record them.

  Cormac’s face grows solemn, then he begins to laugh. – What have ya done? Has it something to do with the dead boy’s mother?

  – You could say that.

  – Where do you wish to record this video? Here in my shop?

  – If I can. As long as I’m not disturbed. As long as no one can hear me.

  – You can use the storage room. No one’s out there, but the light is shite.

  Erhard exhales in relief, then collapses against the wall.

  – And then what? What are you going to do with your little confession?

  – I’ll take the tape with me and hide it somewhere.

  – Tape? There’s no tape, my friend. That was years ago.

  Erhard doesn’t know what to say. – So I can’t record it?

  – Of course you can. But it’s all digital now. You’ll have to put it on a computer or something. I can save it to a USB drive and you can take it with you.

  – As long as I can have it right away.

  – You can, but it’ll take some time to transfer the file.

  – How much time?

  – When you’re done with the recording… maybe fifteen minutes.

  Erhard does the math. – That’s too long. I’ll miss the boat.

  – Boat?

  – Can you send it via post or deliver it for me?

  – I can, Cormac says, but he still seems sceptical. Unconvinced.

  Erhard takes a chance, lowering his voice so that it can’t be heard on the storeroom floor. – If you record me with your camera and hear me out, you can decide whether you wish to help me. If you don’t wish to help me, I’ll take the recording with me. If you do wish to help, then you can send the recording to one of my friends.

  Cormac glances into the shop. – Then we’ll need to do it now. Right now.

  – I’m ready, Erhard says.

  Cormac retrieves one of the larger cameras from the shop. He presses a few buttons and runs a cord under the door of the storage room, where he sets up the tripod. He positions Erhard against a shelf of boxes and switches on a waxy yellow ceiling lamp.

  – Let’s go, Cormac says. – I’m recording.

  Erhard has no more time to consider.

  He starts from the beginning. He’s afraid he won’t have enough time to squeeze everything in. Speaking quickly, sometimes incoherently, he discusses the Chris Jones who was beaten up, the hijacking, the removal of the cargo from one ship to another – and the container that broke apart – and the fake Chris Jones, who drowned. A ship’s mate by the name of Juan Pascual, who lives here in Corralejo. He goes on to mention the car on the beach, and the boy in the cardboard box.

  – What? Cormac says.

  – The car floated for four miles and then washed ashore in Cotillo.

  Staring straight ahead, Cormac lights a cigarette with an old-fashioned petrol lighter.

  Erhard continues: The cafe in Tenerife and Hollisen. Hollisen is missing. Emanuel Palabras stole his own cargo, sold it, and will probably win an insurance claim. The crew is nowhere to be found, but Erhard spoke with a sailor who was on the second ship. He reports that the cargo was returned to Tenerife and the crew was dropped off in Morocco. To cover it up, Emanuel Palabras murdered his daughter-in-law and probably his son too, then tried to pin their deaths on Erhard. He doesn’t mention Alina. He doesn’t say anything about Beatriz lying in Raúl’s flat. He closes with the man in the sunglasses who tried to choke him, and the police’s interrogation, which ended with his false confession. And finally, his flight from the police and the ship waiting for him down at the harbour.

  – Holy fucking Christ and the mighty Mother Mary, Cormac says after a moment of silence.

  – How long did that take?

  Cormac checks the camera. – Seventeen minutes.

  – I have to get going.

  – How do you know it’s all connected?

  – I just do.

  – I’m no fan of the police, but I think you’ll need to find a few missing pieces of this puzzle before they’ll trust you. Like the part about the car.

  – The Volkswagen. What am I supposed to say?

  Cormac grins and sucks on his cigarette.

  – What else can I do? Erhard says. – For fuck’s sake, I can’t go any further. I’ve come as far as I can, but it’s over now. This recording is my only assurance that I won’t be thrown overboard in the middle of the ocean. Others will have to pick up the thread. Would you care to?

  Cormac stiffens. – I have my shop. And my new girlfriend.

  – Everyone thinks about their own fucking selves. I’ve told you everything, so now I’ll give it to my friend. She’s a journalist who lives in Puerto, a good person. She’ll pick up the slack. I doubt she’ll want to, but if anything happens to me, she’ll do it anyway. Will you send it to her for me?


  Cormac looks at Erhard. – Sorry, my friend. I’ve helped you, but I can’t get involved. I’ve lived on this island half of my life. I have my ex-wife, my sons, my new girlfriend, and my shop to consider. I just can’t do it. I’ll download your video to a drive, but give me a moment. Cormac takes the camera with him when he goes, leaving Erhard alone in the storage room.

  ‌

  71

  He heads back to the boat. What he wants most of all is to be done with all this. He’s tired and confused. His body is guiding him forward like a machine, but it’s broken down and sore all over. If they try to drown him, he’ll be unable to resist. He doesn’t even care.

  The little USB drive Cormac gave him is lying in his pocket; it feels like a knife against his thigh. Somehow, he needs to pass it on to someone to give to Solilla, or send it to her himself. He studies the promenade, looking for a kiosk where he can buy an envelope and a stamp, and finds a combination ice cream booth and souvenir kiosk. He gets in line underneath the sunshade as the place fills with people, happy children eager to gobble ice cream and watch the Virgin del Carmen pass by. A few of them sing of the protector of fishermen, the lovely Carmen who wanders the sea. Even the dead sailor, drawn to his death in his own nets, walks on the beach among his loved ones with Our Patroness Carmen at his side. The song is ‘Our Carmen’, and it’s taught to schoolchildren and sung at the festival every year. This choir sounds slightly amateurish to Erhard’s ears; they sing completely off-key and without rhythm, and yet with enthusiasm and sympathy, as if they really wish to bring the patroness to life. A pair of adults shush a screeching boy who demands ice cream.

  Erhard is next in line. From the kiosk, he can see over at the Café Azura, and the tall young woman. This face. This face on a slightly troubling and pale woman in her early twenties. She’s nicely dressed, her hair pinned back in a whiplike ponytail. Her lips are painted so thickly red that they appear to be black. She doesn’t seem comfortable in her clothes, as if she would rather wear a tracksuit and trainers. Now he suddenly remembers where he’s seen her; it wasn’t at Bill Haji’s funeral: it was at Café Rústica. The cafe owner had called her a bitch. According to the owner, she was probably a lesbian too. The Bitch had returned to Fuerteventura because she had inherited something. And now she winds up at Bill Haji’s cafe wearing an ironed dress. The islands live up to the worst stereotypes. A bitter mix of the same people.

  She knew Hollisen. She knows what became of him.

  Erhard scoots out of the queue and crosses the street to the cafe.

  – Just one today? The Bitch asks. She guides him to a small table half-shaded by the cafe’s awning. People are everywhere, between tables and up at the bar and along the wall. She pulls out a chair for him.

  – Do you have a table a little farther from the street? In the shade?

  – Do you mind sitting near the loo?

  – I’m used to it.

  – That doesn’t sound too nice, she says, and Erhard nearly bursts into laughter. She’s funnier than she looks. She tries to stand the menu on the table.

  – Do you have any specials from Tenerife? Erhard asks. He sits down and shoves his backpack under the table.

  – Mostly from Madrid, London, and New York.

  – I went to Café Rústica once. Do you know the place?

  The Bitch takes a step back and regards him. – Just a moment. María, can you pick up table seven’s check? Then she turns her attention back to Erhard. – You’ve been to Rústica?

  – A couple times.

  – On holiday?

  – Something like that.

  – You live here?

  – Yes, but not for long.

  – You need a cold beer?

  – A San Miguel.

  – I’ll give you an American beer. Better for you.

  She walks off and returns with a bottled beer, an American brand he doesn’t recognize. Also a bowl of fresh shrimp with some kind of dressing that he can dip them in. – In honour of Our Carmen, she says.

  Erhard watches her come and go. He wants to ask her if she’s seen Hollisen since leaving Tenerife. Or if she’s heard from him. Since she didn’t like Hollisen, chances are good that she’ll gossip if she has any information on him. For a while, she responds to his stares with a professional smile; but when he keeps at it, she stops peering in his direction and begins wiping tables, mixing blue drinks, and conversing with one of the cooks, who stands with his head poking through a little window.

  The shrimp are surprisingly good.

  He’s invisible from the promenade. There is minimal risk of the police entering every single cafe on a day like this. Broken-legged Charles and Palabras’s other men are no doubt searching elsewhere. They’re probably already livid that he hasn’t arrived on the Lucifia yet.

  Before he even finishes his beer, he has to use the loo. From the toilet he can see a large aquarium holding a lobster and a couple of big red fish peeking around long blades of green algae. A thick layer of black slate rests on top of the aquarium, but one corner has been left uncovered. He finishes his business, washes his hands, and taps on the aquarium with his index finger. When he returns to his table, he glances around for the Bitch. She emerges from the kitchen, her lips fresh with lipstick, and trailed by a powerful odour of cigarettes and cooking oil. He raises his hand for the bill; she prints it at the register and hands it to another waiter, who delivers it on a small plate without a word. She remains behind the bar discussing, with a colleague, which tables need to be wiped down, her ponytail swinging. Now, suddenly, he sees the resemblance. She’s got Bill Haji’s smile, and the same arrogant tilt of the head he’d make after he’d told a joke or lifted one of the dancing girls onto his lap. That was something he did to help his business, putting them on his lap. Bill was as queer as they come. The entire island followed his love life with keen interest, the women especially; they sighed for Bill every time some man left him or cheated on him. The men snorted, and the more homophobic among them swore at the old queer, wanting him gone. Erhard had heard it many times. From the backseat of his taxi, in the break-room at work, on the street, at the hairdresser’s. Because Bill was so damn interesting and lively and extreme, people talked about him – and now here’s a girl who is his spitting image. The grandchild. To Erhard, she looks more like his daughter than granddaughter. But she’s avoiding him, staying behind the bar polishing everything there is to polish. He needs to find another place where he can talk to her.

  He pays at the bar. When the waiter brings his change, Erhard leaves the money on the plate and requests a small plastic bag and a rubber band. The waiter goes back to the kitchen and returns, then watches curiously as Erhard ambles to the loo. Once Erhard makes sure he’s alone, he pulls out the little drive Cormac had given him and throws it into the bag. Then he squeezes all the air from the bag, knots it, and wraps the rubber band around it as tightly as possible, until it’s a small, hard cocoon. Keeping the door of the loo closed with one foot, he carefully sticks his hand in the cold water and sweeps it into the back corner of the aquarium before dropping the bag and watching it sink to the bottom, where it nestles between the green plants. It’s not as well hidden as he’d like, but unless someone squats low and stares in the back corner of the tank, no one will ever notice. A child might. But no one taller than three feet. For a moment, he wonders if the lobster will try to poke the bag. Then he realizes that half of its claws are missing.

  He taps once on the glass, then leaves the cafe.

  He hurries down the street, his head down, and darts into a narrow alley filled with mangy cats and crushed bottles. Two men with crusted blood under their noses are sleeping on a stack of cardboard boxes. The alley emerges onto another that skirts behind all the bars and cafes, one used by rubbish trucks, schoolchildren, dogs, pushers, and locals taking a shortcut. He makes his way to Azura’s rear entrance. There he finds a vandalized bar stool on a carpet of cigarette butts.

  He perches on the stool
and inspects the alley, which is quiet except for some snoring drunkard sleeping on a collapsible chair. After half an hour, he hears footsteps.

  The back door flies open. The Bitch bursts outside, leans against the wall, and vomits a soupy red liquid that drips down the wall onto a patch of withered grass. With her head still down, she turns towards Erhard. – You’re not a stalker, are you? I don’t have the energy to deal with that.

  – Are you OK? What’s wrong?

  – Too much partying, too little sleep, she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. – And who are you?

  – One of Bill’s friends. Erhard. He offers his hand. But she sees his missing finger and clutches his hand awkwardly.

  – So many people are friends with him all of a sudden, and they’re coming from everywhere. Talk with Ernesto. He’s the one who handles that kind of thing.

  – I was the one who found him. After the accident.

  She doesn’t respond to this, just rummages in her waist apron for her pack of fags.

  – And you’re his granddaughter?

  – My grandfather, a first-generation homo. From a family of homos, if you ask me, who have children without knowing why.

  – I didn’t realize he had kids, or grandkids.

  – He probably didn’t either.

  – But you inherited this place?

  – It went to my father. And he gave it to me. That’s the short version. The sanitized version.

  – Does your father work here too?

  She laughs once more. This seems to cause her pain, and she clutches her belly. – You’re no journalist, that’s for sure.

  Erhard takes that as a no.

  – So you stopped working at Rústica and came home to Tenerife when Bill died? Have you seen anyone from there since?