The Hermit

  Loud music blares in the distance. Samba rhythms with flutes and drums. Two flats down, the balcony door swings open, and an 8- or 10-year-old boy appears. He’s munching on a biscuit. Women’s voices debate excitedly in the flat behind him, but no one speaks to the boy or tells him to get back inside. Not wanting to attract attention, Erhard stands motionless, but before long the boy shifts his focus and stares directly at him. Knowing that he’ll have to lean forward and hope that his arms are strong enough to pull him up, Erhard jumps up, grabs the balustrade, and dangles in mid-air.

  – Mama, the boy says.

  Erhard can no longer see him. He’s too focused on holding on for dear life.

  – Mama?

  Desperately, Erhard swings his legs to the side and kicks one foot so that it strikes the edge of the balcony. But it slips free and dangles again, forcing his hip to slam hard against the building.

  The mother responds to the boy, but Erhard can’t quite make out what she says, and the boy ends up calling for her again. – Come see.

  Erhard tries a second time, jerking his left leg up and jamming his foot under the metal balustrade. Then he hoists himself up, kicks his other foot up onto the railing, and climbs over. His body aches. It’s not used to using its muscles like this.

  The boy calls for his mother a third time, then runs inside to find her.

  Erhard crawls over the railing, pushes open the door, and enters the flat.

  ‌

  74

  He’s still not sure he’s in the right flat. He’s not sure what he expected to find. Old nautical charts on the walls? Ships in bottles on shelves? Ashtrays filled with foreign coins? Timetables on the refrigerator door? Or just a tired sailor snoring on the sofa?

  Instead the flat looks like temporary living quarters, as sterile as a waiting room. Clothes are piled on the floor along with colourful computer games, a Real Madrid team-photo towel from 2009, and sweet wrappers. Erhard’s nearly certain that the black-and-white photographs on the wall were there before Juan Pascual moved in. The living room and kitchen are one room. From the kitchen table there’s a view of the bay. The cupboards are bare. Well, except for paper plates, paper cups, plastic cutlery, microwaveable meals, boxed wine, salt, and so on. How long has Pascual lived here? Apparently long enough to be listed in the telephone book. Four or five years? Still, it’s as if the man is waiting for something that will change his life. Maybe he’s a junkie? Erhard has seen how junkies live: sad, filthy, disgusting. But here the sadness seems desperate. A person who has a very poor quality of life. A rootless person.

  He opens a few drawers and the flat’s only cabinet, but finds nothing. No papers. No letters or telephone bills. Nothing to confirm that Pascual lives here. Nothing to help Erhard at all. He grabs a beer from the fridge. He might as well. He sits down in the chair nearest the front door and waits for the man to return.

  Even though the beer is a watery, tasteless San Miguel, it knocks him out cold. The events of the last two days whirl him into a hole. He keeps his eye on the door, blinks, watches, blinks, and then his eyes close for good. He runs his finger along the rim of the bottle and jams it into a magnetic darkness. In the dream everything is nice, simpler. There’s a table with a white tablecloth and candelabra. The waiter is setting the table for two. He pours white wine from a lamp. At the same time, he feels the grotesque, in-the-dream recognition that the dream is better than reality. He lifts the glass to his mouth and white wine runs under his tongue, down into his small intestine, and across his belly membrane. Everything quivers and grows, his body smells of sweets, bubbles.

  He stands up dizzily.

  His bladder has lost patience with him; it complains as soon as there’s liquid in his system. He hurries to the loo and notices how the daylight has changed. He’s slept for more than ten minutes. Maybe an hour. Or longer. He quickly unzips his trousers before his urine gushes out. It emerges hot and greenish. Maybe it’s the light playing tricks. There’s a musty odour around the toilet, which reminds him of the smell of goat excrement back home in Majanicho.

  He opens the cabinet above the sink. Apparently, Pascual has a bad stomach. There are four or five packages of Fortasec and some bottles of Pepto-Bismol, along with a couple of empty plastic pill bottles. He sees different names on the labels, none of which are Pascual’s. One’s called Clomipramine. Erhard’s unfamiliar with it, and the label doesn’t say what it’s for. He finds a mobile phone on the lowest shelf. A small cobalt-blue device with black buttons, one of the popular brands. Nokia. The kind Beatriz had. It’s powered off. And there’s a small box with of some sort of transparent rubber plugs that look like toadstools.

  He finishes up and flushes the toilet. As he’s washing his hands, he spots a rubbish bin underneath the sink. It’s actually just a cardboard box with a plastic bag inside. Toilet paper is heaped on top, and gauze-coloured tape. He picks up the box and removes the paper. It takes him a few seconds to realize what it is he’s looking at, some thin strips of hard plastic. The kind one binds around a package or a pallet that needs to be transported. Almost instinctively, Erhard reaches for his throat. Beneath more paper he finds a pair of sunglasses, slathered in what looks like brown paint. This is the source of the smell.

  He hears a key in the lock. He just manages to turn off the light, then stands in near-total darkness apart from a thin stripe of light entering through the door, which is ajar.

  ‌

  75

  Juan Pascual has shaved off his beard and looks normal, friendly even. But Erhard has no doubt that this is the same man who assaulted him. Although a lot has happened since, and he hasn’t had time to think it through, he also wonders if he’d seen him before that. Down at the harbour? In the rearview mirror? At Greenbay Jazz bar the night that Alina went off with the band?

  Pascual’s in a hurry. He dashes into the living room, talking to someone. At first Erhard thinks somebody is waiting for him in the corridor, but then he hears him answer unheard questions, explain, argue. He’s talking unusually loud.

  – I’ve been everywhere, he’s saying. – Shouldn’t I just stay on task? I’ve promised to… No. She’s in Arrecife. Yesterday. No. I’ll do it now. We don’t need to… It’s tough when the city… No. Not at all. He can’t. No. I’m not complaining. I’m not complaining. All I’m saying… all I’m saying is… why out there? I’d rather meet downtown. What about tomorrow? I’ll do this first and then…

  Silence.

  Glass shatters. Must be the bottle Erhard had left on the chair’s armrest.

  It won’t be long before Pascual comes to the loo to have a slash or fetch his pills. Erhard squeezes himself against the wall and lifts one leg, so that he can shove the door into the man’s head as soon as he enters. The refrigerator door bangs shut, and Erhard hears a beer can cracking open. Then footsteps approach. A shadow passes beneath the door, and Erhard raises his foot above the knob, preparing to kick the door like a donkey. He wants to crush the man’s head.

  Instead the shadow retreats, and Erhard hears the front door thump against the wall, then slam shut. The lock clicks and Erhard stands stock-still, wondering what to do. He’d imagined that he’d get the chance to talk to Juan Pascual, to ask him probing questions about that night he went aboard the Seascape Hestia, and about the hijacking and the fake Chris Jones. But now he’s leaving, Juan Pascual or whatever his real name is, and this time maybe for longer than a few hours, and Erhard can’t think of a single thing to do.

  Suddenly he sees the man’s face at the cafe.

  At the cafe that morning Bernal asked Erhard to go with him to the Palace and read newspaper fragments. He’d sat in the back of the room, apparently either hung-over or tired as hell, but Erhard is sure it’s the same man. A man called Pesce. Raúl had mentioned him, liked him, drank beers with him. Pesce, who knew the best fishing spots near the coast. Pesce, who could sail to Lanzarote and back with his eyes closed. Of course. What had Simao said about Señor P? The man knew the
waters better than anyone.

  He hurries from the loo, crosses the living room, and dashes onto the balcony. He grabs the railing and lifts his legs over it, then carefully lowers himself until he’s hanging in mid-air. Erhard’s knees buckle and crack like soft twigs when he lands on the ground. But he doesn’t have the time to deal with it; he shoves the wrought-iron chair against the wall and climbs over. Beyond the tree, whose low branches practically conceal the wall and two parking spaces under its light-green foliage, he sees Juan Pascual racing past in a dark-blue delivery van. A rental.

  Out there, he’d said. Out there.

  Usually, out there means Las Dunas. People don’t say out there about Puerto or other cities. They say out there about a barren, abandoned landscape. Unless he decides to drive down Alejandro’s Trail, out there means that Juan Pascual will take the FV-1 or FV-101. Both roads begin at the roundabout near the stadium, and Pascual would almost certainly take Avenida Juan Carlos to avoid city traffic. If Erhard can hail a taxi within the next two minutes, he can drive up Carmen and, with even greater luck, reach the roundabout at the same time as Pascual, then follow him until he gets the chance to stop him. If Erhard is really lucky, he’ll see Pascual meeting the person he spoke to, probably Charles or maybe even Palabras himself.

  He picks up the pace down Calle Galicia and crosses the street to Calle Pizarro, but his body is sore all over. Evening has fallen, and the music is louder. There are no taxis, only mopeds with too many riders. He has to go all the way down to General García to find a taxi stand. If only he’d swallowed some of the pills in Juan Pascual’s cabinet. The road curves. A couple of noisy vehicles with young men and women zip past waving flags out of windows. He pulls his cap down tighter and walks faster, reminding himself not to seem nervous.

  At the corner of General García, he glances towards the taxi stand and the lone taxi in the queue. It’s Ponduel, lazy Ponduel in his beloved Lexus. Shit. What choice does he have? He rushes to the car and gets Ponduel’s attention before hurling himself into the passenger seat. Ponduel’s watching sports news on his mobile. He lays the device between the seats and regards Erhard coolly.

  – The stadium. Now.

  – I don’t drive traitors.

  – Shut up and drive, Ponduel. Erhard can hardly speak, but he fumbles with his notes and waves a hundred euros.

  – Why should I? Ponduel asks, putting the car in gear and snapping on his turning lights, before merging onto General García.

  – I’ll give you two hundred if you put the pedal to the metal.

  As they turn the corner onto Isaac Peral and swerve to avoid a queue that’s formed outside the restaurant Le Provençal, Ponduel glances at Erhard. – What are you up to, Hermit? I heard you got busted.

  – They let me go.

  – Why should I hurry? Why should I get a ticket?

  – Just drive, Ponduel. Act like a taxi driver.

  Ponduel drives faster through the smaller streets than Erhard ever would have dared. He may not be very bright, but as far as Erhard has heard, he’s a good driver. And the Lexus is much faster than a delivery van.

  – How’s the traffic on Juan Carlos?

  – It’s fine.

  – Can you get someone to park by the Rusty Arrow?

  That’s the name of the sculpture in the middle of the first roundabout that Pascual will have to drive through.

  – What?

  – Get someone to park in the middle of the roundabout or something.

  – Why?

  Erhard presses the button of the radio and says loudly: – This is twenty-eight. To all the vehicles in C11, can one of you park in the roundabout? We have a C & C on the way south on Juan Carlos.

  A C & C is an unpaid account. Either someone who’s failed to pay a fare or an ordinary motorist who’s run from an accident. Taxi drivers hate them more than anything.

  Ponduel shoves Erhard in the face, knocking his hand off the button. – Fucking hell, what do you think you’re doing? You’re with the enemy now. You’re not going to…

  – I’m sorry, Ponduel. I need this. I need to stop him.

  – Is it a C & C? Where is your car? Did he total it?

  – No, it’s not a C & C. That was the only thing I could think of. I’ll explain later. Erhard pulls out 250 euros. – Here. Just drive. Drop me off near the stadium. But don’t tell anyone you drove me.

  Erhard knows that will prove difficult for Ponduel, perhaps impossible, but he has to give it a shot.

  Ponduel accepts the money. – You’re not well, he says.

  The taxi climbs to 100 mph, and passersby glance up, fearful, as the car roars past. If anyone were to step onto the road, there would be no time to swerve or honk the horn.

  They turn off Carabela and onto Fuente, passing the water park.

  – Car seventeen here. I’ve got some engine trouble that’ll take a few minutes to fix. I’m at the Rusty Arrow.

  It’s Sebastiano.

  – That was fast, Ponduel says, and can’t help but smile. The truth is he loves this kind of stuff. Drama, disobedience, having a slash on the powers that be.

  It was fast, yes, but Erhard’s not sure it was fast enough. If the traffic on Juan Carlos is like it normally is at this time of day, then Juan Pascual is already on FV-1 or FV-101.

  They drive in silence, and the car swerves through the little roundabout near Oasis Dunas. This is a gamble. For all he knows, Pascual took another route. But Erhard has convinced himself that Pascual’s taking the highway out to the big roundabout. There’s still a slight chance he’ll be able to stop him. He just doesn’t know how yet.

  – Seventeen here. A few cars are veering around the blockade. Twenty-eight, what does your C & C look like?

  Ponduel looks at Erhard, then presses the call button to let Erhard speak. – It’s a blue SEAT delivery van, a rental.

  The radio crackles. – Seventeen here. That vehicle just slipped past.

  – Fuck, Erhard shouts, the button still pressed down.

  – Jørgensen, is that you? Sebastiano says.

  – Yes, it’s me.

  Erhard sets his eyes on Ponduel, who raises an eyebrow in irritation.

  They come to the roundabout, and just as they speed into the circle, Erhard sees the delivery van a few hundred metres up the FV-1. Unable to speak, he simply points.

  – Is that him? Ponduel asks. The taxi’s left wheels are up on the kerb. Ponduel jerks the wheel and continues straight, cutting off a car that’s approaching from the right, then races onto the FV-101. The delivery van is now three car-lengths ahead of them. – What do you want to do now?

  – Just drive. But don’t be aggressive. It’s best he doesn’t notice us.

  The delivery van and the other cars ahead of them settle in at approximately 60 mph, barely slowing as they pass Geafond. Sighing as if all this is aggravating, Ponduel snaps off the radio. – How far are we going? I have to get back by 9.30 p.m.

  – Not much farther, Erhard says, though he doesn’t really know for sure. Out there, Pascual had said. Not down there, not over there. But out there. Out in the middle of nowhere. Pascual hadn’t uttered the address out loud, and he hadn’t asked for time to jot it down. Which meant it was some place he’d been to before. Out there.

  Erhard removes his hat and wipes the sweat from his head. Ponduel gives him a funny look when he notices his new ’do, but he says nothing.

  The landscape just south of Corralejo, east of Majanicho, is the flattest and most rugged on the island. Some farmers’ meaningless stone dikes divide the area into small, skewed squares. One can almost see the wind whip across the pale, grey rocks and dried clumps of soil before gathering speed for the trip up Montaña Colorada a few miles to the west, a mountain where the edge of the island seems drawn up to a point, like a blanket lifted from underneath by a knee. The delivery van takes the next right, on La Cappelania, but the other cars keep straight. Erhard’s just about to ask Ponduel to follow the van at a dista
nce, but Ponduel’s one step ahead of him, lifting his foot from the pedal and letting the Lexus coast, until the two vehicles are once again separated by a few hundred metres. La Cappelania is an asphalt-covered cluster of houses with palm trees, water sprinklers, and a community pool. Erhard expects to see the delivery van stop in front of one of the houses, but instead it turns down a gravel road and heads away from La Cappelania. Ponduel brings the taxi to a halt, and the two men watch the blue van drive towards Montaña Colorada.

  – Do you think he saw us? Do you think he’s trying to get away from us?

  Ponduel looks to Erhard for guidance, and Erhard can think of nothing else to do but to continue following the van.

  – Wait here a little. Let’s see what he does.

  The gravel road curves across the barren landscape and continues up the mountain. The van almost vanishes from sight, but Erhard can still see its blue roof like a magic carpet flying up, up, up.

  – He’s going over the mountain. We’ve got to follow him, Erhard says.

  Ponduel glances at his watch and turns onto the gravel road.

  ‌

  76

  They follow a cloud of dust. Can’t see the delivery van anywhere. Carmino Calderas is a narrow, difficult road made for lazy tourists. It winds around the largest volcanic crater, Montaña Colorada, and continues towards Calderon Hondo and over to Lajares. Ponduel mumbles something about the rocks spitting against his nice Lexus, then turns on the windscreen wiper and sprinkler to wash off the film of dust. One good thing about the dust cloud is that Pascual won’t know they’re trailing him.