The Hermit

  – I swear by Mother Mary. You can trust me.

  – What if… what if the old man spoke to someone? Erhard ventures, pressing down on the gas until it’s nearly impossible to tell what he’s saying.

  – What? Pascual says.

  – What if the old man talked? he yells even louder. Must be the hearing aid, Erhard thinks, or maybe he lost it in the tumult.

  – I’ve kept my eye on him.

  – People have seen you, you stupid sailor.

  – Who? When did they see me?

  – When do you think?

  – What?

  – In the flat. When Beatrizia Colini was beaten up. A neighbour in the building across the street saw you.

  Silence.

  – I told you it wasn’t me. Raúl was upstairs making a phone call. After the incident with the whore. I waited outside after we returned, and he started to argue with Colini. I tried to stop him, but he didn’t let me in until it was too late. I told him I’d take care of the old man, who was lying upstairs. But Raúl said no.

  Erhard’s head is swimming. – What did you do to the whore?

  – What?

  – What did you do with the whore?

  – I’ve already told you that. You know what I did.

  – Remind me.

  Silence. Then a thump on the floor. – Fuck you. Who are you? Is it you, Palabras?

  – You killed her.

  – What the fuck? You know what…

  Erhard revs the engine and quickly hops out of the van. He feels terribly nauseated, and expects to vomit his afternoon shrimp. But gasping for breath, he tastes the sea salt and inhales the smell of cool cement, and that helps. The nausea passes.

  More pieces of the puzzle have fallen into place.

  Of course Alina didn’t jump off the roof herself, of course she was pushed. Why hasn’t he considered that possibility before? He’d thought that no one knew she was out there, but Raúl knew. Erhard told him as much. A mixture of relief and anger tumbles around inside him. Erhard didn’t caused her to jump; it was Raúl or his friend Pesce. They let her hang herself like a hunter’s deer. With premeditation. They killed the confused, dumb girl, and they hoped Erhard would take the fall.

  He walks away from the delivery van, then through the unfinished hotel. In many ways, the hotel is representative of the island’s grand ambition, its widespread corruption, terrible public administration, and planning. But it’s also a rather poetic feature: a pile of rubble revealing some poor architect’s late-night elbow grease and drawing-board ideas removed of varnish. By the glow of headlights, he catches a glimpse of what would have been a restaurant or a cafeteria with a stairwell, a landing, and a wall of windows facing the sea. German housewives and smug Russians could have circulated around the buffet table, while twenty or thirty West Africans and young Spaniards ran about filling the empty trays with fresh figs, steaming tortillas, and locally harvested shellfish. The guests could have sat in plush chairs drinking champagne as they enjoyed the view of the bay and the city. Because of the shrubbery and the giant rocks, it’s impossible to see the ocean from here, but surely those would’ve been blasted away with dynamite when the hotel was completed. In a changing world, it feels good to stand in the centre of something unchanging. A construction site: a work in progress that, in all likelihood, will never amount to anything. One day it’ll be razed to the ground.

  He kicks at a crumpled-up plastic bag from HiperDino, the silly green dinosaur logo with its fiery-red tongue. What he really wants to do is to haul that bumbling fool Pascual out of the van and beat him senseless. Find an old pipe and flatten his head with it. But what good would it do? The sailor didn’t do anything but carry out orders, and those orders came from Emanuel Palabras. Must have.

  I only need the woman, Pascual had said. The woman. He must mean Mónica. They must think Mónica knows something.

  Erhard scoops up the bag and puts it over his head, testing how it feels. It smells musty. Then he jogs to the van, opens the door, and scrabbles in the back. Pascual’s a dark lump in one corner, and he hardly moves when Erhard climbs in. He swears once before Erhard grabs hold of his throat and pulls the bag over his head. – Why did you push the ship’s mate overboard?

  – Who the fu—?

  Erhard kicks him as hard as he can in the kidneys. The plastic bag rustles; it’s begun to expand and retract with Pascual’s breath.

  – Why did you kill him? Tell me and I’ll remove the bag. Erhard can no longer see his face.

  Pascual gasps for breath. – He couldn’t sail, a… fucking liar, a junkie. Take it off, take it off. The bag tightens across his mouth.

  – He tried to keep you from moving the containers.

  – He was useless, and he kept shouting incoherently about the boy. It was all so chaotic, and we had work to do.

  Erhard kicks him again. – The woman, what will you do with her?

  – What do you mean?

  Erhard unleashes his fury on the lump, shouting, – What will you do with the woman?

  Finally the lump goes quiet. One of the plastic strips he’d tied around Erhard’s throat lies on the floor of the van. Erhard picks it up and considers returning the favour. But instead he sticks the strip in his back pocket, rips the bag off Pascual’s head, and hops out of the van.

  Only one person can stop things going any further.

  Pascual’s mobile is beneath the handbrake. Erhard opens it with a click and stares at all the buttons. He inputs Emanuel Palabras’s number, but nothing happens. Then he presses the large green button, the one with the telephone symbol, and hears the line beep.

  It beeps six, seven, eight times. Then someone answers.

  – Yes.

  The voice is simple and clear. It’s Palabras. Measured, waiting.

  – You fucking bastard, Erhard says. He can’t think of a better way to start the conversation.

  – Why couldn’t you just leave well enough alone? Why did you have to play the hero?

  – I wanted to expose you. You and your fucking sick game.

  – Well, I’m glad you called. I was wondering when I would hear from you.

  – Shut up, you hypocrite. I have your henchman right here.

  Palabras is quiet a moment. – I don’t know who you mean, he says.

  – He’s filled me in on a lot of interesting details.

  – Trust me when I say that I don’t know who you mean.

  – Shut your—

  – I advise you to listen now, Piano Tuner. I have our little, what shall we call her, girlfriend here. I’ve heard the entire story, and it’s very moving.

  Erhard doesn’t budge. – You… you better not…

  – I’m not going to do anything. But unless you don’t start acting sensibly, I’ll seriously consider putting an end to her miserable existence.

  – Let me talk to her.

  Palabras laughs. – You’re too good to be true. She’s not very talkative, but if she were, she would doubtless miss your company. Now, for the time being, please do as I say.

  – I’ll do whatever you ask. Just don’t harm her.

  – I want you out here. Now. The harbour in Corralejo. And take that fucking boat this time. It’ll sail you over here. Then we’ll talk.

  – Over here? Erhard manages to say before Palabras hangs up.

  He walks along the water. He’s kicked off his shoes and now feels the cool sand against his bare toes. The city and the bay are illuminated by colourful chain lights, and music of various kinds floats up beneath wispy white clouds. With each step he has to convince himself to continue; his body is worn out beyond all reason, and he can’t imagine returning to his previous self again. It’s like driving on petrol fumes with a motor that needs oil and tyres that are flat. If he arrives on time, it’s only because he can’t stop thinking of Mónica. For some reason, the image of her pale belly and the broken clay pots keeps cropping up in his head, and he lumbers forward, forward, as fast as he can.
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br />   He left Pascual in the delivery van, and doesn’t figure he’ll go anywhere. He needs to keep him around, like a trump card he can throw down if necessary. That Palabras refuses to admit he knows the man only serves to underscore just how much Erhard needs proof. He would have taken the van, but it would do no good to try to drive through the city during Virgin del Carmen. Most of the city is closed off to vehicles, and the harbour is teeming with people.

  They’ve constructed pavilions on the beach where visitors at some of the coastal hotels can dine with a tremendous view, chatting excitedly and loudly. They’re waiting on the high point of the evening: Carmen’s final journey on the flotilla, followed by a massive display of fireworks visible all the way out in Majanicho. Walking along, he probably resembles one of the sand sculptors, and several euphoric people say hello to him, calling out Holy Carmen.

  The beach leads up to the packed, chaotic promenade. Adults raise their wineglasses, kiss over empty plates, slurp the last sips of their daiquiris. Children crawl among chairs with dogs and cats, and street hawkers tie bracelets to tourists’ wrists. There’s more noise here, but also more light, and for a moment he fears being seen by a policeman standing hatless along the wall beside the jeweller’s shop. But before long Erhard merges with the throng, and any interest in him as a person dissolves. A few hundred metres down the street, he walks past Azura and spots the Bitch standing behind the bar. Then he shoves his way forward and zigzags towards the harbour.

  ‌

  78

  The red cutter chugs quietly out to sea.

  The man behind the ship’s wheel isn’t nearly as frightening as Erhard had anticipated. He’s focused on steering the vessel around all the small skiffs and inflatable boats filled with people watching the beach and the flotilla. A curtain of torches sets the entire beach ablaze.

  Erhard’s first guess is that they’re heading to one of the large yachts anchored in the bay, but instead they pass through the cluster as if they don’t wish to wake the sleeping boats, and sail towards the magnetic black dot on the horizon.

  Isla de Lobos.

  Unsympathetic and independent, loved by fishermen, birds, the occasional tourist, and, once in the 1960s, John Coltrane. Just a few months before his death, he’d insisted on giving an outdoor concert, along with the greatest jazz names of the age, on the rooftop terrace of the island’s only cafe. Before that, Coltrane had spent some weeks alone on the island, living in a cabin with a view of a beach overrun with seals, the island’s namesake. But the seals are now gone. One morning Coltrane saw a man walk across the water from Fuerteventura, a version of himself, he later said, a naked man with musical scores tattooed on his body from head to toe. Ogunde, Coltrane called him.

  Tonight the island is like Corralejo’s shadow side. Completely void of light and sound. A sanctuary of silence at the end of the ship’s bow. And even though the cutter slices the water at a good clip, the island doesn’t seem to grow larger or closer, but continually appears and disappears beneath the waves. Erhard leans sleepily against the railing and asks the skipper a lot of questions, but the skipper just chews on his cigarette and doesn’t respond. All at once Erhard sees a thin wooden jetty protruding into the water, and the skipper eases the cutter alongside it with familiar caution. Then he throws a pair of slender ropes around the mooring poles and cuts the engine. Everything is quiet now, and totally dark. Feeling inconsequential and small, Erhard almost forgets why he’s here. Without hesitation he follows the skipper, who’s stepped out onto the jetty, and feels the old wooden boards under his bare feet. Erhard has been here before, but not after sunset. All visitors are sent home in the afternoon. As though they could not comprehend the forces that rule this island at night. And now Erhard is about to find out.

  They walk up the hill, following narrow paths lustrous in the darkness. At first Erhard thinks it’s an optical illusion, but the crunch of his footfalls and the prickling sensation in his feet indicate that the paths are covered in mussel shells whose white mother-of-pearl glints faintly in the moonlight.

  When they are on the other side of a ridge, Erhard gazes down at a little bay and a number of square buildings. Not houses exactly, more like bungalows next to the water. There are no signs of life. Only the churn of the sea: the surf pounding against the shore, perhaps a half-mile away.

  The skipper finally stops and points towards the end of the path. It’s unsettlingly dark, and Erhard’s just about to ask what the hell he’s pointing at. But the skipper’s already gone, his crunching footfalls signalling that he’s returning to his boat.

  Stepping into the darkness, Erhard reaches for a railing of some kind. Slight variations of grey help him understand that he’s approaching the cliff. Unreasonably, he expects to fall at any moment into a giant pit where he’ll find Mónica lying pale, naked, and dead. But when he’s close enough to the cliff to sense its warmth, he spots a small cabin between the cliffs, and a cabin door framed by yellow light.

  – Go on in.

  The voice is behind him. When Erhard recognizes it, he feels a sense of relief.

  – I can still run away from you, Charles.

  – Not as long as I have this. A bright light flashes in Erhard’s eyes, almost blinding him. A pocket torch. As good as a weapon out here. Charles nudges Erhard towards the door, which opens from within. – Go in.

  – What happened to you, Piano Tuner? You look like a foolish tourist.

  Emanuel Palabras fills the doorway with his enormous bulk. He’s wearing what looks like a red-and-gold circus tent. He notices Erhard’s stare. – The Virgin del Carmen, he says, gesturing with his hand, as if Erhard has been invited to a party.

  As usual, his entire entourage of Maasai girls are well represented, sprawled across wooden chairs, tables, benches, and the strange pieces of furniture that make up the décor. Eight women who look like sisters or cousins, all of them blacker than black. Palabras tries to explain why Isla de Lobos is the best place to be this evening, but Erhard doesn’t pay attention. His gaze sweeps round the room to determine where Mónica is being held. A powerful lamp is fastened to a painted blue wall, the paint cracked and peeling. Hanging on the same wall is a torn old poster of the Spanish balladeer Pedro Jerez Segundo. On the far side of the room is a red door. An odd rapping sound emerges from behind it, like a banging water pipe.

  – You’re looking for your girlfriend. She’s next door receiving special attention.

  Erhard knows what that sort of thing means. Just as he’s about to make a run at Palabras, Charles grabs his shoulder.

  – Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Palabras says. Nothing will change if you assault me. I’m actually a rather patient man, and I have given you many, many chances to prove that you’re not out to destroy everything for yourself and others.

  – I want to see her. I want to see that she’s OK.

  – She’s doing better than the last time you saw her, that much I can tell you.

  Erhard recalls his last conversation with Mónica. How angry she was. – Don’t touch her.

  Palabras throws up his hands. Erhard stares at him. He can’t fathom how a man he has known for as long as he has can be so criminally unscrupulous. – Why? Why are you doing this? Is it to show how powerful you are? Is it for the money? Or is it just because you’re sick in the head?

  – It’s love. Nothing more.

  – What’s wrong with you?

  – You don’t understand, do you? Unconditional love. Devotion.

  Erhard laughs. – Such fine words coming from you.

  – 15 September 1995.

  – Why do you say that?

  The rapping continues. A grating sound. Palabras waves Charles over and asks him to make it stop. Charles shrugs, but hobbles off through the red door.

  Palabras continues: – 15 September 1995. Your wife enters the living room to see why you’re not coming to bed. Where are you? Where is her daughters’ father, the man in her life? After all you two have been t
hrough? It makes her very sad, in fact. Did you know that, Erhard?

  Erhard trembles as if every cell in his body is unstable, about to burst. – You have no idea. No idea what went on.

  – All I’m saying is that you know nothing of love. The kind of love where one will do anything. Whatever it takes.

  – Tell me what any of this has to do with love.

  – Believe it or not, I am actually rather fond of you, my silent, guilty Piano Tuner. Year after year you’ve tried to help me, and you’ve never asked me for anything, neither my assistance nor my money. You’re a true friend. And yet slowly, like poison, you turn my own son against me.

  – I have never…

  – He listens to you. Everything you say is correct, simple, and interesting.

  – He didn’t listen to me. He didn’t care.

  – So as a father, what does one do? Give up? Make sacrifices? Does he walk away from his family? Or do everything he can to keep the family together?

  Charles returns and whispers something to Palabras.

  – You’re more twisted than I thought, Erhard says. – There are no excuses, none, for what you’ve done.

  – No need to prattle on. My mother, may she rest in peace, used to speak of blame. But blame has never led to anything. Love, on the other hand. For the sake of love one must make sacrifices.

  – These are people, Palabras. You can’t just decide who lives and who dies. You’re a criminal, and you’ll pay for your crimes.

  – That’s exactly what I feared. Ill-considered and baseless.

  – I have proof. It’s in a safe place, and if anything happens to me, you’ll read about it in the newspaper. I have a witness. He’s implicated you multiple times.

  Emanuel Palabras drops into one of the chairs, and he’s immediately enveloped within four Maasai arms emerging from behind him. He grins. – I’ve told you not to play detective. You’re not very good at it.

  – I know more than you think.

  – You’re forgetting your own role in the matter.

  – What do you mean?

  – Where did you get the corpse?