The Hermit (18 page)

– I’ll give you the money I told you about. Find the images for me, and I’ll give you the money.

She laughs that sickening laughter of hers. – How the hell can I trust what you say, Fourfingers, when you change your mind all the time? You’ve promised me three times now that I could go.

– OK. Honestly, I don’t know anything about computers. I need your help.

– I can see that. But I’m not exactly a computer geek. Let me go and I’ll find someone who can better help you.

– What does your charger look like?

– Fuck you, she says, spitting at him.

For some reason, he waits in the car for a few minutes before crossing the street. It’s so early in the morning that the flats appear drawn and sleepy. Music emerges from La Mar Roja on the corner, which is the sailors’ preferred wine bar and always open. An anxious young man with a fag between his lips is seated on a low wall across from the bar, kicking his legs, smoke pouring from his nose as fast as he puts the cigarette to his mouth. He’s staring at the bar as if he’s going to rob it, another of the city’s many current or former drug addicts, so wretched that he can’t even earn money selling leather goods or making sand sculptures. Farther down the street, a man sweeps the sidewalk with a stiff broom.

Erhard heads towards the doorway directly to the left of the bar. Above the entrance, there’s a large painting of a schooner in the process of being swallowed by a whale. He lets himself in and reviews the names taped on the sea-blue wooden post boxes. He doesn’t see her name anywhere, only men’s names. Then he spots it on the top floor. Angelina Mariposa. That must be her. He considers taking the stairs, but chooses the lift instead, which is already holding in the lobby.

The key slides right into the lock, and then he’s inside, closing the door behind him.

It’s very dark. Thick curtains block the sunlight as well as the view, and he draws them back to find his way around. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking for, but he’s seen chargers before, so he scans the room for electrical outlets. Although the flat isn’t new, it has been remodelled, and everything is square and sharply defined. On a curtained shelf, he finds at least thirty pairs of shoes resting on cheap wooden racks. Pink shoes and black stilettos with thin laces. It makes him laugh. He owns only one pair of shoes himself, and he’ll wear them until they fall apart. He quickly locates the charger in the tiny black kitchen; it dangles from an outlet above a table for two. There are two wine glasses on the table, one filled with white wine, along with salmon-coloured nail polish resting on an American magazine. There’s no cooktop, just this small table and a black refrigerator. Like him, she’s apparently not much of a cook, and he wonders how she gets her meals. Does she go out every night or do men pay for her dinners? He grabs the charger, then studies the black-and-white photo magnet that he finds on the fridge. It’s a pretty photo. In it she’s raising a champagne glass at the photographer and laughing as though she doesn’t have a care in the world. Directly above her cleavage a caption reads:
Good company?

At the bottom of the photograph:
alinacompania.es
.

Erhard can hardly believe that the woman in the photo – who looks like a film star – is at this very moment chained up in his living room.

While leaving her flat he catches a whiff of something. He follows the scent into the bedroom, a darkened cave with a queen-sized bed underneath a pile of undulating black blankets. The scent is powerful – cinnamon and citrus. Normally, his sense of smell is not great. To his left he spots a wooden wardrobe painted black. He opens it, then runs his hands across the sequined dresses and a few suits of almost transparent fabric. He’s often dreamed of walking into a lingerie shop and examining all the pretty fabrics and feeling the thin straps between his fingers, but now that he has the chance, he doesn’t really dare. And yet he removes some things from the drawers: a pair of soft white trousers, a t-shirt embossed with large letters, and pink underwear with blue lace that looks like something a child might wear. He bundles them all up inside a pair of Alina’s trousers. Then he walks out of her flat, slamming the door behind him.

He waits for a lorry to pass before crossing the street to his car.

– Erhard!

He turns, but he already knows who it is. It’s one of the few who pronounce his name so that it nearly sounds Danish.

Raúl Palabras waves to a man heading in the opposite direction, then trots across the street. He looks relaxed, his shirt unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up, and his hair meticulously combed.

– I was in the bar and saw you come out. What are you doing here so early?

– What are you doing? Going home without Bea?

– Pesce and I had too many beers. She went home, Raúl says, taking one of Erhard’s hands and touching Erhard’s elbow with the other, as if he were about to swing him around. It’s Raúl’s style. – Would you drive me home?

Erhard doesn’t see how he could say no. He doesn’t have a reason to say no. Besides, he’s heading in that direction. – I can drop you off, he says. I’ve got to earn my living somehow, I guess.

– Oh, yes. Money.

They look at each other.

– What have you got there? Raúl asks, staring at the clothes and the charger.

– Just a few things I needed to pick up for one of my customers.

Raúl grins. – Oh, Old Man. You’re getting mixed up in something, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes.

– Sod off, Erhard says, opening his door and climbing in. Raúl dashes around the car and hops into the passenger seat. They drive. Erhard manages to toss the clothes in the backseat, so that Raúl doesn’t notice they are girls’ clothes. There’s no way he could explain it to him now. No, he’s not ready to tell Raúl what happened.

They head down one-way streets, and Raúl tells him how busy he is and that he’s sick and tired of people not doing what they’re told. Erhard laughs at his stories. They arrive at Raúl’s flat.

– Come on up, Raúl says. – Let’s have a Sunrise and watch the sunrise.

– The sun came up long ago, Raúl.

– Then a Bloody Mary. Come on. I need you,
Hermano
.

Something he says when he’s most desperate.

– What, to get plastered? You should go up and sleep with your beautiful girl. She’s probably worried about you.

– No she’s not. That’s the problem. She hates me.

– Shut up, Erhard says. He doesn’t believe that at all.

– Bloody hell, Erhard, she’s going to leave me.

– Did she tell you that?

– No, not exactly. But she doesn’t love me like she used to. I just know it. Come with me. She’s crazy about you, you’re like her favourite uncle or something. We’ll wake her up with Bloodys and breakfast.

It’s Saturday. He won’t be able to work this morning. Maybe tonight. He can go home to Alina afterward. She’s not going anywhere. – OK. One Bloody Mary.

He wants to drive into Raúl’s car park beneath his building, but it’s being renovated, Raúl says, and he doesn’t think there’ll be a spot. Instead they park at the abandoned construction zone near HiperDino, then amble down the street towards the harbour and Raúl’s flat. Lying on the street next to the building’s entrance is Crazy Enrique, sleeping with his baseball bat. Raúl shushes Erhard as they edge past him and go up the broad stairwell. For some reason Erhard glances down the street right as they enter, and he sees the same anxious man who’d sat on the wall opposite the bar. It must be a coincidence. This flat borders the busiest section of town, and maybe the man just walked down here to sell or buy something or sleep on the beach.

– What did you say you were doing at La Mar Roja? Raúl asks.

– Do you remember the incident with the car on the beach? The night of the storm?

– The car theft? Raúl says, his back to Erhard. – Yeah, is there anything new? I heard they found the mother.

– That’s what they say. But they’re lying.

Raúl pauses. – Who? The paper-pushers?

That’s Raúl’s word for the police.

– Yes. All they did was find a prostitute who’s got nothing at all to do with it. And someone paid her to confess.

– What makes you think that?

– I’ve done some investigating.

– Playing Colombo now, are you?

Raúl unlocks the door of his flat, and they enter. From the entranceway one can see through the French doors and into the living room.

Beatriz is sleeping in front of the TV. On the screen are some black dancers, a motorcycle, and a man dressed as a dog. She stretches lazily and reaches for Raúl, pulling him into a kiss. When she asks where he went off to, Raúl gently closes her eyes and tells her she shouldn’t get pissed.

– But I wasn’t that pissed, she says, laughing as she squeezes Erhard’s arm.

– Come, Raúl says. – We’re going to have some Bloodys.

– Oh no, Beatriz groans. But she follows them up to the rooftop terrace anyway. The stairwell is located around the corner of the balcony. Narrow and rickety, it clings to the house and climbs up to the already scorching private terrace, which is furnished with an outdoor sofa, an African-inspired coffee table, a pair of wicker chairs with thick pillows, and a small worktop with a fridge and a sink under a large umbrella. Beatriz plops tiredly into the sofa and crawls beneath a thin blanket.

– Erhard’s playing amateur detective, Raúl says. – Remember the car down at the beach?

Raúl walks over to the little prep counter and begins removing items from the fridge. White liquor, juice, fresh lemon. The kinds of things that are always available at Raúl’s place.

– Throwing away kids like that isn’t normal behaviour, Erhard says.

– I can’t stand it, Beatriz says.

Raúl laughs. – Even an old dog has a good nose. Isn’t that what people say?

He squeezes the lemon over the glass, squirting juice into the air.

– Who says that? Beatriz says, laughing.

– Here I was thinking that the Hermit was just living in his own little world of piano tuning, alcohol, and cab driving.

Erhard laughs because Raúl has never called him the Hermit. Then he tells them about the box filled with newspaper fragments. His curiosity piqued, Raúl asks if the police found any DNA or fingerprints. Like you see on television. Erhard explains what Bernal told him. That finding DNA is not as easy as one would think. Beatriz is mostly interested in the little boy. About whether he’ll get a proper burial. Can’t they find the mother? she wants to know. Raúl thinks it was just a horrible accident: a car thief finds a child on the backseat – oops! – and so he leaves the car on the beach and hurries away.

– You’ll see, Raúl says. – In the end, they’ll discover that the prostitute was the mother.

– No, Erhard says. – I’ve talked to her. It’s not her.

Silence.

– What did you say? Beatriz says.

Erhard tells them how the police have charged the wrong person.

– She’s lying, Raúl says.

– No, I’ve pressed her on it. It’s not her.

– That’s crazy, Beatriz says.

– Did you see her downtown? Raúl wants to know, his back still turned to Erhard. He hammers the pestle which he’s used to crush celery and lemon and spices against the edge of the sink. The scent is tangy.

Erhard glances cautiously at Beatriz. – She’s over at my place. Hiding. She’s told me everything and is ready to tell her story. But she’s afraid of the police.

– Erhard, Beatriz says excitedly. – Wow.

Raúl hands them each a bright red drink with a large spoon poking up from the liquid. He loves to eat the mashed celery stalk after he’s drunk half the glass. – I’ve made it extra spicy for you,
Hermano
.

Erhard accepts the drink from Raúl and notices the thick film of pepper on top.

– Thanks, he says, sucking vodka through the straw. Strong vodka.

– But isn’t that an awful mess to get dragged into? Raúl asks.

– The press won’t write about it, Erhard says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. – I’ve already spoken to a journalist. But maybe something will happen now that I’ve got the girl.

–
Got
? What do you mean by that? Beatriz asks.

– Now that she’s hiding at my place.

– Doesn’t she want to leave the island? Get away from the police? Raúl asks. – Maybe we can help her do that.

Beatriz gives Raúl a sceptical look, because Raúl usually isn’t eager to lend a helping hand. Maybe it’s more than scepticism. Maybe Raúl’s right that she’s leaving him. To Erhard, it sounded like there was a hint of irritation or even contempt in her voice. She has complained about all of Raúl’s female friends before, his toadies and ass-kissers, girls and women from every social class who want a piece of the rebellious rich man’s son’s colourful life.

– Right now she’s helping me find the boy’s parents. We need a computer, actually. Do you have one we can borrow?

It almost feels normal to talk to someone about this.

– I can’t do without mine, unfortunately, Raúl says. He raises his glass and clinks with Erhard’s. – Always good to see your old mug.

They drink. Beatriz sips, then makes a face. Raúl sucks his drink until it begins to slurp. Erhard follows suit, but hardly tastes the tomato for all the vodka, pepper, mashed celery, and Tabasco sauce.

– What about my computer? Beatriz asks Raúl. – I’m not using it.

– How will you check your email? Or update the website?

– There’s not a lot going on right now. Or for a while, you know.

She yawns, and Erhard can see the fillings in her teeth.

– What about the boutique? Raúl asks her.

She shrugs.

– Forget it, Erhard says. – We’ll figure something out.

– Sorry, but I’m knackered. Standing, Beatriz suddenly seems spent. – Goodnight, my sweet, she says to Erhard, while running her hand across Raúl’s arm. Erhard watches her go, but says nothing.

On the rooftop directly across from them, an elderly woman has begun hanging clothes. Soaked, heavy jerseys that tug on the line until it begins pulling down the antenna the line is attached to. Football jerseys for an entire team and then some. It reminds Erhard of Aaz, who loves football.