The Hermit (27 page)

– How do I find her address?

– You could drive down to Marabu and show her photograph to some of the locals. Surely they know her. She sure knows how to attract attention.

– She’s just a child, Erhard says, staring at a photograph she’s taken of herself in the mirror. Her wetsuit is pulled down around her waist, and one arm covers her breasts.

– A confused little girl, Mónica says.

– Shouldn’t she be living at home with Mum and Dad?

– I hope she is.

– Not judging by these pictures.

– Look. The images all have numbers, Mónica says, pointing at the screen. This one’s called 11122010_107. And the next one’s 11122010_144.

– What does that mean?

– It means that some photos haven’t been posted online. Maybe there’s something she doesn’t want to show her mum and dad, or someone else.

– And the photographs from Cotillo?

Mónica returns to the photos from Cotillo. She toggles back and forth between the images. – Yes, she says. Here’s image number 43. The next one is number 010620111_48. Four images are missing.

Erhard drives Aaz home.

Aaz’s hand is sticking out the window. Just like the trip down here, Aaz is happy, easygoing. He keeps smiling, looking about as if everything’s lovely, even though he’s completely walled off from the world. He’s never been to the movie theatre in Puerto or down to the corner to buy an ice cream with five scoops.

Normally Erhard keeps the conversation going, but now he doesn’t know what to say. Your mother’s a nice lady, he wants to say, but why has he never said that before?

It doesn’t usually bother Erhard, but he notices that Aaz shows no sign that he’s just said farewell to his mother, whom he won’t see for another week. And it calls to mind the thought he has every time he tries to understand why he drives Aaz each Wednesday, for free, when the boy – who except for a few smiles deep in his eyes – shows no sign of recognition or happiness. On the one hand Erhard drives him out of pure love, but on the other hand, it’s because of the selfish, distant hope that Aaz will one day say thank you. Thank you for taking the trouble. Thank you for talking to me.

He’s touched that Mónica helped him, even if she wound up thinking Erhard was after something other than the car: the girl photographer. He wanted to say, What the hell are you talking about, woman? But he didn’t want to seem ungrateful. She could be my own daughter, he wanted to say. The girl was quite a bit younger than his youngest, Mette, who is over thirty now, but it wasn’t that far-fetched. He could see why she would think that. He’d stared too long at the photo the girl had taken of herself in the mirror, and maybe also at a photo from the beach in Morro, where she lay on a blanket without a stitch of clothing on. He’d never visited a nudist beach, and the sight of the girl had completely taken his breath away, even if he couldn’t really see anything. It wasn’t his fault. Mónica reacted as though he shouldn’t feel that kind of desire any more. As if he ought to have given up on his sex life years ago. But desire didn’t seep from one’s body the nearer one came to seventy. On the contrary, he could almost say. Sometimes, all his years of inactivity caused him to tingle with an abstract arousal at gouges in the tabletop or goat nipples, or things that resembled things that resembled things he once had access to, closed country now, accessible only via the narrow gate of his memory. His shame overwhelmed him. If he’d felt any lust staring at those photographs, it was gone now.

At Santa Marisa Erhard says goodbye, but Aaz says nothing. Just walks through the broad front door. He doesn’t turn around, and doesn’t wave.

The doctor stands on the crate examining Beatriz. – You can’t keep her here, he says, rocking her slightly so he can get his hand underneath her. – She needs to see a neurologist in Puerto. She’s dehydrated, and her stool is dry.

That’s where the strange smell is from, Erhard guesses. Like a pottery workshop. He can’t bear to watch. Instead, he rummages around in the kitchen. – Can’t you do something?

The doctor looks unhappy. – You can’t keep…

– A miracle can occur just as easily here as at a hospital.

– I’m not talking about miracles. I’m talking about equipment. If she has intracranial bleeding that isn’t treated.

– Either she stays here and survives, or she goes to a hospital and dies, Erhard says, sounding more confident than he feels.

The doctor removes a plastic tube from his kit and steps up on the crate again. – Did you turn off the respirator at any point?

– No, not at all.

But there was the time he turned the respirator off to move her, and also that one night that he didn’t manage to fill the generator with diesel. For a few minutes there was no current, and the respirator whistled. But he got it started again, and she was still alive. He needs another 950 euros to purchase the new generator.

– It’s a little difficult up here, the doctor says. – I’m sorry that I’m not sedating you, Beacita. He jabs a long nail into her neck, then the plastic tube. It looks unpleasant. Erhard can’t bear to watch. – How much has she urinated? the doctor asks to keep Erhard’s mind occupied.

– I don’t know. Two or three bags.

Shortly afterward, the doctor steps off the crate and hangs a large bag with some white mixture on a nail. He taps it and liquid begins to flow down the tube into Beatriz’s nose. Then he stands in the doorway.

– Have the police contacted you again? Erhard asks.

– No, not yet.

– Tell them everything, just like it was. That you found her unconscious, that you examined her but could tell her injuries were too great. She died while you were there, and I’d told you I would contact the police because I’d been in the flat.

– I’m not allowed to do that. I must report deaths.

– You were there as a friend, as a favour to me.

– I could lose my licence.

– But you won’t.

– They’ll consider it neglect.

– Tell them I threatened you.

– How?

– I told you that it would be your fault if Raúl got off scot-free.

– What do you mean?

– You could tell it was an accident, but that I was beside myself, and certain that Raúl had done it.

– But didn’t you say it was an accident…

– Yes, but if the police need to know why you didn’t do anything.

– I’m not sure about this, the doctor says.

– Maybe they won’t call you again. Her funeral was yesterday.

– What? How?

Erhard doesn’t want to explain. – Let’s just say they’re convinced that Beatrizia Colini is dead.

– What about her? He points at the pantry.

– She doesn’t exist. She’s free.

The doctor stares at him. At first he’s frustrated, squinting, then he softens, relaxes. – I think I understand, he says. – But you need to… She needs glucose. He points at the white bag. – And you need to turn her. She’s on her right side now. Tomorrow you’ll need to roll her onto her back, and then her left side the day after that. If we’re lucky, we can help her just as well here as they can in Puerto.

– It’ll be no trouble for me to reposition her.

– I’ll get you more glucose. Without attracting too much attention. And some more bags for her faeces.

Doctors can make anything sound ordinary.

– Thanks, Erhard says. He has trouble saying that word, but he owes him as much for all that he’s done.

The doctor simply nods as he packs his kit with all his equipment.

– Have you ever… have you ever heard the dead speak? Heard their voices after they died?

– Personally? No.

The doctor scrutinizes Erhard.

– How then?

– I’ve heard of couples who claim they’ve heard their spouse speak following their death.

– You believe them?

– I believe they’ve heard it, yes. But not that they’d actually heard a voice.

This annoys Erhard. – What do you think they heard then?

– I don’t know. It’s their imagination. A hope. A kind of phantom conversation. Pain over something left unsaid. Did Beatriz say something to you?

– She said something when she was still conscious. Before you got there. She told me that I should help her.

– And so you have.

– Yes.

– I still don’t understand why the police believe she’s dead.

– That’s my secret.

– What about when Raúl returns? He may be charged with murder.

Yes, Erhard thinks. – He won’t return, he says. – And if he does, that’s his problem. I don’t think Raúl hurt her on purpose; it was his behaviour, his lifestyle, that did it. He’ll have to explain what happened.

– And if he’s convicted?

– You said it yourself at one point. He’ll have to accept his punishment. And I’ll have to tell the authorities what I know. I’ll have to take it as it comes.

The doctor circles back to the beginning. – I could lose my licence.

– Not if you tell the truth, and only lie about everything that has happened since I brought her out here.

– My wife is worried. She’s afraid of Los Tres Papas.

This surprises Erhard. – They’re just a group of boys in oversized jackets. With padding in their sleeves.

– I thought you were with them. That you were some kind of gangster.

Erhard laughs, but it’s not actually funny.

– We thought you would threaten me or kill me.

– Why the hell did you come out here then?

– My wife didn’t want me to, either. But what can I do? I can’t leave the island. I can’t run from my problems.

Suddenly he seems less bureaucratic and more alive, even though Erhard still doesn’t like his sand-coloured tie, his sand-coloured shirt, his sand-coloured slacks, or his sand-coloured face. – Why do you think that about me?

– It’s no secret. Everyone knows.

– Knows what?

The doctor doesn’t wish to say. He claps his kit shut. – I’ll see you in a few days. I’ll come out and examine her again. If she shows no improvement soon, she’s as good as dead and the lie will be true after all.

He starts towards the door. Erhard notices Alina’s mobile lying on top of the box next to the door.

– What does everyone know?

– That Raúl Palabras works for Los Tres Papas.

There’s still some workday remaining, and he feels the need to earn some cash. He tells dispatch that he’s available and listens for a call to head south. He drives down 101 and FV-2. He gets a one-way trip from Puerto to Pájara, but otherwise it’s just an ordinary Wednesday evening, warm and rather dull, interrupted only by the radio announcer’s observations about football matches in Spain. Historically, the entire island has rooted for Madrid, but in the last few years, young people have begun to side with Barcelona, which is evident from the cheers, snatches of song, and cussing on the radio. Erhard doesn’t care about any of it. He laughs at them. He’s never played football. Not even in school. He had crooked feet, he was told, and for many years he thought his condition would worsen if he ran around too much. Maybe it was just something his father said. His father thought football was for yokels, a loser’s sport, he sometimes said. Look at all those filthy boys playing football because they don’t know how to use their heads or their hands. They don’t even care to learn a sensible trade.

He approaches Risco del Gato, which lies right where the sun is setting; the town’s skyline is practically burned away by the strong sun. He sees the sign pointing towards Morro, and turns up the FV-2, but chooses instead to drive around Risco del Gato on the dusty north country road. On his left side he sees, for a long time, Zenon’s olive grove, the pride of the island. The only business with several hundred employees – at least until a few years ago. There’s no one in the fields today. Or in the courtyard visible through the fence and between the two giant buildings that face the road.

Erhard tries to recall what the photographer girl looked like. When he left his house, he didn’t think it’d be very difficult to recall her face, but the farther he drives the more it seems to be supplanted by other things: the woman with the shopping bags, a little boy swinging on a playground outside of Risco del Gato, a painting on a wall, the olive trees with their soft leaves. Now he remembers only words like ‘short’, ‘white’, ‘glasses’. He hopes it’s enough, he hopes things work out on their own once he arrives in Marabu.

Not until he sees the dashboard clock, a digital affair with green numbers, change to 7:02 does he recalls his meeting with Luisa, the hairdresser’s daughter, who is now fifty minutes away by car. Erhard has no telephone. Nor does he have her number for that matter.

There’s nothing to be done about it now. He doesn’t even remove his foot from the gas pedal.
C’est la vie
. He didn’t need her help any more, anyway; he’d solved his problem without her. He notices his own severity. Of course he’s embarrassed that the girl will ring the buzzer and wonder why no one answers. If he could, he’d call Petra at once and explain the situation to her, and she could then relate it to her daughter when she got the chance. He had pictured Luisa wearing a red snug-fitting blouse, he had imagined the scent of her hair or the sound of her hoarse voice as she explained to him how computers function.

To hell with it. There’s probably a reason that he’s forgotten her, and their appointment. He’s been busy with Beatriz, Aaz, the doctor, the boy. He owes Luisa an apology, maybe he’ll buy her a box of chocolates for her trouble. He’ll drive past a supermarket on his way home and, if he has the time, deliver the chocolates to Petra’s tomorrow morning.

He approaches the coast.

The beach is dark and small, and the water is relatively calm though there is a good breeze. He sees a few windsurfers and kitesurfers on the edge of the horizon. Now and then they streak through the sunlight like birds. Gravel plinks against the undercarriage. He drives until he spots a place on the beach where several people are seated beneath an umbrella under the shade of a small wooden kiosk, one of those places where you can rent kitesurfing equipment or buy ice cream. He gets out of his car and crosses the hot sand. He scrutinizes the faces he sees. Although there are people of all ages, a few of them are girls and boys the same age as MitchFever. Erhard walks around the kiosk and spots a woman his own age selling coffee and ice cream inside. He buys a cup of coffee that tastes of chlorine, and drinks it while watching a group of young people lying on blankets and towels, arms and legs all mixed up. Next to them are surfboards and duffels. Somewhere in the distance music plays.