The Hermit (41 page)

The funny thing about watching football with Aaz in the room is that he cheers every time Barcelona has the ball. He throws his arms into the air, urging them to hustle down the pitch. As if to say:
The goal’s open! And so are four players you can pass the ball to!
Barcelona wins the match 2–0.

Afterward he drives them home. Mónica follows Aaz inside. She disappears through the gate and gives Erhard a look requesting that he not leave her there. As if he would. He notices that three of the letters in the Santa Marisa Home’s sign are worn out or completely rubbed off so that it now reads Santa Mar Home.

Mónica returns and climbs in the car. Saying goodbye to her son has made her sad. He tries to imagine what it’s like to leave an oversized adult son here. Maybe she’s plagued by a bad conscience. Maybe she feels grief for the child she never had.

They drive south in silence. The sun is setting. The island’s unique light, filtered through dust and sea-mist – a greenish tint that wedges between heaven and ocean so that you feel as though you’re floating – causes them both to sit motionless in their seats. The road feels much too short, and now they’ve almost arrived. Erhard turns into Mónica’s driveway. The car crunches over the gravel and they park in front of the house. He wishes he could start the day over and be in a better mood. He feels the urge to tell her about the dream. To explain to her why he’s been so withdrawn. But he can’t. It has nothing to do with his dream, either. That’s just the way he is; he can’t change.

– I’ve had a good day, she says. – Because Aaz had a good day, I can tell.

– They won of course. He likes that.

– And the calamari.

– Right, that too.

Mónica smiles. – That was the first time Aaz and I have eaten out.

Erhard glances down. He hadn’t thought of that. – I’ve never had visitors. So it works out for all of us.

– But now you have your neighbour to invite over.

– I can’t afford that, he says, trying to turn it into another joke.

– Were you nervous?

– About today? No.

– I was. I didn’t sleep last night. I lay there wondering if Aaz would have one of his fits during the meal. Or if he would ruin your carpet. He pees on everything sometimes.

– So do I.

– Thank you for listening today, she says, climbing out of the car.

– You were honest. You said what you were thinking.

She stands with the door open, and he can’t see her face. – You’re a good man, Erhard. It’s the first time she’s said his given name, and it sounds like Jerrar. – Don’t forget that. Even if you don’t find that boy’s mother. But I don’t have room for a man in my life. I can’t. Because of Aaz, you understand. She turns and starts towards the house.

What he understands is that she’s putting an end to something that hadn’t even begun.

52

He hopes to find Marcelis in his office to discuss with him the two cars he’s chosen. Osasuna’s name is already on the contract, and he’s the one who’ll have to sign.

Erhard hasn’t seen him since their brief conversation in the corridor a week earlier. But the door is closed. Ana’s in there with him, and he can hear them whispering in subdued voices. Erhard stands quietly, listening. As soon as they begin talking business again, he’ll enter. First he hears a sound like the shuffling of furniture, then a grinding noise, like paper being shredded. Something heavy slides down the other side of the door, and it occurs to Erhard that what he’d heard was Marcelis moaning. They’re having a morning shag.

He returns his book to his briefcase and walks through the building as if he has a meeting to attend.

The car dealer is eating his lunch.

– Go ahead, Erhard says, seating himself at the small table in the dealership’s cafeteria.

– We’re not supposed to allow customers in here.

– That’s OK.

Gilberto looks around the room. There’s a dollop of mayonnaise in the corner of his mouth from his sandwich.

– I’m here because I need you to do me a favour.

– Um, Gilberto says, his mouth full of food.

– You need to change the contract so that I can sign instead of Osasuna. He points at the name on the contract.

– I can’t. You know that, Gilberto says, sucking air through his teeth.

– Are you telling me that Osasuna’s name is on every one of our cars? Erhard doesn’t know if it’s true or not, but the expression on Gilberto’s face suggests he’s right. – Which means that the day he quits he can take them with him. In theory.

– No, that’s not true. He’ll have to…

– What do you think Emanuel Palabras would say?

Gilberto looks confused at first. Then a kind of panic appears in his eyes. – But I can’t change the contracts. I wasn’t the one who prepared them. You’ll need to speak with my boss.

– But what do you think Emanuel Palabras would say?

Gilberto throws down his sandwich. – I can’t change the contracts. That’s just how it is, Palabras or not.

Erhard knows that the man can’t change the contract, of course, and he glances down at the table as if he’s considering something. – Then maybe you can help me with another matter?

Gilberto seems reluctant.

– Who ships the cars between islands and to the continent?

– What do you mean? Individuals? Businesses?

– Who’s responsible? Is it a big company or a bunch of small ones? Where do your cars come from?

Gilberto sits up in his chair. – Why do you ask?

– I just want to understand the vehicle-import business, that’s all.

– Does it have anything to do with the boy?

Erhard is no longer surprised that people have heard of his interest in the boy’s parents. And yet he hadn’t expected to run into the gossip here, at a car dealership in Puerto. – Why do you think that?

– Because… because my wife told me that some crazy Norwegian is trying to find the boy’s mother. All the women on my street are talking about it.

– And now you think it’s me?

Gilberto stares at the tabletop. – How should I know? You’re the only Norwegian I’ve met.

– And you’re right. I’m the one.

The car salesman seems relieved. – I’d like to help you, so it’s not that. It’s good that you’re trying to find the mother; she shouldn’t get off scot-free. It’s just that…

There are always two interpretations of the story, Erhard has noticed: either the mother is a criminal who killed her son, or the mother and son were the victims of a crime. He doesn’t know which one he believes. He hopes it’s somewhere in the middle. The real story will emerge one day, and he’ll have to accept it.

– So, Gilberto, who ships the cars?

– To the island? Importaciones Juan y Juan.

– And when you include the other islands and the continent?

– I don’t know. There are a number of import companies.

– Can you find out?

– Maybe. Right now?

– If you can.

With difficulty, Gilberto gets to his feet. Erhard follows him from the cafeteria and across the courtyard, where they walk past a few cars that have been stripped of doors and tyres. – Interested in old wrecks? Gilberto asks when he sees Erhard staring. – Something you can fix up?

– How much? Erhard asks, not because he would know how to fix any of these cars, but because he could buy one for the workshop.

– Those? One hundred euros. The one over there, fifty.

– What’s wrong with it? It looks to be in better shape than the others.

– Some moron put a lawnmower engine in it. If you have a son, he would probably enjoy it.

– No thanks.

They pass through the auto workshop where the mechanic who’d earlier brought Erhard to the cafeteria now sits smoking a cigar, and then enter the display floor. Gilberto waves the smoke away from his nose. – We’re a little behind on the smoking ban. If we banned it, we wouldn’t have any mechanics tomorrow. My apologies. Gilbert sits down crookedly on a shabby office chair, then begins punching keys on a computer keyboard. He moves the mouse around and apologizes for something Erhard can’t see. – You know what, it’s probably easier if you saw it yourself. He spins round in his chair and grabs a little red book. – These things are sent to us once a year, but perhaps it’ll come in handy now. Let’s see.

Erhard spends a few days calling the companies in Gilberto’s book. The conversations are brief, and uncomfortable. There’s something about their industry – their very nature – that causes them to react hostilely when he rings. At one of the companies, the man who answered the phone doesn’t understand how Erhard got the number. At another – a large shipping firm in Spain, TiTi Europe – a woman repeatedly inquires as to whether he’s a reporter for a newspaper that Erhard isn’t familiar with. Every time he rules out one company, he strikes it from the book. Many don’t pick up the phone and he has to call back later.

He’s nearly through the entire list when he realizes that the companies are responding strangely because they don’t want to get mixed up in anything. During each call he asks whether or not they’ve had an accident on board one of their ships in the past three months. None have. In fact, they’ve never had
any
accidents. In the beginning Erhard crossed off all the companies, but the more that refuse to admit to ever having an accident, the more he knows they’re lying. He’s not sure which companies are lying, but he knows that some of them are.

And he knows why. They have no reason to tell him the truth. When Erhard calls, it’s easier for them to say
No, we’ve not had any accidents
, than to investigate the matter. TiTi Europe was close to transferring him to their CEO, so he could explain their mistake-free business model. But then the woman changed her mind and lost interest in transferring him. Finally he had to hang up.

He’ll have to do something else to get an honest answer. He needs to start over, but ask a different question. He spends most of the afternoon thinking of another way forward, but he can’t come up with anything. He’s given the vehicle contracts to Ana and expects Marcelis to visit him at any moment, indignant and hurt, the paperwork in his hand.

But he doesn’t. The office is dead, the corridors are empty. And that afternoon, for the first time, Erhard misses sitting in a car without knowing who’ll be his next fare.

He wants to see Aaz again. And Mónica.

His downstairs neighbour still hasn’t listed her name on her door. Every day he hopes to run into her on the way up or down. Just to see her, to ensure that she lives in the house and isn’t a prostitute going door to door. It’s possible her interest in him was completely sincere.

Tuesday. Driving out of the underground car park to the high street, he passes the drab-looking office where, from early in the morning, a young man sits in a light-blue suit talking on the telephone. Erhard had always thought it was just some anonymous travel bureau, but now he sees seventeen sheets of A4 paper taped to the window, with one letter on each spelling out the company’s name: Mercuria Insurance. Insurance isn’t a lucrative business on the island. The residents may be pessimists, but they are sceptical pessimists. Whatever happens, happens. And if it doesn’t happen that often, well, there’s no reason to pay for it not happening. The island’s unique conditions, the wind and weather and the alcoholic population, mean that claims, by and large, are never paid out – and claims are mostly something one hears about when an American tourist collides with a breakwater in his sailboat or an Israeli lands a bacterial infection from a swimming pool. But every now and then, an EU directive goes astray and reaches the island, and then everyone with a boat or who works with transport must suddenly be insured.

Erhard can’t imagine anything worse than being an insurance salesman. Not even funeral directors sell a product that you hope to never use. Every business sector has its own terms and conditions. Taxi drivers are helpers. They rescue busy people, or people who don’t know how to get where they’re going, or who want to get away from some place. As a piano tuner, he saves the beloved instrument; he makes it sound better, bringing order to chaos. Insurance salespeople are the irritating messengers. The one who tells you that, sometime in the future, something awful might happen to you, your family, your car, your house. And if the worst possible thing happened – what you didn’t want to discuss or imagine – they’ll help you out with some money. Money which seems completely meaningless in the big picture, almost like an insult. Buying insurance is like making a huge wager but one with tiny print. It’s a grotesque product for a grotesque era.

Erhard thinks about compensation. Bad luck’s lottery ticket. Just hearing the word compensation almost makes one want to tell half-lies or half-truths. That’s how it is for most people. Maybe even for larger companies in the logistics business?

Erhard swerves into the lot and parks the car, then enters the Mercuria Insurance office. It resembles an office-furniture exhibition in a modern style that Erhard doesn’t like, and it’s illuminated by a row of light-blue fluorescent tubes four metres off the floor, which makes the man at the desk seem pale and bloodless. He is on the telephone but looks up when Erhard enters; he’s clearly not used to customers dropping in. Erhard raises a finger to his mouth, indicating that he’ll keep his mouth shut, while grabbing a business card from the table rack. The name on the card is Jorge Algara. The man continues talking into his headset, but he gestures excitedly with his hand that Erhard can take as many cards as he wishes. He takes only one.

53

Shortly after eight o’clock, he returns to the top of his list. Direct Logistica SL. He softens his voice and tries to speak without an accent. It’s almost comical.

– Good morning, my name is Jorge Algara. I’m calling from Mercuria Insurance in Las Palmas. I see that you’ve got a large claim to be paid out to you, but I’m missing some details about the incident.

Silence on the other end of the line.

– What do you need to know? she says.

Everyone wants to talk to him now.

Some are still sceptical. Many cannot answer his questions and transfer him to someone who can. But most research their logbooks, explaining to him precise details about their shipping schedules. At first he writes everything down, but after a few conversations he begins to draw a map with dates and times. He asks whether they’ve heard of any wreckage in the area, and requests they provide him with bank account information so the money can be transferred. If they ask for an email address at which they can contact him, he gives them the real Jorge Algara’s address at Mercuria Insurance. When the morning is over, he takes a break and studies his drawing. None of the companies have transported cars to or past Fuerteventura in the relevant time period. None have seen wreckage or any scrap from the tsunami. Just one company had an incident involving a collision near the islands; it was in January, but none of the ships involved were damaged. He’s learned some useful information, but he still has the feeling that people aren’t telling him everything. He examines his list. Nineteen companies left to call.