The Hermit (46 page)

The lift opens to a large office with more than thirty tables, sofas, plants, meeting rooms behind red glass, and computer screens. Plenty of computer screens. People – many of them Indians – are clustered around a pair of long tables, and a number of young men wearing hats. Just as he exits the lift he sees a sign listing the businesses located on this floor, including Eawayz, Aritza’s company, to the right. As he strolls down the hall, he sees Aritza inside a glass office, his back turned. He’s facing the sea and talking on the telephone. Erhard waits at the door until Aritza sees him and waves him in, concluding his conversation with
bye-bye
.

– Good morning, Aritza says, glancing at his mobile. Erhard sits down on a soft, red, ball-shaped chair. Aritza sits down, too, and now looks at Erhard. – Whatever you think you know, you’re wrong. It’s nothing, it was nothing. You saw nothing.

– I hope not. For your wife’s sake. And your niece’s.

– My wife doesn’t give a shit. She’ll laugh at you if you run to her with such a story.

– Then why are we meeting here?

– What is it that you want?

Erhard scrutinizes him. – To be honest, I’ve come to you because I don’t know anyone else with connections to the shipping industry and logistics. I’m guessing there is sensitive information a person needs a clearance to obtain.

– You could’ve just asked me nicely.

– That’s what I’m doing.

Aritza leans back in his chair. – You want to talk with my friend Robbie, Robert Jamieson.

– I want to talk to someone who can help me find crewmembers of a particular ship.

– Right. But you see, I’ve already spoken to Robert. He says that the ship you’re looking for, the
Seascape Hestia
, was hijacked.

– I know that. That’s why I’m looking for the crewmembers.

– Robbie tells me the authorities are also searching for these crewmembers.

– OK. That sounds right, Erhard says.

– So why are you looking for them?

– It’s nothing criminal, I assure you.

– It’s already criminal. A ship was hijacked. A man was killed. The crew and cargo vanished.

– But I’m not asking for your help to do anything criminal.

– You say you’re looking for a person?

– Someone from the ship who can tell me what happened.

– There doesn’t appear to be anyone who can. All the crewmembers are gone. What are you planning to do?

– I don’t know.

– So, if I help you, you will not…

– I hadn’t planned on saying anything. As long as you get divorced and marry your niece.

André Aritza stares at Erhard in alarm. – I…

– Relax. Just help me with this. You can do whatever you wish in your private affairs.

– And you’ll promise me that you won’t harm my friend or get him into trouble? We’ll call him together.

– I’d like to talk to him by myself.

Aritza nods. He glances at his mobile, then lifts it to his ear. His face suddenly changes. – Hey, Robbie, it’s André. OK. I’ve talked to him. He’s all right. Yes. No, he won’t do that. Yes. OK. Here he is.

Aritza hands the telephone to Erhard.

– Good morning, Erhard says.

Static on the other end of the line. A very British voice speaks. – Good morning. André tells me you are searching for a ship’s crew.

– Yes. But not for the reason you probably think.

– Right.

– A boy died here on the island. I believe his death is connected to the ship.

– A boy? Do you mean the engineer?

– No. A 3-month-old boy.

– What does that have to do with the hijacking of a ship?

André Aritza looks a little confused.

– I don’t know yet.

– OK. I do not know about a 3-month-old boy. André requested that I find some information on the ship you are looking for. The
Seascape Hestia
?

– I just need one of the crewmembers, someone I could call or something.

– Do you know anything about maritime law and administration?

– No, Erhard says. – I don’t know anything about that.

– According to maritime law, any person who signs on to a ship must be listed in a register. In England we do that more or less digitally, but the system isn’t standardized. In many countries, crew lists are simply a photocopied sheet of paper with names written in illegible handwriting. In Spain you have it both ways. Valencia and Algeciras, two of the larger ports, have a pretty good handle on it. But even though Las Palmas and Santa Cruz are also relatively good, ships from those ports often sail under the flag of Dakar or Abidjan, and one does not quite need to have one’s papers in order there. Not always, in any case.

– So what does that mean for the
Seascape Hestia
?

– Up till October 2008, the Dutch shipping company which owns the
Seascape Hestia
was in charge of registering its seamen. But in 2009, the vessel arrived in Spain and was repeatedly leased to Spanish companies that did not have the same strict requirements. There have been relatively few hijackings on this side of the African continent, so there was not a whole lot of focus on registrations.

– So the company which sailed the ship when it was captured has the list?

– They have an old list, written five days before departure. And several of the names on the list, a so-called IMO FAL number 5, were not on board.

– They found the captain?

– Yes, he and three of eight crewmembers were on the list, but the rest were not. The list was outdated when they set sail. But even if it had been complete, you would not be able to find any of them. In addition to the captain, the other three whose names are known are all missing. The remainder know nothing about the
Seascape Hestia
. Except for one, an engineer by the name of Chris Jones.

The name sounded familiar. – What happened to him? Erhard asked.

– He was supposed to be on the ship, but he was replaced at the last moment by someone he does not know. But when the authorities found the body of an engineer carrying his papers, they believed it was him, of course.

– But it wasn’t him?

– No. Chris Jones seems to have been reading the newspaper account of the hijacking at a pub when he saw his name.

– So no one knows who was actually on board the ship?

– It is shoddy and irresponsible, but it shows just how messy the rules are.

– Or that someone purposefully forgot to fill out the paperwork, Erhard says, thinking about the stolen vehicles that were last seen in Holland.

– The Canary Islands’ police know more than we do at the moment. They have questioned quite a few of the locals in Port of Santa Cruz, including a colleague of mine several weeks ago. She told me most of what I am telling you now. Much of it is off the record. So no list, no names.

– OK, Erhard says.

– Unfortunately.

– OK.

– May I speak with André again? the Englishman says.

– In a moment. Can you get me information on Chris Jones? His telephone number?

– But he was never on board the ship.

– I’d like to speak with him.

The man is quiet for some time. – André tells me that you are pressuring him about something. I do not care to know what, but if I find Chris Jones’s information for you, you will forget what you think you know about André Aritza. Do you understand?

– I need the telephone number today.

– I will find the number and give it to André today.

– Thank you. Erhard hands the mobile back to Aritza and rises, with some difficulty, from the chair. – The Englishman is all yours. He’s promised to get me a telephone number today. Call me at this number when he gives it to you.

Erhard lays his business card on the table. Aritza picks up his mobile and steps away to talk.

In the afternoon, he has a meeting scheduled with the director of the water amusement park, but he can’t stomach the thought of it. Since the door to Osasuna’s office is closed, he asks Ana to change the meeting to next week. She makes a few clicks on the computer. He tells her that if a man named André calls, she shouldn’t take a message but send the call directly to him. He’s not sure if he can trust her.

– Emanuel Palabras called and was looking for you, she says.

– What did you tell him?

– That you weren’t here.

– Good enough.

– Should I call him for you, now that you’re here?

– No. I’ll call him myself. His suspicion returns that she reports his activities to Palabras or even just Osasuna. – I’ll call him shortly.

– Remember to plug your phone in, the new one.

– Right, he says, and goes back to his office. Which now feels smaller than his old Mercedes. He drops to his knees and plugs the phone into the creaky outlet. The line beeps. After finding a book, he tries to read while staring at the dark-green telephone.

Around 3.30 p.m. the telephone buzzes. It’s Aritza. He gives Erhard an address on Tenerife. – We have nothing more to discuss, he says.

– I asked for a telephone number.

– You’re a piece of shit. Robbie spent hours finding that address for you. There is no telephone number. The man is evidently ill.

Erhard falls silent. He doesn’t know what to say.

– But I hope you find out what happened to the boy. Children are the salt of life.

It sounds strange coming from Aritza’s mouth.

– Not for everyone, Erhard says.

59

Back to Tenerife. The flight doesn’t even take an hour.

He sits rigidly in his chair and stares out the window. A large, invisible wave carries them from one island to the next. The motor is silent, and all is quiet; the small plane’s personnel whisper, and they don’t serve drinks. They don’t serve anything at all; they just walk up and down the aisle smiling and reassuring, looking lovely, even the men. Not like the last time he was on a plane. That too was seventeen or eighteen years ago. He was so blotto that he believed they were about to take off when they landed on Fuerteventura. This is only the fourth time in the intervening years that he’s left the island and the second time within the last month. But this time it’s on the company’s dime. A true pleasure. Part of a little white lie that Erhard has a lunch meeting with a shipping firm.

When he sailed to the island, he fell in love with Santa Cruz. From above it resembles the big city that it never became. The palms are grey, and the buildings are plastered with advertisements. From the plane he can see a large ad on the roof of the airport terminal, for a new perfume made with lime and anise: a young couple clutches one another, their arms indistinguishable.

He takes a taxi directly to the address and is dropped off at a little square with some booths and a newspaper kiosk. It’s a sluggish Sunday, and he has an urge to eat grilled lamb at a shawarma bar that reeks of cinnamon and burnt grease. Behind the counter, a Moroccan man is rotating the spit and the flat, dark meat. The meat sizzles, attracting a swarm of men with thick black beards wearing what looks like undergarments, along with some taxi drivers.

He enters a filthy, dilapidated entranceway with dove shit on the stairwell. He hears the birds above him in the rafters, but he doesn’t look up. Instead he goes calmly up the stairs to the fourth storey. The letter C. There he finds a flimsy white door that seems as though it’ll fall apart if he knocks on it.

From the fourth-storey balcony he gazes across the road at a large oval track behind a tall fence. He raps on the door. Twice. Three times.

– Come the fuck in.

Erhard opens the door cautiously. – Chris Jones? My name is Erhard Jørgensen.

– Come on in! No need to shout! Chris Jones shouts. He’s pissed. Laughing. – My God, now that I’m dead everyone’s trying to find me.

– I guess I’m lucky you’re not out to sea, Erhard says, when he sees the man in the bed. The room is dark and there are dog posters on every wall.

– Hell no, I’m on disability. On the state’s bill. The good life.

He would shake Erhard’s hand, but he’s eating carry-out chicken from a bag. He notices Erhard’s missing finger, but says nothing.

Erhard looks around for a place to sit, but finally leans against the wall instead.

– I was lucky. Isn’t that what people say? Could you ask for a better life than this? A view of the dog track. Grilled chicken. Homemade whisky.

Jones points at a shelf above the toilet door in the centre of the room. A row of five bottles of brown liquid with a label Erhard doesn’t recognize.

– You were supposed to have been on the ship that was hijacked? Erhard asks. It’s only been a few weeks, but the man already resembles something that has grown out of cracks in the wall. Decay works fast.

– Everything was set. Hell, I had all my things on board. But some asshole hit me on the head when I came out of a, ugh, nightclub. And by the time I woke up, the ship had sailed and my life was ruined. End of story.

– Who hit you?

He laughs again. – The police want to know that too, but fuck if I know. I didn’t see who did it. And I didn’t ask. It’s that simple. I’m guessing it was that motherfucker who was found with my papers on him. But that’s just a wild guess.

– Why would anyone want to take your place on board that ship?

– He was probably one of the goddamn pirates, don’t you think? Are you a journalist or what? If you are, I’d like five grand to be part of your little story.

– I’m not a journalist, and I don’t have that kind of money.

– Then why the fuck did you come here and disturb me?

– I’m looking for a missing person.

– I can’t help you. Bloody fucking hell, don’t you get it? I got beat up.

He throws his empty chicken bag at the rubbish bin, but misses.

– You must hear rumours. From your friends or others you’ve sailed with. Seven seamen are missing, as well as a multimillion dollar cargo.

– This isn’t a gossip mill. My sister’s the only person who cares to visit me, and those shitty newspapers don’t know fuck all about what happened anyway. They didn’t know I wasn’t the dead man, but some other guy. Just about killed my old Mum.