The Hermit (49 page)

– This is the best job I’ve ever had. If only I could figure out what I’m supposed to do. I desperately need this job.

Erhard doesn’t have it in him to ask her why she needs this job so badly, but the girl tells him anyway. She’s three months behind on rent to her girlfriend, who wants to go home and so on.

Erhard glances down at the cardboard box beside the girl’s arm. It’s an ordinary box, but it resembles the one that the newspaper fragments were in. The same size, the same corner flaps. The same skinlike colour.

– Have you ever heard of any of the waitresses here getting pregnant? he asks the girl.

She hesitates. – No, I…

– Do you ever gossip about a girl who waitressed here and then got pregnant?

– No. Not as far as I know.

– What about the other cafes nearby?

– There really aren’t any others. But there was one girl who had an abortion a few months ago.

– Does that happen often?

– I don’t think so. There are many Catholics here, after all. Mostly it’s the English, you know, who do that kind of thing.

Erhard hadn’t thought about that. – So what happened to her?

– She had an abortion and came back to work.

– Here?

– Yes, but she doesn’t work here any more. She went home.

The girl glances up at a window above the cafe. Three windows, actually, large and with no signs of life. A ruined sunscreen covers one window; it’s one of those kind of aluminium plates that reflect the sunlight. In another is a desiccated flower, which was once a long-stemmed rose.

– Because of the abortion?

– I don’t think so. She didn’t seem bothered by the abortion. I lived with her. She didn’t sleep at home very often, if you know what I mean.

– So why did she leave? And when?

– Probably a few weeks ago, maybe more. The end of January.

Erhard feels the wind being knocked out of him.

– Are you sure? This is important.

The girl studies him. She’s not pretty, but she has freckles, a rarity among native islanders. Her mother or father must have come from the UK. – Well, she had the abortion in November. She was living in my old flat then.

– Other than her, you don’t know anyone who’s been pregnant? No strangely large bellies or sudden illness or anything like that?

– No, the girl says. She’s clearly beginning to lose interest and glances towards the door.

– You should get back. Thanks for talking to me.

She runs inside through the kitchen. Erhard returns to his seat. He considers retrieving the cardboard box that resembles the one from the car, but it’s not the specific box that’s interesting. What’s interesting is that, during a certain period of time, there were cardboard boxes and Danish newspapers less than 300 metres from where the car in all likelihood was parked. He’s on to something, he’s certain. He empties a packet of salt in his Mai Tai and stirs it with his straw. It helps a little.

Shortly after 4 p.m., he watches someone park a large car across the road and the manager, Ellen, enter the cafe wearing sunglasses. She should remember him, he thinks, but she doesn’t. Not all cafe owners remember quite as well as taxi drivers. She sets down her bag and immediately begins to boss the girls around. The music is turned down. She upbraids the small, pale girl because she’s drinking Coke behind the bar, practically whispering, so that only Erhard notices. The five other guests are eating breakfast and watching television, unperturbed.

Erhard goes up to the bar and tries to catch Ellen’s attention, but she’s busy wiping the worktop near the sink and throwing away lemon rinds. – Preparing for a visit from the union? he says.

She whirls round and peers at him a moment. – You again, she says.

– Yes. I’m still trying to find a young mother.

– To each his own.

He ignores this comment. – You haven’t thought of any employees or job applicants with a large belly one day and a flat belly a few days later, have you?

She seems to pretend to consider. – Crown Princess Kate, perhaps.

– What?

– Nothing. No, I still haven’t.

– How long have you been renting out the upstairs flat?

– We let select employees use it.

She doesn’t blink once. Pure poker face.

– So VIPs or what?

– Yes.

Erhard laughs. He laughs for such a long time that Ellen finally starts laughing, too. – That’s far-fetched. You know that.

– It’s only a temporary solution for those girls who can’t find a place to live.

– I’m guessing that all they pay is a symbolic rent?

– Let’s talk about something else, she suggests.

– Anything new from your friend Hollisen?

She gives him a sharp look. – No. I’ve told you that.

– Maybe he sent you a postcard or something.

– No one sends postcards any more.

– I see.

– And if you’re still hoping to help your friend, then you should search someplace else. Hollisen won’t be back.

– You know that even though you say you haven’t heard from him?

– Yes, she says. She stares at him. – He’s dead.

– How’d he die?

– Don’t know. But people I know, and who he was in contact with, haven’t heard from him in months. Not a single word. And that man is always in some kind of a fix, financially, sexually, even mentally. So two months’ radio silence is as good as… Her light-hearted tone of voice is gone again. – He must be dead.

– But you’re not sure. Maybe he was just captured by some muse on a Greek island and has forgotten everything?

– The only muse that could have captured that man was the Big Groove.

The expression is a little old-fashioned, and that’s how Erhard knows it. – Was he an addict?

– C’mon. I don’t remember your name, but let the man rest in peace.

– But you don’t know that he’s dead.

– A woman knows. Plus, he hasn’t touched his bank account, and he had several hundred euros in that account. Trust me, Søren wouldn’t let the account idle like that. That man didn’t know restraint. She smiles at the thought. – Even though he didn’t have much money, he always spent what he had partying. Bad habits from his days playing with golden boys.

Erhard scrutinizes her.

– OK. I opened one of his bank statements that came a few weeks ago. He took out small sums until 2 January, and then never touched the account again. There’s no activity at all. That sets off alarm bells.

– What do you think happened?

– Who knows? Maybe he drank himself to death or had a disagreement with one of his gangster buddies.

– Are you being serious now?

– Yes. He was always a little nervous about that. The last I saw him, he wore sunglasses.

– When was that?

– December.

– The last time I was here you said you hadn’t seen him in a year.

– I didn’t really
see
him, you know. He just stood out there staring at the cafe.

– I’m not a policeman, I don’t care about your little business or whatever it is, I just want to find a friend, who… who’s missing. And Hollisen is somehow involved. Was he staring at the cafe or the flat above it?

She doesn’t respond, but walks into the kitchen and returns with a croissant in her mouth. – It was the end of December. I remember, because it was right around the anniversary of my taking over the cafe. I was putting decorations in the windows, and suddenly there he was. He was wearing sunglasses, and seemed nervous. Normally he would come over. I was kind of a big sister to him.

– What was he doing? Why didn’t he come over?

– How should I know?

– You didn’t go over to him?

– I figured he was tripping or something.

– Did he meet with anyone, or talk to anyone?

– No. Just like that he was gone. I thought he’d return after a few days, but he never did.

– Do you have a photograph of him?

She pulls out her mobile phone and presses a few buttons. It’s one of those new smart devices that most young people have. She hands him it to him. On the screen is an image of a young man around forty. He’s smiling, pointing at the too-tight t-shirt that he’s wearing over another t-shirt. Rústica’s logo is printed on the shirt in ornate lettering. He looks like a handsome boy who’d become a tired man. Like one of countless people he knows on Fuerteventura, surfers who refuse to remove their wetsuits, party girls who don’t care to return to the suburbs, bartenders who don’t wish to take a day off. Like Raúl might have looked if his father hadn’t been one of the island’s wealthiest men and kept him under wraps. He looks like Erhard himself seventeen years ago.

– There are several photographs here. Ellen sweeps the first image aside, bringing a second forward. – Staff party, one of many. He came of course. That was back when…

He’s the same happy boy in several of the photos. But with each one he seems sadder. This insistence on happiness which doesn’t seem genuine. He stands in front of the camera with all the pretty girls, but also the cooks and the dishwashers and, apparently, even regular patrons. The party was held in the cafe and spilled out onto the street.

– Were you a couple?.

– No. Almost. But you don’t date your little brother, do you? Besides, he fell in love every time some hussy bothered to listen to him for more than five minutes.

The photographs speak their own precise language. In several he’s kissing girls on their cheek, and in one he’s kissing a woman’s cleavage.

– What about this one? he says, pointing at an image in which he’s holding a ponytailed girl’s waist and lifting her off the floor.

– Lily, she says. – No, she wasn’t Søren’s type. He tried to get her fired. She says she refused to give him a blowjob on his birthday. It wouldn’t surprise me.

– The creepy type. The girl, I mean.

– A fucking bitch, if you ask me. A lesbian, probably, and ambitious. There aren’t many go-getters like her on the islands.

Erhard can think of a few. – She’ll soon be president of Tenerife.

– Too late. She’s back on Fuerteventura. She inherited a restaurant or something from her grandfather.

– What’s the place called?

Erhard thinks of Bill Haji, but so far as he knows, he wasn’t a grandfather and he didn’t own a restaurant. He owned nightclubs and one cocktail lounge down at Corralejo’s harbour.

– I don’t know the name of the place.

Erhard continues studying the photographs. He recognizes the girl who served him that last time he was on the island.

– That’s Millie, the American. Søren liked her. He loved the chubby ones.

– Enough to have a child with her?

– Ellen laughs. – Millie? No, she was, she is, the self-righteous kind of American: all talk, no action. She’s in the States now, but she’ll be back next summer.

– Do you know all the girls who work for you?

– Yes, most of them. I have many seasonal employees. Girls who just come for a single summer. I’m a kind of mother figure to many of them. Young girls who bring so much emotional baggage from their parents. I know that I’m tough and probably not well-liked by many of them, but at least they know where they stand with me, and I try to teach them a little and give them some responsibility.

– Would they tell you if they suddenly became pregnant?

Ellen considers. – Yes, but they would also know that I think getting pregnant is stupid. We shouldn’t put ourselves in a worse position than what we’re already in.

– Do you mean women?

– I recommend sex before marriage, lots of it. Enjoy it. Sample the goods. But for God’s sake use condoms or pills. Once you have a child, there’s always someone who controls you. You can’t decide your fate.

What about sex after marriage? What about sex with an older woman on a garden table? His Mai Tai is empty. It’s a quarter to five. He has to return to the airport. He throws some euros on the table.

– Speaking to you has been, what can I say, riveting, Señorita Ellen. Have a nice day. He heads out onto the street and towards the water. When he reaches a broad boulevard, he flags down a taxi and climbs into the backseat. He notices everything the driver does, but he doesn’t say a word. There’s nothing worse than having a know-it-all taxi driver as a passenger.

62

As he’s heading down the FV-1, a giant raindrop pelts the windscreen. Erhard studies it calmly, curiously, then notices the dense, grey clouds. Normally he loves the clouds, but for some reason they seem foreboding today. He snaps on the radio and, a few minutes later, hears the DJ on Radio Mucha discuss the weather. When he lived in the old house, he used to hurry home and lash everything down, making sure the tarpaulin covered the roof if he heard rain. If the goats were nearby, he would let them into the shed. The rain made them nervous. Hardy was known to run great distances to find shelter. His instincts might drive him more than three miles south. But the roof is repaired now, and Hardy – who knows where that wretched animal went? Besides, he doesn’t live there any more. He’s a director now. Although he anticipates more rain to fall, none does, and he manoeuvres the vehicle soundlessly into the basement beneath his building. The windscreen is once again dry.

He’s exhausted and impatient in the lift. Even though Beatriz has been alone for only a few hours more than usual, he feels bad. He’s witnessed firsthand how she can fill her drainage bag with so much urine that the pressure alone makes it difficult for her to pee. All in all, it’s not easy keeping someone alive. It almost seems as if she doesn’t wish to live. As if she’s trying to make things as hard as possible for him. It’s tough to ignore the doctor’s admonishment. It’s inhuman, what he’s doing. It’s undignified. He almost agrees with the doctor, but he knows the turning point could come at any moment. The doctor says there’s a chance she will survive. A chance. If that’s true, what else can he do but assist her, regardless how small that chance might be?

He pulls out his key and lets himself in. He notices that the door mat, a thin, black rubber mat, has been knocked out of place. He checks the extra key, but it’s still taped under the stairwell. Maybe the doctor stopped by without telling Erhard?