The Hermit (56 page)

He zips up the backpack and counts the bills in his pocket once more. He lays one thousand euros on the table beside the bed. Then he snatches up the telephone and calls the doctor.

Let me go
.

He hears Beatriz’s voice for the first time in a long while.

It’s so faint that it sounds more like a vibration.

He scrutinizes the grotesque body that’s drawing uncanny nutrition from a beeping machine. The creature he’s produced by hiding her and keeping her alive, even though hers can hardly be called a life. He loves her, and yet he forgets about her from time to time and lives apart from her. Her body manifests nothing to him, only a recollection, like a souvenir of flesh and blood. She’s not alive, she’s not dead. She’s his now; she no longer belongs to herself.

There’s only one thing left to do.

–
Hola
, the doctor says.

Erhard can’t speak. He holds the receiver to his ear while he switches off the machines. As if he needs a witness, someone to support him in doing the right thing. He can hear the doctor’s breathing and the sound of children behind him. The respirator whines until he clicks off the switch. Then that sound, too, falls silent.

– I love her too much to let her live. I’m turning off the machine. I’m turning it off now.

– Jørgensen, the doctor says. – You can’t do that, goddamn it.

There’s still moisture in the mouthpiece she’s wearing. But it’s decreasing by the minute. Erhard removes the mouthpiece and adjusts her position, until she’s lying straight and long, a collection of limbs, a space alien before the final dissection.

–
Buen viaje
, he says, and hangs up.

70

He rejoins the throng and heads towards the harbour. He’ll ask someone washing boats whether or not they know of the
Lucifia
. Dockworkers know everything that happens in the harbour, just like taxi drivers know what’s going on downtown.

The streets are packed. Everyone wants to be part of the festival.

It’s the major event of the year, attracting visitors from all over the island, and even from Lanzarote. After sunset, people gather in houses to celebrate. But the big attraction is the procession – entertainment for the entire family – when the effigy of the Virgin del Carmen is borne around the city. Her name means Fortune, and all shop owners are eager to have her blessing; they greet the procession with songs and miniature tableaus, and place large bouquets, jewellery, and gifts at the feet of the effigy.

On his way through the crowd, Erhard runs into several people he knows. He tries to keep his head down to avoid being seen, but it’s useless. The drivers with their families recognize him, as do long-time customers and some former piano clients. Luckily, it’s impossible to carry on a conversation within the chaotic mass of people, so he just raises his hand in greeting and pushes on.

But down at the piers, the crowd thins some, and there’s hardly any queue at the ticket booths for the ferries to Lanzarote and Isla de Lobos. He asks three dockworkers before one recognizes the name
Lucifia
.

– Yeah. She’s been docked here for a few days, the man says, and gives Erhard the berth number. – You can see her from here, he adds, pointing at a shrimp boat that appears to have once been red but is now a lustrous ochre.

Erhard thanks him and proceeds to Berth 5, then marches onto the pier and tries to determine if anyone’s on board. The sun is at its zenith; it shines directly on Erhard’s bald spot. The shadows are gone; all that’s left is the white, shimmering light – the sea’s thousand crystals of light – and the shrimp boat. He doesn’t go down to Berth 5, but observes it at a distance. The boat is larger than he’d expected, and it has been many years, clearly, since it was actually used to haul shrimp. Now it’s a tourist boat carting the English out to sea to catch grey mullet and stingray with a beer can in their hand. No one’s on deck.

That means he’s got time. A half-hour or an hour, anyway.

Erhard hops off the pier and returns to the swarming mass of people, dodging elbows and purses and backpacks, searching for gaps through which to walk. Always moving forward. He passes the Yellow Rooster and the fishmonger’s shop. He turns and seems to hear someone calling his name, but no. He bangs his arm against a mother’s picnic basket, causing a long red scratch up to his elbow.
Oops
, she says, but he’s already moved on. Soon he’s out of breath and has to find a place to rest. He dashes into a little tourist trap where they sell small jugs, Mickey Mouse towels, porcelain donkeys, and glittering dolphins. At the far end of the shop he squats down as if to tie his shoelaces. The owner’s in the neighbouring shop drinking red wine. Erhard’s hands are trembling, and he attempts to calm his breathing. Two teenagers trying on sunglasses cast pitying glances in his direction. He probably looks like a confused old man. He feels like a confused old man.

After a few minutes, he gets to his feet and snatches a Barça cap off one of the racks. There’s a large royal crown on the front of the cap, and Aaz would love it. Erhard would pay for it, but the owner’s still next door, and he doesn’t want to arouse any more attention than necessary. He tugs the cap onto his head and exits the shop, heading down along the harbour. He passes the narrowest section of the promenade, where the throng is especially dense; people stand quite still, mashed in a bunch outside of Bill Haji’s old nightclub, Azura. The place has been remodelled and is now a cafe and bar, a trendy-looking spot where only the wealthiest tourists care to go. Of course, there are many of those today. It’s decked out for the day’s events, and the staff are dressed in robes like the Virgin del Carmen – complete with fishnet and crown. Lined up in a row, the waiters and waitresses sing and crack oyster shells, like chestnuts, as they wait for the procession. He recognizes the tall girl; she walked beside Haji’s sister at his funeral. He’s heard that the place is now run better than when Haji owned it. It reminds him of something.

He turns up Avenida Maritima and jogs on the narrow pavement as far as his body will allow, underneath hanging flowers and umbrellas poking out from balconies. Some shops are closing up for the day, their grates slamming down, but many shop owners are ignoring the siesta in the hope of earning some extra money. He makes two turns and reaches Nuestra Señora del Carmen, which is just as busy. The city is in free fall as evening approaches, with families parking illegally and emerging from their vehicles dressed in white, and youths with oversized beer bottles shouting from balconies. He comes to Cormac’s electronics shop and edges past a group of children gawking at some colourful boxes, then enters the store.

It’s crowded. Ruddy-faced Cormac is busy helping a man purchase a mobile phone. They’re in the middle of the transaction. A young man with thick blonde hair stands behind the counter ringing up a woman’s order. Erhard heads to the video cameras that are affixed atop tripods. He tries to get Cormac’s attention, but he’s busy showing his customer something. Cormac doesn’t see Erhard until he has put the mobile phone inside a box and run the man’s credit card through the machine. He gives Erhard a curious look, and Erhard saunters towards the back of the shop.

– The strong arms of the law slipped you loose, did they? Cormac says, peering across the shelf of video cameras.

– How much do you know? Erhard says, low, glancing in the direction of the shop’s entrance.

– The crazy suitcase man saw you in handcuffs.

– I wasn’t in handcuffs, but yes, I’m no longer in police custody.

– You look a little worse for wear, Cormac says.

– You have to help me.

– Come this way, Cormac says, nudging Erhard through the beaded curtain and into the backroom. – What’s going on?

– I need to borrow one of your video cameras for five or ten minutes.

Cormac doesn’t seem thrilled. – It’s the Virgin del Carmen Festival. I’m busy.

Erhard looks at him. – You’re my only hope.

– For what?

– To confess my sins. I need to record them.

Cormac’s face grows solemn, then he begins to laugh. – What have ya done? Has it something to do with the dead boy’s mother?

– You could say that.

– Where do you wish to record this video? Here in my shop?

– If I can. As long as I’m not disturbed. As long as no one can hear me.

– You can use the storage room. No one’s out there, but the light is shite.

Erhard exhales in relief, then collapses against the wall.

– And then what? What are you going to do with your little confession?

– I’ll take the tape with me and hide it somewhere.

– Tape? There’s no tape, my friend. That was years ago.

Erhard doesn’t know what to say. – So I can’t record it?

– Of course you can. But it’s all digital now. You’ll have to put it on a computer or something. I can save it to a USB drive and you can take it with you.

– As long as I can have it right away.

– You can, but it’ll take some time to transfer the file.

– How much time?

– When you’re done with the recording… maybe fifteen minutes.

Erhard does the math. – That’s too long. I’ll miss the boat.

– Boat?

– Can you send it via post or deliver it for me?

– I can, Cormac says, but he still seems sceptical. Unconvinced.

Erhard takes a chance, lowering his voice so that it can’t be heard on the storeroom floor. – If you record me with your camera and hear me out, you can decide whether you wish to help me. If you don’t wish to help me, I’ll take the recording with me. If you do wish to help, then you can send the recording to one of my friends.

Cormac glances into the shop. – Then we’ll need to do it now. Right now.

– I’m ready, Erhard says.

Cormac retrieves one of the larger cameras from the shop. He presses a few buttons and runs a cord under the door of the storage room, where he sets up the tripod. He positions Erhard against a shelf of boxes and switches on a waxy yellow ceiling lamp.

– Let’s go, Cormac says. – I’m recording.

Erhard has no more time to consider.

He starts from the beginning. He’s afraid he won’t have enough time to squeeze everything in. Speaking quickly, sometimes incoherently, he discusses the Chris Jones who was beaten up, the hijacking, the removal of the cargo from one ship to another – and the container that broke apart – and the fake Chris Jones, who drowned. A ship’s mate by the name of Juan Pascual, who lives here in Corralejo. He goes on to mention the car on the beach, and the boy in the cardboard box.

– What? Cormac says.

– The car floated for four miles and then washed ashore in Cotillo.

Staring straight ahead, Cormac lights a cigarette with an old-fashioned petrol lighter.

Erhard continues: The cafe in Tenerife and Hollisen. Hollisen is missing. Emanuel Palabras stole his own cargo, sold it, and will probably win an insurance claim. The crew is nowhere to be found, but Erhard spoke with a sailor who was on the second ship. He reports that the cargo was returned to Tenerife and the crew was dropped off in Morocco. To cover it up, Emanuel Palabras murdered his daughter-in-law and probably his son too, then tried to pin their deaths on Erhard. He doesn’t mention Alina. He doesn’t say anything about Beatriz lying in Raúl’s flat. He closes with the man in the sunglasses who tried to choke him, and the police’s interrogation, which ended with his false confession. And finally, his flight from the police and the ship waiting for him down at the harbour.

– Holy fucking Christ and the mighty Mother Mary, Cormac says after a moment of silence.

– How long did that take?

Cormac checks the camera. – Seventeen minutes.

– I have to get going.

– How do you know it’s all connected?

– I just do.

– I’m no fan of the police, but I think you’ll need to find a few missing pieces of this puzzle before they’ll trust you. Like the part about the car.

– The Volkswagen. What am I supposed to say?

Cormac grins and sucks on his cigarette.

– What else can I do? Erhard says. – For fuck’s sake, I can’t go any further. I’ve come as far as I can, but it’s over now. This recording is my only assurance that I won’t be thrown overboard in the middle of the ocean. Others will have to pick up the thread. Would you care to?

Cormac stiffens. – I have my shop. And my new girlfriend.

– Everyone thinks about their own fucking selves. I’ve told you everything, so now I’ll give it to my friend. She’s a journalist who lives in Puerto, a good person. She’ll pick up the slack. I doubt she’ll want to, but if anything happens to me, she’ll do it anyway. Will you send it to her for me?

Cormac looks at Erhard. – Sorry, my friend. I’ve helped you, but I can’t get involved. I’ve lived on this island half of my life. I have my ex-wife, my sons, my new girlfriend, and my shop to consider. I just can’t do it. I’ll download your video to a drive, but give me a moment. Cormac takes the camera with him when he goes, leaving Erhard alone in the storage room.

71

He heads back to the boat. What he wants most of all is to be done with all this. He’s tired and confused. His body is guiding him forward like a machine, but it’s broken down and sore all over. If they try to drown him, he’ll be unable to resist. He doesn’t even care.

The little USB drive Cormac gave him is lying in his pocket; it feels like a knife against his thigh. Somehow, he needs to pass it on to someone to give to Solilla, or send it to her himself. He studies the promenade, looking for a kiosk where he can buy an envelope and a stamp, and finds a combination ice cream booth and souvenir kiosk. He gets in line underneath the sunshade as the place fills with people, happy children eager to gobble ice cream and watch the Virgin del Carmen pass by. A few of them sing of the protector of fishermen, the lovely Carmen who wanders the sea. Even the dead sailor, drawn to his death in his own nets, walks on the beach among his loved ones with Our Patroness Carmen at his side. The song is ‘Our Carmen’, and it’s taught to schoolchildren and sung at the festival every year. This choir sounds slightly amateurish to Erhard’s ears; they sing completely off-key and without rhythm, and yet with enthusiasm and sympathy, as if they really wish to bring the patroness to life. A pair of adults shush a screeching boy who demands ice cream.