The Hermit (60 page)

Ponduel looks to Erhard for guidance, and Erhard can think of nothing else to do but to continue following the van.

– Wait here a little. Let’s see what he does.

The gravel road curves across the barren landscape and continues up the mountain. The van almost vanishes from sight, but Erhard can still see its blue roof like a magic carpet flying up, up, up.

– He’s going over the mountain. We’ve got to follow him, Erhard says.

Ponduel glances at his watch and turns onto the gravel road.

76

They follow a cloud of dust. Can’t see the delivery van anywhere. Carmino Calderas is a narrow, difficult road made for lazy tourists. It winds around the largest volcanic crater, Montaña Colorada, and continues towards Calderon Hondo and over to Lajares. Ponduel mumbles something about the rocks spitting against his nice Lexus, then turns on the windscreen wiper and sprinkler to wash off the film of dust. One good thing about the dust cloud is that Pascual won’t know they’re trailing him.

They drive slowly and cautiously. As the delivery van continues past the houses at the base of the mountain, Erhard becomes more and more convinced that Pascual detected them and took this route to shake them off. Why else would he choose such a difficult road to Lajares? He might also be on his way to Cotillo. Driving up the hill with the narrow road balanced between the crater on the right side and another, steeper drop into a small valley on the other.

The cloud of dust suddenly clears.

Ponduel slams on the brakes.

The last of the dust settles. The road is deserted; they can see all the way to the motley collection of houses that makes up Lajares.

– Fucking hell, Ponduel says.

– There, Erhard says, pointing. The delivery van is parked a hundred metres ahead, within a cranny in the rocks. And they see, a short distance beyond the van, almost invisible against the light-brown soil, Pascual making his way up Calderon Hondo.

– What’s he doing? Erhard asks.

– Maybe he likes volcanoes.

Native-born islanders love their volcanoes. As children, in school, Sunday school, and whenever their families visit from the mainland or the other islands, they’re dragged to them, around them, and into them. Calderon Hondo is the most beautiful of them all; it’s almost perfectly formed, and its rim is so sharp and pure that it appears as though it could slice skin. At the same time, it is smaller and not as overrun with tourists as Montaña Colorada, which is as shabby as a soft old hat. Maybe Ponduel’s right and Pascual does like volcanoes.

Of course, Erhard wants to point out to Ponduel that Calderon Hondo isn’t a volcano but a meteor crater. This is a sensitive topic that’s regularly debated here. Some years ago, the discussion grew so heated that it split a local tourist bureau into two camps: the volcanists and the meteorists. Erhard sides with the meteor-theory, especially as it’s described in Belgian scholar Norman Zectay-Bidôt’s two-volume
Circle of Life
from 1972, which he’s read twice. He imagines the fifteen-stone meteor, not much larger than a beach ball, slamming into the island thousands of years ago. Had someone been standing on Africa’s coast at that moment, he or she would have seen a great mushroom cloud of dust rising from the surface of the water.

– Stay here, Erhard says, getting out of the car.

– I have to head back. My wife and I are celebrating Carmen, Ponduel says, though without conviction.

Erhard leans through the open window. – Wait ten minutes. If I don’t return, go ahead. And forget that you ever saw me.

As harsh as Erhard’s words are, Ponduel appears to be falling asleep. Erhard remembers something. He’d wanted to borrow Ponduel’s mobile to call Solilla and tell her about that computer gizmo he’d lowered into the aquarium. Too late now.

– Do me a favour, Ponduel. Tell Solilla at 46 Calle Reyes Católicos that I’ve put something in the fish tank at Café Azura in Corralejo. In the loo. It’s important, Ponduel.

– In a fish tank? What the hell are you talking about?

Erhard pulls out his roll of euros again. – If I don’t return, this is yours. He tosses the notes on the empty seat. – But you must,
must
give Solilla the message.

Ponduel takes the money without a word.

After repeating Solilla’s address and the name of the cafe, Erhard starts up the mountain in the same direction as Juan Pascual.

Erhard expects to hear Ponduel starting the engine and backing onto the road, but he doesn’t. And when Erhard’s almost halfway up to the rim of the crater, he sees the Lexus still waiting – the white vehicle now the size of a fingernail. Erhard approaches the crater, then falls to his knees. He crumples himself into a ball as much as he can without injuring himself. He was never a soldier; in his youth he’d been a conscientious objector. But right now he wishes he knew more about soldiering, so he could sneak up to the crater without being seen or heard. He shifts a little to his left, so that he doesn’t emerge on the tourist path that’s visible in the trampled earth.

Juan Pascual is gone.

Erhard reaches the rim, squats down, and glances into the huge bowl, rough and raw, beige-coloured with black blotches, pounded smooth by thousands of tourists but still as innocent and otherworldly as the day the meteor struck. Zectay-Bidôt wrote that the rock formations in Calderon Hondo, compared to its neighbour volcanoes, had been crushed to a far greater extent. Like in a mortar. This is clearly evident. There are no large rocks on Hondo, but the long, thin stems of plants poke up here and there, and a goat grazes on the other side of the crater, munching restlessly on the grass.

How did Juan Pascual manage to disappear behind the rim of the crater? But he has. Like sleight-of-hand. Erhard sits quietly, his eyes darting around the crater, examining every shadow or rock formation. But there’s nothing large enough to conceal a man. Maybe he leapt into a recess and covered himself in loose stones. Erhard focuses on the area directly below him, and to the sides, and scrutinizes every square metre. His eyes hurt from the strain. But there’s nothing to see.

The goat is heading towards him. It’s not trotting in a straight line, but a zigzag, now running, then pausing, now springing. His own goats had needed years to feel comfortable enough to approach him. In truth, it was only when he rattled the pellets in the bucket that they came to him.

He walks a short distance to his left, slowly, his eyes focused on the crater. What is Pascual doing here anyway? It sounded as though he was going to meet someone. But clearly there is no one here but Erhard and the goat. Could there be a hidden cave or something that Juan Pascual leaped into? Where Emanuel Palabras or whoever it was on the phone had been waiting for him? The goat continues towards Erhard, running. Odd behaviour. Maybe the animal is so hungry, or social, that it will do whatever. It’s almost as though someone is driving the animal towards Erhard, or a strong wind. But Erhard sees nothing, and there’s little wind in the crater.

He might as well head back to the car.

He hears a couple of loud honks, probably Ponduel reminding him how much time has passed and that it’s time to go home. Our Patroness Carmen is expecting him and his family downtown for crabs. But why does he keep honking?

Erhard returns to the rim and glances briefly at the goat, now running almost directly towards him, hobbling on one leg, and yet tumbling forward. Then he notices the dark figure of a man, a silhouette against the light-yellow sky, charging at him from the left side of the crater. Ponduel has now, apparently, pressed his hand down on the horn, and keeps honking until the man ploughs into Erhard, knocking him backward. The two men roll down the side of the crater. Erhard focuses on protecting his head, and bracing himself with his arms, while the other man – who must be Juan Pascual – manages to punch his jaw and ribs even as they’re rolling downhill. At last Erhard’s lying still, confused and mashed against the warm gravel.

Juan Pascual hovers above Erhard adjusting something on his head, a little contraption affixed to his ear. A hearing device the size of an insect. It must have fallen off when they were rolling around. He seems irritated.

When he’s done adjusting the device, Pascual punches Erhard with clenched fists, his hands like knots of old rope. The first blows hurt, slicing his face and bruising his ribs. He can’t feel any of the blows that follow, just hears them.

– Macho, why do you keep getting in the way? Juan Pascual says, punching Erhard’s ribs.

– I… have told everything. To a journalist.

Juan Pascual lowers his head to Erhard’s mouth. – No, you haven’t. You were in the lockup. He slaps Erhard to get his attention. – How did you find me?

– I know everything. About the hijacking. About you. About the dead ship’s mate. And the baby.

– Baby? You mean the boy? I don’t know shit about that boy.

– Tell Palabras that… I’m exposing… everything.

– Palabras is gone, and you’re not exposing shit.

There’s something about the man’s eyes. It’s as if he’s stood too close to a fire.

– You’re sick, Erhard guesses. – You… are sick.

Erhard remembers Pascual at the cafe that morning many weeks ago, how he sat hunched over. And he remembers something Raúl once said about his friend Pesce. That he’d been to hell and back again. When Raúl told him, Erhard had thought it meant that he’d been to war. Maybe the Balkans in the nineties. Many young Spaniards had been deployed back then. But now he’s not sure. There’s something wrong with Pascual.

The look on Pascual’s face changes, just a fraction, and he fumbles in the pocket of his thin windbreaker. He quickly throws a plastic strip around Erhard’s throat and cinches it, then tightens it until Erhard feels it cutting into his flesh. Every time he tightens it further, the little lock clicks. Erhard manages to take a deep breath, but now he can’t exhale. Only a tiny portion of air escapes.

Without a word, Pascual stands up.

Erhard sees Pascual’s silhouette against the rays of sunlight. Like the outline of a new coin, stamped in dust and clouds. Pascual kicks him with what feel like steel-toed boots. A second time. A third. He would probably survive the kicks if not for the fact that each one also knocked more air from his lungs and pushed it up his throat where it can’t escape. He feels like a bubble in a section of bubble wrap, stretched to the breaking point, ready to explode from within.

Suddenly Pascual grabs his waist.

– Let’s give La Policia something to work with. You think a little accident in your taxi will keep them busy?

Since Erhard can no longer feel his limbs, he wonders if he’s losing consciousness – or if he already has. Pascual drags him down the hill. Erhard’s feet scrape the ground; he can hear them, but he can’t feel them. He’s not sure what’s going to happen to him, but he knows something’s not right. Doesn’t Pascual know that Ponduel’s in the taxi? Didn’t he hear him honk? Will Ponduel see Pascual dragging him and wonder what’s going on? Will Pascual kill them both?

They reach the path, and Pascual walks faster, Erhard like a mannequin in his arms. – You’re a sad sap, he whispers almost tenderly in Erhard’s ear. When they reach the car, Pascual drops him to the ground.

– Do you have the keys or what… Pascual pats Erhard’s pockets, but there’s nothing there. Then Pascual goes to the Lexus and opens the door. He climbs in, and Erhard is confused. His thoughts swirl. His body is in a state of emergency. Where’s Ponduel?

He gasps for breath, but it never seems to be enough. Did Pascual take care of Ponduel before attacking Erhard? Pascual starts the engine and drives onto the road. Then he hauls Erhard into the driver’s seat, propping his feet on the pedals.

– There you are. Now you can drive.

Pascual jerks the gear stick, and the car begins to roll. Erhard wants to glance up. Wants to put his hands on the wheel, his foot on the brake. But nothing. He can. Do nothing.

–
Buen viaje
, Pascual says.

Erhard expects to hear the door slamming shut. Instead he hears a strange sound: Pascual moaning.

– Fucking hell.

Thump. Thump. Something strikes the car twice, but it continues to roll, downward, over gravel.

Erhard manages to get his hands on the wheel, but they just slide off the warm leather onto his lap. He forces himself to look up, struggling for air. But when he raises his head, the plastic strip bites into his neck. The car continues to roll. Faster. He can just make out some light, the path’s yellow gravel, and something purple, the evening sky, as if the path is vanishing heavenward. If he could scream, he would. He presses his weight down, first on the gas pedal – which causes the car to pick up speed – and then the brake. The Lexus slows down, but only just. He hears footfalls to his left, someone running alongside the car. Pascual.

He raises his head and sees how the path curves up ahead, but he’s unable to keep the car on it and continues straight through the curve. He holds his breath and hopes he’ll faint, so that he won’t feel anything. Only fifty or one hundred metres to go before the Lexus reaches the cliff. The car is picking up speed, and he can no longer see the path, only the sky.

The windscreen is like the flap of a box closing in on him. His vision flickers. He wants to leap out of the box, but he’s held down by some kind of invisible lid.

At that instant someone reaches in, grabs his shirt, and yanks him out. His head bangs against the door frame, and when his shoulder slams against the ground, followed by his head, legs, and the rest of his body, pain flares in him. All the wind is knocked out of him, his energy spent. The car’s gone, tumbling down the path. He hears it flipping thunderously end over end. He goes out like a light.

77

– I won’t be home by 9.30, Ponduel says.

These are the first words Erhard hears. Before he realizes that it was Ponduel who’d just resuscitated him. Ponduel’s standing with the plastic strip in one hand and a pocketknife in the other. – That
maricón
was seriously unhinged. What the fuck was going on? He wanted to kill you.