The Hermit (63 page)

Now on his feet, Erhard hears Palabras yelling at the Maasai girls for help.

– I’m coming, Charles says.

Erhard turns to see Palabras lying on the floor, his mouth and beard bloodied, looking weak and old. The Maasai girls put on his glasses, but they sit crookedly on the bridge of his nose. They hand him his cane, which had apparently been flung to the other side of the room. One of the girls also has blood on her lips. Charles hobbles towards them as if tugged along by an invisible rope.

– Let him go, Carlitos, Palabras says with difficulty. – No boat leaves the island tonight, so he can’t go anywhere until tomorrow morning. He’s a good swimmer, but he knows… that he can’t swim that far in the condition he’s in.

Charles stares at Palabras, then limps out the door.

– Carlitos, stop! Unable to shout, Palabras extends his hand. – Bloody obstinate employees doing what they please. He’s always wanted to give that boy a thrashing. He’s had his urges curbed these past few weeks, but he gets itchy every time there’s an opportunity.

– What the hell are you doing? Raúl’s your son. Why were you keeping him locked up? Didn’t he want to go along with your plan?

– Be quiet, you fool. You understand nothing. The boy’s behind everything. Don’t you see? I’ve tried to protect him, to keep him away. I love that dumb boy, but he can’t do anything right. He can’t even steal from his own father.

Erhard stares at Palabras, trying to determine whether the man is speaking the truth or concocting more lies. Palabras’s dark eyes behind his slightly smudged glasses seem tired, almost dry, as if he hasn’t blinked in several minutes. – So what are you telling me? That Raúl was the one who hijacked the ship?

– Not him personally, but he was behind it. He knew the people who could get the job done. Someone helped him, of course.

– Juan Pascual?

– You keep talking about this man. I’m talking about the big fish. Hardened old men, I should say. Los Tres Papas.

One of the girls brings Palabras a glass of milk, which he quickly and soundlessly gulps.

– I thought you were one of Los Tres Papas.

Palabras hands the glass back to the girl and tries to laugh, but raises his hand to the wound on his mouth instead. – I wanted to be. Once. But they were too small-scale for me. Everything they do is illegal. I’d rather mix it up, get the best of both worlds.

He gestures at the Maasai girls as if they understand what he means. Maybe they do.

– So if it’s Los Tres Papas, what about Raúl?

– Raúl is Raúl. When he was a boy, he stole my wallet and bought a cigar-cutter for me made of gold. He’s always been like that, seeking to impress in all the wrong ways. But you helped him, you took the sting out of his pranks, made him stop and think. For some reason, he loved everything you said and did. But that girl over there, she made everything worse. He points at the wheelchair and what is left of Beatriz. – Because of her, he demanded more and more. More money, more power, a better job. He hated that job. Do you understand what I’m telling you? So I was warned. I feared this would happen. I tried to give him something to do, so he wouldn’t do anything foolish, but then, well, this happened.

– She wasn’t the one. She never asked him for anything.

–
Quién sabe
. Palabras throws up a hand. – The boy suddenly got too big for his britches, and he got stupid.

Erhard doesn’t know what to believe. – So Raúl collaborated with Los Tres Papas on the hijacking?

– He carried it out for them, the little shit.

– How did you find out?

– When he began to speak badly of you. Saying that he knew you were working under the table and helped Los Tres Papas dispose of that double-crosser Federico Molino.

– Why did he say that?

– Because he wanted someone to put you in the hospital, I think. He knew that if he did it I would help you, and it would get messy. So he tried to convince me to deal with you.

Erhard settles in the chair beside Beatriz.

– Why?

– I didn’t understand, either. I told him that I would look into it, but instead I began to investigate him.

– And?

– We sensed something was wrong when Mario, Charles’s nephew, saw Raúl driving out to your place, even though you were at Raúl’s flat. He pushed some girl off your roof.

– Mario? Thin guy with big teeth? Erhard recalls the young man who sat across from La Mar Roja the morning he ran into Raúl.

– He’s not built like Charles, that’s for sure.

– So Charles, or this Mario, went to Raúl’s flat, beat up Beatriz, and dragged Raúl out here?

– Not quite. We didn’t find out about Beatriz until you called the police. We followed Raúl when he and that other asshole returned to the flat and left a short time later. They were very busy, racing from the basement towards the harbour, obviously headed somewhere. When Raúl was alone in the car, talking on his mobile, Charles and Mario got ahold of him. We dragged him onto a boat and brought him here.

– The other guy was Pesce, Juan Pascual, Erhard says, mostly to himself. – What about the photo from the airport? The one the police mentioned, of Raúl on his way to a plane? And the passenger lists?

– Let’s just say we helped them out.

Erhard wants to follow that train of thought, but it’s pointless now.

Raúl didn’t go abroad. He was here. There was no doubt. He came home from Majanicho after having killed Alina and, in a frenzy of anger and frustration, took everything out on Beatriz, bashing her skull right where he knew she was vulnerable. Hoping it was enough, he’d shoved her into the wardrobe.

– You need to take care of her. Erhard points at Beatriz. – It’s your duty as a father-in-law. No matter what. See to it that she gets to a good hospital. Make sure she gets proper care.

– You can’t make demands of me, says Palabras. Unconvincing.

– To some degree, I can.

Charles returns, his entire leg now jutting from the cast. – The boy’s down near La Rasca. He’s found a rowboat. I heard him shouting at Old Jorge.

– What about the motor boat?

– He didn’t see it.

– So why don’t you stop him?

– You told me to let him go.

– Not if he’s fleeing the island!

– Fuck, Charles says. He turns and leaves.

Erhard drags himself out of his chair and runs after him. He hears Palabras shouting, but the darkness quickly swallows the sound. It’s getting late. The air is warm, grey in the moonlight. He scans for Charles’s white cast and his torch, which skitters like a finger across piano keys. They don’t follow the path, but cut across rocks instead. Twice Erhard slips and falls in his bare feet, struggling to keep pace with Charles. Every step on the sharp rocks hurts, but he forces himself forward.

The coastline is around two hundred metres below Erhard; though the water is relatively calm, with just the faintest breeze from the south-west or west, the breakers seem unsteady. Erhard notices a few small cabins further down the coast, and he hears voices shouting from within them. Somewhere nearby, he hears shrill yelping from the Maasai girls, who’re searching for each other in the darkness. Charles makes his way towards the cabins, calling out, Where did he go? and waving his torch.

If Raúl is rowing out of the little bay, Erhard thinks, then he’ll head south-west. But the current will push him out to sea east of the island. Rowing against the wind on the open sea will be difficult. It will take time and energy to circumvent the narrow peninsula. But he’s probably angry, and that will give him the strength to row like a madman for the first few hours.

Instead of continuing towards the cabins, Erhard turns northward and picks up the pace. The moon is now behind the island, and everything is dark, so he uses his intuition and sets his feet down uncertainly, hoping they’ll find purchase in the soft earth. The crashing of waves tells him where the water is, and a gentle rustling indicates loose gravel and stone to his left. Judging by the sound of his bare feet against the rocks, the rock bed extends a little way.

He reaches the isthmus. From here, there’s water on either side of him, and the rocks appear in varying shades of black. He moves carefully to the edge of the isthmus and gazes across the bay. It sounds as though Charles is trying to get another boat in the water. There’s the putt-putt of an engine failing to start, followed by the word
Fuck!
, and then finally the engine roars to life.

The boat heads into the wind, southward. He sees Charles out on the water with his torch, and even though the light carries surprisingly far, it’s clear that he’s searching in the wrong area.

The voice he heard cursing came from somewhere ahead of him. From here there’s no more than five metres of the isthmus remaining. Beyond that point, it merges with the wide, black Atlantic Ocean and there’s no land from there to Africa. Erhard continues cautiously, trying not to fall. Above the chop of the engine he hears a strange thumping sound. Like clogs kicking a bucket, driftwood ramming a pier, or a man who doesn’t know how to row a boat.

Raúl Palabras is attempting to row the boat away from the rocks, his arms and oars all a-jumble. He pushes and paddles. Off in the distance, the motorboat’s engine begins to slowly fade. But Raúl’s movements become more and more desperate. Erhard studies the landscape, considering which rocks he can step on to get to the rowboat quickly, but at that instant Raúl gives his rowboat a powerful shove and it drifts four or five metres into the current. In the faint glow of the moonlight, Erhard watches Raúl arrange the oars in the oarlocks and put all his weight into his rowing. It’s slow going, but soon enough he’s past the last big rocks and outcroppings, and nearly indistinguishable from the dark water.

Erhard wonders if he should call out for Charles in the motor boat. But he can no longer hear the engine. With a little luck, Erhard’s shouts would be heard down at the cabins. But since Charles is out of earshot, too much time would likely pass before anyone from the cabins could relay the message to him by boat.

Erhard scales down the rocks, then feels the cold water on his feet. He lowers himself into a squat, then into the water, and his trousers quickly become wet. And his t-shirt. He walks along the craggy shore, but even that soon disappears, and he starts swimming towards the spot where he last saw the rowboat. The waves, which seemed like small ripples from above, now resemble hills crashing on top of him, and he struggles to inhale and hold his breath so as not to swallow too much water. He’s not a good swimmer, but he’s always been strong and durable. Yet now he feels the past few days on his body. For a moment he feels strong, but as soon as he’s free of the rocks he’s overcome by exhaustion and the fear of swimming out into the darkness. If only he could see the rowboat, it would be easier, but he can see nothing.

He has nothing to believe in now, he has no reason to be in the water, and yet he can’t help but continue. To stretch his arms and shoot his body through the water. The water seems cooler, and the waves – now free from Isla de Lobos – are taller and saltier. He considers calling out to Raúl, appealing to their friendship and asking him to pull him into the boat. But he’s certain that his shouts will only make Raúl row harder. He has nothing to gain by plucking Erhard out of the water. Their friendship is over, if it ever was anything more than a boy’s attempt to replace his father.

It nearly strikes him in the head.

Something hard and black that suddenly flies past him. He lifts one arm and just manages to avoid the blow. It’s a section of broken oar, the paddle and twenty or thirty centimetres of the shaft, water-logged and heavy. But it floats, and Erhard thrusts it ahead of him, using it as a paddle, his energy restored. He knows now that Raúl’s not getting very far. The wind will carry Erhard, and maybe with this oar he’ll manoeuvre closer to Raúl. With his feet, he begins to splash wildly. He can’t hear the splashing, but the waves feel livelier, and some of his exhaustion abates.

The rowboat is close now, he can hear it, and also that strange thumping sound again. Briefly, over a wave, he spots the rowboat, then it’s gone, then it appears again. It’s approximately ten metres away from him. Raúl has lost his orientation, or he can’t control his boat, because he’s now facing Fuerteventura. He’s sitting sideways to Erhard, who’s swimming closer and closer. Soon Erhard hears Raúl cursing and talking to himself, shifting his oar from one lock to the other.

A wild wave heaves Erhard nearly to the boat. He hasn’t even considered what he’ll do once he reaches it, but he’s so close now that there’s only time to pursue
one
idea. The first that comes to mind.

When he presses the section of oar down into the water and lays all his weight on it, he feels the water forcing his hand and the paddle upward. He presses even harder and lets go, shooting the oar forward and upward, handle first. There’s no time to aim for Raúl’s head. There’s just the intuitive movement and his will to make it happen.

The oar strikes the edge of the boat with a thud, then topples over the edge and drops into the boat. Erhard can’t see what it hits, but he hears a howl and then sees Raúl on his feet, instinctively lashing out with the other oar and smacking the water beside Erhard. Erhard reaches for the oar, dogpaddling to stay afloat. But Raúl now has the section of broken oar and uses it to slash at the water. When he sees Erhard, his expression changes from one of fear to hatred.

– What the fuck do you want?

He slaps at the water with the oar, and it slams against Erhard’s hand. A horrible pain shoots through Erhard’s head. But his body is already consumed by exhaustion and pain, and forgets frighteningly fast. Raúl lashes out again, and Erhard leans back to dodge the blow.

Erhard tries to shout at Raúl, but his voice is gone. Though the water is relatively warm, it’s still too cold to stay in much longer. You’ve got nowhere to go, he wants to shout.

Raúl wobbles on his feet, but he keeps slashing at Erhard.

– Swim away, Old Man. You’ll grow tired and drown. Or you’ll get hypothermia.