The Hermit (19 page)

– You probably won’t be able to use that computer, Raúl says.

– Well, I don’t know anything about computers anyway. The girl asked for one. So we can see the images better, I imagine. She found a photograph of the car on the beach in Cotillo. Before the police had arrived, I mean.

Raúl takes the glass from Erhard and mixes another drink. – What does it show? When was it taken?

– We’ll need to have a closer look when I return.

Erhard looks forward to driving Alina home, getting that over with. No matter how little he thinks of her, a twisted girl with a taste for shoes, and no matter how important he thinks the case is, it seems wrong to hold her hostage. He considers asking Raúl for a small, temporary loan so he can send Alina to Madrid with a few thousand euros in her pocket. Maybe later. Tomorrow.

– Don’t forget to have fun, Raúl says, handing Erhard a second drink, similar to the first. – Salud.

– Salud, Erhard says. – For the life of me, I just can’t understand how anyone could do it. Throw a small child, an innocent boy, into a cardboard box and starve him to death.

– I once heard a wise man say, ‘You need a brain to get a driver’s licence, but you don’t need a heart to have kids.’ A bitch like that is no mother. She’s a heartless, pathetic person only concerned with her own wellbeing.

– But it’s not the prostitute. I’m convinced of that. She says one of the island’s wealthiest men is paying her to confess, and that the police are playing along to avoid having an unresolved case on their hands.

– A wealthy man, eh? Who else could that be but my father? Raúl laughs. – Cheers.

– Cheers.

They drink.

– Speaking of your father, have you heard that I’ve gotten him to play something other than ‘Coral’?

Raúl grew up with his father’s ‘Coral’ obsession and, after the death of Emanuel’s second wife, Safín, he heard his father play the piece on an endless loop, morning, evening, and night. She died in 1999. Raúl was in his mid twenties then, living in the annex across the garden.

– Hell yeah. Baya called. She thinks you’re a genius. He’s apparently a changed man, suddenly involved in his business again. He’s even writing his last will and testament. There goes 100 million.

Raúl laughs.

– Hmm. Erhard hadn’t considered such consequences. His head is cloudy, and he doesn’t know how to respond.

– Wonder if he’ll leave a few pennies to his only son. But what the hell, it’s just money, right? I don’t even know if I want anything from that old asshole. Cheers.

A typical Raúl conversation – always full of scorn at his father’s wealth. Though, at the same time, he happily accepts his money, doing nothing to earn any for himself.

– Cheers, Erhard says. He has to sit down so that he doesn’t tumble over the railing and fall off the roof.

He feels dizzy, a sensation that begins in his legs and creeps up his body. As if his body’s asleep while his thoughts remain awake. Dazed, but awake. Raúl’s trying to get him pissed, he figures, but that’s nothing new. That’s what he does. Raúl has only two modes of being: Either he drinks until he collapses, or he doesn’t drink at all. There’s no such thing as a one-beer lunch or a little Irish coffee after dinner. Just like when they played poker. Raúl would play along steadily, scheming, so miserly that he would only win or lose small sums of money until he was the last player standing. Or he would teeter on the edge of ruin from the very beginning and go all-in by the end of each hand. Without a doubt, it was what made Raúl fun to be around. But it was also what made it exhausting for Beatriz. It was always either Sunday or Friday in Raúl’s world.

– Lie down on the sofa, Raúl says. – You can sleep here.

Erhard mumbles a thank you. He tries to say something about Alina. How she’s alone, I have to get home to her. She’s waiting for me. I’ve promised her. But Raúl sweeps a soft hand across Erhard’s face, closing his eyes. Easy now, easy, Erhard hears above the din of the teeming street. A lorry, squeezed into a narrow alley, honks its horn. A child on the harbour-front calls out for his brother. A much-too-large baby hand nudges Erhard’s head down onto the sofa pillows.

‌

‌THE CORPSE

‌22 January–28 January

32

– Are you ready for Virgin del Carmen’s arrival?

A loud voice down on the street cuts through Erhard’s sleep. He sits upright on the sofa and glances around the empty terrace. He recognizes that sound. It’s coming from a loudspeaker on the roof of an old Mazda that’s cruising the streets advertising the festival on 23 February.

– Sign up for our events and help give our city and its tourists the island’s best party.

To judge by the brightness of the sun, it’s past noon. The sun is a hot glowing ball in the middle of the sky, and all shadows have been pushed aside. The morning’s drinks are still on the table, stained a dark red, with dried-up lemons on the rims of the glasses. Beatriz and Raúl must still be asleep, since they didn’t wake him up.

He gets to his feet and spots the washerwoman on the other roof staring at him. He waves at her, but she scurries through a door and leaves an empty clothesline. He pulls a Perrier from the fridge and unscrews the cap. He gulps it down, then descends the narrow stairwell to the balcony. The balcony door is open, the curtain fluttering.

He walks into the kitchen and the living room, then returns to the balcony as if they might have appeared while he was inside. He turns around and goes back to the living room, then the dining room – a room he’s never set foot in – and onward to the office, which seems unused, and finally to the bedroom, where he pushes open the door with his foot. He pretty much expects to see Raúl on top of her or fucking her from behind, her breasts dangling free, Raúl angry and excitable as a donkey. But no. As if they’d been in a hurry to leave, the bed is unmade.

He calls out for Raúl several times. Each time it sounds more and more bleak, as if someone’s clipping his speech, or as if the walls somehow swallow the sound. Raú. Ra. R.

In the entranceway, he opens a small chest of drawers and rummages around inside. He searches for paper and a pen to scribble a note for when they return, probably very soon. He steps on something that’s sticking out from under the chest of drawers, a set of keys to a Mercedes along with some house keys – Raúl’s. He must have dropped them. Maybe someone drove him. Just as he bends down to pick up the keys, he hears a sound coming from the office. He hasn’t heard it before. If he heard that sound at home, he would know exactly what it was: the goats rubbing against the wall of the house when it’s raining or too windy. But here, in a three-year-old building thirty metres above the sea, you would hardly expect to find any goats or rats or other animals clawing or scratching so loudly. Perhaps a seagull has gotten into the flat looking for French fries or deep-fried shrimp or something else it’s developed a taste for down at the harbour. Cautiously, he enters the office: a dark space that’s in stark contrast to the style of the rest of the flat. It has Emanuel Palabras’s stamp all over it – a mahogany desk, reclining leather chair, two leaf-shaped shields wrapped in colourful skins. The sound has ceased, but must have come from the large, built-in wardrobe. One of the wardrobe’s doors is pushed a little to the side, leaving a black slit running from floor to ceiling like a colourless block.

Erhard shoves the door aside. Inside, the shelves have fallen down. Clothes and boxes filled with CDs and computer cables are piled up.

Every second or third month Raúl binges on whatever he can get his hands on. He doesn’t plan it that way; it’s how his mind operates. Just when everything’s going well between him and Beatriz, and him and the world, he shits on it all and starts taking whatever the pushers in Calle Mirage give him. Erhard has picked him up several times strung out some place, causing trouble at a party, or in his wretchedness just needing some company. But it’s not Raúl he sees at the bottom of the wardrobe, underneath the clothes and the shelves. It’s Beatriz’s hair, an ear, a large orange earring.

He removes the clothes and the shelves, then lifts her out of the wardrobe and carries her into the bedroom, where he lays her on the bed. She doesn’t look heavy, but she’s not easy to carry. His back aches, but he doesn’t have time to worry about that now.

– What happened? Where’s Raúl? Where the hell is that idiot?

She doesn’t respond, of course. There’s blood on her nose and mouth and down the front of her blouse, and she has a horrible gash on her lip. Most of the blood appears to be coming from a deep wound below her hairline. She’s just staring at the ceiling, slowly blinking her eyes and breathing in wheezy gasps. The telephone is on the nightstand right beside Beatriz. He calmly punches 112 and hears someone answer. Then he looks at Beatriz.

She’s staring directly into Erhard’s eyes. There’s something about her expression. It’s not pain or confusion or death. At first he believes that she’s dead, that her pupils are completely dilated because she has slipped life and found peace, but then he sees that her gaze is more insistent, almost commanding. Her pupils are tense from exertion.

You mustn’t tell them. For Raúl’s sake. Let me go.

– What? he says. On the other end of the line, Emergency Services repeats their questions, but Erhard doesn’t hear them. Beatriz closes her eyes and goes quiet. She’s somewhere far, far away.

Emergency Services keeps asking Erhard what has happened, and where he is located. It’s a man’s voice, friendly. Erhard removes the telephone from his ear and presses the red button, ending the call.

Her words – and he’s certain they are her words – turn everything upside down.
Help me
.
Let me go
. What the hell does that mean? The words reverberate and then seem to vanish into nothingness. And why didn’t she wish him to call an ambulance? Why was it for Raúl’s sake? Was there something she didn’t want him to get mixed up in?

Raúl may be an arse in many ways, but Erhard has never seen him physically harm Beatriz. That’s not the kind of relationship they have. It’s not like him, either. Or Beatriz. It’s what makes her so modern, so lovely, so irritatingly unobtainable: her independence, pride, and strength. Whatever occurred in the flat, it wasn’t an accident or an ordinary domestic dispute. Something very bad happened.

He checks Beatriz again. As part of his job, he has learned first aid and has kept his certificate up to date for years. He lowers his head to her chest and watches it rise and fall. He tilts her head back slightly, so she can breathe easier.

His eyes wander from her mouth to her throat and down, down. Her bloodied robe is wide open, revealing her breasts and hairy vulva behind cotton knickers that appear rather cheap. He quickly cinches her robe and wraps her up in the bed sheet she’s lying on.

He walks through all the rooms again, now searching for clues. Blood, overturned objects, feet sticking out from under the sofa, disembodied limbs. He notices nothing out of the ordinary. But some of the desk drawers in the office aren’t fully closed, and the bed appears messier than usual. And why is the bread knife in the middle of the kitchen table? It’s as though someone got it out to use it, then left it there.

Help me
.
Let me go.

He goes to the kitchen and cracks open a Dos Equis, gulping it down greedily. He pulls his notebook from his pocket. Although he has no system, he knows exactly where he’ll find the number. One evening in Puerto he wrote Michel Faliando’s name and telephone number with a blunt-tipped pencil. He doesn’t remember why he wrote it down. But Faliando is a member of the City Council – and, he remembers, a doctor.

He grabs the wall telephone.

First he tries Raúl. But his call goes immediately to voicemail. He doesn’t leave a message. He redials and gets the same response.

Then he calls the doctor.

– Michel Faliando? This is Erhard Jørgensen, Raúl Palabras’s friend. He doesn’t have the energy to explain, but it’s the only way. – Do you recall that we met at an event once in Puerto?

Erhard explains that Beatriz has been hurt. She’s hit her head, badly, and requires immediate medical attention.

– No, unfortunately I can’t ask anyone else, Erhard says. – It’s complicated.

Silence on the other end of the line.

– It’s Emanuel Palabras’s daughter-in-law, Erhard says, trying to get some leverage.

Continued silence.

– Is she unconscious? the doctor asks.

– She’s breathing.

– Are there drugs involved?

– No, Erhard says automatically.

– Is she a diabetic?

– No, I don’t think so.

– Irregular breathing? Wheezing?

– Yeah, a little, maybe.

– Is she lying on her back or in the recovery position?

– On her back, Erhard says.

Silence.

The doctor says he can be there in two hours. Erhard doesn’t know what to say, so he just thanks him.

Two hours. Hopefully she’ll survive for that long. He’ll do everything in his power to make sure she does. He’ll take care of her and feed her with a spoon and hold her head and…

And then he remembers Alina.

The drive to Majanicho takes fourteen minutes. And the entire time he’s certain that the whore despises him. She has now sat chained up for nearly a day, with no food for more than sixteen hours. Unless she’s managed to find something in the one cupboard she can reach. He steels himself to tell her what has happened, but he’s not sure whether or not he should tell her anything about Raúl Palabras or Beatriz. He’ll just say he was in a terrible car accident. Hell, his shirt is soaked with blood.

At least he’s got the charger with him. The bundle of clothes, underwear, and charger are all on the passenger seat.

He knows he needs to release her today.

He quickly parks the car, leaps out, and hurries inside. She’s not on the mattress or in the kitchen. He glances warily around each corner, ready for her to jump him or throw something at his head. It makes sense that she would.

– Alina?