The Hermit (21 page)

He picks up the telephone, then hears the voice again.

Help me
.
Let me go
.

He looks down at Beatriz, but this time her eyes are closed, and he knows he’s imagining the voice. It’s not real.

Help me
.
Let me go.
What do the words mean? Let her die? Get her away from Raúl?

– Beatriz, he says out loud, his voice choking up uncontrollably.

Take care of me
.

He calls her name again. He wants to shake her, but doesn’t dare touch her. – I need to call, he says, dropping his hand to the telephone.

Por favor.

That last makes him cry. He doesn’t recall when he last cried or even felt pain like this. He feels uncertainty, and he feels grief due to her condition, but most of all uncertainty. Is he imagining it? Or is it really her voice that he hears? It sounds like her. It sounds exactly like Beatriz. The same rusty voice, almost whispering, pleading. He lets go of the telephone and cries into her bathrobe, into her naked breast.

33

– Can you get me a respirator?

– I told you she needs to go to…

– I know, but I’m not going to do that. You’ll have to call. And report me.

Silence.

– Can you get me a respirator?

– Yes, the doctor says simply.

– How fast?

– An hour. Maybe sooner.

Erhard glances at the clock radio on Raúl’s side of the bed. – Meet me at 9 Via Majanicho at six o’clock. The little house at the end of a long path.

– After Guzman?

– Just before Guzman.

– Are you moving her out there?

– Yes, it’s peaceful there.

– Are you sure? Is he really worth it?

– No, but she is, Erhard says and hangs up.

As he was talking to the doctor, an idea formed in his mind.

How might he hide Beatriz and keep her alive, so that no one searches for her? How can he hide Alina’s body, so that no one finds it? Maybe the answers are the same.

The two women have the same hair colour and are approximately the same size. Alina’s a little chubbier than Beatriz and has slightly larger breasts, but not everyone notices such things. Beatriz has no family here on the island, or anywhere else for that matter, so there’s no one to confirm her identity besides Erhard and possibly a few casual acquaintances whom Erhard doesn’t know. What he does know is that she has no close relations. She has often complained about that lack of intimacy. Someone to talk to. Every Tuesday or something she assists one of Raúl’s friend’s daughters, who runs a boutique down on High Street. But that’s only so the daughter can take a day off, not because they’re friends.

And Alina. Like any whore on the island, no one will miss her. A few johns will call in vain. A pimp somewhere, maybe in Guisguey, will lose a little income. But no doubt he’ll think she went home to the mainland.

No one will miss them. And no one will link the two women.

But he’s all alone in this plan of his. He can’t involve the doctor any more than is necessary. Keeping Beatriz alive and out of the searchlights is one thing, but it’s quite another to rid himself of a body. The kind doctor wouldn’t go along with that. Erhard will have to take care of that himself.

Under the sink he finds the kind of rubber gloves people use to clean. He grabs a red blanket from Raúl’s sofa and takes the lift to the car park. The lift is narrow, fitting at most two people. Erhard rarely uses it, because it’s usually too slow, and Raúl never uses it but trots down the stairs so fast that Erhard can’t keep up. Right now the lift is the only real choice. He sticks a wedge in the door, keeping it from going anywhere.

He stares into the boot of Raúl’s Mercedes. At the strangely lifeless pupa. The easiest thing to do would be to drive her down to the harbour and heave her into the sea, or over to the construction site and toss her into one of the chutes. There are security cameras down there, too, probably.

He quickly wraps the tarpaulin – with Alina inside – within the red blanket. It doesn’t look completely natural, but it’s not as suspicious as the tarpaulin, where the whore’s shoulder and hands are visible though the translucent fabric. Then he scoops her up and returns to the lift; the bundle is heavy and it takes him some time. In the lift he squeezes her tightly so she doesn’t slide out, and barely manages to push the button. The door closes. His back aches from the load, and he’s forced to brace her against the wall in order not to drop her. He keeps his eye on the numbers, –1, 0, 1, 2. Between each storey Erhard fears the lift will stop. Third. Fourth.

Fifth. The door opens. He can’t hold her any more. His back can’t bear her weight. He drops her on the floor, then drags her to the flat and hauls her inside. He listens briefly in the entranceway, hears nothing. He slams the door and tugs her cautiously into the office and behind the desk. Blood has dripped onto the tarpaulin, but he unfolds it and pours the blood into a bowl from the kitchen. Using scissors, he cuts Alina out of her ripped tights. Because of her broken ankle, they’re impossible to remove. He removes two necklaces and a bracelet. Though he can’t wear gloves to do this fiddly job, it doesn’t matter. He throws the jewellery in the rubbish bin. It’s hard to look at the whore’s face; not all the blood has congealed yet.

Alina’s lying in her underclothes. Apart from her face and her ankle that’s poking out to the side, her body resembles a mannequin, an advertisement for cheap lingerie.

He walks into the bedroom. Before he touches Beatriz, he listens. Listens to her breathing; it’s rhythmic, but with a faint wheezing, like a plastic bag filling and emptying. He hears the air passing through her nostrils, soughing through her nose hairs. But he can’t hear any words. On the one hand, he’d like to hear the words again, but on the other, they make him nervous and uncomfortable. As he watches, he notices a hint of a scar above her mouth, as if she’s been operated on for a cleft lip. He’s never noticed that before. But it looks so healed and natural that it’s almost a joy to see.

He carefully removes her arm from her robe and pulls the robe off underneath her back. He takes off her thick athletic socks, too, which probably belong to Raúl; they’re splattered with blood. And the pendant. He tilts her head slightly to the side; it’s hard to see just what he’s doing, but his fingers are familiar with this kind of jewellery, and finally he manages to open the tiny lock and remove the necklace. As he walks back to the office, he notices Beatriz’s fantastic nails. The one on her middle finger is dangling loose, revealing a pale, cracked nail underneath. He needs to remove them all. If he’s to turn Alina into Beatriz, those nails will have to be part of the ensemble. He twists the loose nail free, then begins to remove the others. They’re firmly attached, but he’s able to wriggle them off. Only the thumbnail requires a strenuous effort.

In the bathroom he finds a special glue that looks just right for the job, and he affixes the nails on Alina’s fingers. One by one. Calm, thorough. He has never glued nails, but it reminds him of the model airplanes he used to build as a kid. After a few minutes, the nails are all fastened. Alina’s thumbs are a little too big for Beatriz’s nails, but the rest fit quite nicely.

He arranges Beatriz on the passenger seat so that she looks like a sleeping customer. With pillows and a blanket, she’s packed in so tight that she won’t slump or slide to the floor. He drives slowly through the city and around Majanicho; he doesn’t dare take Alejandro’s Trail, which is too uneven and bumpy. It’ll take an extra ten minutes, but he still has time.

He carries her into the living room and swaddles her in a blanket that he’s shaken free of dust and crumbs.

At 6.15 p.m. he hears the doctor’s car and goes out to greet him and to help bring in the equipment, which isn’t much more than a mouthpiece connected to a small machine by a thin tube. The doctor fastens it to Beatriz’s mouth, then pulls an elastic band around her head. The device is already on, and Erhard sees Beatriz’s abdomen heaving unnaturally, like bagpipes. The doctor explains that she needs to hyperventilate to create rapid circulation in the damaged regions of her brain. Erhard just watches her belly rise and fall underneath the all-too-large t-shirt. The respirator inflates. It blinks and glows.

Afterward, the doctor gives her a thorough examination and takes her blood pressure. At last he affixes a catheter to collect her urine in a bag, then instructs Erhard to change the bag as soon as it’s more than two-thirds full.

– If we can’t bring her out of this coma in two or three days, we’ll need to insert intravenous nourishment, the doctor says. It’s important that Erhard keep an eye on her; it’s important that he call as soon as the machine beeps or something happens. – If she’s going to be here, you’ll need to be vigilant. The doctor acts peevish to make it clear that he disagrees with Erhard’s plan.

Erhard glances nervously at the wall outlets, which throw sparks. He’ll need more power from the generator, and he’ll need to buy a new one, especially if more devices will be added. The doctor rejects Erhard’s offer of a beer, then walks out to his car, promising not to tell anyone.

Erhard watches Beatriz for the next hour and a half. It occurs to him that the two women have already exchanged places. Alina’s story ends right in the place she’d always striven for. Beatriz’s story concludes right where – perhaps – she feared it would. He considers building a partition in the living room so that she can have her own room, then decides that if she’s still here in a week, he will do that. Maybe he could construct a private loft? It would be easy to take care of her that way, and easy to check the devices.

He latches the backdoor, then puts an extra padlock on the front door. Something about the episode with Alina makes him worry that someone will pay him a visit. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and probably no one will stop by, but still.

He drives out to Tindaya.

The island is so small that he knows every nook and cranny. And he knows where Lorenzo Pérez-Lúñigo lives: a large yellow house that’s passed through five generations of doctors. Lorenzo married into the house via Adela, Dr Agosto’s eldest daughter. Together they have four adult sons, and a stable of horses in the fields behind their house. He parks on a small private road that skirts the grounds. Then he strolls around and up to the house, which is quiet, sealed off. When Adela opens the door, she seems ill.

– We didn’t order a cab today, she says.

– Happy New Year. I need to speak with Lorenzo.

– He’s no longer practising.

– I know.

– One moment, she says, closing the door.

Five minutes later Lorenzo opens it.

– Yes, he says, perceptibly startled when he recognizes Erhard.

– I need to speak with you. Alone.

Lorenzo scrutinizes Erhard, possibly considering what will happen if he says no. Then he steps outside and follows Erhard.

They walk onto the street. There are never any cars here, but the neighbours sometimes peer through their shutters. Erhard guides him up the narrow road where the car is parked.

– How can I help you, Señor Jørgensen? the doctor says with a kind of affected highbrow manner that doesn’t match his typically vulgar style.

– Let me be blunt. I’ve kept quiet about your little secrets for more than ten years.

–
Dios mío
. What secrets are you referring to?

Erhard gives him a look, but Lorenzo doesn’t notice, so Erhard has to explain: – All those times you showed up plastered at car accidents, or that incident down at the shipyard, when your blood-alcohol level was far above what it should’ve been.

– That wasn’t unlawful. I rode in a taxi.

– But it’s not good form, so far as I’m aware. And there’s probably a good reason you once gave me a 100-euro tip.

– Are you complaining about tips now?

– Only when they’re a type of payoff.

– It was never a payoff.

– What about the time I found you out near Molino?

Lorenzo stares at Erhard in alarm. He doesn’t like to hear any mention of that episode. The doctor had crashed his car in the ditch early one morning, and he’d stood by the side of the road six miles from the closest village. On the backseat of his car was the naked body of an elderly person. Before Lorenzo called the mechanic to request a tow, he wanted Erhard to drive him and the body back to the Department of Forensic Medicine at the hospital in Puerto. It wasn’t the first time that Erhard had dealt with a body. But Lorenzo’s arrogance – as if it were part of Erhard’s job description to haul corpses – had made Erhard obstinate and sceptical, even though Lorenzo gave him a handsome tip. In the end, Bernal had saved Lorenzo from a police report. Though it probably would’ve been dismissed anyway, it would have ignited devastating rumours in the circles where Lorenzo Pérez-Lúñigo most wishes to be regarded as a respectable and brilliant official of the highest sort. Possessing a corpse in some godforsaken part of the island would’ve been awfully difficult to explain, and it would’ve called to mind some very unfortunate images. Lorenzo had understood that.

– What do you want? Why do you come here with this?

– Do we agree that you owe me a favour?

Lorenzo stares unhappily at Erhard. – I thought I’d already demonstrated my gratitude. So what do you want, Señor Jørgensen?

– I want to bring peace to a good friend.

– I can’t do that. I’m not a murderer.

– Lower your voice, Lorenzo. Nobody’s killing anyone. You just need to dispose of a body and pass it along quickly to the mortician, that’s all.

Lorenzo glances around. – What do you mean?

– Sometime in the next day, Beatrizia Colini’s body will be delivered to you for your examination. You need to report that her death was the result of a fall down a stairwell. You can note other small things, but you have to conclude that Beatrizia Colini died following an unfortunate tumble in which she struck her head.

– What have you done, Señor Jørgensen?

– I haven’t done anything. I’m just making sure that my friend Beatrizia’s reputation remains intact, and that the Palabras family isn’t involved unnecessarily in her death.