The Hermit (36 page)

He walks down to the water. There’s no beach at Alapaqa. Only a series of feeble piers running from the breakwater to the fishermen’s two- or three-man cutters and racks of nets. The fish are hanging out to dry, and some dogs bark at a big seagull perched on a drying board.

An importer of cars. He thinks about the car on the beach in Cotillo. Last seen in Amsterdam. Could one register a stolen vehicle here on the islands? Or was that why it didn’t have licence plates?

The police certainly knew all the importers, and had sent them inquiries. No doubt there was a vehicle identification number. He imagines containers like the two he’d investigated. A young man breaks in, steals a car, and pays the guard to look the other way. It seems improbable that the theft wouldn’t be discovered, or that the car wouldn’t be missed, but not impossible. There’s a saying on the islands: Paperwork makes busy men tired. There’s something to that. No one on the Canary Islands likes to file reports, registrations, or contracts. A car might vanish in a stack of paperwork. A lot happens on the islands, including strange, inexplicable things.

He returns to the now slightly dusty Mercedes parked in the little car park behind Miza’s cafe. There are two things he’d like to do. One is to find the car from the beach. Right now it’s in police custody in a lot near the Palace. The other is to stop by Casa Negra, the only restaurant on the island that serves African food. As he drives down the narrow road leading through Alapaqa to the high street, he thinks about Casa Negra’s extra spicy fish dish with rice. The restaurant is in a shitty location right near the airport’s runway, so the table shakes and all the diners sit frozen in place every time a plane comes in for a landing. He’d prefer doing the latter before the former, because he’s starving, but decides to head towards the Palace to get that over with.

He drives past the gate that leads up to the Palace’s entrance and car park, then all the way round the building. The driveway ends in a stony field. He turns the car round and returns the way he came, this time going south around the Palace. He spots a bunch of parking spaces and abandoned cars, but all the driveways lead to similar businesses, like Retail Invest, Joint Markets, Northeast Invest. There are foreign names and rental companies occupying grey buildings behind grey fences dividing the grey landscape. Then he sees a warehouse at the end of a short road, a hangarlike facility behind a tall fence; the police’s shield hangs on a wide gate. Erhard swings the car round, parks, and walks up to the fence. To the left of the gate, on the other side of the fence, is an empty folding chair. A CCTV camera is mounted there on one of the poles above the chair. He stares into its black lens and sees the lot’s reflection. A moment later, an unseen door opens in the warehouse and a policewoman approaches him.

– What is your business here? she says from a distance.

– I’m looking for a car, a Volkswagen.

– What is your business? This is police property.

– I’m looking for a car that’s gone missing.

– I’ll have to ask you to direct your inquiry to the police station. She points in the direction of the Palace. – Remember to ask for an inspection form called RO-19.

Judging by her expression, she has uttered that sentence many times. She has an irregular face, tilting slightly to the left, as if she has had tooth pain or migraines for a very long time. There’s also something forced about the way she lets her hair fall over her eyes. Maybe she’s trying to cover up some ugly brown welts or something. She’s the service-oriented type, who has probably fed a bunch of rug-rats since she was seventeen and still irons her three ex-husbands’ shirts.

– Maybe you can help me, Erhard says, stepping right up to the fence. – My company is looking for a car that was never registered, but just disappeared. It would mean a lot to me.

– She studies his business card, which he holds up to the fence.

– Unfortunately you’ll need an RO-19.

He takes a chance. – I know it’s in there. I would just like to see it, that’s all. A blue Volkswagen Passat.

– I would like to help you, but I can’t.

– Give me two minutes, that’s all I’m asking.

– I’m afraid I can’t help you, she says a little hesitantly.

She would’ve already gone back inside if she was going to stand her ground. But he needs to use soft arguments. – Señorita… Vasquez. He sees the name written on her badge. – A little boy was found dead in the backseat of this car. I’m trying to locate his mother, and I need to see the car.

The woman now removes her sunglasses and rubs her eyes, scrutinizing Erhard. He must look like an innocent old man, because she quickly puts the glasses back on and whispers, –I’ll check the computer to see if we have a Passat.

To let him in, she’ll have to press a large button located on an electrical box a few metres from the fence. She eyes Erhard.

– Why is a taxi company searching for her? Isn’t that a police matter?

Erhard doesn’t have a good response. – Unfortunately, Señorita, your colleagues are too busy with other cases. Only a few of us worry about dead kids.

It’s not an answer to her question, and it’s risky. If she doesn’t have children of her own, she’ll sniff out his manipulation. But if she has children, then she’ll push the button.

She loses her focus for a moment. – What happened to the boy?

– The Cotillo case?

– Oh, yeah. I’ve heard of that.

He tries to nudge her. – Can you believe she abandoned him in a cardboard box?

She regards Erhard at length. Then she pushes the button. – You have to promise you won’t touch the vehicle. It’s the only thing I request.

– I just need to see it. I’ll stand a few metres away and just look.

– Everything in here is evidence.

The gate begins to creak open.

– Here, take my card. And you have me on film, of course. Erhard points at the camera. – I won’t touch anything, and I’m not trying to destroy a case.

– I’ll give you three minutes, Señor. I’ll go with you.

As soon as he’s inside, she presses the button again, and the gate closes.

The facility is dark. A few faint lamps light up as Erhard and the woman walk among the rows of cars, motorcycles, boxes of junk, and strange objects wrapped in plastic. Everything divided into numbered units. Only one out of every eight units or so houses a car. Or the remains of a car. He sees flattened vehicles, charred delivery vans, a roofless bus.

They walk in silence. The place reminds him of a mortuary. A war mortuary with dead soldiers. Every item has a story. A fate. A police report. They pass a huge cage, its door swung open, the kind that can hold a tiger or a bear. A motorcycle sidecar without a motorcycle. A chest freezer. He wants to ask the woman where all the things come from. What are their stories? But he knows she won’t answer. And he’d rather save his questions for later. They pass a row of cars, some dark blue and one a Volkswagen. Erhard just shakes his head, it’s not the right one. He needs to stroll around without the tall woman nipping at his heels. He pauses before a row of peculiar items, twisted and unrecognizable in the darkness. The woman’s torch sweeps swiftly over them: an exercise bike, a fountain, a bar stool. It’s almost funny. A kind of grotesque children’s game, in which one must remember everything one has seen. But his smile quickly fades. In reality, it’s all just row after row of worthless stuff that, at the end of the month, will be hauled to the dump north of the city.

– You’ve got many fine things here. Are you responsible for all of it?

She seems uncertain whether or not he’s being ironic. – You could say that. Me and Levi, our carrier, and a few night watchmen.

Erhard tries to think of something with which to praise her without sounding phony. People like her love that kind of thing. – Most people would probably turn on more lights, he says, but you manage with just your torch. You must have guts, Señorita Vasquez. You’re a rare breed.

That last part was a bit over the top and didn’t sound like a compliment, but the guard didn’t seem to notice.

– I’m just doing my job, she says, flashing her torch on another car, a Seat.

Erhard shakes his head, and they continue down through the centre of the hall.

– Well, thank you for your help anyway.

– It’s nothing. When was it confiscated?

The girl’s photograph from Cotillo Beach was taken on 6 January.

– About a month ago, he says. It’s hard to believe.

– Then we should’ve gone…

Before she completes her sentence, he sees the car and stops. Dark-blue, but black in the darkness. A 2011 model.

– May I borrow that? he says, meaning the torch.

She shines the light on him. – But don’t touch it. She hands him the torch as if it were an axe.

Erhard approaches the car. He runs the torch over the body, bottom up, searching for sand marks along its sides, and peers through the windows into the backseat as if the box with the boy was still inside. Then he walks around the car and squats next to the bumper. The guard stands beneath the lamps and is just about to say something, but Erhard makes sure to keep his distance. He studies the bumper. He keeps the torch light trained on it, scanning from left to right, and before long begins to see movement in the lacquered, shiny surface. He lets his eyes roam back the other way now, slower this time. He’s certain he’ll find a mark, a dent. When the guard steps back a couple paces, Erhard quickly slides his fingers across the rear of the car. Smooth as only a factory-new car can be. A fact that surprises him. He stands and walks around the car.

– Two minutes, Señor.

– OK.

Erhard squats next to the front bumper. It’s just as shiny and smooth as the rear bumper. He focuses on the minutest details, but the guard – now standing a couple of yards behind him – puts him on edge, and his eyes dart this way and that, unable to locate what he’s looking for. Inch by inch he inspects the bumper’s natural curves, created by some computer somewhere in Volkswagen’s design department. Perfectly executed and perfectly painted. He sees nothing out of the ordinary.

– Time’s up, Señor. I’m sorry, but…

Erhard gets to his feet, and the guard begins to guide him back towards the door. Swiftly he spins and runs the pads of his fingers across the bumper. The guard turns and yells at him, but he’s half-concealed in darkness and can now feel, in the very centre of the bumper, a level bump, a directional shift that didn’t come from the factory. It’s a 20-centimetre-wide area, which can only have been made by something large and heavy. That’s why he didn’t see it before; it was too big for him to see it. He’d been searching for something minute, but he was looking at the wrong scale. Erhard turns towards the woman and raises his hands.

– I’m sorry. I just had to feel it.

She has brought her telephone nearly to her ear, as if she’s called someone, but she hasn’t said a word. She looks at the telephone, then presses a button and clips the phone back on her belt. – I told you not to touch anything. You better come with me.

She’s not simply irritated, but also hurt, as if he’s disappointed her personally. She nudges him towards the door. Behind them, the lights snap off.

– I’m sorry, he says over his shoulder.

– I don’t think you are.

– You won’t get in trouble. No one knows I’m even here.

– Yes, I will.

– I just needed to see the car. For the boy’s sake.

– Stop nattering about that boy. That’s just a story you invented to trick me. They’ve reached the door, and now head outside. The light is strong, but the air is sweet. – I need to ask you to leave, Señor, she says, as if he’s not already on his way, and she buzzes him out the gate. Erhard wants to thank her one last time, but before he can say anything, she’s turned her back on him and retreated inside the hangar.

He returns to his car and drives to Casa Negra. He orders the spicy codfish and a tall glass of beer, even though he’s told himself that he’s not allowed to drink any more today. While he waits, he jots down every possible scenario on a napkin: The car was stolen in Amsterdam and later from a container terminal. The car was stolen in Amsterdam and sold to the mother or father here on the island. The car was… He can’t bring himself to write this one down. The car was stolen in Amsterdam, fell out of a container on the open sea, and somehow washed ashore here on Fuerteventura.

49

Already in the lift he hears something. Music and choppy voices all the way up through the shaft. When he passes the fourth floor, he thinks it must be Raúl. So he’s returned home after all. So he’s just been on one of his drinking binges with his friends, stuffing drugs into every orifice, under the radar, outside of Daddy’s reach and far away from everyone who loves him, so that no one could try to bring him back. So he’s returned to a life in almost total overhaul. So he’s home again. He’s found Beatriz, and he’ll ask Erhard who was cremated and poured into an urn in Alto Blanco. The game is over. In the best-case scenario it’s back to Majanicho for him.

Then he remembers the new set of keys. The noise must be coming not from his flat, but the corridor. The doors of the lift open. There are twenty or twenty-five people standing in the hallway. It’s the classic crowd one finds in any bar, just dressed in finer clothes, ties, and gold necklaces instead of ragged tattoos on their ankles. He searches for Raúl’s eyes, bloodshot after weeks of drinking and random sex. He searches for his friend’s face. But as he scans the crowd, it occurs to him that his friend isn’t among them. He will never be here. They are hired men and women, no one you know or like. They are little more than sandwich boards, rented to fill space. A pair of Maasai girls stand together against the wall, waiting as if for a big blowout sale. None among the crows seems to know who Erhard is, or even care to find out. He cuts through the throng and towards the door, next to which, preoccupied with a Maasai girl – the nearly coal-coloured doll – stands Emanuel Palabras.

– Piano Tuner, he says loudly, hurrying to pour a glass of champagne that he hands to Erhard.