The Hermit (52 page)

– I remember you, Luís Hernaldo, Erhard says. They hadn’t noticed him arrive, and they turn to him, surprised. – I remember how you were the one always saying that good drivers earned the regular customers. We need to be where the customers are, you said. Isn’t that so, Luís?

Luís eyes Erhard. – What’s your point, Hermit?

– Now Gustavo is you, and you are me. Ambition comes with youth, justice with age. Isn’t that what people say? Erhard has sidled between the three men. – Thanks, Manni, Erhard says, shaking Manni’s hand, deliberately formal. As if to say, Management is now officially involved. Manni shrugs, then lumbers to his car.

– I’ll give each of you one minute to tell me what happened. This isn’t a trial. You won’t get to defend yourselves, just explain your position. You first, Luís. You’ve got seniority.

Erhard doesn’t care about seniority, but he knows that many drivers do, feeling that they merit respect, especially after years of working in a low-status occupation. And he knows that Luís – who loves everything about General Franco, big-bosomed babes in cheap magazines, and watching boxing matches on the widescreen TV down at the Yellow Rooster – needs to hear this sort of thing. It helps him to relax.

He listens to their accounts. What becomes clear is that Gustavo simply provided good customer service. The customer had been in Gustavo’s taxi before, and liked him; he’d gotten his mobile number, and he’d specifically called to request a pick-up at the harbour when the ferry from Lanzarote arrived. Luís says it’s disloyal of Gustavo, that it’s against the rules the drivers have established; they’re supposed to share customers. This is an old argument, but Erhard can tell that, for Luís, much more is at stake. He doesn’t feel cheated, he feels dumb.

– You raise a good point, Luís, Erhard says. – If anyone has sacrificed for the system, it’s you. Surely you’ve rejected many of these kinds of rides yourself in order to be loyal to the rest of us.

Erhard knows, of course, that he’s manipulating Luís. Luís never turns down a customer. He has very few regulars, and those he has are mostly whores or sick people, who pay him extra to be picked up whenever they’re in dire need of a lift. While Erhard talks, he keeps his eye on Gustavo. It’s difficult to read his face.

– At the same time, Luís, you also provide the best customer service that you can.

– We don’t want to lose revenue because of a few cheaters, Luís says. Again. Some of the others grunt in agreement.

– No. Instead, you hope for even more, Erhard says, watching Gustavo blink, confused.

– Exactly, some of the drivers say.

Luís looks around as if victory is his.

– It’s only fair that everyone gets more when a good driver does the work.

– That’s right, the drivers say, even though a few have begun to sense that the argument is headed in a different direction. But not Luís. Like a union boss who’s just won a settlement with the company, he shouts, YES!

– I would like, this company would like, to put three euros in the communal pool for every driver who calls in a customer. Which is to say that drivers like Gustavo, who have a big network, can now earn money for those of you waiting in the queue.

Silence. Gustavo stares at Erhard, puzzled, a hint of a smile in his eyes.

– Good idea, one of the other drivers says.

– Where will the money come from? another says.

– We’ll just have to find the money somewhere, Bilal says. He’s a mechanic, but he’s got more business savvy than most of the others.

– That’ll be my problem to deal with, Erhard says. – It won’t affect you. Trust me, I’ve been in your position. I want to make sure this is a good place to work, and it’s only the beginning. I’d like to change other things as well. But is this a compromise you can accept, Luís?

Luís has no other choice but to say yes. Though he doesn’t seem to understand the math, or what it means for his wallet. But since the others are excited, he nods at Erhard, then steps out of the circle.

Erhard walks over and shakes Gustavo’s hand. – I hope you know you’ve made the right choice. Drivers should never be punished for good customer service.

– But you’re not giving out bonuses for it, either. You’re just giving the others a cut to wait on customers?

– Yes, because they don’t know any better. When you start bringing in fifteen to twenty euros more a month for them, things will change. You’ll be their hero. Everyone wants to be the benevolent provider. What’s important is that you don’t stop doing what’s right.

– What if a driver picks up someone who’d hailed him but calls it in saying it was on request? Will you pay three euros without checking?

– I haven’t thought it completely through, but I’m sure we’ll figure it out. Maybe you can help me find a solution?

Gustavo laughs, then turns serious. – I’ve only been a cabbie for three months and you’re asking
me
? The only reason I’m driving is to earn a little extra cash on the side.

– On the side of what?

– I’m a musician.

– Drummer?

– How do you know?

– The way you move your arms. They seem a little more dexterous.

Gustavo laughs again. – If you want my help, I’m happy to do so.

– I’ll come get you next week, and then we’ll discuss all this.

Erhard heads back to his office. It’s not until he reaches the stairwell that he realizes Ana is still behind him.

– You took care of that rather well, she says softly.

– Does that surprise you?

– A little. Marcelis hates Luís.

– Everyone hates Luís, but he’s been a taxi driver for more than twenty years.

– Marcelis would have fired him.

– And that would have been a mistake.

– Where will you find the three euros?

– No idea. I thought I’d peruse our agreements with local businesses. Maybe we can squeeze more money from them?

– We’re already more expensive than TaxiVentura.

– And so far as I know, they sell too low.

– Marcelis isn’t going to like it if you don’t know where the money’s coming from. Just letting you know.

Erhard is suddenly invigorated. He takes two steps at a time, forcing the younger Ana to jog after him.

– You have a meeting with Alphonso Suárez this afternoon, she says once she catches up to him. – At 5.30.

– Isn’t it too early for that? The casino hasn’t even been built yet.

– I don’t know. Marcelis was the one who asked me to schedule the meeting. And it had to be on a Saturday, because Suárez likes to go out on Saturdays. Marcelis said it was important to strike a good deal.

It’ll be another two years before they’ve completed construction. Such long-term planning is beyond Erhard’s comprehension. – OK, he says, closing his office door. For the first time, he feels an urge to study the accounts folder, which is lying on the table. For the first time, he feels an urge to be the director.

But when he sits down at his desk, his unease returns.

During the ten minutes his involvement in the drivers’ argument lasted, he hadn’t thought about the incident in his flat. But when night falls and he has to leave the office, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. Unfortunately, there aren’t too many possibilities available to him. One by one he has shrugged off fragments of his old life, and there’s not much left. It’s his own fault.

He needs to find a new place.

He can’t stay in the flat. His downstairs neighbour is surely keeping tabs on him, and who knows how many men they’ll send next time? He can’t stay at his own house, either. All that he once appreciated about that place – the isolation, the distance to his neighbours, the whistling of the wind – is very much a disadvantage when one is being hunted by thugs and murderers.

Miza, Solilla. The only two people remaining in his life, the only ones who trust him, who would let him sleep on their sofa if he asked. But he doesn’t want to involve them. Not the way it’s going now. Who knows what will happen when Palabras and the man with sunglasses grow even more desperate? It’s kind of embarrassing to tally up his friendships and only get to two, and it’s not like he’s close to either of them. Until recently, he’d felt that he had more friendships than he could spare, but now they’ve all ground to a permanent halt. He’s a superficial person, he thinks, who never ventures to that level where things become meaningful. Usually, this recognition triggers one of his more unbridled benders; he’ll find his keys in one place, his wallet in another, and himself in yet a third. But today, such a thought holds no appeal to him. Today he’d rather be wide awake and miserable than numbed by Lumumbas.

For a brief, brief moment, he considers returning to Denmark. He could leave without telling anyone. He could live in a little house in North Jutland – far from Annette and the girls – raising chickens, ploughing snow, driving a taxi, and tuning pianos. Annette would wonder why the money’s coming from some place new, but she probably wouldn’t even care. Just as long as he keeps sending her money, stays far away, and doesn’t contact the girls. But he can never go back to Denmark. He knows that. He studies his hand. Twenty years ago he exchanged his finger for a new life far away. There are no trade-backs. Besides, he’s quit Denmark in the same way one quits smoking or gawking at girls in bikinis. He’s grown too old. Not completely, but more and more.

He considers other possibilities, places to sleep, live, spend the night, park the car. None are any good.

And what about Beatriz? She can’t stay in the flat. In all likelihood, Sunglasses has told Palabras about the woman in the bed, and even though Palabras couldn’t possibly know who it was, or how she got there, he would doubtlessly suspect that Erhard was hiding something.

Ema.

He checks off possible and impossible places to go and eventually narrows his list to one: Hotel Olympus, the abandoned hotel south of Las Dunas. Partly because he can drive all the way around the building and sneak into the unfinished car park. Should anything happen, there’s a second exit with access to a narrow footpath that he’s crossed before and which leads to the beach. The Greek company responsible for building the hotel abandoned its shell in such great haste that it left tools, cement-mixers, and materials worth thousands of euros behind. Anything of value has long since been nicked and sold on the black market, but to the delight of the homeless who live there, the water and electricity have not been shut off. One of the homeless, Guillermo Trajo – best known as the man who looks like a woman – once told Erhard that he watches TV and blows his hair with a hairdryer. He can put Beatriz on the backseat and park the Mercedes close to the distribution board, and in that way the respirator and the catheter will both have access to electricity. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s the best he’s got.

But he needs to pick up Beatriz now, before Sunglasses and the downstairs neighbour and Palabras break into the flat to find her. Or before they lose their patience and come looking for Erhard.

He grabs his briefcase and leaves the office as if he’s going home.

– Did you get my message? Ana says.

Erhard looks at her.

– Someone called and left a message yesterday. It’s on your desk.

He returns to his desk and finds a yellow Post-it note. He doesn’t know how he could’ve overlooked it.

Juan Pascual = P
.

He goes back to Ana. – What is this?

– I don’t know, but he asked me to write it down for you. It took him a long time to spell it. I think he was dyslexic.

– Who was it that called?

– Simón or Simone, something like that. I was so busy trying to write that other name that I didn’t really get his.

So he’d called after all. Juan Pascual was Señor P, the ship’s mate who’d boarded the
Seascape Hestia
. The man from Fuerteventura, as Simao had said. Mean and pissed.

– He lives here on the island, this Juan Pascual. Can you look him up for me?

Ana taps a few keys. – Maybe. Not everyone is listed. Assuming he spelled the name correctly, there’s only one Juan Pascual, and he lives here in Corralejo.

She snatches the Post-it note from Erhard and writes the address under Pascual’s name.

– 15 Lago de Bristol. Weren’t those buildings torn down?

– Possibly. Some of the addresses here are old.

He nods, then leaves the reception area. Ana watches him go. – I don’t mean to interfere, but…

He pauses. – What?

– It’s OK to dress like that for the drivers, they don’t even notice, but don’t you think you should change your clothes before you go to your meeting?

Erhard glances down at himself. His shirt is wrinkled, and there’s a huge brown stain – which looks like sauce or shit – in the centre of his chest. He hadn’t noticed that, or even considered his clothes since the scuffle in the flat. He’d rather come across to Ana as unaffected, deliberate, but instead his irritation gets the best of him. That feeling of his returns: he’s a piece in a giant puzzle. – I’m not going to that meeting, Ana. I’ve got other things to worry about besides that shitty meeting.

Alarm creases her face. – Should I postpone it? she asks softly.

– Of course you should. Postpone the rest of the week while you’re at it.

– What’s happened? she calls out after him.

On his way to the car he hatches a plan to get Beatriz out of the flat and into his car. It’s a horrible plan, but it’s the only one he can think of in a rush. The car park in the basement is out of the question, so he needs to walk right in the front door and use the stairwell. That’s the only way, maybe, that he’ll be able sneak past the downstairs neighbour. But he needs some assistance. From one of the city’s most ridiculous charlatans. Silón, the man who sells briefcases.

65

Silón’s shop is directly opposite the entrance to his building; it’s so close that when one exits, one can see through the shop and the muddle of paraphernalia that Silón sells – discount bags and cases in garish colours, inflatable animals, woven beach mats – and directly out to the car park behind the shop. Erhard knows that, if he parks in that lot, he’ll have to walk about thirty metres from the lift to his car. Through the store. Silón sells large, very large, square suitcases, some with wheels.