The Hermit (57 page)

Erhard is next in line. From the kiosk, he can see over at the Café Azura, and the tall young woman. This face. This face on a slightly troubling and pale woman in her early twenties. She’s nicely dressed, her hair pinned back in a whiplike ponytail. Her lips are painted so thickly red that they appear to be black. She doesn’t seem comfortable in her clothes, as if she would rather wear a tracksuit and trainers. Now he suddenly remembers where he’s seen her; it wasn’t at Bill Haji’s funeral: it was at Café Rústica. The cafe owner had called her a bitch. According to the owner, she was probably a lesbian too. The Bitch had returned to Fuerteventura because she had inherited something. And now she winds up at Bill Haji’s cafe wearing an ironed dress. The islands live up to the worst stereotypes. A bitter mix of the same people.

She knew Hollisen. She knows what became of him.

Erhard scoots out of the queue and crosses the street to the cafe.

– Just one today? The Bitch asks. She guides him to a small table half-shaded by the cafe’s awning. People are everywhere, between tables and up at the bar and along the wall. She pulls out a chair for him.

– Do you have a table a little farther from the street? In the shade?

– Do you mind sitting near the loo?

– I’m used to it.

– That doesn’t sound too nice, she says, and Erhard nearly bursts into laughter. She’s funnier than she looks. She tries to stand the menu on the table.

– Do you have any specials from Tenerife? Erhard asks. He sits down and shoves his backpack under the table.

– Mostly from Madrid, London, and New York.

– I went to Café Rústica once. Do you know the place?

The Bitch takes a step back and regards him. – Just a moment. María, can you pick up table seven’s check? Then she turns her attention back to Erhard. – You’ve been to Rústica?

– A couple times.

– On holiday?

– Something like that.

– You live here?

– Yes, but not for long.

– You need a cold beer?

– A San Miguel.

– I’ll give you an American beer. Better for you.

She walks off and returns with a bottled beer, an American brand he doesn’t recognize. Also a bowl of fresh shrimp with some kind of dressing that he can dip them in. – In honour of Our Carmen, she says.

Erhard watches her come and go. He wants to ask her if she’s seen Hollisen since leaving Tenerife. Or if she’s heard from him. Since she didn’t like Hollisen, chances are good that she’ll gossip if she has any information on him. For a while, she responds to his stares with a professional smile; but when he keeps at it, she stops peering in his direction and begins wiping tables, mixing blue drinks, and conversing with one of the cooks, who stands with his head poking through a little window.

The shrimp are surprisingly good.

He’s invisible from the promenade. There is minimal risk of the police entering every single cafe on a day like this. Broken-legged Charles and Palabras’s other men are no doubt searching elsewhere. They’re probably already livid that he hasn’t arrived on the
Lucifia
yet.

Before he even finishes his beer, he has to use the loo. From the toilet he can see a large aquarium holding a lobster and a couple of big red fish peeking around long blades of green algae. A thick layer of black slate rests on top of the aquarium, but one corner has been left uncovered. He finishes his business, washes his hands, and taps on the aquarium with his index finger. When he returns to his table, he glances around for the Bitch. She emerges from the kitchen, her lips fresh with lipstick, and trailed by a powerful odour of cigarettes and cooking oil. He raises his hand for the bill; she prints it at the register and hands it to another waiter, who delivers it on a small plate without a word. She remains behind the bar discussing, with a colleague, which tables need to be wiped down, her ponytail swinging. Now, suddenly, he sees the resemblance. She’s got Bill Haji’s smile, and the same arrogant tilt of the head he’d make after he’d told a joke or lifted one of the dancing girls onto his lap. That was something he did to help his business, putting them on his lap. Bill was as queer as they come. The entire island followed his love life with keen interest, the women especially; they sighed for Bill every time some man left him or cheated on him. The men snorted, and the more homophobic among them swore at the old queer, wanting him gone. Erhard had heard it many times. From the backseat of his taxi, in the break-room at work, on the street, at the hairdresser’s. Because Bill was so damn interesting and lively and extreme, people talked about him – and now here’s a girl who is his spitting image. The grandchild. To Erhard, she looks more like his daughter than granddaughter. But she’s avoiding him, staying behind the bar polishing everything there is to polish. He needs to find another place where he can talk to her.

He pays at the bar. When the waiter brings his change, Erhard leaves the money on the plate and requests a small plastic bag and a rubber band. The waiter goes back to the kitchen and returns, then watches curiously as Erhard ambles to the loo. Once Erhard makes sure he’s alone, he pulls out the little drive Cormac had given him and throws it into the bag. Then he squeezes all the air from the bag, knots it, and wraps the rubber band around it as tightly as possible, until it’s a small, hard cocoon. Keeping the door of the loo closed with one foot, he carefully sticks his hand in the cold water and sweeps it into the back corner of the aquarium before dropping the bag and watching it sink to the bottom, where it nestles between the green plants. It’s not as well hidden as he’d like, but unless someone squats low and stares in the back corner of the tank, no one will ever notice. A child might. But no one taller than three feet. For a moment, he wonders if the lobster will try to poke the bag. Then he realizes that half of its claws are missing.

He taps once on the glass, then leaves the cafe.

He hurries down the street, his head down, and darts into a narrow alley filled with mangy cats and crushed bottles. Two men with crusted blood under their noses are sleeping on a stack of cardboard boxes. The alley emerges onto another that skirts behind all the bars and cafes, one used by rubbish trucks, schoolchildren, dogs, pushers, and locals taking a shortcut. He makes his way to Azura’s rear entrance. There he finds a vandalized bar stool on a carpet of cigarette butts.

He perches on the stool and inspects the alley, which is quiet except for some snoring drunkard sleeping on a collapsible chair. After half an hour, he hears footsteps.

The back door flies open. The Bitch bursts outside, leans against the wall, and vomits a soupy red liquid that drips down the wall onto a patch of withered grass. With her head still down, she turns towards Erhard. – You’re not a stalker, are you? I don’t have the energy to deal with that.

– Are you OK? What’s wrong?

– Too much partying, too little sleep, she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. – And who are you?

– One of Bill’s friends. Erhard. He offers his hand. But she sees his missing finger and clutches his hand awkwardly.

– So many people are friends with him all of a sudden, and they’re coming from everywhere. Talk with Ernesto. He’s the one who handles that kind of thing.

– I was the one who found him. After the accident.

She doesn’t respond to this, just rummages in her waist apron for her pack of fags.

– And you’re his granddaughter?

– My grandfather, a first-generation homo. From a family of homos, if you ask me, who have children without knowing why.

– I didn’t realize he had kids, or grandkids.

– He probably didn’t either.

– But you inherited this place?

– It went to my father. And he gave it to me. That’s the short version. The sanitized version.

– Does your father work here too?

She laughs once more. This seems to cause her pain, and she clutches her belly. – You’re no journalist, that’s for sure.

Erhard takes that as a no.

– So you stopped working at Rústica and came home to Tenerife when Bill died? Have you seen anyone from there since?

She shakes her head.

– Do you know Søren Hollisen?

Something changes on her face when he says Hollisen’s name. It’s not a positive change, it’s not even surprised.

– You’ve asked me that before, and I told you that everyone who works at Rústica knows that fucker.

– What did he do to you?

– You mean, what didn’t he do? He’s fucked with everything and everyone, that’s what he’s fucking done.

– Do you know what became of him?

– I’m sure he went home to Denmark. That’s where you’ll find him,
Extranjero…
Good luck.

– Is he violent?

– That psychopath is capable of anything. That’s all I can say.

– Your old boss told me he was very popular.

– Of course he was popular. Like all psychopaths. She lights a fag. – I need to sit down. She points at the stool, and Erhard stands up. She seems suddenly exhausted. – He must’ve done something stupid since you’re here.

– He must’ve done something to you since you’re answering me like that.

– Touché, the Bitch says. Smoke slowly escapes her lips; it spirals past her nose and into her eyes, forcing her to squint. Again he recognizes Bill Haji in her rather elongated face. Everything about it seems too large, too long, too hot-tempered to be attractive. It’s like a face seen through a magnifying glass.

– Do you know if he got a girl pregnant?

She shakes her head. – The poor girl.

– What do you mean?

– Growing up here is a form of child abuse. All of the crazy idiots a girl has to survive. On some of the islands they eat children, did you know that?

– I didn’t know that, Erhard says.

– Any child of Søren’s can only be fucked up.

– So he had a kid?

– I didn’t say that.

Erhard’s alarmed by the way she’s seated on the stool. As if she’s sagging because she’s ill.

– Are you sick because of him? Did he infect you with something?

She laughs, and smoke sprays from her mouth and nose. – You don’t think I’d fuck that psychopath, do you?

– Why not?

Erhard wonders if maybe she’s a homosexual like her grandfather.

– You’re funny, she says mirthlessly.

– You look sick. I don’t mean to be cruel. You look like you’re in pain.

– That’s my problem, not yours.

– If you die while I’m here, then it is my problem. People tend to die in my presence.

– Relax, old man. I’m just not feeling well.

– How old are you? What’s your name, actually?

– Twenty-seven. No more questions. I don’t want to answer any more. I’m working until four in the morning. Our Carmen, you know.

She stands.

– Why do you think he’s in Denmark?

– He didn’t like to stay away from Fuerteventura for too long at a time. So he’s got to be long gone. That’s what I think.

– Have you searched for him?

– He owes me money. I could use it now that I run this place.

– Your old boss said that Hollisen had money troubles.

– Doesn’t everyone? But let me tell you something, if you find him I’ll give you a reward.

When she opens the door, kitchen sounds pour out. She steals a quick glance at him, a confused flash of a smile on her lips.

Only then does he notice her silhouette, her belly, swollen underneath her black dress. On such a slender frame as hers, it looks as though there’s a turtle on her stomach.

– You’re the one, Erhard says.

– What now?

– You’re the mother.

72

The boy.

He has never really thought about the boy. Never really imagined him. In a little hollow, in a little coffin, in a little cardboard box, in a little playpen, in a little bed. He hasn’t thought of him as a boy, only as a cheap doll, like those Lene played with, one of those with a body made of soft fabric and hands and feet made of pink plastic.

Now, all of a sudden, he sees him. Lying in the darkness of the box, pale, luminescent. Lying between the shreds of newspaper like a chick on a nest of thorns. His hair merges with the darkness. His brown eyes are hard and exhausted from crying. He’s not screaming, he’s quiet, touching his chubby fingers against the sharp edge of the cardboard. Scraped from his mother’s life, not after twelve weeks in the womb, but after twelve weeks in the world. A failed abortion with hair and thumbs. The worst part isn’t that he’s dead, that his parents killed him, but that they let him live, that they kept him alive for three months before they killed him. They gave him three months without love, three months without eye contact and proper care, without a pacifier or teddy bear and whispered kisses and loving glances from the edge of his crib, without a hand caressing him in the darkness. Three months of indifference before they abandoned him, stuffed him into a box, and sent him away like a package with an unknown addressee.

The Bitch stands in the doorway. Though she clearly prefers to go inside and close the door, she stays put, eyeing Erhard.

– Did Hollisen kidnap your son?

– He wanted it.

– What do you mean?

– I didn’t want the kid. That’s what I said. But it wasn’t free. Nothing is.

– So why were they on the ship?

– Ship? I don’t know what you’re talking about. All I know is that he ducked out on our agreement. I thought he’d flown home to Denmark.

– What was the agreement?

– I’m not proud of it, but it was business, that’s all.

– What kind of agreement was it?

– He wanted to keep the baby so fucking badly. But not me. I’m from a family of abortions. But that’s why I wouldn’t give it to him for free.

– What do you mean? Was he supposed to give you money?

– He promised twenty thousand, but then he bailed on me. Just took the kid and left. Ticked me off.

– What did you do?

– Not much. I didn’t want anyone to know about it. I didn’t want to keep it.

– So you did nothing when he took your son?

– Not a damn thing.

– Did you talk to anyone?