The Hermit (62 page)

78

The red cutter chugs quietly out to sea.

The man behind the ship’s wheel isn’t nearly as frightening as Erhard had anticipated. He’s focused on steering the vessel around all the small skiffs and inflatable boats filled with people watching the beach and the flotilla. A curtain of torches sets the entire beach ablaze.

Erhard’s first guess is that they’re heading to one of the large yachts anchored in the bay, but instead they pass through the cluster as if they don’t wish to wake the sleeping boats, and sail towards the magnetic black dot on the horizon.

Isla de Lobos.

Unsympathetic and independent, loved by fishermen, birds, the occasional tourist, and, once in the 1960s, John Coltrane. Just a few months before his death, he’d insisted on giving an outdoor concert, along with the greatest jazz names of the age, on the rooftop terrace of the island’s only cafe. Before that, Coltrane had spent some weeks alone on the island, living in a cabin with a view of a beach overrun with seals, the island’s namesake. But the seals are now gone. One morning Coltrane saw a man walk across the water from Fuerteventura, a version of himself, he later said, a naked man with musical scores tattooed on his body from head to toe. Ogunde, Coltrane called him.

Tonight the island is like Corralejo’s shadow side. Completely void of light and sound. A sanctuary of silence at the end of the ship’s bow. And even though the cutter slices the water at a good clip, the island doesn’t seem to grow larger or closer, but continually appears and disappears beneath the waves. Erhard leans sleepily against the railing and asks the skipper a lot of questions, but the skipper just chews on his cigarette and doesn’t respond. All at once Erhard sees a thin wooden jetty protruding into the water, and the skipper eases the cutter alongside it with familiar caution. Then he throws a pair of slender ropes around the mooring poles and cuts the engine. Everything is quiet now, and totally dark. Feeling inconsequential and small, Erhard almost forgets why he’s here. Without hesitation he follows the skipper, who’s stepped out onto the jetty, and feels the old wooden boards under his bare feet. Erhard has been here before, but not after sunset. All visitors are sent home in the afternoon. As though they could not comprehend the forces that rule this island at night. And now Erhard is about to find out.

They walk up the hill, following narrow paths lustrous in the darkness. At first Erhard thinks it’s an optical illusion, but the crunch of his footfalls and the prickling sensation in his feet indicate that the paths are covered in mussel shells whose white mother-of-pearl glints faintly in the moonlight.

When they are on the other side of a ridge, Erhard gazes down at a little bay and a number of square buildings. Not houses exactly, more like bungalows next to the water. There are no signs of life. Only the churn of the sea: the surf pounding against the shore, perhaps a half-mile away.

The skipper finally stops and points towards the end of the path. It’s unsettlingly dark, and Erhard’s just about to ask what the hell he’s pointing at. But the skipper’s already gone, his crunching footfalls signalling that he’s returning to his boat.

Stepping into the darkness, Erhard reaches for a railing of some kind. Slight variations of grey help him understand that he’s approaching the cliff. Unreasonably, he expects to fall at any moment into a giant pit where he’ll find Mónica lying pale, naked, and dead. But when he’s close enough to the cliff to sense its warmth, he spots a small cabin between the cliffs, and a cabin door framed by yellow light.

– Go on in.

The voice is behind him. When Erhard recognizes it, he feels a sense of relief.

– I can still run away from you, Charles.

– Not as long as I have this. A bright light flashes in Erhard’s eyes, almost blinding him. A pocket torch. As good as a weapon out here. Charles nudges Erhard towards the door, which opens from within. – Go in.

– What happened to you, Piano Tuner? You look like a foolish tourist.

Emanuel Palabras fills the doorway with his enormous bulk. He’s wearing what looks like a red-and-gold circus tent. He notices Erhard’s stare. – The Virgin del Carmen, he says, gesturing with his hand, as if Erhard has been invited to a party.

As usual, his entire entourage of Maasai girls are well represented, sprawled across wooden chairs, tables, benches, and the strange pieces of furniture that make up the décor. Eight women who look like sisters or cousins, all of them blacker than black. Palabras tries to explain why Isla de Lobos is the best place to be this evening, but Erhard doesn’t pay attention. His gaze sweeps round the room to determine where Mónica is being held. A powerful lamp is fastened to a painted blue wall, the paint cracked and peeling. Hanging on the same wall is a torn old poster of the Spanish balladeer Pedro Jerez Segundo. On the far side of the room is a red door. An odd rapping sound emerges from behind it, like a banging water pipe.

– You’re looking for your girlfriend. She’s next door receiving special attention.

Erhard knows what that sort of thing means. Just as he’s about to make a run at Palabras, Charles grabs his shoulder.

– Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Palabras says. Nothing will change if you assault me. I’m actually a rather patient man, and I have given you many, many chances to prove that you’re not out to destroy everything for yourself and others.

– I want to see her. I want to see that she’s OK.

– She’s doing better than the last time you saw her, that much I can tell you.

Erhard recalls his last conversation with Mónica. How angry she was. – Don’t touch her.

Palabras throws up his hands. Erhard stares at him. He can’t fathom how a man he has known for as long as he has can be so criminally unscrupulous. – Why? Why are you doing this? Is it to show how powerful you are? Is it for the money? Or is it just because you’re sick in the head?

– It’s love. Nothing more.

– What’s wrong with you?

– You don’t understand, do you? Unconditional love. Devotion.

Erhard laughs. – Such fine words coming from you.

– 15 September 1995.

– Why do you say that?

The rapping continues. A grating sound. Palabras waves Charles over and asks him to make it stop. Charles shrugs, but hobbles off through the red door.

Palabras continues: – 15 September 1995. Your wife enters the living room to see why you’re not coming to bed. Where are you? Where is her daughters’ father, the man in her life? After all you two have been through? It makes her very sad, in fact. Did you know that, Erhard?

Erhard trembles as if every cell in his body is unstable, about to burst. – You have no idea. No idea what went on.

– All I’m saying is that you know nothing of love. The kind of love where one will do anything. Whatever it takes.

– Tell me what any of this has to do with love.

– Believe it or not, I am actually rather fond of you, my silent, guilty Piano Tuner. Year after year you’ve tried to help me, and you’ve never asked me for anything, neither my assistance nor my money. You’re a true friend. And yet slowly, like poison, you turn my own son against me.

– I have never…

– He listens to you. Everything you say is correct, simple, and interesting.

– He didn’t listen to me. He didn’t care.

– So as a father, what does one do? Give up? Make sacrifices? Does he walk away from his family? Or do everything he can to keep the family together?

Charles returns and whispers something to Palabras.

– You’re more twisted than I thought, Erhard says. – There are no excuses, none, for what you’ve done.

– No need to prattle on. My mother, may she rest in peace, used to speak of blame. But blame has never led to anything. Love, on the other hand. For the sake of love one must make sacrifices.

– These are people, Palabras. You can’t just decide who lives and who dies. You’re a criminal, and you’ll pay for your crimes.

– That’s exactly what I feared. Ill-considered and baseless.

– I have proof. It’s in a safe place, and if anything happens to me, you’ll read about it in the newspaper. I have a witness. He’s implicated you multiple times.

Emanuel Palabras drops into one of the chairs, and he’s immediately enveloped within four Maasai arms emerging from behind him. He grins. – I’ve told you not to play detective. You’re not very good at it.

– I know more than you think.

– You’re forgetting your own role in the matter.

– What do you mean?

– Where did you get the corpse?

– The corpse?

– The dead girl in Beatrizia’s coffin. Who was she?

Erhard stiffens. They must have found Bea’s body in the flat.

– She was the one you had killed at my place in Majanicho. The prostitute. I saved Bea from you. That’s what I did.

Emanuel Palabras laughs. It unsettles Erhard, because the information genuinely seems new to Palabras – And how did that turn out?

– But I wasn’t the one who killed her. It was you and your son and your disturbed henchman, Juan Pascual.

– From what Michel Faliando told me, you were the one who turned off the respirator. Even though he told you not to.

– She was suffering. She wasn’t going to make it.

Palabras must have gotten his clutches on the doctor, Erhard thinks.

– Who is deciding who lives and who dies now?

– You’re manipulating my words.

– Don’t we all?

– So what now? Are you taking me out on the sea and throwing me overboard? You might as well. Whatever happens, the story will come out. A journalist is writing it as we speak.

– I do have an urge to drown you, I admit. Not me personally, of course. Charles. It would make everything easier. But Charles’s leg still bothers him, and, in spite of everything, I don’t wish you any harm.

– Juan Pascual says otherwise. He tried to strangle me earlier tonight. On your orders.

– You’re not listening to me. I have nothing to do with this Pascual. And I’ve not asked anyone to kill you. I admit that I asked my friend at police headquarters to arrest and interrogate you, but I also got you out again. You said nothing to the young policeman. I couldn’t have asked for more loyalty from you. I’d hoped you would hop on the boat this afternoon and we could get you to Morocco so you could live with a sweet little lady in a clay hut, but then you suddenly bolted. You ran from Charles and got a horrible haircut, and then you were gone. Next time I hear from you you’re bloody raving mad and telling me I’m behind everything.

– You hired Juan Pascual, and you hijacked your own ship so you could get the insurance money. You killed your own son and gave me his goddamn job so you could keep an eye on me. You would have killed Beatriz, too, if you’d known she was alive.

Palabras sighs. – Show him, he tells Charles.

Charles nudges Erhard towards the red door. They enter a large room illuminated by another powerful lamp, on the ceiling, which throws light like in a brooding box. Like curious cats, the Maasai girls follow, clinging to Erhard and giving off an aroma of incense.

There is a wheelchair and an IV rack in the centre of the room, along with another chair. A person is sitting in the wheelchair. Her head is fastened to the headrest, and her bathrobe is wet with drool. A moment passes before Erhard realizes that it’s Beatriz. His heart thumps. At once confused and happy, miserable and angry. He thought he’d seen her for the last time in the flat. He’d said his goodbyes. And yet here she is. Resurrected. Or resuscitated. There’s no respirator. Instead she’s breathing great gulps of air, as if the air is thin, and her head jerks up and down. She’s trembling.

Erhard can’t speak.

– Hello. A distant, tired voice behind the wooden door.

But Erhard sees only Beatriz. What she is. What he’s turned her into. Her body, her name, her life. Everything is gone. Because he heard a voice that said
Help me
,
let me go
.

Palabras rests a hand on her shoulder. – Faliando contacted me because he was worried. Smart of him. He told me everything. That you’d hidden her, washed her, and everything else. Impressive, but also rather deranged, if you ask me. I’ll never understand why you did it, but you must have had your reasons. You didn’t fuck her, that much is clear. The doctor checked.

– I don’t owe you an explanation.

– You could at least do your job and not get involved. When will you understand? I gave you an opportunity. But you destroy everything for yourself.

– Hello?

The voice again. This time it’s accompanied by a heavy pounding on the door.

Palabras makes a sign to Charles to do something. – I thought you’d taken care of him?

– He should’ve gone out like a light, Charles says.

– Who’s in there? Erhard asks, starting towards the door.

– Hello? Erhard?

Erhard recognizes the voice now. It’s darker and gruffer, as if unused for months. But there’s no doubt about it. It’s his.

– Raúl? Raúl, what the hell?

– Erhard!

Charles blocks the door and fumbles to unlock the large, black padlock. – Be quiet! I’ve told you to be quiet.

– Why’s he in there? Erhard asks, staring uncomprehendingly at the lock.

– Let me out, Erhard! Make them let me out.

– What the hell’s he doing in there?

– Stay out of it, Palabras says angrily, poking his cane between Erhard and Charles to block him. But Erhard’s already on his way over. He covers his head with his arms and throws himself against Charles with all his might. Unable to steel himself for the blow, the big man slams against the door, popping it from its hinges. Erhard and Charles tumble in a heap to the floor, and in the light filtering into the dark, narrow room Erhard sees Raúl – a changed Raúl wearing a tracksuit, with a beard and long, wild hair. He reminds Erhard of a thin, sinewy version of Saddam Hussein on the day he was pulled from the cave in Adwar. With a confused glimmer in his eyes and a crazed expression. Raúl glances at Erhard and Charles a moment, then uses Charles’s cast as a launching pad and rushes from the room, as if he’d been waiting for just this opportunity. Erhard tries to stand, but has difficulty breaking free from the big man howling in pain beside him. His cast is broken apart, and his leg – paler than the cast – is sticking out. He shouts something Erhard doesn’t understand. For the first time, Erhard wonders if the man is French or Flemish or something else. His skin is lighter than most Spaniards’, his hair less curly.