The Hermit (26 page)

Erhard gets out and the car speeds off. There’s no one left in the car park but him. The wind swirls up motes of white dust.

38

Twice he wakes to the sound of a motor, but apart from the pumping of the respirator, he hears nothing. Just the insistent howl of the wind soughing across the stones, and the rustling of the goats alongside the house. Maybe they can’t find their food and are searching for shelter to rest. Erhard gets up and goes outside naked to wash himself at the big washbasin in the courtyard.

The light is on its way across the island. Behind his woodpile, he finds a pair of underwear and jeans that the wind blew off the clothesline. He pulls them on, then gobbles raw bacon on crisp-bread. Radio Mucha’s playing Coleman Hawkins’s version of ‘Out of Nowhere’. A 1937 recording from Paris.

He repositions Beatriz, checks her catheter, and tells her what’s in store for the day. It’s a Wednesday. He’s always a little livelier on Wednesdays.

At precisely 10:15 a.m., he picks up Aaz, who’s already waiting with his backpack at the front door of the institution; he climbs in without a word. Erhard lets him roll down the window and stick his hand out, like a seagull against the wind. There’s something deeply moving about this, and it causes Erhard to drive slowly and cautiously.

So, Erhard, how’s it going?

– Like shit, Erhard replies. He knows Aaz likes it when he swears.

Don’t tell me you’re busy. I know that you don’t do anything but read your boring books and drive me around every Wednesday.

– Aaz, you hick, you know I’d prefer to drive you every day.

You’re doing well?

– I’m busy, Erhard says, nudging Aaz. – But not with work. Beatriz is hurt. I need to take care of her.

She’s Raúl’s girlfriend?

– Was, Aaz. She was Raúl’s girlfriend. He took off, vanished.

Something must’ve happened to him. If he knew Beatriz was hurt, he would come back. He loves her.

– You’ve got a lot to learn about love, Aaz.

But why would he try to hurt Bea? He loves her. It couldn’t have been him.

– For the same reason a mother stuffs her child inside a cardboard box and abandons him in a car on a beach. Because sometimes we’d rather destroy everything around us than change ourselves.

No, no. That’s not right. If you love someone, if you have ever looked another person in the eyes, then you can’t hurt them.

– People are strange. Trust me, Aaz. I’ve driven a taxi for many years. I’ve been alive a long time, and I’ve seen the worst side of humanity.

My mother loves me. She loves me so much that she gave me to Santa Marisa so I would have a better life, even though she wanted to hold onto me.

– Your mother’s unusual. So are you.

No one abandons a child.

– You’re wrong, Aaz. But if we’re lucky, Raúl will turn up, after having screwed around with some female singer or gone on some drinking binge in Dakar. That’s how he is.

They drive through the town of Lorques which has a petrol station. Aaz glances at Erhard, as if he doesn’t like the silence.

– I’m supposed to meet the hairdresser’s daughter. Luisa.

She’s too young for you. In the photograph at the salon she looks like someone my age. Aaz grins, but only with his eyes.

– Just because we’re separated by a few years doesn’t mean we can’t meet up. She’s just going to help me with a computer issue I have.

You know everything about pianos, but nothing about computers.

– One can’t be good at everything, Aaz. You’ll have to come with me to the beach soon.

Liana won’t allow it.

– I know that. I’ve talked to your mum. She needs to write Liana a note, which I will give to her. We’ll go out and watch the kite surfers with their huge kites. You like them from a distance, but wait until you see them out on the water. Where I come from, children love to play in the leaves that fall from the trees in the autumn. The leaves fall like butterflies, and kids try to catch them.

Can I catch the kites on the beach?

– No, not really. But you can watch them swirl about. Just like the leaves from the trees.

The leaves don’t fall from the trees here.

– No. But we’ve got the sun.

He follows Aaz inside, and Mónica lets him use the telephone in the kitchen. He calls the doctor. He hears them playing the piano in the living room and whispers into the receiver. He stands at the kitchen door gazing out at Mónica’s rear garden, which resembles a typical English garden with roses and bushes, a small bench, and a bird cage with a pair of canaries.

The doctor is busy and sounds irritated, but promises to swing by in the evening. A policeman called his wife last night asking for him.

– She knows nothing. But I’m supposed to call him back today. What do I tell him?

– I’ve told them that a doctor examined Beatriz while she was alive, but that she’s dead now.

– She’s dead? The line crackles.

– No. But that’s what the police think. And they need to continue thinking that.

– I don’t understand.

– Don’t call them. If they call you, you only examined her when she was alive and dying. That’s it. We’ll talk more tonight.

Erhard sits down and watches them at the piano. Aaz is so tall that his mother looks like a little girl sitting beside her father. In his mind he thinks of her as an old woman, but it occurs to him that she’s probably the same age as himself. But she’s not his type. Or rather: Erhard isn’t hers. She may no longer be wealthy, and she may have sealed herself off in her lonely world, but he’s got the feeling that she has lived a life of culture, and she’s more sophisticated and distinguished than anyone he’s met on the island. She has these eyes that penetrate everyone as though she once, long ago, used up all her energy and just can’t do it any longer. It’s not that she’s unkind or cynical, just tired: tired after a stretch of arduous longing. She’s almost – almost – like Erhard, just a little happier, a warmer human being. Maybe it’s because she’s a woman, and women have always seemed more willing to love and be loved than men.

A small TV rests on a crocheted doily, and the local news is on. Mónica has turned the volume down. There’s a feature about the casino. Now something’s wrong with the environmental-approval paperwork. Critics reference the oil spill that happened in 2009, when a large cruise ship with a casino on board ran aground near Puerto and flushed 5,000 litres of oil into the water just beyond the harbour. Seagulls and fish were smothered in oil, and the entire area had to be cleaned up – while facing sharp criticism from a Spanish delegation from Greenpeace that had sailed out to meet them. It would be much different with a casino on land, of course, but casino operations on the Grand Canary islands at the beginning of the aughts prompted several suits due to the horrible working conditions for custodial staff and croupiers – and illegal rubbish disposal. On the television, Regional President del Fico and one of the island’s heavy-weight entrepreneurs are walking around the harbour as it appeared a few months ago. Back then it was basically just rocks, kelp, and old rowboats. In the background, a fisherman is fixing his net, which is all tangled up. Then they show images from the harbour: white yachts and a champagne bottle floating in the water.

Erhard rises to turn off the television. But Mónica comes over and changes the channel to a children’s programme featuring a turtle and a fish talking underwater. They aren’t really underwater; they’re hand puppets performing against a painted backdrop.

– I don’t want him watching the news. He doesn’t need to do that, she says.

Then she prepares strong Italian coffee. Erhard says nothing, but returns to his chair and lets her pour him a cup. Her arms look old, but he can see the strap of her black bra on her brown-skinned shoulder. He glances over at the computer on the desk.

– Do you know how to use one of those?

– I love it.

This surprises him.

– I’ve never learned how to use one.

– It’s like using a typewriter. Just easier.

– I never learned how to use a typewriter, either. I know everything about pianos, but nothing about computers.

She smiles falsely. – Does it even matter? You manage without one.

– I might as well just say it. I have a problem, Erhard says.

– Excuse me, Mónica whispers, as if Aaz isn’t allowed to hear. – What do you mean?

– I need to find a photograph on the Internet.

– Are you asking for my help?

– If I could’ve, I would’ve done it myself.

– But are you asking me to help you?

She makes it sound as if he’s asked something else entirely.

– Yes, he says.

– Why do men have such a hard time asking for help?

He watches her sit at the computer and strike a few keys. She glances up, then turns to him. – So are you going to help me or not? he asks.

She points at the seat beside her as if it’s a piano bench they will share. He gets up and sits beside her. He can feel her hip against his. He describes what Alina found. An image from Cotillo. Taken by some surfers.

She clicks on a page and quickly finds a bunch of images. Hundreds, thousands flowing down the screen. – Do you recognize any of them?

– No, he says. What he sees are images of tourists, all similar. – The photograph was taken around New Year’s Day, a few days afterward, maybe a week? He tries counting backward. – 5 January?

– Such pretty photographs of our little island, she says.

She may be right. The sun, the waves, the young men and women. But he’s only interested in one photo.

– I’ve never been out there, Mónica says.

– That one, can I see that one? He points.

– It’s not easy getting out there. And it’s much too hot.

But it’s not the right photograph. It’s not even from Cotillo.

– The photographer’s name, Erhard says. But he can’t remember the name. It had something to do with a child.

– A name would help, she says, her hovering hands prepared to type. He’s surprised at how natural all this seems to her. All these women and their computers.

– Did you take a computer class?

– No. I had a friend, and we wrote emails. That got me started. But today I use it for everything. Mostly to listen to music, or read up about Aaz’s illness, and succulents. They’re a kind of plant, a cactus, she goes on to explain when she sees the confusion on Erhard’s face.

He can’t recall the photographer’s name. He’s about to say Mix. It’s something that sounds like Mix. And something to do with a child. Fever. – Fevermix, he says.

– I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.

– MitchFever! That’s what it was.

– How do you spell that?

He spells it for her. He remembers now. The name was written inside a little box on the image. A child with a fever.

She keys in the name. That changes the search. Now there are fewer photographs. At the top of the screen, he sees the image of a girl lying in her bed, shirtless, and he senses Mónica’s discomfort. She glances at Aaz and scrolls down the page. – What is it we’re looking for here? she whispers. – Is it something naughty?

– No.

He’s just as startled as she is.

– You promise?

– Yes. Just keep doing what you’re doing, I’ll look for the photo.

The beach. Some boys in wet suits. Feet in the sand. More photos of the girl. In a chair, at a bar, wearing a hat, kissing a girl. Mónica shifts uncomfortably. She’s more prudish about these matters than Erhard had thought.

– There! That one.

Mónica clicks on the image, enlarging it instantly.

It’s the same image. Just better. Closer. Clearer.

– It looks as though the website is called Magicseaweed. And the photograph is called 01062011_42, she says, writing the number down on a notepad beside the computer. – So you’ll remember. The photo is in a folder called heather_weekend. She points at the screen. – From 6 January. Does that sound right?

The photograph: The VW is parked on the beach. The sand is rather dry, greyish. There’s water up around the front wheels. And behind the window: the boy, his dark eyes.

– Is there a way to see more images like this without losing this one?

– Yes, now that we’ve found it, we can find it again without any trouble. Tell me, what is it you’re looking for?

– The car.

Mónica clicks on something and another image pops up.

It’s the same angle. Down on the corner where the surfers always sunbathe. The date reads 5 January. The photo is called newyear_cotillo. Someone named Carlos III Santierrez posted it online. The beach is empty.

– So it’s in the first image, but not this one. Can I see the other one again?

She pulls up the first image.

It seems to convey the same mood as the one Erhard saw at police headquarters. The car’s black windows seem to merge right with his soul. As if the darkness is continually expanding and he’ll eventually be able to stick his hand through it to pull the boy, unharmed, out into reality.

– What is it with the image? The car?

– Does it say where he lives, Mitchfever?

– I doubt it. It’s probably just some funny name he came up with. That’s what many people do. Use another name. She types MitchFever into a narrow field and a list pops up.

In one way he’s happy that he doesn’t need to figure out how everything works. It would require too much effort on his part, much more than it took him to learn how to play instruments or understand music. And why would he need to? When this is over, it might be another several years before he’ll need to find something else. Still, when he sees what one can do with a computer, how easy it is to find information and images and news, he has the urge to discover what’s going on in Denmark, maybe even find photos of his family. Perhaps Annette and the girls, if he could figure it out.

– I think it’s a young lady, Mónica says. She clicks on some text. A new page shows a tiny image of a girl who looks like a boy, with short, dyed hair and large glasses. – It appears as though she lives here on the island. Down near Marabu. I can’t find her address, but many of the photographs were taken down there.