The Hermit Page 9

  She’s not pretty. She’s naughty in a kind of country-girl way. There’s something about her mouth or cheeks too: they sag as if she was once operated on for an overbite. But in relation to the other prostitutes that he’s spoken to, she’s different. More mature-looking. In better clothes than Erhard recalls. She reminds him of some celebrity from the eighties, but he can’t remember which one. She’s wearing a dress, a loose, gold-coloured blouse with slits, and cream-coloured sandals. Erhard doesn’t know much about fashion, especially ladies’ fashion, but he can tell she’s more expensive than other prostitutes. When he sits opposite her, she gives him a measured glance that tries to determine Erhard’s sexual predilections and his financial wherewithal.

  – No thanks, she says.

  He laughs then. – I’m not here for that.

  – If you want something from me, then you can book me at my website. I’m busy tonight.

  – I’m here to talk about the boy, Erhard says, lowering his voice.

  – The boy? she says. She looks as though she’s on some sort of tranquilizer.

  – Yes. You know, the boy you starved to death in a cardboard box.

  She abruptly sits up and glares at him.

  – My lawyer has advised me not to discuss my son.

  Smart girl. She’s listened well. My son. Indignant. Maybe she’s not as high as she looks. – How much did they pay you? I heard the police gave you 1,000 euros.

  She shushes him. – Of course not. That’s what I earn on a good Saturday night in December. I don’t want the police’s money.

  – Why did you do it then? He closes her magazine so that she’ll look at him.

  – It’s my son.

  – Enough with that. I’m not a journalist or anything.

  – You’re a cab driver. I remember you.

  – For 1,000 euros I’d be the boy’s mother, too.

  – No, because I am.

  She manages to respond with so much conviction in her voice that Erhard’s suddenly in doubt. But she doesn’t look like a grieving mother. She looks like a happy widow enjoying her night off. She looks like the local angle, as Bernal had called it.

  – If I can find you, then so can the press. When they find out that you lied, that the police… He lowers his voice… that the police are paying you to be the mother, it won’t be easy for you.

  – It’s all about presentation, she says, sucking on her straw that’s planted in a green mojito-like drink with cucumbers along the rim.

  Erhard doesn’t know what to say. He’d expected she would regret what she’d done, maybe break down. But she doesn’t appear troubled. – They’re giving you more than 1,000 euros, he says. – Much more.

  She releases her straw. – Whatever the money man says. She grins. – A lady gets tired fucking old men like you.

  He pretends not to hear. – Thanks to you, the police are shelving the case. It’s not right.

  – The boy’s dead. The parents don’t give a shit about him, you got that? Or they’re dead too. That’s what the police say.

  – They just want the case closed, even if it’s unsolved.

  – It won’t be open very much longer, apparently. Listen, Señor cab driver, I’m not allowed to discuss it. There’s nothing to discuss. You’re ruining my night. She opens her magazine and returns to her reading.

  – Your night? If you’re playing the mother role, then you damn well better put more heart into it.

  He wants to slap her.

  He goes back to the bar and orders a beer, then gulps it, causing foam and liquid to slosh down his neck and onto the opening in his shirt. The music is livelier, and some of the young people have begun to dance. The band seems to love it, but when it comes right down to it, the bar’s not a good place for dancing. It’s unbearable to watch; only the younger generations can stomach such affectation. They rub up against one other. A girl in a miniskirt thrusts her groin against the bulge in a boy’s colourful surfer shorts. An act that’s impossible to misunderstand. And it’s neither charming nor sexy, just fake and disgusting.

  Such a dumb, irritating, gold-digging bitch. Honed and shaped by inbreeding and corruption. After almost thirty years, Erhard has seen his fair share of this kind of thing. Unscrupulous bureaucrats and selfish citizens.

  It’s not too late.

  He still has time to spoil the police’s account of events. He can expose Alina and the police’s incompetence. He doesn’t give a crap about Bernal and their almost-friendship. If the vice police superintendent is unwilling to find the boy’s parents or uncover who was behind his death, then he’ll have to pay for his laziness.

  He keeps an eye on her. Through the window, he watches her order champagne and read her magazine, behaving like a Señora, the entire time with this self-satisfied smile on her lips, as if she’s just about to laugh. A few men approach, but she waves them away. It amazes Erhard. He thought she was here to find work, but maybe she’s just here to enjoy a night out that doesn’t conclude with some sweaty pig pressed against her little girl’s breasts. Now that she’s got an unexpected source of income she can allow herself a break. But he can’t quite allow her that.

  When the concert is over, something unexpected happens.

  While two young guys with strange pigtails pack up the equipment, the band falls into a cluster of sofas and light fags probably laced with marijuana. Some young girls approach and get pulled onto their laps. Erhard doesn’t quite see who they are before he spots Alina leaning over the lead singer, who’s in the process of lifting up her dress to catch a glimpse of her knickers. What strikes Erhard is not so much what’s happening as the speed at which it is happening. There’s no refinement, none of the usual introductions; it’s just full speed ahead. And even though music is blaring through the loudspeakers, their voices travel and it’s so intimate in the room that it feels as if Erhard can hear everything. Including Alina’s perverted urban snarl right next to the lead singer’s ear: I want to suck your cock, muchacho. Erhard practically falls off his chair, but turns instead towards the bar before draining his beer. Not now, not here, in a little bit, the lead singer whispers. The little shit. Alina hasn’t noticed Erhard, even though he’s sitting less than four metres away. Either that or she’s already forgotten about him. So that he doesn’t attract any more attention, he slowly exits the room and goes out onto the street. Although it’s a weekday, there’s still a little life: a Vespa carrying three young men buzzes past, and two girls in bright dresses are heading to the beach while chatting on their mobiles.

  It doesn’t seem as though her new income has given her the incentive to change careers. The greedy bitch. She’s not worthy of being the boy’s mother even in a concocted story. She’s the worst kind of whore, the kind who can choose another life but uses her body to take revenge on men – men’s stupidity and single-mindedness. See what you do to me? See what I’m subjected to?

  Under the streetlight, the guys with the pigtails are almost done packing the equipment in the van, and they arrange with the bassist to drive it all home. We’re going to stay, he hears the bassist say. Erhard scoots underneath the long leaves of a slender palm tree and waits for a few minutes. Then the band exits the bar. They look different. Their sophisticated attitude has been spent by the concert. Now all that remains is a group of giggly teenage rock stars. And they walk right across the street without noticing the cars forced to brake so as not to hit them, or the van that’s still parked under the streetlight because the two men are smoking inside it, or Erhard under the palm leaves, his gaze levelled directly at Alina clutching the lead singer’s skinny chest. A young girl clings to another band member’s arm. She looks like a young, much-too young, edition of Birte Tove, the Danish soft-porn actress from the 1970s. The group heads up a short driveway and into the Hotel Phenix.

  After a few minutes, Erhard follows them inside.

  There are only a few people at the hotel bar. A husband and wife drinking white wine, and a man who looks like a sa
lesman staring at a laptop. The bartender waves at Erhard, but Erhard returns to the front desk.

  He knows the clerk. An older man by the name of Miguel who has been behind the counter for as long as Erhard can remember. As a taxi driver, one gets to know the hotel employees – if one cares to. A good connection at a hotel might mean more work, more customers, but also better tips. Miguel is the kind of man one remembers. Friendly, always well-coiffed, with soft hands that welcome every man who stops in. Rumour has it that he still lives at home with his 80-year-old mother.

  At first Erhard pretends he just happened by. – Busy night, Miguel?

  – We’re never busy, Señor Jørgensen. Always plenty of time for our guests.

  – Have you seen Jean Boulard recently?

  This is an internal joke about one of the island’s celebrities, who found himself in the gossip column because he danced with Penelope Cruz on the hotel’s penthouse terrace.

  – I don’t discuss the hotel’s guests, Miguel says with a thin smile.

  – Not even if they break the law?

  – We don’t have those kind of guests.

  – What about the five or six who passed through a few minutes ago?

  – Is there a problem, Señor Jørgensen? Did they forget to pay their fare?

  Erhard looks at Miguel. – Yes, you could say that.

  – How much do they owe you? Shall I put it on their bill?

  – I’ll take care of it. I’m sure it’s just a mistake. What room are they in?

  Miguel gives Erhard an uptight look. – Only because it’s you.

  – You know who I mean? Three young men and two, what can I call them? Women.

  – I saw only two young men. They booked the rooms earlier today. Were they accompanied by females?

  Miguel doesn’t gesture or bat an eye or anything that might suggest he understands that female accompaniment means prostitutes. Erhard doesn’t need to embarrass him.

  – It’ll only take a moment, Erhard says.

  – Rooms 221 and 223. Right below the room you had last time you stayed with us.

  – Thank you, Miguel. I’ll be right back.

  Erhard walks around the corner and takes the lift. He’s too tired for the stairs.

  He hears them already in the corridor. The boy sounds like a hoover, Alina like bagpipes being kicked, but there’s no doubt about it: it’s her. The sound increases in volume until he’s standing at the door of room 221. Erhard doesn’t want to run into the other band members, but he knows that at least one of them is busy with the little girl who looks like Birte Tove. It’s possible they’re both with her. No sounds emerge from 223. Maybe they’re all asleep, wasted and high, in a heap.

  He raps on the door three times. A not-too-insistent number.

  – Go away, he hears the lead singer say.

  – Champagne, señor.

  – Go away.

  – From the record producer who was sat at the bar, señor, Erhard says, hoping the message is interesting enough.

  He hears Alina make a noise, then footsteps.

  At the moment the lead singer opens the door, Erhard leans all his weight against it, so the skinny lad is plunked in the face at full force and stumbles backwards while reaching for something to hold onto. He doesn’t find anything, and so he falls against a chair and a small table, knocking over a picture frame that smashes against the floor. Erhard follows him quickly into the room.

  Alina’s lying in the centre of the bed, her legs spread, and her arms outstretched towards the headboard, so Erhard has a clear line of sight to her shaven, almost light-brown crotch, a narrow strip of belly, and her beak-shaped breasts. When she recognizes Erhard, she doesn’t ball herself up as he expects she would, but puts her arms calmly behind her head and crosses her legs.

  The singer tries getting to his feet, but Erhard pushes him against the wall, then the bed. His nose spills blood into his mouth. He’s unable to speak. There’s an open bottle of whisky on the nightstand. Erhard looks at the label; it’s Jack Daniels, but it’s not the usual square bottle. Maybe it’s a knock-off. The boy sits with his hand pressed to his nose. Erhard takes a swig before pouring some on the boy’s face; he writhes in pain but doesn’t make a peep. Erhard can’t decide whether he’s a man or an idiot.

  – What the hell are you doing here, Fourfingers?

  Erhard stands quietly, waiting for the boy to glance up at him with his bloodshot eyes. – Get your things and leave. Stay away from her. You and your friends, stay far away from her.

  – What did I do? I thought… we talked at the bar, the boy says.

  – She’s the biggest fraud on the island. Once again Alina doesn’t react. Erhard expected her to say something, but she’s silent, waiting, which makes him nervous.

  – What are you talking about? the boy asks.

  – Get out of here, now. Now. Erhard considers lifting the bottle to show that he means it, but the boy quickly gathers his things off the floor and leaves the room. A sad sight with his hairy, scrawny buttocks. His back is spotted with acne.

  – What are you up to? Alina has an obnoxious smile on her lips, as if she’s enjoying all this, as if she’s the popular harlot in some John Wayne film. – Is it because you want me all to yourself, you old pig?

  – I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last woman on the island, you fraud. He wishes he’d said something harsher, something harder-hitting to knock the smile from her lips. But she’s unaffected.

  – Sure you would. She grins.

  He wants to smash the bottle against her forehead and slam the broken bottle into her childless belly. He wants to destroy her. He suddenly hates her face, her tiny curls, her upward-pointing nipples that she doesn’t try to conceal, and her self-assured smile with its twist of grief – a smile Erhard all at once understands cannot be wiped off with violence, humiliation, or hatred. Powerless, he stares at her. He sees the Alina from the village, when she was a teenager, seated in the bus or in the back row at school. A cross-eyed girl in a flowery dress. He envisions her as a little girl kicking stones down the road and chasing some big dog’s tail.

  – How did you get this way? he asks. The question surprises her. Still smiling, her eyes dart uncertainly. Erhard goes on: – How did you become so indifferent to others? To everything?

  – I’m not going to let you ruin my business, she says, and begins to crawl out of bed.

  – Stay right there, Erhard says sharply.

  She pauses and, for the first time, covers herself with her hands and the bed sheets. – What do you want from me?

  – I want you to sit there like the dumb girl you are. Like the sad sack who wishes to make money off a little boy’s death.

  – What does it matter to you? It has nothing to do with you.

  – You can’t abandon a child and get away scot-free.

  – Listen to me, I didn’t abandon anything. I’ve just…

  – I know what you’ve done.

  – Oh yeah, and what are you going to do to me? Report me to the police?

  Again this irritating resolve. As though playing the role of child killer amuses her.

  But she’s right. He doesn’t know what he’ll do. He thought he could somehow bring her to her senses, but now that he’s failed, he doesn’t know what to do.

  – Whatever the police gave you, I’ll double it. It’s a shot in the dark, and he hadn’t anticipated suggesting it. He hopes that the prostitute out in Guisguey had heard wrong, and that it’s less than a thousand euros, so he can afford to pay her around two thousand.

  – The police didn’t give me anything, she says tiredly.

  – You continue to lie.

  It amazes him. Why does lying come as easily as drawing breath for some people, while others have such a difficult time of it that they’d rather travel far away? That they’d rather sacrifice everything than lie?

  – I’m not lying. I’m not getting one cent from the police.

  – But…


  – It’s not the police.

  – What are you talking about?

  He recalls Bernal telling him that it was all about having the right enticements. He’d meant money. Erhard was sure of that.

  – It’s someone else. I don’t know who. The police told me a million times that it wasn’t them, it was this majorero. Someone who wanted the problem dealt with as fast as possible. Stop looking at me like that. I’m telling the truth. That’s what they said.

  – So how much? Erhard knows the sum is probably ten times greater than 1,000 euros.

  – Five thousand a week for every week I spend in jail. And a plane ticket to Madrid if it gets too difficult for me here on the island.

  He looks at her. While she was talking, she forgot to cover her breasts, and now she’s eating some multi-coloured marshmallows that she’d found in her purse, talking to Erhard as if they were a couple of friends at a bar. He thinks of who she reminds him of. At first he thought it was Beatriz; she has the same kind of hair, just shorter, and the same colour skin and body shape, though Alina is a little chubbier. But it’s not Beatriz – it’s the singer Kim Wilde. An uglier, shabbier version of Kim Wilde after ten years as a whore. Kim Wilde as the plump girl with a taste for disgusting sweets, drugs, and mojitos.

  He takes a long pull from the bottle. – I’ll buy you a plane ticket. Maybe give you 1,000 euros.

  She scrutinizes Erhard. – Are you stupid?

  – That’s all I have.

  Honesty. He’s not sure it impresses her.

  – Listen, even if I wanted…

  – Tell them you don’t want to lie in court. Tell them you’ve changed your mind.