The Hermit by Thomas Rydahl Read Free Book Online Page B

the window, or on the terrace. And he doesn’t drive his taxi on those days. There are lots of customers when it rains, but he doesn’t want to waste a good rainy day. He parks the cab and sits under his tarpaulin drinking Lumumbas, until the thermos full of warm cocoa is empty. Then he falls asleep. If he’s at a hotel and gets drunk, he loans a room. More often than not, he knows the front-desk clerk. He throws himself fully dressed onto the bed. He doesn’t get hangovers from Lumumbas. It’s the good thing about Lumumbas.

17
    A rapping. The roof’s banging in the wind. Or maybe it’s thunder.
    It’s a knock at his door.
    – Erhard. A voice penetrates the hard, steady rain. There is also thunder, but someone’s knocking on his door. Softly. He throws the blanket aside, stands up, and walks around the house. He doesn’t care about the rain. He likes to feel the cold droplets on his skin; they lead him farther and farther out of his ruminations or his sleep, into which he’d fallen. He recognizes the convertible and the figure waiting inside the car, behind the misted glass. Raúl’s pounding on the door. – I know you’re in there. Put down that Lumumba and come out.
    – Dios mío , boy, you’re going to blow my house down.
    Raúl turns the doorknob, then holds up his hand as a shield against the rain to see Erhard. He laughs and embraces Erhard, wetting them both. – Come, he says, and tugs him to his car. – We’re going on a little excursion.
    Erhard has grown accustomed to this kind of thing from Raúl, so he just follows him. – Just a moment, he says. – I’m coming. He walks around the house and grabs the glass with the finger. He lays it on the top shelf between tins of food and cocoa. He studies the finger for a moment. Then, with a pair of tongs, he removes it from the glass and carefully places it inside a freezer bag before cinching the bag in a knot. It fits in the pocket of his Khaki shorts without sticking out. No one would be able to tell what it is.
    Beatriz crawls into the backseat, and Erhard’s nudged into the front seat. That’s how Raúl is. Beatriz hugs him from the backseat, and he can feel her curls against his neck. Either she always smells different or she never uses the same perfume. Tonight it’s vanilla and salt. Raúl backs the car all the way down to Alejandro’s Trail and spins around, spattering mud. The music is loud. It’s noise. Not really a song.
    – It was Bea’s idea, Raúl shouts.
    – I just said the lightning was beautiful.
    – And then you said Cotillo.
    – You can see them there.
    – That’s what I’m saying.
    – But why Cotillo? Erhard asks. The windscreen wipers whip back and forth at full speed. – Why not up here?
    – Nothing’s too good for my friends. We’re heading down to the breakers to feel the sizzle of the water. Raúl sounds as if he ordered the lightning himself.
    He doesn’t drive recklessly, but much faster than Erhard appreciates. All in all, Erhard has grown so used to driving that he doesn’t like being a passenger. He glances over his left shoulder each time they turn, and he reaches for the gear stick when they drive up a hill. The road glistens, and the landscape is utterly strange, as though slathered in black plastic. It’s the rain – it’s everywhere. It doesn’t go anywhere. The ground is too dry to absorb it.
    – You’d like to go down to the real beach, Raúl says to Beatriz. They splash through Cotillo, water spraying against the houses next to the road. It’s easy to sense Raúl’s joy. Beatriz likes it too, maybe she’s pissed, Erhard thinks. Maybe Raúl’s pissed, too. It’s possible.
    They leave the city behind, heading towards the car park and the flat terrain just before the slope down to the beach. The car park is filled with cars, not in orderly rows like in a drive-in theatre, but randomly chaotic. There are probably twenty or thirty of them, and even a couple of police vehicles. Behind the