cultivated his relations to others on the island. He told the truth, but he didn’t tell everything. He didn’t name Raúl Palabras or the former regional president, Emeraldo or Suárez. It’s been more than eight years now. – No thanks, unless you want to arrest me, Erhard says.
Bernal looks at him as if he hopes he’ll change his mind. – Say hello to young Palabras, he says.
The two men leave.
The cafe owner is standing stiffly behind the bar, observing them in the wall mirror. He probably doesn’t have a licence to sell beer. Many of the city’s cafes don’t. Then he glances up and calls out to the young man at the back of the cafe. – Goddamn it, Pesce, don’t put your greasy hair on my table. Go home and get to bed.
When Erhard walks to his car – parked at the end of the queue on High Street – he sees the officers standing on the corner near Paseo Atlántico. He climbs in his car and continues reading Stendahl’s The Red and the Black . It’s an unwieldy book, strangely incoherent.
He checks the mirrors. No one’s around. He pulls the bag from his pocket, removes the finger, and tries prying off the ring. But it doesn’t budge. The finger is like a stick marinated in oil; he puts it in the empty slot next to his own ring finger. It’s too big, and it’s the wrong hand, but it resembles a little finger. The hand looks like a hand again. With a finger where it’s supposed to be. He packs it away again. Deep down in his pocket.
He spots the officers saying their goodbyes to one another. Then Bernal saunters over to his taxi. He climbs in.
– Puerto, he says.
Erhard looks at him. – And since we’re heading that way anyway, you’ll ask me to come to the station?
– Maybe, Bernal says.
– It’s not my turn. You see the queue ahead of me?
– Just drive.
Erhard exits the queue, and one of the drivers from Taxinaria shouts at him. Luís. He’s always shouting. Big mouth with no teeth. They drive up the high street, across the city, and out onto FV-1. Neither says a word.
– Does this have anything to do with Bill Haji? Erhard asks. – I’ve told you everything I know.
The policeman grins. – That case is closed. It’s history. His sister wasn’t happy, to put it mildly.
– And it doesn’t have anything to do with the Palabras family?
– Not at all. One of Bernal’s boots, crossed over his knee, bounces to the music emerging from an old John Coltrane tape that Erhard’s had for more than twenty years. – You were out at Cotillo yourself recently. Haven’t you heard the news?
Erhard hasn’t read the newspaper for several days. He shakes his head.
– Don’t you do anything besides read? Haven’t you listened to the news on the radio?
– Not really.
– The short, and true, story is that the car was abandoned out near Cotillo. We don’t know why. It ought to have been in Lisbon, but oops, it’s here now. Someone stole it, then shipped it here. We don’t know who drove it. Since it was standing in water above the bonnet, the motor is dead now of course. The only interesting lead is a newspaper ripped into tatters.
– So what do you want from me?
– You’re going to examine the fragments we’ve got and tell me what they say. It’s probably nothing. Maybe they’re just pieces of a newspaper, meaningless. Right now I’m trying to understand what happened. Between you and me, I’m not getting a whole lot of support from my bosses on this one. And I’m going a little rogue with this newspaper stuff.
They reach the first roundabout leading out of the city. The sun is stuck between two clouds, like an eye that’s been punched.
– Tell me again why you were out on the beach the other day? Bernal asks.
– My friends wanted to watch the lightning.
– Your friends? Raúl Palabras and his girlfriend?
– Yes.
Bernal stares at Erhard, while Erhard gazes ahead at the traffic.
– I haven’t read a Danish newspaper in years, Erhard says.
– Just look
Bernal looks at him as if he hopes he’ll change his mind. – Say hello to young Palabras, he says.
The two men leave.
The cafe owner is standing stiffly behind the bar, observing them in the wall mirror. He probably doesn’t have a licence to sell beer. Many of the city’s cafes don’t. Then he glances up and calls out to the young man at the back of the cafe. – Goddamn it, Pesce, don’t put your greasy hair on my table. Go home and get to bed.
When Erhard walks to his car – parked at the end of the queue on High Street – he sees the officers standing on the corner near Paseo Atlántico. He climbs in his car and continues reading Stendahl’s The Red and the Black . It’s an unwieldy book, strangely incoherent.
He checks the mirrors. No one’s around. He pulls the bag from his pocket, removes the finger, and tries prying off the ring. But it doesn’t budge. The finger is like a stick marinated in oil; he puts it in the empty slot next to his own ring finger. It’s too big, and it’s the wrong hand, but it resembles a little finger. The hand looks like a hand again. With a finger where it’s supposed to be. He packs it away again. Deep down in his pocket.
He spots the officers saying their goodbyes to one another. Then Bernal saunters over to his taxi. He climbs in.
– Puerto, he says.
Erhard looks at him. – And since we’re heading that way anyway, you’ll ask me to come to the station?
– Maybe, Bernal says.
– It’s not my turn. You see the queue ahead of me?
– Just drive.
Erhard exits the queue, and one of the drivers from Taxinaria shouts at him. Luís. He’s always shouting. Big mouth with no teeth. They drive up the high street, across the city, and out onto FV-1. Neither says a word.
– Does this have anything to do with Bill Haji? Erhard asks. – I’ve told you everything I know.
The policeman grins. – That case is closed. It’s history. His sister wasn’t happy, to put it mildly.
– And it doesn’t have anything to do with the Palabras family?
– Not at all. One of Bernal’s boots, crossed over his knee, bounces to the music emerging from an old John Coltrane tape that Erhard’s had for more than twenty years. – You were out at Cotillo yourself recently. Haven’t you heard the news?
Erhard hasn’t read the newspaper for several days. He shakes his head.
– Don’t you do anything besides read? Haven’t you listened to the news on the radio?
– Not really.
– The short, and true, story is that the car was abandoned out near Cotillo. We don’t know why. It ought to have been in Lisbon, but oops, it’s here now. Someone stole it, then shipped it here. We don’t know who drove it. Since it was standing in water above the bonnet, the motor is dead now of course. The only interesting lead is a newspaper ripped into tatters.
– So what do you want from me?
– You’re going to examine the fragments we’ve got and tell me what they say. It’s probably nothing. Maybe they’re just pieces of a newspaper, meaningless. Right now I’m trying to understand what happened. Between you and me, I’m not getting a whole lot of support from my bosses on this one. And I’m going a little rogue with this newspaper stuff.
They reach the first roundabout leading out of the city. The sun is stuck between two clouds, like an eye that’s been punched.
– Tell me again why you were out on the beach the other day? Bernal asks.
– My friends wanted to watch the lightning.
– Your friends? Raúl Palabras and his girlfriend?
– Yes.
Bernal stares at Erhard, while Erhard gazes ahead at the traffic.
– I haven’t read a Danish newspaper in years, Erhard says.
– Just look
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