Chapter 2 A Gift
A Gift
The paved road ended after a hundred yards, and the SUV began hurtling along a narrow dirt track with deep drainage ditches at either side. Every now and then, they passed an unlit, empty house.
“In the summer, almost all the houses are occupied, either by their owners or by vacationers,” Antía explained, without taking her eyes off the road. “But at this time of year, you can go a whole day without meeting a soul, if that’s what you want.”
The SUV shook as it tackled a steep slope.
“Did you bring enough food?” she asked again.
“Yes. I was told to bring everything I needed.”
“Good. There’s a store and a few restaurants, but they only open in the summer. The Docampo bar, the one next to the dock, sometimes opens during the winter but only when there’s a fishing boat in port. I doubt they’ll serve you, but you can always try.”
“I seem to have gotten off to a pretty bad start with the Docampos.”
“Maybe,” she sighed. “But these are our problems really, not yours. My mother wouldn’t agree with me, but you ought to go to the bar at some point and try to smooth things over.”
“You’re telling me to make peace with the guy who I nearly got into a fight with, two seconds after arriving?” Roberto gave her a quizzical look.
“I’m telling you not to get drawn into our quarrels,” she replied. “It’s . . . complicated. Anyway, this is the place.”
The SUV lurched to a halt next to what appeared to be an overgrown mound, barely visible in the darkness.
Only when they got out did he realize that it was a small cottage with irregular stone walls and a moss-covered roof.
By the door stood an old fig tree, gnarled and twisted by the wind, which was no doubt a welcome source of shade during the summer but right now looked more like something out of a horror movie.
Antía handed Roberto the key, and he turned it in the lock. Once inside, he felt around for a light switch, but nothing happened when he flicked it on.
“You should be so lucky . . .”
With a click, Antía illuminated the interior of the house with a powerful flashlight.
“Electricity on the island is rationed,” she explained. “There’s a generator in the village that supplies the whole place, but it only runs for a few hours a day.”
“And the rest of the time?”
“We get by without electricity.” She shrugged. “It’s not so hard once you get used to it. But don’t worry, there’s usually some power early in the evening. It should come on soon. Diego, honey, go look for a lamp.”
The boy went to the kitchen and quickly came back with a propane lamp and a triumphant expression on his face. Antía opened the valve and pressed the igniter; with a quiet hiss, gentle gaslight illuminated the room.
“This place has a hot water tank, like almost all the houses on the island, but it’s quite small, and it takes a while to refill. So no chance of long showers, I’m afraid. And the flame on the boiler has a tendency to go out.”
“How do you know so much about the place?”
“It’s my work during the summer season.” Antía smiled. “I rent out houses to tourists, fix any problems, deal with the owners. Most of them haven’t set foot on the island in years. That isn’t unusual—having visitors out of season is.”
“I’ll try not to be any trouble,” he replied.
Roberto looked around the cottage. It consisted of a spacious living room with a couch and a table with four chairs, and a tiny kitchen in which stood an old fridge, its door ajar. At the far end were a small bathroom and a bedroom containing a double bed that looked antique.
“It’s not very big, but it’s south-facing and it’s warm,” she said. “And as soon as the weather clears, you’ll see that it’s got spectacular sea views.”
“It’s more than enough for me.”
“The fridge only works some of the time, but if you keep it closed, it should more or less conserve whatever you put inside it. There’s a map of the island on the back of the door if you want to go for a walk. See you around, no doubt.”
Roberto observed her silhouette in the doorway. Once again, he was struck by the graceful fluidity of her movements, while at the same time she seemed slightly tense, on alert. She was keen to get going; he could tell.
Roberto took his cell phone from his pocket.
“There’s no electricity, but there is coverage,” he murmured. “That’s weird.”
“It’s because of the tourists,” Antía explained.
“In the summer, people complained about not being able to post on Instagram, so a cell tower ended up getting installed, up by the lighthouse. The cell tower and the lighthouse are the only two places with their own generators and electricity around the clock.”
“That’s good to know.”
“You shouldn’t have any trouble.” She gave him another one of her curious half smiles. “We have to go now. Diego, say goodbye to your new friend.”
To Roberto’s surprise, the boy came over and threw his arms around him, hugging him tightly. Antía’s goodbye came in the form of another robust handshake.
“One last thing,” she said as she turned to leave. “The island can be a dangerous place at night, particularly in the winter. Take care if you go for a walk.”
“Dangerous?” replied Roberto in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing sinister, don’t worry,” she said. “Just that the paths aren’t lit, and the ground is very rough. You could fall and break a leg. It’s no joke.”
“I wasn’t planning to go trekking in the middle of the night,” he assured her.
“Aren’t you going to say anything about the Tangarano?” Diego fidgeted behind his sister.
“What does he mean?”
“Nothing,” Antía said sharply. “Just his usual nonsense. Fantasies. Don’t pay any attention, or you’ll go crazy with his stories, like everyone else. Okay, see you around, Roberto Lobeira. It’s been a pleasure to meet you.”
Out they went, and as the SUV roared away into the gloom, Roberto felt the crushing weight of loneliness bearing down on him.
By the light of the propane lamp, he looked around again.
The place that, just a moment before, had seemed cozy and welcoming, like a hobbit’s hole, now seemed cold and bare, his prison for four weeks that stretched interminably ahead—a whole month stuck on this island, with no possibility of going home; no way to call a taxi or an Uber or to jump on a train.
And he couldn’t walk back the way he’d come, of course . . .
He’d locked himself in a prison of his own making.
He had always believed in being open to new experiences, but this wasn’t turning out to be easy. He hoped the monastic seclusion would enable him to make good progress with his novel. That was what had brought him here, after all.
He spent the rest of the evening arranging his belongings, having dinner, and preparing a suitable corner in which to work. As he was finishing, the ceiling lamp buzzed quietly a couple of times, and suddenly the house was filled with light, just like Antía Freire had promised.
He turned on the electric heaters. The house warmed up almost immediately, and he felt his mood lift.
The place seemed welcoming again, and the ugly imitation Persian rug even managed to lend the ensemble a touch of elegance.
The pictures on the walls were cheap prints bought in some home-decor store, but at least they fitted with the rest of the room.
The couch sagged slightly in the middle but had not yet reached that point when it would become a torture instrument.
Things were looking up. Even the rain had desisted, and the darkness outside no longer seemed so threatening.
He felt the urge to inspect his new domain, if only by taking a short stroll. He didn’t intend to go far. He’d have plenty of time to explore the island properly in the coming days.
He put on his parka and grabbed the lamp. He turned up the flame and caught his reflection in a mirror that hung next to the door, its painted frame flaking. With his hood up and holding the lamp, he looked like some character that had stepped out of the nineteenth century.
The yard was overgrown and would clearly benefit from the expert hand of a gardener.
Ivy and brambles had smothered the low stone wall that ran around the house, and spread like a brown-green stain across the lawn with its dormant grass.
By the faint light of the lamp, he did a circuit of the cottage, but apart from a ramshackle woodpile, the water tank, and an abandoned chicken coop, there wasn’t much to be seen.
He wandered a short way until he reached the main track.
It was made of beaten earth, but the winter rains had washed away much of the surface, and here and there, large potholes had been filled in with rubble and gravel.
Taking care not to twist an ankle, he followed it uphill.
He meant to go only as far as the next curve before returning to the cozy warmth of the cottage.
Suddenly, something moved among the vegetation to his right.
Roberto started, but even with the lamp, he could see nothing more than a few stunted trees. A second later, there was a flash of light behind him, and he saw something moving again.
He laughed with relief. It was just his own shadow.
And once again, a huge flash illuminated everything. He looked around, searching for the source of the light. Then, almost immediately, there was another shaft of light. He suddenly realized that it was the lighthouse, its powerful beam sweeping across the path.
He counted slowly between one flash and the next. When he had counted to twenty-four, the pattern was repeated—three flashes, followed by a pause. He wondered if the light would also reach the cottage.
He shivered. That was enough for one night. He retraced his steps, but as he entered the yard, he stopped short.
Somebody had been there.
There was no doubt about it. He had definitely closed the door behind him, but it now stood ajar, and a yellow strip of light from inside stretched across the sodden lawn.
But that wasn’t the strangest thing.
There was something lying on the stone threshold.
He approached slowly and, as the light from the lamp slowly illuminated the object, he felt a ball of ice forming in his stomach.
It was the decapitated head of a rabbit, resting on some twigs.
He looked around warily.
“Who’s there?” he shouted. “Hello! Is there anyone there?”
The only reply was the sighing of the wind and the pitter-patter of the rain. It was as if the island were holding its breath.
He crouched down to inspect the macabre gift.
The poor beast stared up at him through watery, lifeless eyes, its teeth bared and a startled expression on its face.
The head had been severed cleanly, and there was hardly a trace of blood.
He laid the back of his hand against it.
It was still warm—the animal had been dead for only a few minutes.
He entered the cottage, holding the lamp out in front of him like a weapon.
He went through all the rooms, but there was nobody to be seen, and it would be impossible for anyone to hide in the cottage. He checked his belongings: Everything was just as he had left it. Disconcerted, he took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one.
He tried to remember. He’d closed the door, he was sure of that, but he hadn’t locked it, so anyone could simply have turned the handle and let themselves in. But there was no trace of a visitor.
Nothing to indicate that anyone had been there.
Apart from the decapitated rabbit’s head at the entrance. That could hardly have gotten there on its own.
He took a deep drag on his cigarette and stared out into the darkness, wondering what else this island had in store for him.
Whatever it was, something told him it wasn’t going to be pleasant.