Chapter 7 A Walk on the Beach
A Walk on the Beach
“Their heads? What do you mean?”
“Like I said! Right off!” Luis brought his fist down on the table, making the bottles clink. “He pulled their fucking heads off and chucked them on the path. I’m telling you, that boy is bad news. I was just trying to teach him a lesson, that’s all. Until you turned up.”
Roberto sipped his beer, which suddenly tasted bitter.
He couldn’t help wondering if the Freire kid had been responsible for the grisly scene with the rabbit on his own doorstep.
If what the man said was true, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done something of the kind.
Diego didn’t seem to have the capacity to know what a curse was, much less perform a ritual of this sort. Even so, a seed of doubt had been sown.
“Are you sure it was him? The stuff with the chickens, I mean.”
“Who else could it have been?” Luis glanced around.
“Listen. Life here is tough, particularly in the winter. The tourists come in the summer, they get off the boat to sunbathe, take photos, eat seafood . . . and they go home. For them, this place is paradise, but for me, for us . . . it’s our home.
And if I have to defend it against one of those damn Freires, then I will. ”
Here we go, thought Roberto. That’s why Luis Docampo had been so keen to talk to him. Once again, he was in danger of getting tangled up in the old tensions that were everywhere on this island.
For both sides, his presence meant a new piece on their infernal chessboard. Everyone wanted to enlist him.
“I don’t know what problems you have with the Freires, but I’d like to stay out of them,” Roberto protested. “I’m only going to be here for a few weeks, and then I’ll leave.”
“Nobody can stay out of things,” replied Luis. “Not in the winter.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” said Luis, swigging his beer. “You’ll see, even if you don’t understand right now. Your world and ours are very different.”
“In what way?”
“In every way,” he grunted. “Children’s rights, animal rights, the environment, all that crap that people in the cities go on about . . . Here, it’s just about survival. Simple as that.”
“It’s like you’re talking about another country.”
“Have you noticed where we are?” Luis pointed toward the distant coastline.
“There aren’t any doctors here, no police, none of the things you take for granted on the mainland.
We have to be self-sufficient even if that means doing things that some people might disapprove of.
Even if it means being a bit rough to teach a kid a lesson. ”
Roberto kept silent, trying to see the man’s point of view.
He didn’t agree with him, but he understood his motives or, at least, what it was that led him to think the way he did.
And he was keen to make the most of the opportunity.
If Luis Docampo wanted to talk, there was another subject Roberto was interested in.
“By the way,” he said cautiously, “I’ve heard people mentioning the name Tangarano . . .”
“Bah, that’s nothing but an old wives’ tale,” Luis snorted, although Roberto couldn’t help noticing him extend his index finger and pinkie under the table to ward off the evil eye. “Did someone say the chickens were the Tangarano’s doing? No way. It was the kid; I’m sure of it.”
Roberto didn’t answer and instead sipped his beer.
“Ah, there’s my son, Tristán.” Luis pointed to a young man approaching along the road.
Tristán Docampo was about twenty years old, tall and ungainly, with unruly brown curls escaping from beneath a yellow-and-purple Lakers cap. He had dark eyes, like the rest of his family.
“Good morning,” he said politely. “Dad, we’ve got work to do.”
“I know, I know,” Luis growled, grabbing his beer.
Roberto observed the man’s Adam’s apple go up and down as he emptied the bottle in one go before slamming it on the table with a satisfied air.
“Hell of a taskmaster, your mom! Anyway, Roberto, I hope I’ve cleared up a couple of things.
And if you want a piece of advice, stay away from the Freires, the weird kid and his witch of a sister, above all.
They’ll only bring you trouble. This is on the house, by the way. ”
With those words, he stood up and, accompanied by Tristán, disappeared back down the road, leaving Roberto on his own at the table, even more confused than before.
It was madness. If he listened to what everyone was telling him to do, he should just shut himself away in his cottage like a hermit and stay there until the boat came to fetch him.
But it also felt like a lot of lies. Something told him the decapitated chickens were linked in some way to the rabbit he’d found on his first night.
And what about the so-called curse that he couldn’t stop thinking about?
Was everything Diego Freire’s doing? Did this mysterious Tangarano—whom the inhabitants of Ons seemed to be so afraid of—really exist?
Or could it be the work of Elvira Couto, the strange witch?
Perhaps somebody else was really responsible?
Or maybe he was just the victim of a tiresome joke, cooked up between the islanders?
He pushed away his beer, which had suddenly lost its appeal.
“To hell with the lot of them,” he grunted. “I’m going for a walk on the beach.”
When he stood up, he noticed a boat tied to one of the bollards, rising and falling in the swell.
It was a fiberglass vessel, about fifteen feet long, with two powerful Yamaha outboard motors at the back.
Just visible on the bow was a national park emblem, faded by the sun and the seawater.
Every time the waves lifted the boat up, its sausage-like fenders gave a rasping squeal as they scraped against the dock.
He guessed one of the park rangers must have come to the island that morning to conduct some routine business.
After all, even if it was partially inhabited, the island was also a natural reserve.
But judging by the white-capped waves, it seemed obvious that the vessel wouldn’t be hanging around for long.
He retraced his steps and headed north. The track was fairly level compared to the other routes he had taken, and it was flanked by numerous, tastefully restored fishermen’s cottages that stood patiently awaiting the arrival of tourists in the spring.
Once again, he had the unnerving sensation that some unknown entity was spying on him, but the spectacular views to his left quickly displaced that thought: This side of the island, facing toward the mainland, was stunningly beautiful, with a succession of white beaches and green meadows, dotted here and there with old houses built from irregular blocks of granite.
A crooked wooden sign pointed toward a beach called Area dos Cans. Roberto followed the path until he came to a strip of fine white sand that, combined with the turquoise water, looked positively Caribbean, although he knew the water temperature would barely exceed fifty degrees.
Just before stepping onto the sand, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of movement among the bushes. Roberto turned.
“Show yourself. I know you’re there.”
“No, I’m not,” answered a familiar voice.
“I can see you, Diego,” he replied patiently.
The boy peered out from behind a mass of brambles and gorse.
He was wearing a faded light blue Celta de Vigo soccer shirt that was two sizes too large for him, its hems coming loose, and the name of a Bosnian player who had retired at least twenty years earlier emblazoned across the back.
Roberto wondered where he had dredged that relic up from.
“It’s surprisingly difficult to find some solitude on an almost deserted island,” grumbled Roberto. “Can I ask what you’re doing here?”
“I was following you,” the boy explained, looking flustered. “I wanted to know where you were going.”
“I was going for a walk.” He resisted the temptation to add on my own. Although Diego was almost an adult, he still had the mind of a child. Roberto couldn’t help being intrigued by him.
“Can I go with you?” Diego’s eyes sparkled. “Can I? Can I?”
It was clear that if Roberto was looking for solitude, he’d have to go quite a bit farther from the village.
“Okay, if there’s no alternative, you can join me.” He nodded. “You can be my guide.”
Once they were on the sand, Diego bounced along at his side like a puppy.
Completely immersed in his role as guide, he pointed in every direction, gabbling confused explanations as he went.
Roberto struggled to follow what the boy was saying, and the fact that he seemed to be randomly pointing at trees, piles of washed-up seaweed, and things that were visible only to him didn’t exactly help.
Roberto observed him carefully. There was no question that Diego was not “normal,” whatever the word meant, but he had a powerful aura of curiosity and innocence.
Roberto was quite sure he spent most of his time snooping around, including on the Docampo land, but try as he might, he couldn’t picture the boy coldheartedly decapitating chickens.
Then again, just three days ago the idea of someone leaving a dead animal at his door had also seemed unbelievable. As Luis Docampo had said, the place was different. Perhaps, in that remote, rural location, killing an animal was no big deal, even for a kid like Diego.
The beach was better than he’d dared hope.
He could understand why, in the summer, it would be packed with sunshades, towels, and dozens of bodies glistening with sunscreen as they roasted in the sun.
If it weren’t for the icy wind that blew in off the sea—not to mention the overexcited boy skipping around—he would have been tempted to lie down for a while.
“Tell me something, Diego.” Roberto tried to interrupt the boy’s games. “What did you want to talk to me about the other day, at the cottage?”
The boy looked at him as if he didn’t understand. Roberto had another try.
“You said something about ‘the Tangarano.’ What were you talking about?”
Diego’s expression immediately darkened, as if a cloud had covered the sun. Instead of answering, he lowered his head and concentrated on making a hole in the sand with his feet.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’d like you to tell me.”
“I’m scared,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t like it.”
“Is it the Docampos?” He remembered his arrival, with Luis Docampo bullying the kid. “Is it one of them? Is it them you’re afraid of?”
The boy shook his head.
“So . . . What are you scared of, Diego? Tell me.”
“The Tangarano,” he whispered. “And the witches.”
Roberto smiled to himself. Don’t pay any attention, or you’ll go crazy with his stories, like everyone else, Antía had said. So that was what it was about.
“Are you scared of Elvira Couto?”
Diego opened his eyes wide in surprise. “No, no. Not Elvira! She’s good; she isn’t a witch.”
“Witches don’t exist, Diego. And the Tangarano doesn’t either. You don’t need to be afraid of them. They can’t hurt you.”
The boy’s reaction surprised him. He raised his head, his face contorted with anger.
“He does exist!” he yelled. “In the summer, Tangarano hides, but in the winter, when we’re alone, he comes out again. He always comes out again.”
“That’s your imagination,” Roberto said, trying to reassure him. “I promise you.”
Then Diego spoke more quietly, but his words hit Roberto as if he were shouting at the top of his lungs.
“That’s not true.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen him, but I’ve seen what he does to the animals. He hurts them. He kills them.”
The rabbit’s head appeared in Roberto’s mind.
“Why does he kill them, Diego?” The day suddenly seemed colder and more hostile. “Who is this Tangarano? Where does he live? Tell me.”
But it was impossible to get another word out of the boy, who retreated into a mute silence.
Roberto understood that there was nothing to be gained from pressing him, so he gave up.
He still didn’t believe a word of the boy’s fantasy of witches and monsters, but he couldn’t deny that the coincidence was, to say the very least, disturbing.
They continued along the beach in silence. The sand felt almost silky underfoot, it was so fine. The waves were crashing onto the shore, leaving a flotsam of seaweed, driftwood, and discarded junk.
And then, his life changed forever.