Chapter 16 Following the Light #3
“While we’re on the subject,” Roberto said with a grimace, “may I ask you a question?”
“Yes, of course.” Varatorta gave him a quizzical look. “What’s it about?”
“Have you been on the island long?”
“About three years. Why do you ask?”
“I’m sure it’s silly but . . . Have you ever heard of someone called Tangarano?”
Varatorta stared at him, a strange look on his face. He opened his mouth to speak but apparently thought better of it.
“I think whoever it is has some kind of problem with me,” Roberto continued quietly. “I’d like to know who it is.”
“Not who but what.” Varatorta frowned. “Take a look at this.”
The lighthouse keeper went over to one of the bookshelves and pulled out a slim, leather-bound book. On its cover, in faded gold lettering, it said Myths and Legends of the Isle of Ons.
“This book must be almost a hundred years old,” said Varatorta, flipping the pages. “Where was it? Ah, yes!”
He held the book out to Roberto. On the page was an old engraving in black ink. It showed a stooped man, of uncertain age, dressed in a long overcoat and wearing a kind of hat made of braided greenery. Roberto shuddered to see three decapitated bodies at the man’s feet.
But most disturbing was the expression on his face.
His eyes were wide open but unfocused, shot through with madness and pain.
The engraver had captured the moment perfectly, and the more Roberto looked, the more he felt himself drawn into the black pit of insanity that seemed to lie behind that gaze.
“The legend of the Tangarano arose in the late nineteenth century,” Varatorta said in a low voice. “Apparently, a sailor by that name came to believe that his wife and two small children were possessed by the devil. To free them, he drowned them and then chopped off their heads.”
The cozy library had suddenly grown quite cold.
“This Tangarano, either guilt stricken or fearing arrest, committed suicide by throwing himself into the Burato do Inferno, one of the shafts on the western side of the island. That part made the newspapers at the time, so it’s taken to be true, and the myth begins from there.”
“And what does the myth consist of?” Roberto asked hesitantly.
“Legend has it that Tangarano’s spirit is still trapped on the island because of his terrible deeds.
” Varatorta read from the book: “‘On stormy nights, the spirit of the ill-fated sailor wanders the paths of the lush Isle of Ons, condemned to relive his family’s gruesome fate. Any person or animal who has the misfortune to cross his path will meet the same fate as the two innocent children and his wife, all that time ago.’”
“What a horrible story.”
“And that’s not all.” Varatorta turned the page. “‘Legend has it that the Tangarano lingers around people’s homes, longing for the human warmth within, so that he can rid himself of his curse and place it on someone else’s shoulders. That is what they call . . .’”
“The dead man’s kiss,” said Roberto, almost in a whisper.
“That’s right.” Varatorta looked up, surprised. “How did you know?”
Roberto swallowed. He didn’t want to be taken for a madman, but he needed to tell someone.
He began telling the lighthouse keeper everything that had happened since his arrival on the island, the discovery of the dead rabbit, the severed head on his front step, and his strange encounter with Elvira Couto.
However, he said nothing about the money or Víctor Pampín’s death.
“So? Think I’m making it all up?”
“Not at all.” Varatorta shook his head. “Albert Camus said myths are more powerful than reality. If you want my opinion, someone’s messing with you.”
“That’s what I think too,” Roberto said, regaining his composure. “But who, and why?”
“Beats me.” Varatorta shrugged, shutting the book. “But remember that curses only have power when the victim believes in them.”
Not a sentiment that Elvira Couto would agree with, Roberto thought to himself.
“Is that also Camus?”
“No, no, that’s Iker Jiménez.” Varatorta laughed nonchalantly. “I wouldn’t give it much importance. There’s no such thing as ghosts, and the same goes for curses.”
“True.” He felt a little stupid. “Please don’t tell anyone. These few days have been . . . quite challenging.”
“Don’t worry, it can be our little secret.” He smiled warmly. “I’m sure that when the storm passes, you’ll see everything differently. Nothing like a sunny day to chase away the fears.”
“I hope it won’t be too long.”
“And don’t believe a word that old witch Elvira Couto says,” Varatorta scolded. “Still less when it comes to some crazy legend from over a hundred years ago. Someone who’s seen as much of the world as you have ought to be above all that.”
“You’re right.” Roberto shook his head. “With everything that’s been going on, I’ve lost perspective.”
“Absolutely!”
“Sometimes you have to take back control of your life,” said Roberto, more to himself than to Varatorta, who he saw was looking at him strangely.
“Well, I see we understand each other.”
“Of course we understand each other,” Roberto replied, placing a hand on the lighthouse keeper’s forearm and giving it a squeeze.
Varatorta looked down at the hand, and then at Roberto again with a peculiar expression. In a split second, it came to Roberto that the man had perhaps misunderstood his touch, and he instantly withdrew his hand, as if burned.
“What I meant to say was . . .”
Just at that moment, the overweight figure of Ibaibarriaga appeared in the doorway.
“What, what’s happening?” he said. “Are we eating or what?”
“I was just telling Mr. Lobeira some stories of the island,” explained Varatorta, winking at Roberto. “He’s getting steeped in the true spirit of Ons.”
“Well, enough talk.” Ibaibarriaga gave Roberto a couple of fulsome slaps on the back. “à table!”
When Roberto sat down at the table, it once more struck him just how ravenous he was.
Just as they were uncorking a bottle of wine, the kitchen door opened, and in walked a figure wearing an oilskin. He pushed back the hood to reveal the face of a young man, no more than twenty-five, with frizzy hair and a haunted look. He gave Roberto a half smile.
“Were you going to start without me?”
“You’re late, Pazos,” said Ibaibarriaga. “Where have you been?”
“I was in back, securing the solar panels,” Pazos replied as he struggled out of his raincoat. “With the wind tonight, they could easily fly off.”
The head lighthouse keeper nodded with a grunt.
“Say hello to our guest, Mr. Roberto Lobeira. Roberto, this is Borja Pazos, our assistant.”
The young man nodded in greeting, but his attention was more on what Varatorta was placing on the table. And that, Roberto had to admit, was perfectly understandable.
The first course was a tray of scallops that had been lightly browned on the griddle and gave off a delicious aroma of the sea.
Next came some cuttlefish on a bed of sautéed vegetables, a platter of tuna loin with what Roberto guessed was homemade kimchi, and to finish, a plate of broad beans with shrimp in a sauce so thick that the spoon was almost standing upright.
They ate in silence, exchanging only a few comments, all food related.
The three men were clearly used to one another’s company—a gesture was all it took to communicate when they wanted something.
Roberto supposed that if he lived cut off from the world in a lighthouse, he’d end up just as monosyllabic.
For his part, he savored every dish that was placed before him. When he didn’t have room for another morsel, he leaned back in his chair, as satisfied as if he had eaten at the finest restaurant.
Pazos began to clear the table, and neither of the other two offered to lend a hand. When Roberto got up to help, Ibaibarriaga grabbed his arm.
“Let’s go to the library for coffee,” he said. “I’ve got so many questions I want to ask you.”
It wasn’t Roberto’s first encounter with an enthusiastic reader who wanted to take advantage of some time with him. It was part of his job, and, if his host wanted to chat, he was hardly going to refuse, especially after such a feast.
They went back to the library, where the stove was still burning well. In addition to the books, there were all sorts of other items: a glass jar filled with tiny seashells, a bird skeleton, and the shell of an enormous spider crab. Roberto sank into the couch while Ibaibarriaga poured the coffee.
The lighthouse keeper came over with two cups, which looked tiny in his meaty hands. He sat down across from Roberto and fixed him with a hard stare. All his previous cordiality was gone.
“Okay, now that it’s just the two of us, you’re going to tell me everything that happened yesterday in the village. With no omissions. I want the unvarnished truth—otherwise there will be consequences.”