Normally it’s pretty crowded by 11.30 p.m. Erhard wonders whether he should just drive home while he’s able. Wonders whether he’s just wasting his time. Wonders whether she even comes here any more. Wonders whether she comes here on evenings like this one.
The red wine has announced its arrival, but not as he’d expected. He doesn’t feel the buzz. It’s been a long day, too long.
He stares at one of the musicians’ skinny legs, which look like curtain rods covered with black denim. They probably live in a small flat in Puerto, or maybe here in Corralejo. Probably smoke hash and pop pills and whatever else it’s called. They probably fuck each other and each other’s girlfriends and argue about the rent twice a month. The one wearing the flat cap may be different. He may be from the mainland, Madrid, Valencia. There’s something of the student about him, unlike the others. He’s unique. Natives call Fuerteventura Isla Ingenua , the island of the stupid. From here, you’ve got to sail for three days or fly for five hours to find a decent university. So when you meet a young man with the ability for self-reflection, you take note. Erhard does anyway. Truth be told, he’s got a few half-finished degrees himself, but life has taught him to recognize an intellectual when he sees one. In profile, the boy’s nose is enormous. It juts over his mouth and forms a broad arc up to his eyes. He resembles a Greek statue carved in stone.
The band get up and return to their equipment. Right as they pass him, one whispers something. It happens so fast, and so quietly, that Erhard doesn’t notice at first that anyone has spoken: Are you into young guys ?
He wants to turn to see who said it. But before he can, he checks himself. He knows that not all voices are spoken out loud. There are just so many hate crimes committed on the island. Locals who pummel homosexual tourists. Muggings out on the sandbanks where German and English men copulate behind dunes – easy targets for a pair of youths with a knife.
More people arrive, many more. Young couples holding hands. Some large groups of men and women enter the bar laughing, dissolving all the tension that Erhard sensed during the past ten minutes. The band plays better and louder the longer they play, but he doesn’t glance in their direction.
He finishes his beer and goes outside. He’s heard people arriving on the patio, and he walks around the building, underneath the palm trees. He spots Alina along the wall, absorbed in a magazine crowded with images of famous actors. Her attention is surprisingly focused, as if she’s reading the articles. She has a pinkish face and the kind of funny little girl’s breasts that poke up like cupcakes, but which are mostly pads and wires.
He has driven her here a few times. He has also driven her to some of the toniest addresses on this island. And he’s picked her up, early in the morning, after she’d sneaked out the gate of the villa carrying her stilettos. The last time he saw her, she was down on her knees and the President of the Canary Islands had his cock in her mouth. That was a year ago. Raúl had taken him to a party on a boat anchored behind Isla de Lobos; he knew the island’s elite, and Erhard had given all the prostitutes a ride at some point. When Erhard searched for the kitchen in the middle of the night, he found her and the president in a small storage room, while on the deck Raúl was beating the president’s bodyguard at poker.
She’s not pretty. She’s naughty in a kind of country-girl way. There’s something about her mouth or cheeks too: they sag as if she was once operated on for an overbite. But in relation to the other prostitutes that he’s spoken to, she’s different. More mature-looking. In better clothes than Erhard recalls. She reminds him of some celebrity from the eighties, but he can’t remember which one. She’s wearing a dress, a loose, gold-coloured blouse with slits, and
The red wine has announced its arrival, but not as he’d expected. He doesn’t feel the buzz. It’s been a long day, too long.
He stares at one of the musicians’ skinny legs, which look like curtain rods covered with black denim. They probably live in a small flat in Puerto, or maybe here in Corralejo. Probably smoke hash and pop pills and whatever else it’s called. They probably fuck each other and each other’s girlfriends and argue about the rent twice a month. The one wearing the flat cap may be different. He may be from the mainland, Madrid, Valencia. There’s something of the student about him, unlike the others. He’s unique. Natives call Fuerteventura Isla Ingenua , the island of the stupid. From here, you’ve got to sail for three days or fly for five hours to find a decent university. So when you meet a young man with the ability for self-reflection, you take note. Erhard does anyway. Truth be told, he’s got a few half-finished degrees himself, but life has taught him to recognize an intellectual when he sees one. In profile, the boy’s nose is enormous. It juts over his mouth and forms a broad arc up to his eyes. He resembles a Greek statue carved in stone.
The band get up and return to their equipment. Right as they pass him, one whispers something. It happens so fast, and so quietly, that Erhard doesn’t notice at first that anyone has spoken: Are you into young guys ?
He wants to turn to see who said it. But before he can, he checks himself. He knows that not all voices are spoken out loud. There are just so many hate crimes committed on the island. Locals who pummel homosexual tourists. Muggings out on the sandbanks where German and English men copulate behind dunes – easy targets for a pair of youths with a knife.
More people arrive, many more. Young couples holding hands. Some large groups of men and women enter the bar laughing, dissolving all the tension that Erhard sensed during the past ten minutes. The band plays better and louder the longer they play, but he doesn’t glance in their direction.
He finishes his beer and goes outside. He’s heard people arriving on the patio, and he walks around the building, underneath the palm trees. He spots Alina along the wall, absorbed in a magazine crowded with images of famous actors. Her attention is surprisingly focused, as if she’s reading the articles. She has a pinkish face and the kind of funny little girl’s breasts that poke up like cupcakes, but which are mostly pads and wires.
He has driven her here a few times. He has also driven her to some of the toniest addresses on this island. And he’s picked her up, early in the morning, after she’d sneaked out the gate of the villa carrying her stilettos. The last time he saw her, she was down on her knees and the President of the Canary Islands had his cock in her mouth. That was a year ago. Raúl had taken him to a party on a boat anchored behind Isla de Lobos; he knew the island’s elite, and Erhard had given all the prostitutes a ride at some point. When Erhard searched for the kitchen in the middle of the night, he found her and the president in a small storage room, while on the deck Raúl was beating the president’s bodyguard at poker.
She’s not pretty. She’s naughty in a kind of country-girl way. There’s something about her mouth or cheeks too: they sag as if she was once operated on for an overbite. But in relation to the other prostitutes that he’s spoken to, she’s different. More mature-looking. In better clothes than Erhard recalls. She reminds him of some celebrity from the eighties, but he can’t remember which one. She’s wearing a dress, a loose, gold-coloured blouse with slits, and
Similar Books
