But of Elvira Couto there was no sign.
“If she’s anything like Pampín described, I doubt she’s sunbathing on the beach,” he said to a seagull that was eyeing him from a few feet away. “Let’s see if we can find where she lives.”
He headed along the beach, trying to stick to the hard sand without getting his feet wet. The tide was coming in, progressively diminishing that strip. At the far end of the beach, he came upon a narrow path that sloped back inland. After weeks of winter weather, the path was a sure invitation to sprain an ankle, but he didn’t see an alternative.
Certain sections had to be clambered with great care, and soon he was panting from the effort. He couldn’t believe there wasn’t an easier way to get there, but not knowing the island paths had forced his hand. After five minutes, the path widened out. His hopes rising, he walked for some distance, casting around for anything that could be Elvira Couto’s house.
It was so hidden that he nearly missed it. The gorse and brambles were so high that they almost completely concealed the tiny dwelling nestled in a hollow to his right. Only the terra-cotta tiles made it stand out. He retraced his steps a little way until he hit the path to the house. There was no other sign of any human presence, so this had to be the place.
A few yards down the path, he came to a wooden sign on which somebody had written, in shaky letters,Privit Proparty, Kepe Off. The author, apparently no fan of spelling conventions, was clearly none too fond of visitors either. He pushed on regardless.
It was a low, stone dwelling, with a couple of windows that were little more than arrow slits, a roof that was crying out for repairs, and a dilapidated water tank at the rear. The front yard was in relatively good order, however, with neat rows of carefully tended plants.
From the eaves hung small figures that swung in the wind. Roberto moved closer, and a shiver ran down his spine. Many of them were little stick people, from which hung shells and pieces of glass tinkling in the breeze. Others were pieces of wood upon which strange symbols had been traced in a brown liquid of uncertain origin. The place would have looked like a witch’s hovel were it not for the almost infinite quantity of junk piled up around the outside of the building: a jumble of timber, old plastic sacks, moldy pallets, and masses of uncovered scrap metal, slowly being devoured by rust.
An irrational burst of fear urged him to turn around and flee. The solitude had such a powerful effect on him that he nearly did just that, but his curiosity ultimately won out.
Something strange was happening on this island, something that involved him—or which, at least, had touched on him. And the woman who lived here might have the answers.
He approached the peeling door and knocked twice. Nothing happened. Wondering if it was empty, he felt a momentary sense of relief, but then there came the sound of a key turning, and the door creaked open.
A little old woman looked at him unblinkingly. Roberto, unable to calculate her age, thought he had never seen such a dirty, wrinkled face. She couldn’t have been more than four feet nine and was hunched over. She was dressed from head to toe in black, with the only concession to color a blue headscarf that almost completely covered her hair, a few white strands poking out from underneath it. Her hands—knotted and twisted by arthritis—held a dishcloth, and the intense, ferocious gleam in her eyes was the only sign of vitality.
“What do you want?” she asked in a voice like broken glass.
“Hello, I was looking for ...” Roberto trailed off, unsure of how to introduce himself. “Are you Elvira Couto?”
“And what if I am?” she replied.
“I’d like to talk to you. Ask you some questions ...”
“I don’t have time.” She went to close the door. “I’m extremely busy. Go away.”
“Wait!” Roberto pleaded. “Víctor Pampín sent me! He told me you’d have answers!”
“Pampín talks too much. You’ve no business being here. Off you go!” she grunted, before slamming the door in his face.
The key scraped mockingly in the lock. Roberto stood staring at the closed door. He’d anticipated all sorts of reactions but nothing as overtly hostile as this. Frustrated, he was about to turn and leave when he decided to have one last try.
“It’s about the dead animals!” he shouted at the door. “A rabbit’s head appeared on my front step! I found the rest of the body! Please, I need answers!”
For what seemed like an age, nothing happened, and he thought the woman was simply going to ignore him, but just then, the lock turned again, and the door swung open. Elvira, on the threshold, observed him inscrutably.
“You don’t need answers,” she said dryly. “You need protection.”
“Protection? What are you talking about?”
“Are you just going to stand there asking stupid questions, or are you going to come in?” the woman replied. “I don’t have all day ... and you’re running out of time.”
That, more than anything else, made Roberto’s mind up, and he stepped over the threshold.
5
The Dead Man’s Kiss
The interior was dark, and it took a while for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. The first thing that hit him was the acrid smell, a mixture of stale sweat, cooking, and stuffiness, and under it all a faint hint of decay. The house was little more than a hovel, consisting of a single room, crammed with the most varied collection of objects imaginable. Glancing at a corner, separated from the rest of the room by a moth-eaten curtain, Roberto made out the filthy bed where the woman no doubt slept. Nearly every square inch of the walls was covered by shelves on which stood tins, dried-out plants, stones, pieces of wood, and items Roberto didn’t even want to know about.
The woman cleared a pile of old newspapers from a wooden stool and gestured to him to take a seat. Roberto obeyed.
