“That won’t be necessary.” He shook his head, choosing the most prudent solution. “It was nothing.”
Rosalía Freire scrutinized him for a few seconds with her stony expression before she finally relaxed and something akin to a smile appeared on her face.
“As you wish,” she said in her powerful voice. “But if you need anything, come and find us at El Cucorno.”
“El Cucorno? What’s that?”
“Our family home.” She pointed toward a substantial stone house that seemed to cling to the slope. “If you need help, our door is always open. Come and visit us one of these days.”
“Thank you.”
An awkward silence followed. Rosalía gripped her knife and waved it at the height of Roberto’s chest, a few inches too close for comfort, but he forced himself not to move a muscle.
“You seem like a good man,” the woman said with a half smile that could mean anything. “And I don’t usually say that of visitors. Becareful when you’re out and about. The island can be a dangerous place for people who don’t know it well.”
“Because of the cliffs?” he asked cautiously.
“Every summer someone ends up splitting their skull or breaking a leg because they’ve gone somewhere they shouldn’t. The whole west side of Ons, facing out to the open sea, is a series of steep rock faces that tumble directly down to the shore,” she replied. “If you fall down one of those, your body will never be found. Ever. Above all, take care with the Devil’s Hole.”
“The what?”
“The Devil’s Hole,” the woman replied. “A chasm that’s more than forty yards deep. The bottom connects to the sea through a system of caves. But if you fall in, you’re dead. If you want to see it, don’t go alone. One of my boys will accompany you.”
“I’ll bear it in mind.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Lobeira.” Saying this, Rosalía plunged her hand into the bucket and pulled out another octopus, which she gutted with a flick of her wrist. Part of the animal’s insides fell at Roberto’s feet, but he didn’t even flinch, fascinated as he was by the woman’s skill. “See you around.”
“Goodbye,” Helena added timidly, without looking up.
Roberto walked away, thinking to himself that Rosalía Freire was one of those people whom it’s best not to fall out with.
He continued along the road that ended at the dock. The two restaurants that served the summer visitors were closed, their windows boarded up to protect them against the inclement weather.
Their empty terraces were bare and soulless, and an old, sun-bleached ice cream sign advertised products that would not be available for several months.
However, he noticed that the door of one of the establishments was ajar. Roberto approached and rapped on the door with his knuckles.
“Coming!” shouted a woman’s voice from inside. “Wait a moment!”
Not daring to enter, Roberto ran his eye over the terrace. There were a few tables under an awning and a stack of dusty chairs.
He dragged one of the tables to an empty part of the terrace and selected the least dusty of the chairs. Then he sat down and waited.
After a while, a middle-aged woman with the thinnest lips Roberto had ever seen appeared; her black hair was gathered into a tight bun from which a few white strands had escaped. The woman stopped and looked him up and down, apparently surprised.
“Who are you?” She furrowed her brow. “I thought it was my son knocking.”
“My name’s Roberto Lobeira.” He stood up to offer the woman his hand, and she looked back suspiciously. “I’m staying on the island for a while.”
“Ah, the writer.”
All I need is a sign on my back.
“I was wondering if I could have a coffee,” he said. “I know you’re closed but ...”
“You’re staying at the old Escudero place.” It wasn’t a question but a statement. “You’ve rented it from the Freires, right?”
“I have,” he answered cautiously.
