“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 nameTangaraño...”
“Bah, that’s nothing but an old wives’ tale,” Luis snorted, although Roberto couldn’t help noticing him extend his index finger and pinkieunder the table to ward off the evil eye. “Did someone say the chickens were theTangaraño’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 mysteriousTangaraño—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.
