“Show yourself. I know you’re there.”
“No, I’m not,” answered a familiar voice.
“I can see you, Diego,” he replied patiently.
The boy peered out from behind a mass of brambles and gorse. He was wearing a faded light blue Celta de Vigo soccer shirt that was two sizes too large for him, its hems coming loose, and the name ofa Bosnian player who had retired at least twenty years earlier emblazoned across the back. Roberto wondered where he had dredged that relic up from.
“It’s surprisingly difficult to find some solitude on an almost deserted island,” grumbled Roberto. “Can I ask what you’re doing here?”
“I was following you,” the boy explained, looking flustered. “I wanted to know where you were going.”
“I was going for a walk.” He resisted the temptation to addon my own. Although Diego was almost an adult, he still had the mind of a child. Roberto couldn’t help being intrigued by him.
“Can I go with you?” Diego’s eyes sparkled. “Can I? Can I?”
It was clear that if Roberto was looking for solitude, he’d have to go quite a bit farther from the village.
“Okay, if there’s no alternative, you can join me.” He nodded. “You can be my guide.”
Once they were on the sand, Diego bounced along at his side like a puppy. Completely immersed in his role as guide, he pointed in every direction, gabbling confused explanations as he went. Roberto struggled to follow what the boy was saying, and the fact that he seemed to be randomly pointing at trees, piles of washed-up seaweed, and things that were visible only to him didn’t exactly help.
Roberto observed him carefully. There was no question that Diego was not “normal,” whatever the word meant, but he had a powerful aura of curiosity and innocence. Roberto was quite sure he spent most of his time snooping around, including on the Docampo land, but try as he might, he couldn’t picture the boy coldheartedly decapitating chickens.
Then again, just three days ago the idea of someone leaving a dead animal at his door had also seemed unbelievable. As Luis Docampo had said, the place was different. Perhaps, in that remote, rural location, killing an animal was no big deal, even for a kid like Diego.
The beach was better than he’d dared hope. He could understand why, in the summer, it would be packed with sunshades, towels, and dozens of bodies glistening with sunscreen as they roasted in the sun.If it weren’t for the icy wind that blew in off the sea—not to mention the overexcited boy skipping around—he would have been tempted to lie down for a while.
“Tell me something, Diego.” Roberto tried to interrupt the boy’s games. “What did you want to talk to me about the other day, at the cottage?”
The boy looked at him as if he didn’t understand. Roberto had another try.
“You said something about ‘theTangaraño.’ What were you talking about?”
Diego’s expression immediately darkened, as if a cloud had covered the sun. Instead of answering, he lowered his head and concentrated on making a hole in the sand with his feet.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’d like you to tell me.”
“I’m scared,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t like it.”
“Is it the Docampos?” He remembered his arrival, with Luis Docampo bullying the kid. “Is it one of them? Is it them you’re afraid of?”
The boy shook his head.
“So ... What are you scared of, Diego? Tell me.”
“TheTangaraño,” he whispered. “And the witches.”
Roberto smiled to himself.Don’t pay any attention, or you’ll go crazy with his stories, like everyone else,Antía had said. So that was what it was about.
“Are you scared of Elvira Couto?”
Diego opened his eyes wide in surprise. “No, no. Not Elvira! She’s good; she isn’t a witch.”
“Witches don’t exist, Diego. And theTangarañodoesn’t either. You don’t need to be afraid of them. They can’t hurt you.”
The boy’s reaction surprised him. He raised his head, his face contorted with anger.
