“He does exist!” he yelled. “In the summer,Tangarañohides, but in the winter, when we’re alone, he comes out again. He always comes out again.”
“That’s your imagination,” Roberto said, trying to reassure him. “I promise you.”
Then Diego spoke more quietly, but his words hit Roberto as if he were shouting at the top of his lungs.
“That’s not true.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen him, but I’ve seen what he does to the animals. He hurts them. He kills them.”
The rabbit’s head appeared in Roberto’s mind.
“Why does he kill them, Diego?” The day suddenly seemed colder and more hostile. “Who is thisTangaraño? Where does he live? Tell me.”
But it was impossible to get another word out of the boy, who retreated into a mute silence. Roberto understood that there was nothing to be gained from pressing him, so he gave up. He still didn’t believe a word of the boy’s fantasy of witches and monsters, but he couldn’t deny that the coincidence was, to say the very least, disturbing.
They continued along the beach in silence. The sand felt almost silky underfoot, it was so fine. The waves were crashing onto the shore, leaving a flotsam of seaweed, driftwood, and discarded junk.
And then, his life changed forever.
8
The Bundle
It was just a fraction of a second. Later, he would ask himself what would have happened if he hadn’t turned his head at that precise moment. How different everything would have been. But when fate rolls the dice, there’s nothing you can do.
He spotted it out of the corner of his eye, just when the cold was close to sending him back inland in search of refuge. About twenty yards out, bobbing in the water, was an orange buoy.
“What’s that?” he asked.
Diego narrowed his eyes, trying to make out what Roberto was pointing at, but the buoy had disappeared.
“I can’t see anything.” The boy hesitated. “Oh, wait ... I can see it now! It’ll be a pot that’s been washed up by the tide.”
“A pot?”
Diego launched into a convoluted explanation of lobster pots and how they were designed so that lobsters could get in but not out, but Roberto soon stopped listening. About five yards from the buoy was a bright yellow object. The same yellow as the oilskins he’d seen many of the sailors wearing in the port at Bueu.
“There’s someone there!” he shouted. “We have to help them!”
“The sea’s very rough.” Diego looked out dubiously. “And I can’t swim.”
The kid was right about the sea. It was growing wilder by the minute, and each time the waves broke against the shore, they clawed away at the beach, dragging sand with them as they retreated.
Roberto was caught in a dilemma. All the ghosts of the past had suddenly come back to haunt him, trapping him on the shoreline, unable to move a single muscle. He felt dizzy. He could hardly breathe. And yet, he had to do something, even if it was almost certainly too late to save anyone. He looked around, hoping to see somebody else, but the only sign of life was the seagulls scrabbling in the sand.
“I bet he’s drowned,” Diego announced, as if to confirm Roberto’s fears. “He isn’t moving.”
But you can’t be sure of that,said the voice in Roberto’s head.Whoever it is, they need your help. You can’t just stand here doing nothing.
And anyway, it wasn’t the same as the other time. Whatever was out there was floating close to the shore. A child could do this.
“It’s only twenty yards,” he muttered, trying to convince himself as he sat down on the sand and removed his shoes, his coat, and his woolen sweater.
He wasn’t a great swimmer, but the yellow oilskin was so close that he felt as if he could almost reach out and touch it. The cold January wind whipped his skin, and something inside him—something with which he was all too familiar—yelled,Don’t do it!so loud that it almost immobilized him. But he pressed on, because if he let the thing take control in a moment like this, then the rest of the time he spent on the island would become a nightmare in which he would be consumed by his inner demons. He had to do it. He had to.
In his underwear, he walked gingerly forward and put his feet in the water. He gasped as the icy water bit his ankles. It couldn’t be more than forty-five degrees.
He took slow steps forward, struggling against the waves. Pulled by the undertow, the sand slipped away beneath his feet, as if it had alife of its own. As the water reached his waist, he found it increasingly difficult to keep his balance.
When a particularly high wave came crashing in, he held his breath.
