That was all. Roberto turned the paper over several times in his hands, thoughts rushing through his head. What a relief for the note to be a simple lunch invitation, and nothing to do with the strange curses of the elusiveTangarañoor his bind with the murderous rival clans.
But one thing bothered him. The author of the mysterious invitation knew his name, knew who he was. And that didn’t make the slightest sense, unless someone had told them about him. The next question was what else that person knew. Especially concerning Pampín’s death and the money.
He was tempted to ignore the invitation, but his curiosity got the better of him.
He looked at the clock: It was almost two already. The morning had sped by, and he would have to be there in half an hour. With a shrug, he turned and went back to the path, thinking about how to get to his destination.
The answer was easy, as he instantly realized. The lighthouse was at the top of the highest point on the whole island, so the only way to go was uphill.
In the general winter gloom, the lighthouse had already been switched on. He could make out the beam that swept around, following its preset pattern. It was impossible to get lost. He squared his shoulders and set off.
The road up to the lighthouse was by far the best kept on the island—a decent concrete surface with drainage ditches on either side. This, of course, made sense, given the lighthouse’s doubtless frequent need of material and spare parts that could be brought only by vehicle.
Roberto walked briskly on, passing along the way a number of empty houses that gazed back darkly out of lifeless windows. The irrational feeling that he was being watched was so intense that he caught himself spinning on his heels more than once, but this part of the island was completely devoid of all human presence. The wind grew steadily stronger as he gained the exposed heights, and it began to pour again. He tightened his hood and pushed on.
After fifteen minutes, he reached the lighthouse enclosure. A rigid wire fence ran along the entire perimeter, and he passed through a low iron gate between concrete posts. A shed stood open by the entrance, and inside were a tractor and trailer, which he guessed served to transport any heavier goods from the waterside.
A movement away to the left caught his eye. A modern security camera had been installed on top of the shed, and it had swiveled around to look at him. His host doubtless knew he had arrived.
The road curved around slightly before reaching the very top. To the right was a dilapidated abandoned building that had been converted into a wood shelter and was littered with logs and big pieces of timber.When he rounded the last bend, the lighthouse came into view, and he whistled through his teeth.
It was immense. It consisted of a central edifice flanked by two extensive wings. On top of the main block stood the tower: a tall stone-and-metal structure crowned with the gigantic glass casing for the light. He could see the light slowly rotating inside, dazzling his eyes every time it swept across him.
The whole complex was painted white, and the wide brown roofs were dotted with moss. Roberto walked over to the small stone yard in front of the main door. White tiles covered the facade, with a pair of windows and a huge twelve-foot round-arched door the only other things to interrupt that expanse.
He approached the door, grasped the heavy bronze knocker, and rapped three times. Immediately he heard footsteps on the other side, and the door swung gently open on its hinges.
“Ah, you’re here! Right on time!”
Before him was a burly, somewhat overweight man in his forties. He had a shiny bald head that glistened with sweat, and inquisitive, alert, searching green eyes. He had a discreet blond beard that completed his affable appearance.
“Welcome to Ons lighthouse,” he said with an unmistakable Basque accent as he stretched out a huge hand toward him. “I’m Álvaro Ibaibarriaga, the chief lighthouse keeper. I see you got our invitation in time.”
“Indeed,” Roberto replied, returning the man’s fleshy handshake.
“Come in, come in! You’ll get soaked.”
Roberto crossed the threshold and looked around, instantly enchanted. The hallway was covered with the same ceramic tile as the facade, only with beautifully drawn borders. Delicately painted green tendrils ran upward, ending in ovals on which sailboats plied foamy seas. At the far end was a glass door with the legendOns Lighthouseacid-etched on the glass, in a delightfully antiquated art deco typeface.
Ibaibarriaga followed his gaze and smiled at his astonishment.
“This part of the lighthouse was built in the 1920s. Everything you see is completely original; nothing’s been changed at all.”
Roberto looked up at the ceiling, which must have been fifteen feet high. Long teak beams stretched away to the end of the hallway, which provided a horizontal support for the two wings. There were doors at intervals along it, made of the same dark teak, all very solid and antique looking.
“Never been inside a lighthouse before, have you?”
“It’s the first time, I admit. It’s ... impressive.”
“This one’s very special. As it’s on an island, successive generations of lighthouse keepers have taken great care of it. It’s not only a lighthouse; it’s also our home.”
“Sorry, Mr. Ibaibarriaga,” Roberto interrupted him. “There is one thing that—”
“Call me Álvaro, please,” the lighthouse keeper said with a smile.
“Well, Álvaro, I was just wondering how you knew my name, and that I was staying on the island,” he said in the calmest voice he could muster. “I suppose someone must have told you.”
“Oh no, nothing like that.”
