The Deep Roots of Hatred
Closing the door behind him, Roberto was surprised by the almost sepulchral silence that confronted them. Other people might have been at home, but the sensation at least was that Ramón Docampo and he were completely alone.
“Let’s go up to my study.” The man began climbing the stairs without looking back. “We’ve got a lot to discuss.”
Roberto followed him to a room in one of the wings. It was a small, tastefully decorated study. Old lithographs of sailing ships hung on the walls, and there were burnished brass navigation instruments dotted around, their surfaces reflecting the dying embers in the fireplace. Heavy curtains covered the only window, and a cluttered desk was flanked by a pair of metal filing cabinets.
Ramón pointed him to the armchairs by the fire, between which stood a coffee table. Just as Roberto was about to sit down, the chandelier above them flickered and went out.
“The storm must have overloaded the generator,” the old man muttered as darkness descended. “Just a moment.”
Roberto heard the scrape of a drawer, followed by some rummaging. Ramón Docampo struck a match, and his face was momentarily litin the darkness. Then, to the gentle hiss of a kerosene lamp, the whole room was bathed in amber light.
Ramón placed the lamp on the coffee table and went over to a bar cabinet in the corner. There was a chinking as he returned to the fireside with a couple of glasses and a bottle of Hankey Bannister.
“Okay,” said Ramón, groaning softly as he sat down. “Now, I want you to tell me what happened. The detailed version.”
“You already heard it from Antía,” Roberto said cautiously. “There isn’t much to add.”
“Antía’s a good girl,” Ramón said as he poured two fingers of whiskey into each glass. “I’ve known her since she was a child, I’ve watched her grow up. I think she’s the best in generations of Freires but ... she’s still a Freire. I’m sure you’ll understand why I want a version of events from a more neutral party.”
Roberto nodded and took a sip of his whiskey. It was lukewarm and could have done with a couple of ice cubes, but he guessed such luxury wasn’t for now. He felt the liquor lining his throat and then hitting his stomach in a warm, comforting explosion.
For the second time that evening, he told how he had come upon the man’s body and the state it was in. He also mentioned the macabre gift of the rabbit’s head on the day of his arrival and Elvira Couto’s story.
When Roberto finished, Ramón Docampo was on to his second glass and was watching him inscrutably.
“So, according to you, there’s a monster loose on the island,” Ramón said, speaking the words slowly. “Something out of legend, controlled by some curse, that’s now gone and killed one of my family.”
“I’m not saying that,” Roberto protested. “I don’t think anything supernatural’s at work, but I do think that someone, taking advantage of the legend, has been going around killing animals, and for a long time. The rabbit the other day, your son’s chickens, and lots of others besides. And now, for some reason, it’s gone up a notch, and this person has started killing people.”
“That’s whatyouthink.” He leaned over the coffee table and tapped his nose a couple of times. “And you’ll agree that it doesn’t make much sense. Or that, if it is true, it’s quite the coincidence that it’s all started just now, when there are seventy-five million euros stuffed in a couple of bags behind the church altar. No?”
Roberto faltered. He had given only the outline of a theory, with all sorts of loose ends.
“I’m certain the Freires had nothing to do with it,” he said. “I saw their faces when I took them to the body. They were as shocked as I was.”
Ramón Docampo gave a grim chuckle, shaking his head, and took another sip. “That’s because you don’t know the Freires like I do,” he replied. “You don’t know how treacherous those people can be. The ambition that drives them. What they’re capable of.”
“Killing an innocent man with a hammer to the head, like your son did?” spat Roberto, unable to contain himself. “Like that?”
For a moment, Ramón said nothing, and the fear flashed through Roberto’s mind that the old man hadn’t known of Luis’s crime. But then, a sad smile appeared on the patriarch’s face.
“I know what my son did,” he said simply. “Needs must.”
“Needs must? Have you lost your mind?”
“If Pampín had survived, the authorities would have been called in. The money would have gone with them, and, what’s worse, the rightful owners wouldn’t have believed a word we said when they came calling for it later on.” He struck another match and lit a cigar. “I know you won’t understand, but Pampín’s being dead is the best thing for us, for the Freires ... and for you too.”
Roberto tried to get his head around the man’s twisted logic.
“Life on this island isn’t easy.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Never has been. Let me tell you a story.”
A clap of thunder rattled the windows, and the lamplight flickered. Roberto, feeling uneasy, took another sip from his glass.
“Ons hasn’t always been inhabited,” Ramón Docampo began, his tone teacherly. “Over the centuries, various people have lived here, and they all ended up leaving the island, for one reason or another. Sometimes it was an epidemic, sometimes on account of war or famine, sometimes pirates coming to plunder. It seems like a paradise to people now, but the location has always put it at the mercy of events in difficult times ... and believe me, things have often been difficult here.”
You don’t say. Roberto thought of all he’d been through over the previous days, though he chose to keep it to himself.
