“This place has a hot water tank, like almost all the houses on the island, but it’s quite small, and it takes a while to refill. So no chance of long showers, I’m afraid. And the flame on the boiler has a tendency to go out.”
“How do you know so much about the place?”
“It’s my work during the summer season.” Antía smiled. “I rent out houses to tourists, fix any problems, deal with the owners. Most of them haven’t set foot on the island in years. That isn’t unusual—having visitors out of season is.”
“I’ll try not to be any trouble,” he replied.
Roberto looked around the cottage. It consisted of a spacious living room with a couch and a table with four chairs, and a tiny kitchen in which stood an old fridge, its door ajar. At the far end were a small bathroom and a bedroom containing a double bed that looked antique.
“It’s not very big, but it’s south-facing and it’s warm,” she said. “And as soon as the weather clears, you’ll see that it’s got spectacular sea views.”
“It’s more than enough for me.”
“The fridge only works some of the time, but if you keep it closed, it should more or less conserve whatever you put inside it. There’s a map of the island on the back of the door if you want to go for a walk. See you around, no doubt.”
Roberto observed her silhouette in the doorway. Once again, he was struck by the graceful fluidity of her movements, while at the same time she seemed slightly tense, on alert. She was keen to get going; he could tell.
Roberto took his cell phone from his pocket.
“There’s no electricity, but there is coverage,” he murmured. “That’s weird.”
“It’s because of the tourists,” Antía explained. “In the summer, people complained about not being able to post on Instagram, so a cell tower ended up getting installed, up by the lighthouse. The cell tower and the lighthouse are the only two places with their own generators and electricity around the clock.”
“That’s good to know.”
“You shouldn’t have any trouble.” She gave him another one of her curious half smiles. “We have to go now. Diego, say goodbye to your new friend.”
To Roberto’s surprise, the boy came over and threw his arms around him, hugging him tightly. Antía’s goodbye came in the form of another robust handshake.
“One last thing,” she said as she turned to leave. “The island can be a dangerous place at night, particularly in the winter. Take care if you go for a walk.”
“Dangerous?” replied Roberto in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing sinister, don’t worry,” she said. “Just that the paths aren’t lit, and the ground is very rough. You could fall and break a leg. It’s no joke.”
“I wasn’t planning to go trekking in the middle of the night,” he assured her.
“Aren’t you going to say anything about theTangaraño?” Diego fidgeted behind his sister.
“What does he mean?”
“Nothing,” Antía said sharply. “Just his usual nonsense. Fantasies. Don’t pay any attention, or you’ll go crazy with his stories, like everyone else. Okay, see you around, Roberto Lobeira. It’s been a pleasure to meet you.”
Out they went, and as the SUV roared away into the gloom, Roberto felt the crushing weight of loneliness bearing down on him.
By the light of the propane lamp, he looked around again. The place that, just a moment before, had seemed cozy and welcoming, like a hobbit’s hole, now seemed cold and bare, his prison for four weeks that stretched interminably ahead—a whole month stuck on this island, with no possibility of going home; no way to call a taxi or an Uber or to jump on a train. And he couldn’t walk back the way he’d come, of course ...
He’d locked himself in a prison of his own making.
He had always believed in being open to new experiences, but this wasn’t turning out to be easy. He hoped the monastic seclusion would enable him to make good progress with his novel. That was what had brought him here, after all.
He spent the rest of the evening arranging his belongings, having dinner, and preparing a suitable corner in which to work. As he was finishing, the ceiling lamp buzzed quietly a couple of times, and suddenly the house was filled with light, just like Antía Freire had promised.
He turned on the electric heaters. The house warmed up almost immediately, and he felt his mood lift. The place seemed welcoming again, and the ugly imitation Persian rug even managed to lend the ensemble a touch of elegance. The pictures on the walls were cheap prints bought in some home-decor store, but at least they fitted with the rest of the room. The couch sagged slightly in the middle but had not yet reached that point when it would become a torture instrument.
Things were looking up. Even the rain had desisted, and the darkness outside no longer seemed so threatening.
He felt the urge to inspect his new domain, if only by taking a short stroll. He didn’t intend to go far. He’d have plenty of time to explore the island properly in the coming days.
