“Good morning,” replied Roberto.
“I don’t know you. Are you a park ranger?” There was a hint of hostility in his voice. “You guys are meant to be in uniform. You can’t fine me if you’re not on duty, right?”
Roberto scrutinized the man again and noticed that he was making a futile attempt to hide the heavy sack behind his back.
“Don’t worry, I don’t have anything to do with the park.” He raised both hands in a reassuring gesture. “And whatever you’ve got in your sack is none of my business.”
The other man muttered something to himself but seemed to relax a little.
“Just a few crabs,” he admitted eventually, in a thick accent that was difficult to understand. “I’ve got a permit. Honestly. And, anyway, they’re legal size!”
“I’m sure they are,” Roberto said, though he didn’t believe a word.
The man was clearly a poacher, presumably of some sort of seafood. The path he had appeared along led directly to the rocky shoreline.
“I’m Roberto Lobeira.” He held out his hand to the man, who showed absolutely no interest in returning the greeting. “I’m staying on the island for a little while.”
“It’s not the summer season yet,” replied the poacher, who did not seem inclined to reveal his own name.
Roberto lowered his hand.
“Yes, it takes a bit of explaining ...” he said. Then, faced with his companion’s silence, he gave up. “Anyway, have a good day.”
The man nodded. Seeming to think for a moment, he then put his hand in the sack and produced a spider crab.
“Here, have one,” he said, “but don’t tell anyone you saw me around here.”
“There’s no need.” Roberto shook his head without taking his eyes off the creature, which clicked its claws insistently. “As far as I’m concerned, we’ve never met.”
The poacher grunted and returned the crab to the sack, allowing Roberto to catch a brief glimpse of a writhing mass of legs, pincers, and seaweed-covered shells.
“I’m Víctor Pampín,” the man said as he jutted his chin in the direction of the other side of the island. “I live close to Punta Xubenco. If you want any fish or seafood, come and find me. You won’t eat better.”
“Do you live here all year round?”
The man gave an ambiguous shrug.
“You’re the first person I’ve met here who isn’t either a Freire or a Docampo,” Roberto went on, ignoring the poacher’s reticence. “I heard that everyone who stays on the island over the winter is from one of those two families.”
“Most, yes,” replied Pampín. “But there are a few of us who don’t have anything to do with them. And there’re the lighthouse keepers, of course.”
“Isn’t it tough here?”
“Tough?”
“I just mean, it’s pretty cut off in the winter, harsh even, given the lack of electricity and the poor connections with the mainland.”
“This is my home,” the poacher said, as if no further explanation were required. “I’ve always lived on the island, and I hope to die here. Some stay because they don’t have anywhere to go on the mainland,and others because this is their place, and they want to make sure everything’s in good order.”
“Really? What do you mean?”
“Haven’t you seen all the vacation homes on the island?” replied Pampín, who was gradually becoming more talkative. “And then there’re a couple of restaurants and a grocery store. This place turns into a theme park in the summer. And it’s all controlled by the same people.”
“The Freires and the Docampos,” hazarded Roberto.
“Exactly, the fucking Freires and the fucking Docampos.” Pampín’s face was suddenly contorted by rage. “They’re the bosses of the island, and they behave as if everything belongs to them by divine right, even the things that don’t.”
“You’re not so keen on them, I’m guessing.”
