Free The Hermit by Thomas Rydahl Page A

he gets up on Saturday morning, he turns on the radio. He spins the dial from Radio Mucha over to Radio Fuerteventura. He waits for the news as he cautiously removes the finger from the glass in which it spent the night. It appears to have completely stopped decomposing. Holding onto the ends, he wriggles it and tries to free the ring. But it’s still jammed tight. He drops the finger into the bag, then slips the bag into his pocket.
    He’s exhausted, or maybe just angry, after yesterday. Not because of the conversation but because he cannot let go of the image of the boy, the tiny box, the unresolved ending, the local angle – whatever that means.
    He drives down to Alapaqa and drinks his morning coffee. Aristide, a fisherman who doesn’t usually come to the cafe, is busy with a group of Finnish tourists who’ve ordered breakfast. Erhard showers and sits on a rock beside the harbour, watching the fishermen discuss who’s allowed to fish where as they point across the sea at some buoys lapping on the water. He fills his cup and drives north. He cruises slowly through Corralejo, then onto the country road, and finally out towards Cotillo.
    There are very few customers at this time of day. He picks up a young man out near Las Dunas who hails him in an exaggerated way, waving his arms and legs. He has no luggage but needs to go down to Puerto, to the ships, before 8 a.m. So Erhard floors the accelerator in the old Mercedes. The young man goes on and on about a girl he’s just said goodbye to, telling Erhard that she’s not like other girls. Of course it turns out that he doesn’t have any money. His money’s on the ship, he says, which is probably a lie. If Erhard lets him go he’ll never see any money.
    – Give me your business card, I’ll give you mine, the young man tells Erhard, handing him a card. – I’ll send you the money.
    But Erhard doesn’t have a card. It’s almost eight o’clock now. He doesn’t care and tells the man to get going so he can reach his ferry. The man dashes from the taxi and down the street towards the piers. Halfway, he turns and waves, still running.
    This episode just reminds Erhard that he needs to ask people like that about a credit card before the fare begins. A confused young man in love.
    Driving westward, he lowers the volume on the radio so he can’t hear dispatch, which, as always, is thick with rubbish. Discussions about who had picked up the most rides last month, or who has the hottest wife. There’s always a lot of complaints from drivers being scolded by the boss because they don’t submit their paperwork in a proper fashion, or because they don’t drive enough per month, or because the substitute drivers don’t tidy up the cars properly following the night shift. Or because someone budged ahead in the airport queue for crying out loud. The girls at dispatch poke fun at them. Lucia teases the drivers who are in the doghouse. In his fourteen years as a cabbie, Erhard hasn’t heard one unsolicited peep from the boss or from the auto workshop, not so much as a single admonishment or comment or criticism. He’s thorough and methodical in his work. He spends fifteen minutes each day balancing his accounts. Every day he pays 30 per cent to TaxiVentura, 25 per cent in taxes, and 25 per cent to Annette, then leaves the last 20 per cent to himself. On a good day it’s enough, on a bad day he barely has enough to eat. But that’s the way he likes it; it’s what’s fair. TaxiVentura receives all of it except for his own cut: they pay the taxes and transfer Annette’s money to her bank account at the People’s Bank of Denmark once a month. And he keeps the car clean. He’s even tried to liven up the atmosphere down at dispatch, suggesting a bookshelf and a break room where people can have a cup of coffee or tea. But it went nowhere. Wait until you’re the boss, Barouki says, washing his hands – first without soap, then with soap, and then finally washing them all