Leonardo Padura - Havana Red

While Manuel Palacios told him of the virtues of his newly promised – he sometimes called them that, though there was never a single promise, even in the realm of fantasy, and according to the lieutenant’s tally he was on number sixteen for the year – the Count tried to imagine what had happened in the Havana Woods the night of the day of the Transfiguration, but was thwarted by an inability to fable: what had happened? A father who kills his son? What about the two coins? he wondered as Sergeant Palacios turned into the Headquarters parking lot, as tranquil and sunny as everything else that August.

Determined to take advantage of the peace and quiet of the Sabbath, the Count waited for the lift to arrive empty, to avoid for once the climb to the top floor. But when the metal doors slid open, he felt a thump in his chest: there were three men in the lift, dressed in combat gear, without stripes on their shoulders, staring at him hard. His mind, which had to decide what to do in the scant seconds the open door allowed, finally signalled that he should say good-day and get in the metal box, rather than run to the stairs, as he wanted to do. The men returned his greeting and the Count turned his back on them and looked at the panel which indicated floor levels. His skin smarted from the inspection he’d been subjected to: perhaps those same three were the ones who’d questioned Sergeant Manuel Palacios, revealing they knew chapter and verse about the life of Mario Conde. Perhaps these three were the ones who decreed his friend Fatman Contreras should be suspended and even took poor Maruchi out of Central Station. Perhaps they were the emissaries of a new Apocalypse: the Count imagined them in the long robes of Inquisitors, ready to burn pyres and use the rack. The anti-natural law of police who spy on other police had put there three of its undesirable but unavoidable executors, whom the Count regretted giving anything, even as basic as a good-day, when he felt the lift brake on the third floor and the men excused themselves and departed the cage, saying: See you, lieutenant, while he held out his hand and pressed number four, and denied them an answer, stood on his dignity.

When he entered the deserted ante-room to Major Rangel’s office, the Count found his face was burning the way it does when somebody hits you and homicidal furies are unleashed and you become a blind bull only fit to attack. He decided to wait till the malign vapours dissolved in his blood, then walked towards the glass door and heard the voice of the Boss, on the phone, he concluded, when he didn’t get a reply, and knocked gently on the door.

“Come in, Mario,” said the Boss. How the hell does the bastard always know when I’m around?

The Count waved at him and waited for his boss to finish his call. The Boss said “yes” two or three times, and hung up the receiver as if afraid he’d break it. The Count observed that, though it was Sunday, the Major was wearing his uniform. Something bad was brewing.

“There’s no peace, Conde, no peace,” he said and looked though the windows. “And what are you doing here? Did you get to see Eligio yesterday? Have you solved your case?”

“I think I’m well on the way.”

“How many days you’ve been on this wretched case?”

“Four.”

“Four days and you think you’re well on the way?”

“I need something from you…” And he saw his boss’s lips smile sceptically. “Don’t worry, it’s very simple. Have you smoked the Montecristo I gave you the other day?”

“Yes, why?” asked Rangel startled, finally turning to look at the Count.

“Where’s the butt?”

“Now what’s got into you, Mario?”

“I need that butt. I’ve got an idea…”

“You’ve got an idea. How strange… Look, it must be in the basket, they didn’t empty the rubbish yesterday,” said the Major, picking the wastepaper basket from the floor and exclaiming, “Here it is. Its thickness gave it away… Why do you need this, Conde?”

The lieutenant took the piece of cigar, which had been consumed as far as the Major took things. He observed how the end was chewed, half broken, and concluded that the Boss had enjoyed it, though while he was smoking he must have been anxious or upset to bite it like that.

“Give me half an hour, Major,” he pledged, and left the office, imitating Rangel holding a cigar.

“Don’t play games with me, Mario,” he heard as he left.

“Well, Conde, this is not definitive, but you could say the two cigars have the same origin. Steady on, that only means they’re made from a similar leaf, though it’s obvious they weren’t twisted by the same person. The one from the Woods is bigger, has a slightly tighter twist to it and appears to have been lit only once, because it’s accumulated less tar and nicotine round the mouth end, apart from being only half smoked, and that’s probably why it’s still got its band. No other clues. A little earth, that’s all. But remember, cigars made by more than one person may go into the same box, because they pack them as they come. But what I am sure of is that they’re a similar quality tobacco, the same harvest, I mean, though that means nothing.”

“Then I can’t say the two bastard cigars are brothers?”

The laboratory man looked at the Count and smiled: “But why make them relatives like that? They originated from the same place, period. But don’t ask me to say they’re brothers from the same leaf or plant.”

“And if I were to bring you more cigars from the same box, do you think you could be any surer?”

The laboratory man looked at the remains of the two cigars, their guts opened up as if for an autopsy.

“That could be really helpful.”

“Well, I’ll get some. When will you work till today?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be here till four, but if necessary, I can wait. Or what are friends for?”

The Count went into the corridor and walked down a flight of stairs to his cubbyhole. His prejudices kept digging at him and he wanted to make them reality as soon as possible. He entered his small office and found Manuel Palacios brandishing a piece of paper.

“Look at this, Conde: we’ve tracked down Salvador K.”

“I’d forgotten all about that insect. Where might he be?”

“He turned up in El Cerro. Living a new romance.”

“With a woman?”

“Almost, but not quite a woman. El Greco says he went and talked to him after they’d tracked him down; the rooster told him that since everybody knew about his thing with Alexis, he wasn’t going to hide any more and would live life as it should be lived. He says the guy seemed as happy as anything now he’d come out a swashbuckling queer. What do you reckon?”

“I think he’s the only one to have got something out of this mess, don’t you?”

“What shall we do? Bring him in?”

“Let him enjoy himself for the moment… Then we’ll see if we need to speak to him. But they should keep an eye on him.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Manolo, and he put the paper and the address away in a folder on the table on which was written in red, irregular letters: Alexis Arayan/Homicide/Open.

“Now let’s play our last card. Give me the telephone.”

The sergeant pushed the receiver over to the corner of the desk where the Count was and watched him dial, as he lit a cigarette.

“Maria Antonia?… Yes, Lieutenant Mario Conde here. How are you? Look, Maria Antonia, we need you to do us a favour… No, it’s very simple… We want to talk to you… No, no. I said talk, talk over a few things to do with Alexis, because we know you and he were very fond of each other and that you saw much more of him than Faustino or Matilde, right?… Yes, I’d also prefer it to be here. .. OK? I’ll send a car… Where? Uhuh, on the corner of Thirty-Second, of course… And, oh, Maria Antonia, I’d like to ask you another favour. Could you bring me a cigar from the box of Montecristos on the coffee table?”