Leonardo Padura - Havana Red

“But what I still don’t understand is why he killed him,” the ever sceptical Major Rangel insisted.

“The only people who know are Alexis himself, who can talk no more, and God, who gets less of a look in now but was involved in this affair… For what it’s worth, Major, I suppose Alexis did, said, demanded or reminded his father of something so terrible that Faustino decided to kill him. It seems the boy was beside himself and suicidal, and blamed Faustino for all his personal tragedy. Look what he wrote in this page from his Bible… Then he dressed as a woman, went to meet him, they had a row and Faustino killed him. That simple.”

“Has this country gone mad?” the Major asked, and the Count thought that was his moment.

“It seems to be the case. Must be the heat. Look what they did to Maruchi and Fatman Contreras…”

The Old Man stood up.

“Don’t start, Conde, don’t start,” and now his voice floated in the air, exhausted and bitter. “What they did to Fatman? Do you know why I’m here now? Well, because of Captain Contreras… because Captain Contreras shat outside the pan, Mario Conde, and they caught it all sides.”

The Count tried to smile. The Boss was bad at jokes, that’s why he never told any. But this just had to be a joke.

“Are you mad, Major?”

“This is no madness, Conde. For starters, foreign currency trafficking, bribes and cooked investigations. For seconds, extortion and smuggling. And they’ve got loads of proof. What do you reckon now?”

Lieutenant Mario Conde felt in his pocket for a cigarette and, though his fingers touched the packet, he couldn’t take it out. His friend, Captain Contreras, one of the best policemen he’d known. No, he thought, it can’t be.

“This is shit those guys want to smear him with,” he said, still resisting the idea.

“He did the shit and smeared me as well. It’s his fault they’re investigating even my hair… Wait, let me calm down.” But he didn’t shut up, only changed his tone: ever more exhausted and bitter. “He fucked it, Conde, fucked it, and there’s no excuse… This morning the Chief Attorney put out the arrest warrant and they went after Contreras. That’s how things stand… I think you know me: I trusted Captain Contreras, like I trust you, and got my fingers burnt for him, in fact up to my shoulder, and twice I stopped them investigating him, and put my rank, my position, even my rocks on this table to prevent them even suspecting him… But they were right all along, Conde, and I wasn’t. Now I have to explain why I put my trust in Contreras. Do you know what that means? It’s the end for me. ..”

“I’m off home, Boss,” replied the Count, as he half turned round.

“You just stay there, you’re not going anywhere. You finish your case. What the hell’s up with you? Aren’t you a policeman? Behave like a man, and then like police. Understood?”

The Count finally managed to extract the cigarette, light it and taste shit. He decided to sit down, as infinite exhaustion invaded his muscles and mind. The Boss was still the man he admired and respected, and didn’t deserve him acting like a child. Would they screw the Major as well? No, I don’t want even to imagine that, he thought.

“And since you’re so interested in Maruchi’s final destination, listen to this: she too worked for Internal Investigations and was the agent they planted here to trigger off this investigation, from that bastard desk out there, in front of my office door. How do you like that bit of news?”

“It’s squalid and moving,” he opted to say and nodded: another mask had dropped. “Well, Boss, let’s finish this off: how shall we resolve the case? Should I bring him in and kick Faustino up the backside till he tells us his thousand and one nights, or do you have to call in someone and review all this?”

The Major eyed covetously the remnants of cigar in the envelopes. Then he looked in his desk drawer and took out another of those short, sinewy items he’d been smoking over the last few days.

“I’ve got to make a call, Mario. This is a bombshell, and you know it. This will resonate as far as Geneva when Arayan doesn’t go to that conference on human rights… Yes, this country has gone mad. Look, they’re now making cigars in Holguin and putting a Select label on them… A plague on Fatman Contreras’s mother…”

The only thing Lieutenant Mario Conde would regret as investigator in charge of the Homicide Department at Headquarters would be not seeing Faustino Arayan’s face the moment they arrested him, on the charge of murdering his son, and sentenced him, long before his trial, to lose all his perks and trips, all his immaculate affairs and dazzling guayaberas, an embassy close to heaven and his exquisite cigars, a mansion in Miramar with two cars in the garage, the taste of caviar and whisky – and I like whisky and can never drink any – his powerful friendships and the servant who, much to his chagrin, washed his clothes and always inspected them to gather more evidence on his sly sexual adventures which had become shakier and shakier, the same servant who on this occasion hadn’t done her housework properly and had decided to keep to one side those trousers stained with river-mud from which hung two threads of red silk rotted by damp and years of censorship… The Count wondered whether they’d put him in a prison for common prisoners. Surely not. He was Faustino Arayan and, much to the Count’s disgust, they wouldn’t shut him inside a jail with murderers of every kind and type, capable of forcing him to clean out their cells and their sexual backwardness, making his arse as pink as a bunch of carnations without even paying him two copper pesos. Apart from that, he was glad he’d concluded the investigation and could return to his isle of melancholy and longing for coffee which never came, to think about Polly and the next story he was going to write, about Skinny’s birthday in four days’ time, to observe the disorder reigning at home and to think how it might always have turned out differently: even Fatman Contreras might have turned out differently. What would happen to the Boss? he wondered, and refused even to contemplate the response he could imagine.

Two captains, dressed in plainclothes, had arrived around midday and the Count explained the details of the case and handed over the paltry incriminating evidence: three gutted cigars, a medallion with the engraved figure of the Universal Man, two yellow coins and a page with a couple of chapters from the Bible which revealed to mankind the divine essence of Joseph the carpenter’s putative son and the nature of his huge sacrifice in the Kingdom of This World. He then pointed them in the direction of the laboratory, where they were still analysing the silk threads and mud from the river Almendares. The officers congratulated him on the speed and efficiency with which he’d brought the investigation to a conclusion and assured him they’d revisit his temporary suspension, because Cuba needed people like him. And explained – although you don’t need these explanations, you’re a policeman and know about these things – it was a case surrounded by special circumstances and required special treatment. The Count agreed, and they couldn’t imagine that, opening the door and going into the corridor, he only regretted not seeing Faustino Arayan’s face when they severed the ties of the mask which had finally become his face. Would he cry? Beg for forgiveness? Would he kneel down, stoop petulantly? Yes, he’d like to be there to witness the scene, the downfall of a man capable of judging and condemning, classifying, casting out and crushing people and lives like pesky flies in line with his rigid political and moral criteria. Human rights? Screw him, he finally regretted, yet again, he would miss out on that final performance after labouring so much time on the job… And then he thought there were additional regrets: he would like to know what Alexis had said to his father, what words provoked his homicidal anger, and also to know what was going on in Alexis Arayan’s mind when he donned the unbecoming gown of Electra Garrigo, on that suicidal night when he went out to manufacture his death, though he knew the truth had been lost, had departed for ever with the fears, hates and life of that part-time transvestite. And he’d also like to know – and naturally regretted not knowing – why such terrible events happened in the world where his trade obliged him to get enveloped, as in a tragic mantle… And Fatman Contreras? A corrupt policeman, who used his position, uniform and badge to screw everyone else? No, he still said, refusing to accept what apparently could no longer be denied.