Leonardo Padura - Havana Fever

The Bel Air zipped along the avenue of the Malecón and, sitting back in the high-backed beige imitation pigskin seat, Conde divided his attentions between the Marc Anthony music – broadcast from the CD player hidden in the glove compartment and amplified through the quadraphonic audio system Pigeon had incorporated, without sacrificing the original Motorola radio, luxuriating in its privileged position on the dashboard – and the contemplation of a tranquil sea, gilded by the last rays of that summer evening’s sun. The tropical sea would always remind him of his fading dream: of owning a small wood cabin, on the edge of a beach, where he could devote the mornings to his imagination and writing one of those novels he still planned, the evenings to fishing and strolling along the sand, and the nights to enjoying the company and moist heat of a woman, smelling of seaweed, sea breezes and the sweet scent of night-time secretions.

“Yoyi,” his words exploded uncontrollably, “is there anything you’d really like and were never able to get?”

Pigeon smiled, keeping his eyes on the avenue.

“What’s this about, man? Loads of things… I swear…”

“Of course, but doesn’t anything stick out?”

The lad shook his head, as if denying something only he knew.

“Before I bought this car I’d have given my life to have a Bel Air. Now I’ve got one, I’m not sure… I think… Yes, got it, I’d love to see Queen play live. With Freddie Mercury, of course…”

“Great,” conceded the Count, who’d expected a less spiritual reply.

Pigeon’s frustrated dream spoke of a sensibility lost or atrophied by the struggle for survival, and went back to a state of innocence before he’d turned ferocious predator.

“And come to think of it,” continued Pigeon after a silence, “I’d also have liked to know how to dance properly. I can swear to that. I love music but I’m a terrible dancer.”

“Ditto,” confessed the Count, probing further. “Have you ever thought about what you want from life?”

Yoyi looked at him for a moment.

“Don’t go so deep into things, man. You know that here we’ve got to live the day-to-day and not think too much. That’s where you get it wrong, you think too much… Take now for instance, why you got such a bee in your bonnet about what happened to Violeta del Río?”

Conde gave the sea a farewell glance, before they started their descent down the ramp of the tunnel under the river.

“It must be because I’m an obsessive-compulsive…”

“And what else, what else?” cried Yoyi.

“I still don’t know,” the Count allowed. “Maybe it’s just curiosity, a leftover from when I was a policeman, or something I haven’t yet worked out… You know what? Those stories and characters from the fifties are my Bel Air. I can’t get enough of going back over what people remember about it. It fascinates me. But what most intrigues me about her story is the strange way she retired and disappeared at the height of her fame, and that no one now remembers her, you know… So why did you want to drive me to Rafael Giró’s place?”

“I don’t know… to keep you company, I suppose. You’re the maddest, arsiest character I know, but I like your company. Know what, man? You’re the only straightforward fellow I ever deal with in this and all my other businesses. You’re like a bloody creature from Mars. As if you weren’t for real, I mean.”

“Is this praise, coming from you?” enquired the Count.

“More or less… You know, we live in a jungle. As soon as you leave your shell, you’re surrounded by vultures, people set on fucking you up, stealing your money, getting laid with your woman, informing on you and making sure you get busted so they can make a buck… A bunch of people who don’t want to complicate their lives, and most just want out, to cross the water, even if it’s to fucking Madagascar. And fuck anyone else… And don’t expect too much from life.”

“That’s not what the newspapers say,” Conde egged him on, to see if he’d jump, but Yoyi only seethed.

“What newspapers? I bought one once, I wiped my butt on it, and it left it covered in shit, I swear…”

“You ever hear talk of Che’s New Man?”

“What’s that? Where can you buy one?”

When they reached the crossroads of 51 and 64 Streets Pigeon turned right and looked for the number Pancho Carmona had given them.

“That’s where the blind guy lives. Look, he’s in the doorway,” he said as he parked the car next to the pavement. “Don’t slam the door, man, this is a real car, not one of your Russian tin-cans on wheels…”

Conde let the car door go and watched it gently swing to, pulled by its own weight. He crossed the small garden and greeted Rafael Giró. He explained how they were friends of Pancho Carmona, and appealed to his vanity by saying he’d read his book on mambo and thought it excellent.

“So why this visit? Do you want to sell me a book?” asked Rafael, who didn’t stop his wooden chair from rocking. His eyes were like two powerful, round lamps behind the thick concentric lenses of his cheap, poor imitation tortoiseshell spectacles.

“No, it’s not that… Pancho told us he sold you a record by a bolero singer, Violeta del Río, about fifteen years ago…”

“The Lady of the Night,” said Rafael just as Pigeon joined them.

“You heard of her then?’ he asked cheekily, flopping on an armchair before he’d even been invited to sit down.

“Of course, I have. Or do you think I’m one of those musicologists – at least that’s what they call themselves – who talk about music they’ve never listened to and haven’t written an effing book in all their effing lives?… Please take a seat,” he said finally, addressing the Count who sat down in one of the armchairs.

“Well, we’ve asked a number of people…”

“I know, hardly anyone remembers her. She only made one record and as she worked in clubs and cabarets… Just imagine, in Havana at the time there were more than sixty clubs and cabarets with two or three shows a night. Not counting restaurants and bars where trios, pianists and combos played…”

“Incredible,” said a genuinely astonished Pigeon.

“Can you imagine the number of artists required to sustain that rhythm? Havana was a crazy place: it was the liveliest city on the planet. You can forget fucking Paris and New York! Far too cold… the Nightlife was right here! True, there were whores, there were drugs and there was the mafia, but people enjoyed life and night-time started at six p.m. and went on till dawn. Can you imagine in a single night being able to drink beer, listen to the Anacaonas in the Aires Libres on Prado, eat at nine listening to the music and voice of Bola de Nieve, then in the Saint John and listening to Elena Burke, after going to a cabaret and dancing to Benny Moré, with the Aragón, Casino de la Playa, the Sonora Matancera, then taking a break to swing to the boleros of Olga Guillot, Vicentico Valdés, Ñico Membiela… or off to listen to the crooners, grainyvoiced José Antonio Méndez, or César Portillo and, rounding off the night, escaping to the beach to see Chori play his timbales, and sitting there cool as anything, between Marlon Brando and Cab Calloway, next to Errol Flynn and Josephine Baker. And, if you’d any breath left, down to The Grotto, here on La Rampa, to see the dawn in with a jazz session with Tata Güines, Barreto, Bebo Valdés, Negro Vivar, Frank Emilio and all those lunatics who are the best musicians Cuba has ever produced? They were here in their thousands, music was in the air, you could cut it with a knife, you had to push it aside to walk down the street… And Violeta del Río was one of them…”