Leonardo Padura - Havana Fever

“Let’s go for a beer,” he suggested without thinking, turning his back on the woman, who carried on, apparently not recognizing him with his new look.

“Conde, watch it,” warned Rabbit.

“It’s OK, man, the guys in this barrio are all dicks anyway…” shouted Yoyi and Candito smiled.

“Forget it, kid,” said Red, “being born and living around here is a schooling you never had. You see how it’s all ugly, filthy and stinks? Well, that’s how people’s hearts are and they do ugly, filthy, stinking things as if it’s what comes naturally. God’s the only power that can change them… But hurry up, the Count’s turning into a hard man.”

Conde got his bearings and pointed towards the next block, certain it was the one with Michael Jordan’s alcohol shop. As he walked, he noticed something had changed in the barrio over the last two days, but couldn’t pin down where that feeling, more atmospheric than physical, came from. When he peered into the lot, before going in, he discovered the transformations were more drastic than he’d imagined: the inside patio, where three days ago several men had been drinking, blasted by music, was now completely deserted, as if the crowded, illicit bar run by Michael Jordan’s double had never existed. Conde worried about his sense of direction, perhaps he’d got the wrong place, and he looked for the African’s building to make sure that this was where they’d drunk those beers.

“They’ve shifted the bar,” he said, immediately suggesting an alternative. “Let’s go to Veneno’s chop shop.”

They walked back two blocks, turned left in pursuit of Veneno’s, and on their way Conde finally sussed out of one of the mutations suffered by the barrio: there were as many people as ever in the street, but music now only came from a few houses, unlike on previous occasions when he’d had to advance through a thick curtain of sound. As on his last visit to Veneno’s, Conde clambered though the hole in the wall separating the ruined building from the street and, followed by his friends, headed over past the precarious canvas and zinc roofs where newly arrived pariahs resided. He went on, searching for the yard with the improvized restaurant tables, and behind the big entrance found a panorama of desolation similar to what he’d found on the lot which once housed the illicit bar.

“Something big’s happened, Conde,” was Candito’s verdict when he saw his friend’s amazement.

“They took fright after the beating they gave the Count. Perhaps they thought they’d killed him,” ventured Pigeon.

“That’s right, and as they thought he was police…” concluded Rabbit.

“No, they knew I wasn’t in the force anymore, and that was why they did me over. Perhaps they thought they’d killed me,” surmised the Count.

“They didn’t think anything at all… If they’d wanted to clean you out of the way they’d have done it by now.” Candito looked at the closed doors of the houses opening on to the patio. “There’s something weird going on here. We’d better beat it.”

“Yes, Red’s right. Let’s go. Look at the sky, it’s going to rain.”

“I wanted to see a guy I know,” said the Count.

“Leave it,” insisted Candito. “We’re out of here.”

“So what did that woman tell you, Conde?”. Relieved by the prospect of leaving this barrio, Rabbit had recovered his perpetual curiosity.

“That Violeta del Río was really Catalina Basterrechea, that she had beautiful eyes and that singing love songs was what she most liked to do on this earth,” said the Count, beginning to tell the whole story.

“So you mean when you were in the force, you didn’t have computers?”

“Of course we did. A big brute of one… We called her Felicia. Hey, if I look old, it’s because I’ve worn badly.”

“Did you work with it?”

“No, I’ve always felt computers were a bit of a headfuck. I haven’t a clue when it comes to all that technology, I’m not joking.”

“But they’re easy enough.”

“I didn’t think they were easy or difficult. We don’t get on and I don’t have a clue… How many computers does Headquarters have now?”

“Two… but one’s broken.”

“I bet it’s more stupid than I am. What do you bet we find nothing at all?”

Sergeant Estévañez smiled and shook his head: this guy’s a joker. His mind couldn’t tolerate the image of a detective too thick to find a simple piece of data on a computer and be sure, in advance, whether it existed or not.

“What’s the name?”

“Catalina Basterrechea,” repeated the Count, agreeing with Lotus Flower that nobody could come on stage and sing a bolero after being introduced by such a mouthful.

The search was more arduous than the sergeant had imagined, and the Count felt happy when, after several attempts, the presumptuous cybernetic policeman was forced to use the phone and consult a specialist over locating certain files from the past.

Estévañez gave the machine new instructions, as it had refused to reply to his questions, and Conde went into the passage, and saw the tremendous downpour that had started outside. He rushed to a lavatory and, while urinating, realized he’d held on to it for too long. He sighed with relief as he felt himself unloading as powerfully as the summer clouds. Simultaneously a voice made him start.

“They say great friendships are forged in lavatories. Or that old ones have been patched up…”

Conde didn’t turn round: he was conscientiously shaking his penis, flicking it as if it were of slightly higher calibre than the one he actually wielded.

“But I’m not going to introduce you…” he said, putting his member away.

Captain Palacios preferred a stall, rather than one of the urinals where the Count emptied his bladder. When he’d finished, he twisted round and was shocked to see his ex-colleague’s bruised face.

“What the fuck’s happened to you?”

“They almost killed me, but evil weevils never die. And if they die, they re-incarnate, as a friend told me who knows about such things. It’s the risk you take prowling around when you’re not a policeman.”

“Well, they really had it in for you… Did you find anything?” asked the captain.

“A few things about the previous owner of the library and the girl who sang boleros. There are people who think she didn’t commit suicide… But don’t you worry, nothing that had anything to do with Dionisio. How about you?”

“I’ve hardly had time to do anything. This gets worse by the

day. There’s no trace of that bloody tall, lame black guy who was at the Ferreros’ the day before Dionisio died. The people trading in old books don’t know him…”

“I know,” said the Count. “I suspect Dionisio and his sister were fibbing about the tall black guy, and after what’s happened, Amalia doesn’t know how to wriggle out of the lie.”

“Do you reckon?” Manolo looked at the Count, intrigued by his suggestion. “Why would they want to do that?”

“The answer to what happened is in the Ferrero household, in the library, to be precise. The other day Dionisio or his sister said something to me about that library that I think holds the key to everything.”

“And you still don’t remember what?”

“I don’t remember who said it or what was said, but it’s buzzing around my head… For some reason I think it’s also connected to the bolero singer.”

“You still on that tack?… You know, Conde, my way’s much simpler: Dionisio refused to do a deal over some of those books, the person with him got upset, they rowed and he lost his temper and killed him. When he saw what he’d done, he took six books, because, whatever you say, they must be some of the most valuable ones…”