Leonardo Padura - Havana Fever

When the Count saw the hard on his imaginings had prompted, he wondered if the years hadn’t transformed them into something more than two lovers: theirs was a well-established blend of knowledge and tolerance that, at some moment, they would have to accept was a definitive bond, but both liked to procrastinate, selfishly defending the last remains of a freedom reduced to the enjoyment of periods of solitude, a solitude that was too pleasurable because it was quickly ended by a short ride from one district of Havana to another, where they always found the life-saving sense of security, solidarity and belonging they gave each other.

When he entered her bathroom, after discarding the idea of masturbation which had been his goal, Conde stood in front of the mirror and told himself he was fed up of looking like a badly packaged mummy; he ripped the bandages from his eyebrow and the back of his ear. The sight of the three stitches on his bruised skin produced a slight queasiness and he looked away, horrified by his own scars.

After a coffee and his first cigarette of the day, he ran over a possible agenda: he decided he’d try to talk to Amalia Ferrero, now that Dionisio’s funeral rites had been performed, and concluded he should go back to Elsa Contreras, the once famous Lotus Flower, now sheltering behind the name and terrifyingly real skin of the ravaged Carmen Argüelles.

Tamara took him by surprise as he was lighting his second cigarette, after a second cup of coffee.

“How do you feel?” she asked, lifting his chin to get a better view of the state of his injuries.

“Like shit, but ready for battle,” he said. “The coffee’s still hot.”

She went to get the coffeepot and Conde, still with the morning hunger provoked by his musings, watched her well-endowed buttocks move under the flimsiest of nightdresses. Unable to hold back, he jettisoned his cigarette, went in hot pursuit, kissed her neck, and put his hands on her buttocks that he opened like the pages of a beautiful book.

“So you woke up with love on your mind?” she smiled.

“Seeing you makes me feel like love,” he replied, rocking her gently against the small table.

“Can I drink my coffee?” she asked.

“Only if I can do other things afterwards…”

“You’re ill.”

“It’s not catching. And we’ve been sleeping together for three days like brother and sister. I can’t stand it any more. It’s your fault I was about to jerk off and break my fast…”

“Mario, I’ve got to go to work.”

“I’ll give you a day’s pay.”

“Like a whore!”

Conde’s memory flashed back. He glimpsed the mercenary mulatta’s lascivious tongue, her pert nipples, and even heard her would-be temptress’s voice. He felt his parts rapidly recede, like a timorous animal running into a cave.

“All right, off you go to work,” he replied, picking up his cigarette that was still smoking and almost smoked out.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, alarmed by his reaction.

“Nothing much really, I’m worried,” he whispered and went off to get the telephone. He came back to the kitchen and, as if making his first ever confession, asked: “Haven’t you ever seriously thought we should tie the knot?” and, seeing the startled look on Tamara’s face, added: “Only joking, don’t worry…” and left.

Still surprised by his question, Tamara looked ecstatic, almost not crediting what she’d heard and, telephone in hand, the Count smiled as he heard her say: “Is that what a knock on the head does for you?”

Yoyi Pigeon honked his Chevrolet’s horn insistently and a pensive Count bid farewell to the concrete shapes by Tamara’s house.

“What do you hope to get from the dead man’s sister?” Yoyi asked, after shaking the Count’s hand and shifting the gear lever.

“I’d like the truth, but I’ll settle for any lead…”

“And the old dear in Atarés?”

“I want her to fill in the gaps. She didn’t tell me a number of things. And I don’t think it was out of fear. Too many years have gone by…”

“Are we going by ourselves? I’ve not come prepared. I’ve only got the chain and handcuffs…”

“Don’t worry. I don’t think they’ll dare do it again. That’s something I’d like to get to the bottom of… Anyway we’ll take steel bars…”

When they were opposite Amalia Ferrero, Conde once again saw the exhausted, transparent woman he’d met several days ago. The food cure brought by the books seemed eaten away by grief and her sad eyes were hidden from sight by constant blinking. Her fingers were raw, about to bleed, and had suffered from a bout of frantic chewing.

“The police have told me to stop selling books until they finish their investigation,” she said, when she saw her visitors, skipping any polite chitchat.

“We’ve come about something else. Can we talk for a few minutes?”

Amalia’s lids started blinking again, uncontrollably, as she ushered them into the reception room. Conde inspected the closed mirrored doors of the library, and looked in vain for the glass ashtray. What the fuck had one of those two told him about that library? Which one was it? He tried to poke in his memory: the reply wasn’t forthcoming.

“Amalia, I’m really sorry to bother you, but we need your help. The man who came to buy books still hasn’t shown up, although we’ve found other things out and perhaps…”

“What other things?” the woman’s eyes sparked.

“The singer I told you about, Violeta del Río, was really Catalina Basterrechea. She was Alcides Montes de Oca’s lover.”

“It’s news to me… I didn’t know. Didn’t have the slightest…” she answered emphatically.

“It’s strange you didn’t know. She was going to leave Cuba with Alcides. And if you’d made your mind up, you’d have gone together.”

“But I didn’t know… I didn’t want to leave…”

The Count decided it was time to apply a little pressure.

“Your Mummy knew. She knew everything… She sorted out all the red-tape to bury that woman when she committed suicide.”

“Mummy did whatever Mr Alcides told her to do. I told you: she was his trusted help. But I didn’t know…”

“There was a lot of doubt as to whether Catalina Basterrechea committed suicide or was murdered.”

When he said that last word Conde knew he’d touched a sensitive spot. An almost imperceptible physical reaction rippled though her. She was on tenterhooks. Conde hesitated, although his instinct told him to stick the scalpel in and gouge out the dead tissue.

“I still think it odd that you were living in this house, so close to your mother and Alcides, and knew nothing about that tragedy. How old were you in 1960?”

“I don’t know,” stammered Amalia, who blinked frantically, put a finger to her mouth, and tried to restrain herself. “I was twenty. It was decades ago… and I was just a young girl.”

“From what I gathered, you’d started working, joined the union, and accepted a post in a bank, a position in the Federation…”

“That’s true enough, but I knew nothing about any Catalina, or what Mr Alcides did with his life. And what my mother once knew has gone with her madness… Satisfied? Why don’t you go and leave me in peace? I feel very upset,” her voice pleaded; she was close to collapse. “Dionisio was my brother, can’t you understand? He was almost all I had left in this world… My nieces and nephews went. My mother’s dying. Today or tomorrow… And that bloody hole of a library…”

A shaft of light rent the shadows in Conde’s mind and lit up his memory. Amalia had struck a very personal note about the library which might just have opened a way to the truth.

“What’s your problem with the library, Amalia? A few days ago you said something about the library rejecting you and you rejecting the library. Why did you say that?”