Leonardo Padura - Havana Gold

Depression still weighed heavily on his shoulders as he slumped on his bed and closed his eyes in the hope that his headache would disappear. Depression was a burden for wrists, knees, neck and ankles, all acting as if exhausted by the huge task. He hadn’t the strength to rebel and shout out “Shit, fucking shit”, “Go to bloody hell”, or to try to forget everything. Depression had only one cure that he knew of: company.

When he left headquarters the Count was already laid low by that nightmarish depression. He knew he’d violated the code, but an even more deeply rooted code had launched him at Fabricio. So he stopped off at a bar, then understood, from his first gulp, that solitary flight down the alcohol trail didn’t make any sense either. He felt alien to the joys and sorrows of the other inmates who delved deeper into their necessary confessions with each shot: rum was an emetic for doubts and hopes, not a simple potion to herald in oblivion. That’s why he paid, left a half-full glass and went home.

In search of possible relief, the Count dialled for the very first time the number Karina had given him, eight days ago, when they’d met next to a punctured Polish Fiat. His memory successfully reclaimed the number: the ring was faint and distant.

“Yes,” said a woman’s voice. Karina’s mother?

“Can I please speak to Karina.”

“She’s not been here today. Who’s that?”

“A friend,” he replied. “When will she be back?”

“Oh, I couldn’t say…”

A pause, a silence, the Count thinking.

“Could you take down a number?”

“Yes, wait a moment…” she must be looking for the wherewithal, “right, go on.”

“409213.”

“Four-zero-nine-two-one-three,” the voice checked.

“Huh-huh. Tell her Mario will be back after eight. And will be expecting a call.”

“All right.”

“Thanks a lot,” and he hung up.

He made an effort and got to his feet. On the way to the lavatory he undressed, dropping clothes everywhere. He stepped on the shower tray and before submitting to the torture of a cold shower glanced through the small window. Outside twilight falling. The wind still stirring up dust, dirt and melancholy. Inside hatred and sadness had ground to a halt. Would it always be thus?

As he walked past Karina’s house, the Count noted the orangey Polish Fiat wasn’t there. It was a quarter to eight, but he decided he’d have plenty of time to worry later. He looked at the window in the porch, not intending espionage, and only saw the same ferns and malangas , turned a golden yellow by the light of a brightly burning lamp.

The door to Skinny’s house was open as usual and the Count walked in, asked: “What time they serve dinner in this place?” And he went as far as the kitchen where Skinny and Josefina, like minstrels in vaudeville, were waiting for him hands on head and eyes goggling, as if to say: “It can’t be”.

“No, it can’t be,” said Skinny, with the intonation of the character he was performing and finally with a smile. “You telepathic?”

The Count walked over to Josefina, kissed her on the forehead and asked emphasizing his innocence, “What did I tell foretell?”

“Can’t you smell it, lad?” the woman asked and then the Count carefully – as if on the edge of a precipice – peered into the top of the pot on the stove.

“No, it’s not true, casseroled tamal !” he shouted and realized his headache had gone and that depression had a cure.

“Yes, my love, but it’s not just any tamal : it’s made from grated maize, that’s much better than if it’s been ground, and I sieved it so there were no bits and added marrow to give it body and it’s also got pork meat, chicken and beef chops.”

“Bloody hell! And look what I’ve got here,” he said, taking a bottle of rum out of its cardboard cone: “threeyear-old Caney, golden and smooth.”

“Well, in that case I think you can consider yourself invited,” Skinny opined, swaying his head from side to side, as if seeking approval from a bevy of guests. “And where did you fish that out from, savage?”

Conde looked at Josefina and put his arm round her shoulders.

“Better not know, because you’re no policeman, are you, Josefina?” and she smiled, and gripped Conde’s chin and tilted his face.

“What did you cop there, Condesito?”

Conde put the bottle down on the table.

“It’s nothing, I fell out with a mop. You know, I stepped…” and he tried to mime the origins of the scratch that Fabricio’s ring had left on his cheek.

“… Hey, savage, you telling the truth?”

“Come on, Skinny, forget it… Do you want rum or don’t you?” he asked looking at the clock. It was about to strike eight. She must be about to ring.

The background music indicated the heartache brought by the Brazilian soap was over for the night, but the Count appealed to the clock: half past nine. He flopped his head back on the pillow, exhausted, and held out his glass when he heard Skinny pouring himself more.

“That’s the end of that,” he announced, as if he was the bearer of bad tidings. “You’ve had a hell of a bad day, haven’t you?”

“And then there’s what the Boss has got in store. And that youngster tomorrow. And the whore who doesn’t ring. What’s she got up to, pal?”

“Hey, stuff the whining, she’ll turn up…”

“It’s all too much, Skinny, too much. I realized that when the Boss told me to leave the youth’s questioning to tomorrow and I agreed. I should have gone after him today, but I wanted to see her. What a fucking disaster.”

The Count sat up and sipped the last drops of rum from the bottom of his glass. As usual, he regretted not buying another bottle: those 750 millilitres didn’t satisfy the hardened veins of that pair of high alcoholic averages. Because he’d already downed half a bottle of rum and his thirst remained unslaked, even keener, and he felt he’d been drinking doubt and despair rather than alcohol. How much more would he have to drink before he could finally look over the edge of the canal and slosh over into a lack of consciousness, the object yet again of his consuming thirst?

“I feel like getting plastered, Skinny,” he said dropping his glass on the mattress. “Plastered like an animal, crawling on all fours and pissing my pants and not thinking about my life ever again. Never ever…”

“Yes, I reckon it’s just what you need,” the other agreed finishing his rum. “And it was good stuff, you know? One of the few rums that can still hold its head up high in this world. You know it’s the real Bacardi?”

“Yeah, I know the story: it’s the best in the world, the only genuine Bacardi they make and so on. Right now I couldn’t give a fuck: any rum will do. I want 90% proof, dry wine, meths, purslane wine, rat poison, anything that will go straight to my head.”

“You’re far gone, aren’t you? I told you the other day: you’re like a bloody lovesick dog. And the woman’s not back from work yet. You tell me if she gives you…”

“Don’t even mention the possibility. I don’t want to think about it. Come on, give me money to make it up. I’ll kick up a fuss until I find a litre somewhere,” he said as he stood up. He looked for the cardboard cone he’d brought and put away the empty bottle.

Josefina was in the living room watching the Write and Read programme. The panellists had to identify a twentieth-century, historical, Latin-American figure, and Cuban into the bargain! An artist, they’d just discovered.

“It must be Pello the Afrokán,” said the Count going over to Josefina. “Did you get it, Jose?”

Josefina shook her head, keeping her eyes glued to the set.