Leonardo Padura - Havana Blue

“You not been to the stadium for a long time, Manolo?”

“Why fuck on about the stadium, Conde? What’s the point? Look how filthy the car’s got, I’m an idiot, I should have gone down Línea,” he lamented, turning down G in the direction of Fifth Avenue. They stopped in front of a block of flats and got out of the car.

“The stadium would cure you of such tantrums.”

Zaida Lima Ramos lived on the sixth floor, in flat 6D, Lieutenant Mario Conde checked the details and, from the hallway, saw Manolo getting drenched as he took down the radio aerial and smiled:

“Crime prevention, Lieutenant. Last month one was lifted right in front of my house,” said Manolo, and they walked towards the lift only to be greeted by a notice that said: BROKEN.

“That’s a good start,” scowled the Count, heading to the stairs barely lit by a few light bulbs in the exits to some of the floors. As he climbed he breathed through his mouth, panted, and felt his heartbeat quicken from lack of air and his leg muscles go numb with the effort. He thought for a moment how the long-distance runner on the Paseo had got it right, and on the fifth floor he leaned back on the stair-rail, looked at Manolo, at the two remaining flights to the entrance to the sixth floor and waved pathetically, wait, wait, he must catch his breath, nobody would respect a police detective who knocks on their door, tongue hanging out, tears welling up, begging for a glass of water. He wanted to sit down and mechanically retrieved a cigarette from his jacket-pocket but finally decided to let reason triumph. He perched it on his dry, dry lips, didn’t light up, and tackled the last flights on that endless staircase.

They came out into a passage that was also in semidarkness, and found 6D at the far end. Before knocking, the Count decided to light up.

“How are we going to play this?” enquired Manolo before they started their questioning.

“I really want to know what the man’s like at work, let’s start there. And take it gently, as if it’s no big deal, uh-huh? But if necessary, get a bit sharp and to the point.”

“Shall we record her?”

He thought for a moment, pressed the bell and said: “Not yet.”

The woman looked startled to see them. She was clearly expecting someone else: those two strangers on that rainy cold Saturday evening weren’t part of her agenda. Good evening, said the police who introduced themselves, and she said yes, her voice trembling slightly, she was Zaida Lima Ramos. She let them in, even more at a loss, as she tried to smooth down her ruffled hair, perhaps she’d been in bed, she looked sleepy, and they explained the reason for their visit: comrade Rafael Morín, her boss, had disappeared.

“So I heard,” she replied, settling into the armchair. She sat down, clasping her legs tight together, and tried to pull down a skirt that barely reached her knees.

The Count noted her thighs were downy, little eddies going upwards, and he tried to rein in the other eddy rising in his imagination. The woman was between twenty-five and thirty, with large dark eyes, a comely mulatta’s ample mouth, and the Count decided that even without make-up and with tousled hair she was really beautiful. Her living room was small but was clean and tidy and everything sparkled. The Count registered the multipurpose shelves on the wall opposite the balcony with Sony colour television, Beta videoplayer, stereo recorder and picturesque souvenirs from several parts of the world: a mosaic from Toledo, a little Mexican statue, a miniature Big Ben and Leaning Tower of Pisa, while Zaida explained how Maciques had called on the afternoon of the first, that people were looking for Rafael, she hadn’t the slightest idea where he might be and she’d called him several times since, the last time being that afternoon, she was worried, wasn’t there any news of Rafael?”

“A nice apartment,” the lieutenant commented and on the pretext he was looking for an ashtray his eyes took more liberties as he peered around.

“You gradually collect things,” she smiled nervously, “and try to make a pleasant place to live in. The problem is that my son and his friends always turn things upside-down.”

“You’ve a son?”

“Yes, he’s twelve.”

“Twelve or two?” asked the Count, really confused.

“Twelve, twelve,” she repeated. “He just went out with some friends from the block. Just imagine, it’s this cold and they want to eat ice-cream at the Coppelia.”

“Well, the Chinese say, or at least some do, like one I know who’s the father of a colleague, that it’s good for you to eat ice-cream when it’s cold.” He smiled, and Manolo continued to act silent. If only he always acted like that.

“Would you like a coffee?” asked Zaida. She was cold or perhaps afraid and didn’t know whether to fold her arms or struggle against her short skirt.

“No thanks, Zaida. We don’t want to take up too much of your time. You were expecting visitors, weren’t you? We just want you to tell us a bit about your boss, what you know about him. Anything that might help us find him.”

“I don’t know, it’s seems incredible, impossible Rafael’s gone missing. I hope not, but I feel something terrible may… No, I don’t even want to think about it. He’s not gone into hiding, has he? Why should he? You know. It makes no sense. It’s all very peculiar. I’ve been thinking about it these three days and just can’t understand. I’ll shut the balcony windows. Suddenly it’s turned cold, and this house is like an icebox. The sea’s right outside and I’ve got a bit of a headache, too much sleep I reckon… But I think I know Rafael well, right, I’ve worked for him for nine years, that’s a fact, I started in the main stores at the ministry, he employed me as a typist and helped me loads. I had no experience and that was when the boy’s father went off with the Mariel lot, when I found out he was already there. He was crazy to go like that. He ended up in Miami. He left with another guy, prepared everything behind my back, told me nothing, didn’t even say goodbye to his son, well, it was terrible, I don’t have to tell you, and, as I could type a bit, and had finished secondary school but had a small kid, and then problems with my family, I don’t know, my mother was still angry with me because I’d got pregnant before getting married, and a gentleman who lives near here, on the committee, told me there was a job at his work, in the stores, they needed a typist and that it wasn’t difficult, just payrolls and payslips and such like. Sorry I’m always rambling on. Well, the truth is I got started and, as things improved with my mum, I enrolled on a secretarial course at night school and Rafael helped me a lot. He gave me every Saturday off so I could take care of my problems and be with my son, because what with work and school all blessed day, for two years, and when I passed my exams, I got the post of secretary, it was already vacant but he’d kept it for me, because, anyway, I’d been doing the job for some time. Rafael. Just imagine, I’ve always seen him as a good friend and I don’t know how my little story can help you, but he’s a good friend, that’s for sure, and I couldn’t wish for a better, more human, more responsible boss, he looks after everyone, then and now in the enterprise, because, of course, the problem is he asked me to go and work for him in the enterprise where things are much more complicated. He needed people he could trust and it’s a tremendous responsibility, almost everything’s dollars and deals with foreign firms, you know… A tremendous responsibility, but he had to have everything shipshape, as they say, and it was never any different, like now, and you know, best of all, as far as I can remember, he’s never had problems with any of his workers, if you want, you can ask García, from the union and he’ll tell you. No, and that’s why I can’t understand what’s happened now, nothing’s any different, we’ve had lots of work connected to the ’89 development plan, and as we often finished late he’d get a driver to bring me home or drive me home himself. I can hardly believe Rafael isn’t around someplace, I still can’t… something’s happened to him, right? But, you know, just to show you, when Alfredito was six, Alfredito, my kid, got one hell of a temperature and I thought he was going to die, and Rafael acted better than if he’d been the kid’s father, got him meat, got him a car to go to the hospital and gave me a full wage, well, that’s beside the point, what is to the point is the way he behaved and I’m no exception. I always saw him behave like that with everyone, just you ask García, the union steward. The poor… Phone? Did he phone me on the first? No, the last time I saw him was on the thirtieth, because he didn’t work on the thirty-first, he drove me back here and came up for a coffee and said he was very tired, exhausted was what he said, because we chatted for a while and he gave me a present… nothing really, a New Year’s Eve gift, you know, we’d been working together for so long, side by side. He’s more than my boss, you know, closeness brings on love, right? And he looked so tired. What on earth do you think can have happened?”