Leonardo Padura - Havana Blue

“Not to worry,” she said, swaying her head, which sufficed to stir her lock of hair and make it flop over her forehead. “It was a tremendous shock, you can’t imagine. It was hard accepting Daddy had died, you know?”

He nodded and wanted to smoke. Death always brought on a desire for a smoke. He found an earthenware ashtray on the desk and was happy it wasn’t Murano glass or a Moser or a Sargadelos, hand engraved from Doctor Valdemira’s collection. In the meantime, she’d stood up and walked over to the mini-bar built into one of the library bookcases.

“I’ll join you for a drink. I think we both need one,” she pouted as she poured liquid from an almost square bottle into two tall glasses. “I don’t know about you, but I like it neat, without ice. Ice only cuts a good Scotch whisky down to size.”

“It’s Ballantine’s, isn’t it?”

“Yes, a special reserve Rafael had,” she said, giving him his glass. “Good health and good luck.”

“Health for you and pesetas for the safe, because you have beauty in good supply,” he replied, savouring the whisky and feeling its warmth run down over his tongue, throat, empty stomach, and he began to perk up.

“Who is Zoila, Mario?”

He opened his jacket and took a second sip.

“Was he carrying on with other women?”

“I’m not sure, but the truth is I was less and less interested in following Rafael’s tracks and have no idea what he did with his life.”

“What do you mean?”

“That Rafael was hardly ever at home. He was always in meetings or travelling, and I wasn’t interested in keeping track of him, but now I want to know. Who is Zoila?”

“We don’t know yet. She’s not been home for several days. We’re investigating her.”

“And do you really think that Rafael is…?” and she seemed really shocked.

He was at a loss and felt uneasy. Her look demanded an answer.

“I don’t know, Tamara, that’s why I asked you about his womanising. You’re the one who should be telling me.”

She sipped her drink and then tried – unsuccessfully – to smile.

“I’m really at a loss, you know. All this is like a bad joke and sometimes I think no, it’s not a nightmare, no, Rafael is on his travels again, that nothing is happening, nothing will happen, and any minute he will walk through that door,” she said, and he couldn’t stop himself: he looked at the door. “I need security, Mario, I can’t live with insecurity, do you understand?”

She asked the question, and of course, it was easy to understand her security, he thought, as he watched her take another sip and felt the warm flow of whisky and lowered the zip on his coat to a frankly dangerous level: he wanted to look, tried to concentrate on his drink but couldn’t and looked because he felt an erection coming on. Why might that be? He tried to explain the mystery: people didn’t swoon when they saw Tamara walk down the street yet he stopped breathing, had never been able to see off the desire that woman provoked. So now he crossed his legs in order to submit his urges to the obligatory application of the universal law of gravity. Down, boy.

“I don’t think Rafael was, I really don’t. Perhaps he bedded a woman from time to time? Look, quite frankly, I don’t really know, but I expect he did. You love doing that kind of thing, don’t you? But I don’t think he’d dare to go into hiding with a woman. I think I know him too well to imagine him trying that.”

“I agree. I don’t think he would,” he insisted, quite convinced; he wasn’t going to leave all this in the air, and Zoilita wasn’t the Duchess of Windsor. Some things I don’t know but I am sure of that much, he thought.

“And what else have you discovered?”

“That Dapena the Spaniard went crazy when he saw you.”

Her eyes opened. How can she open them so wide, he wondered, and then she raised her voice, sounded upset, annoyed, not what you call poised.

“Who told you?”

“Maciques.”

“What a gossip… And they go on about women.”

“And what happened between you and the Spaniard, Tamara?”

“Nothing. It was a misunderstanding. So is that all you’ve found out?” And she took another sip.

He rested his chin on the palm of his hand and got another whiff of her. He was starting to feel so good it was frightening.

“Right, not so very much. I think we’ve spent the day going round in circles. This job is trickier than you can imagine.”

“No, I can, and particularly since I’m one of the suspects.”

“I never said that, Tamara, you know I didn’t. Technically you’re a suspect because you’re the person closest to him. You last had news of him, and God knows how many reasons you have or might have to want to get Rafael off your back. I told you this is an investigation and might be quite upsetting.”

She finished her drink and put the glass down next to the light that was illuminating her.

“Mario, don’t you think that’s a silly thing to say to me?”

“And why did you always call me Mario and not the Count like everybody else in the class?”

“And why change the subject? I’m really worried you can think such things about me.”

“How else can I put it to you? You know, do you think it’s one big party spending your life like this? That’s it a hoot working with murderers, thieves, fraudsters and rapists and that you’re always going to think the best of people and be as nice as pie?”

She forced her lips into a brief smile while her hand tried to tidy away the disrespectful twisted lock that insisted on darkening her forehead.

“The Count, right? Tell me, why did you join the police? So you could grouch and whinge all day long?”

He smiled: he couldn’t stop himself. It was the question he’d most been asked in his years as a detective and the second time of asking that day. He thought she deserved an answer.

“That’s an easy one. There are two reasons why I am a policeman: one I don’t know, and the other has to do with destiny which has led me this way.”

“And the one you know?” she insisted, and he felt the woman’s expectations rise and was sorry to disappoint her.

“It’s quite simple, Tamara, and will probably make you laugh, but it’s true: because I don’t like bastards going unpunished.”

“How very self-righteous of you,” she replied after considering all that lay behind his answer and picking up her glass. “But you’re a sorry policeman, and that’s not the same as a sad policeman… Would you like another?”

He studied the bottom of his glass and hesitated. He liked the distinctive taste of Scotch whisky and would always be ready to fight to the death for a bottle of Ballantine’s, and he felt so good, next to her, surrounded by those wise library shadows, and she looked so ravishing. And answered:

“No, that’s OK, I’ve not had breakfast yet.”

“Do you want something to eat?”

“I do and need it bad, but thanks all the same, I’ve got a date,” he almost lamented. “They’re expecting me at Skinny’s.”

“As thick as thieves as ever,” she smiled.

“Hey, I didn’t ask after your son,” he said as he stood up.

“Just imagine, with this palaver… No, around midday I told Mima to take him to his Aunt Teruca’s, over in Santa Fe, at least till Monday or till we know something. I think he’d find this upsetting… Mario, what on earth has happened to Rafael?” And she now stood up and folded her arms over her chest, as if the spirit of the whisky had suddenly abandoned her and she felt very cold.

“If only we knew, Tamara. But get used to the idea: whatever it is, it’s nasty. Can you give me the list of guests at the party?”