Leonardo Padura - Havana Blue

“He and I never spoke about her. It was a kind of agreement between us.”

“An agreement?” asked Manolo, leaning forward even more on the edge of the armchair. The Count thought: “Where’s he taking this?”

“The fact is I never liked that woman. Not that she’d ever done anything, or that I had anything special against her, but I think she never cared for him as a husband should be cared for. She even had a maid… Forgive me, this is family business, but I think she always looked after Number One.”

“And what did he say when he left?”

“He said he was going to work, as usual, that I should look after myself and sprayed me with the new scent he’d brought me. He was always so kind, and not because he was my son, I swear, just ask any of the old neighbours around here, and they’ll all tell you the same: he turned out much better than anyone could have imagined. This isn’t a good barrio, I can tell you, and I came here when I was still single and I’m still here, where I married, gave birth to Rafael, brought him up by myself in the direst of circumstances and, forgive me, I don’t know what you think, but God and that Virgin over there helped me make a good man of him. They never had to call me from school, and in that drawer you’ll find more than fifty diplomas he won as a student, his engineering degree and certificate for getting top marks in his year. All his own effort. Haven’t I a right to be proud of my son? His destiny turned out so different to mine, or his father’s, who never got to be more than a plumber. I don’t know where my boy got his intelligence from, but when you think how fast he climbed the ladder and how he no longer lived in a rooming house and had a car and travelled to countries I didn’t even know existed and was somebody in this country… My God, what an earth has happened? Who can want to hurt Rafael who never hurt anybody, anybody at all? He’s always been a revolutionary, from when he was a young boy. I remember how he was given responsibility at secondary school and was often president, at high school as well as university, and nobody from the ministry helped him. Nobody was levering him up; he got where he got, by himself, one rung at a time, by working very hard. Just for this to happen. But God can’t punish me like this. My son and I don’t deserve it. What has happened, comrades? Tell me, say something. Who can want to threaten my son? Who can have hurt him? For God’s sake…”

I think it was two or three weeks to the end of classes, then came the exams and after that the second year of high school would start, which is almost like the third, and almost like already being at university, and nobody could bug us about the length of our sideburns or our moustaches or about the virtues of short hair and all that stuff that makes you want to get out of school, however much you like going round with your schoolmates, having a girlfriend from there and so on. That was the worst of all: wanting time to pass quickly. Why should we? And we were lined up in the playground, it was June, the sun was burning our backs, and the headmaster spoke: we would win all the honours in all the competitions, we would be the most outstanding high school in the whole of Havana, in the country, practically in the universe, because we’d been best at working in the countryside, had won the Intercollegiate Games, two prizes in the National Amateurs Festival and ninety percent of us would get to university and nobody would shift us from first place, and we clapped, hurray, hurray, we shouted and thought how wonderful we were, how unbeatable. And the headmaster said there was more good news to come: two comrades had won medals in the National Mathematics Competition, hurray, hurray, more clapping, Comrade Fausto Fleites, hurray, hurray, a gold medal in the category of eleventh grade, and, hurray, hurray, Comrade Rafael Morín, a silver medal in the thirteenth grade category, and Fausto and Rafael climbed onto the platform where all the speeches were being made, real champions, arms aloft in salute, smiling, naturally, they’d showed they were tremendous wavers of the flag, and Tamara kept on applauding after almost everyone else had stopped, even jumped for joy and Skinny asked, hey, pal, is this for show or did our girlfriend there really not know? And right, she just must have known, but she was too, too happy, as if she had just found out, jumping for joy, swinging her butt, in a way that even showed through the voluminous spoilsport tunic she was wearing, and Rafael walked over to the microphone, and I told Skinny, be prepared, you animal, under this scorching sun and the way he likes to gab, but I got it wrong, I almost always get it wrong: he said he and Fausto were going to dedicate their prizes to the teachers in the maths department and to the school management team, but anyway he exhorted students to give it their all in the final examinations and stay in the forefront of the results table etcetera, etcetera, and while he was talking I looked at him and thought he was a fantastic guy after all, bright and dapper, silver-tongued and blue-eyed, with a girlfriend like Tamara who was always so well turned out and I muttered, fuck, I reckon I do really envy the bastard.

“What do you think, my friend?” asked Manolo as he switched on the engine and the Count smoked the final remnants of the cigarette he’d not dared light at María Antonia’s.

“Drive to headquarters, we’ve got to talk to the Boss and see whether we can’t interview today the deputy minister responsible for the enterprise,” said the Count as he took one last look down the almost lugubrious passageway to the home which was Rafael Morín’s birthplace. “Why didn’t he find a way to get his mother a house?”

The car proceeded along the Avenue of October Tenth towards Agua Dulce, and Manolo accelerated down the hill.

“Just what I was thinking. Rafael Morín’s lifestyle and that homestead don’t fit.”

“Or are too good a fit, right? Now what we need to know is where he got to on the afternoon of the thirty-first, or find out if he really was at the enterprise and why he told Tamara he’d be here with his mother.”

“You’ll have to catch up with Morín or find a babalao to read the bones and clear the way, right?” the sergeant replied as he stopped the car at the traffic lights on the corner of Toyo. On the pavement opposite, the queue to get the vital Sunday bread ration was a block long. “Hey, Conde, Vilma lives just round that corner.”

“And how did you get on last night?”

“Just great, that girl’s a scorcher. You know, I’ll probably get married, the whole bit.”

“Uh-huh. You know, Manolo I’ve heard that one before, but I wasn’t asking you about Vilma and your sex life but about work, but just watch it. If you and your carryings on get you AIDS, I’ll visit you in hospital once a month and bring you some good novels.”

“What’s got in to you today, Maestro? You woke up as sharp as a razor.”

“Take it easy. Yes, I woke up really going for it. I’m up to here with Rafael Morín and when I heard his mother talking I felt sick, as if I’d done something wrong…”

“All right, but don’t take it out on me,” the sergeant protested, as if he felt hard done by. “Look, El Greco and Crespo have been looking for Zoilita all night, and we agreed they’d report to me at ten am, so they’ll be expecting me. I asked for a report on all missing persons over the last two years, and I’ll get that at eleven, and we can see if there’s another case like this or whatever, Conde, but all this is quite crazy.”

“When we get to headquarters, also phone the guy responsible for security at the enterprise and see if Rafael went there on the afternoon of the thirty-first. If it turns out he did, get him to arrange for us to see the person on duty.”