Havana Fever (20 page)

That afternoon’s crop was worth the sacrifice that Yoyi and the Count made by missing out on their lunch break and stifling the cries of anguish from bellies that wanted more corn to grind. Spurred on by fear of other undesirable intrusions, they managed to inspect a third of the library and took 263 highly coveted books from the house of the Ferreros who, apart from receiving the $436 and 1,300 pesos the buyers owed them, shook all over when they heard they were now owed a total of 28,400 pesos, of which they received the 6,000 Yoyi was carrying on him. In the meantime, Conde and his business partner decided to create a third reserve from the books they’d originally discounted, volumes that were certainly sellable but at a modest price, forming a bulky emergency holding of almost 500 books, set aside for a second phase of buying and selling. At the same time, they put several tomes in the section of those “not for sale”, including the two illustrated books that so aroused the Count’s sensibility, plus an extraordinary 1716 Mexican edition of the poetry of Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz; the highly prized, much sought after
Island of Cuba
, illustrated by thirty luminous engravings by Federico Mialhe Grenier, printed in Havana in 1848; a copy of the
Birds of the Island of Cuba
, by Juan Lembelle, dated Havana 1850, the always much coveted 1891 New York first edition of Martí’s
Simple Verse
, endorsed by the apostle’s signature in a dedication to “the compatriot and brother Serafín Montes de Oca, the good man”, and the two tomes – which the Count walked away from particularly sorrowfully – of the very rare, much sought after edition of the
Poetry of Citizen José María Heredia
, published in Toluca in 1832, which was presented as the corrected, extended second edition, though valued by connoisseurs as a first edition of the Cuban classic, because it removed inaccuracies and added important poems excluded from the 1825 New York original.

Their great pleasure at the incredible deal they’d just clinched couldn’t, however, dispel Yoyi’s distress at the alarming presence in that mine of books of a buyer equipped with dangerous radar able to lead him to the most coveted treasures of Cuban publishing. Nor could it silence the malevolent echoes of Silvano Quintero’s story, still ringing in Mario Conde’s ears, who, immediately after agreeing the financial deal with Pigeon – a deal loading him up with many thousands of pesos the like of which he’d never seen – preferred to take refuge in the solitude of his own home as he needed time and space to think things over.

After taking a shower, he swallowed the two pork sandwiches he’d bought in one of the barrio’s pokey shops – although he only handed his money over after critically inspecting the protein content, for he wouldn’t have been the first to eat roast dog or stewed cat at porky prices – and decided against hunting for rum or ringing Skinny to talk over recent events, or Tamara, to suggest a visit so he could tell her of the discovery of the Heredia poems she liked so much. The previous day’s excesses, his exhaustion after an excitement-packed day on the streets and a desperate need to sort his own ideas out, all disposed him to enjoy an exemplary peaceful night. Armed with his cigarettes and half a cup of coffee, he went up to his house’s terrace roof, followed by Rubbish, and settled down on a block of concrete, his feet on the edge of the eaves. Despite the daytime heat, night brought a pleasant breeze, heralding October, and the Count felt happy in himself at being able to occupy a vantage-point overlooking the old barrio of the Conde family, the territory of his nostalgia and ancestors. He looked at the hill with the quarries and, through the foliage of poplars, gum-bearing
ocuje
and weeping figs, he intuited, rather than saw, the castle with its English tiled roof, where his grandfather Rufino el Conde had laboured almost a hundred years ago. It was always a relief to know the haughty, larger-than-life castle was still there, as it made him feel there were things that never changed in this world, that could navigate unharmed the turbulence of time and history.

Rubbish nuzzled and nibbled in between his legs wanting a spot of affection, and the Count scratched him behind the ears, where his pet most appreciated it. Ignoring the swollen tick Rubbish must have picked up on one of his sallies into the street, Conde let his mind float freely and was visited by the grotesque image of Silvano Quintero’s hooked hand. Something far too grim must have occurred in the vicinity of the late Violeta del Río for her so-called friends to give such a drastic warning to a nosy journalist. The presence in the apartment block on Third and Twenty-Sixth of a character like mafia capo Meyer Lansky might have simply been fortuitous, but what Silvano Quintero had suffered indicated the unfolding presence of a darker intrigue, a mystery the Count, with his usual fondness for prejudice, refused to admit might directly implicate Violeta, whatever the dark, hidden motivation was. The most visible factors pointed to a connection between Lansky and Alcides Montes de Oca, who, according to Amalia Ferrero, had amassed a fortune in that period, even though he didn’t belong to the circle of those favoured by the bloodthirsty Fulgencio Batista. Had Don Alcides done profitable business thanks to his criminal connections? Possibly, since apart from the drug-trafficking which Lansky personally avoided, the Jewish mafioso had succeeded in laundering all his operations in Cuba thanks to the fact that gambling was legal on the island and to Batista’s self-interested support of all his banking and real-estate speculation. Those deals fulfilled the former hoodlum’s golden dream, transforming him into a respectable businessman at the epicentre of a great Cuban tourist project, conceived as a Gold Coast between Mariel and Varadero, stretching along more than one hundred and twenty-five miles of warm idyllic coastline, barely ninety miles from Florida and forty minute’s flight from Miami, a blue strip on the edge of warm currents from the Gulf of Mexico, endowed with the best beaches in the world and especially suited to the construction of hotels, casinos, luxury residential estates, marinas, restaurants and countless other attractions, able to generate almost inconceivable millions of dollars in a very few years. If all that took off on a secure legal base backed by government support, Conde couldn’t see any reason to risk a scandal by mutilating a lovesick showbiz reporter who’d banged on a door behind which a woman was singing. But why use a flat under the name of one Luis Mallet who’d still not put in an appearance? The fact that Alcides Montes de Oca belonged to the Creole aristocracy, and was the widower of a Méndez-Figueredo, might explain why he was so wary about his relationship with Violeta del Río and even more so about any he might have with Madame Lotus Flower. Nonetheless, the precautions surrounding those connections were excessive if it was just a matter of clandestine affairs, as Silvano Quintero had remarked. All the paths from the Count’s logic led to a dark abyss, at the bottom of which must lie the convoluted reasoning that might be the real cause of all that secrecy and violence and, perhaps, the
bolerista
’s cyanide suicide.

But, come on, you tell me: what the fuck has this half-century old story got to do with you? What does it matter to you if she killed herself or was killed, if you’re never going to find out the truth? Are you obsessing like this in homage to your father? Smoking a second cigarette and intent on crushing Rubbish’s impertinent tick on the layers of adobe covering the roof, the Count decided the time had come to dampen his curiosity, forget his hunches and close the book on that story which belonged to someone else. He should be more than content to settle for his pleasing discovery of the recorded voice of Violeta del Río, the revelation of the impossible love that had tormented his father and, above all, to enjoy his dip in the most astounding private library any Cuban of his time had ever stepped into, thanks to which he could now enjoy an economic breathing space in the company of Tamara and his old friends. Insistence on exhuming that past, on searching for a female suicide’s increasingly complicated ghost, brought a bitter taste like attempting to make love to a beautiful corpse, when what he needed right now was a living, breathing woman. The truth was beyond reach, he thought, and would have to remain locked in the stronghold where it had been locked away, for there were only two possible leads he could play with: mad Mummy Ferrero and Lotus Flower the singer, presuming that the latter was still alive, within reach and prepared, moreover, to tell what she knew.

His straightforward decision to apply the guillotine to his morbid curiosity revealed the extent of the exhaustion he’d built up over three long days of bibliographic, alcoholic and nutritional orgies: a yawn brought tears to his heavy-lidded eyes.

“Violeta del Río can go to hell,” he muttered and was surprised to hear the sound of his own voice. He yawned again, adding, as he stroked his dog’s head: “Well, buddy, don’t know about you but I’m off to bed?”

Rubbish shook his tail strictly negatively, and the Count followed him downstairs. Back in his kitchen, holding the door open, he asked for one last time: “You coming or going?” Rubbish pranced backwards, and the Count understood he wanted to go out on the town, just like Silvano Quintero before he lost his way in life and half a hand.

“What kind of dog did I land myself?” he wondered, as he bid him farewell and closed the door. He scattered his clothes on his way to his bedroom, pressed the maximum button on his fan, fell on his bed, and didn’t even consider opening a book. Ten minutes later he was asleep and deep in a pleasant dream, watching a beautiful young woman emerge from a golden sea, where the sun was beginning to sink and dim its fiery light behind the horizon. When the woman was close to him, he realized it was Tamara, but he identified her as Violeta, whispering, in her husky
bolerista
voice that she’d stay the night with him, looking out to sea, watching the day’s miseries and splendours fade.

The B side:
You’ll remember me

The knocks echoed around the house as if summoning him back from the past. Mario Conde opened his eyes but had a slippery grip on the world: he didn’t know where he was or what the time was, and was surprised his head wasn’t aching and that day was only just breaking, which was what the red numbers 6:47 flashing on his luminous watch informed him in the most obvious way possible. More bangs on the door and his brain cleared: Skinny, he thought immediately, something’s happened to Skinny – his immediate response when he received unexpected calls in the night or early morning visits. Before he got up he shouted: “Coming”, and walked towards the door, then almost collapsed when he saw the figure of Manuel Palacios looming large.

“Something happened to Skinny?” he asked, his heart thudding.

“No, don’t worry, it’s not that.”

The relief brought by the knowledge his friend was still of this world immediately gave way to indignation.

“So what the fuck are you doing here at this fucking time of day?”

“I need a few words. Aren’t you going to put the coffee on?” asked Manolo, stepping inside.

“It better be important. Go on then, come in.”

The Count went into the bathroom, urinated the usual fetid, early morning quantities, washed out his mouth and wet his face. He dragged his feet into the kitchen and put the coffee on, an unlit cigarette between his lips. With or without a hangover, dawn was the worst moment of his day, and being forced to talk was the most excruciating of tortures.

“I came to see you because . . .” began Manolo, but Conde’s hand cut him short.

“After a coffee,” he insisted and pulled up the underpants that were threatening to slip off his lean waist.

Conde opened the door to his terrace and saw Rubbish curled up on his mat. His belly moved slowly in and out: he was breathing. He coughed and spat in the direction of his sink. Coming back in, he picked up the faded jeans he’d abandoned to their fate the previous night, and pulled them on, leaning on a wall where he scratched his back in the process.

He handed Manolo a coffee and sat down with his big cup sipping on a liquid able to power the re-establishing of contact with himself after waking. He lit his cigarette and peered into the vaguely squinting eyes of the uniformed captain of the detective squad.

“I’ve come to see you because we’ve got problems . . . Big ones.”

“What’s up?” asked the Count routinely, not prompted by any real curiosity. Manolo had sought his advice over the years in a wide range of cases and the Count wondered if he’d not gone too far this time waking him up at that ungodly hour.

“Dionisio Ferrero is dead. Murdered.”

The blast hit Conde smack in the chest.

“What was that?” Conde asked, now completely awake and convinced he’d not heard him right.

“Amalia got up at three to go to the bathroom, and was surprised to see the light on in the reception room. She thought it was her brother and went to see if he was OK. She found him in the library, bleeding from the neck. He was already dead.”

Mario Conde’s brain started to process what he’d just heard at an unlikely rate of knots. The policeman he’d once been surfaced in every cell of his body, like a latent gene that had suddenly been activated.

“Did they take any books?”

“We don’t know yet. That’s why I’ve come to see you. His sister needed an injection and is quite groggy.”

“We gave them loads of money yesterday.”

“Amalia says none is missing, it was under her mattress.”

“Let me have a quick wash and get dressed,” replied the Count, picking up the shoes he’d worn the day before. He took a shirt from his wardrobe and, as it fell over his shoulders, the real reason for Captain Manuel Palacios’s early morning call finally struck him. He padded back to the living room, where Manolo was smoking, deep in thought.

“Manolo . . . why did you come here?”

The detective stared at his former colleague his eyes more free-floating than ever. He looked at the cigarette he was puffing between his fingers and whispered: “Right now you and Yoyi are the main suspects. I hate to say it, but you do understand why, don’t you, Conde?”