by Karla Suárez
We made the trip in record time thanks to Leo’s urgent errand, plus the fact that the clouds were black and there was thunder in the air. I believe a tropical storm had been forecast; not quite a hurricane, but with a lot of rain, and pedalling in a downpour is no joke. At the house where they sold cake, we had to wait a while for an obese woman to come out with our order. The first drops began to fall when we were just a few metres from his door.
I know Leonardo was curious about the very important matter I wanted to discuss with him, but the fact is that I had no idea where to start, so we were silent for a while. He put the cake in a cupboard and pottered around, positioning a cloth under the door to stop the water coming in, then heating the lemongrass tea and lighting a cigarette. It was only then that he sat down opposite me, commenting that he was all ears. I still wasn’t sure where to start. I asked if he was a friend of Barbara, and he said he was, then I confessed that I was in love with Ángel, that we had a relationship, still not well defined, but one that had been going on for some time, and that I wanted to continue. Really wanted to continue, I stressed. Leonardo received this news with an amused half-smile and when I finished speaking asked: So? I told him that I’d just discovered Ángel was sleeping with Barbara. His amused smile disappeared. He wanted to know who’d told me and, without going in details, I replied that it had been Barbara herself during her woman-to-woman confession. Evidently that news was unwelcome, because he stood up, saying they were a pair of shits, that he hadn’t expected something like that from Barbara. For a moment I thought the poor man was in the same situation as me: he’d got together with the Italian and, cool as a cucumber, she was two-timing him. But Leonardo replied that they were just friends, although he’d thought it was a true friendship and friends confide in one another. What’s more, he was a clown because he did like her a little – that was understandable – but it hadn’t gone anywhere and he was the one who’d introduced her to Ángel.
Leo poured two glasses of lemongrass tea for us and when he returned to his chair added that, in any case, it didn’t matter so much to him: it was me he felt sorry for. He wanted to know how deeply I felt about Ángel and I said that I loved him and had no intention of losing him to a tourist. When I get a notion into my head, I don’t rest until I’ve carried it through, I pronounced, and I loved Ángel for better or worse, which was why I’d come to talk to Leo, so he could get Barbara out of the running. Since they were friends, he could help me ensure that she gave up on Ángel and found some other tropical male ready to offer his services. There was no lack of them in Cuba. I clarified that Leo wasn’t included in those ‘tropical males’, and he understood what I was saying. In exchange for his help, I’d offer mine. Leonardo looked at me over his glasses, affirming that he was more than willing to lend me a hand, but he didn’t see what I could do for him. I can help make your novel perfect, I replied. And he seemed to catch my meaning. I stood up, suddenly feeling important, and reminded him that for his novel to be so perfect that it left everyone open-mouthed, he still lacked one thing. He was clearly curious and nodded his approval of my words. I rested my hands on the back of the chair, looked at him like someone about to drop a bombshell, and said: You need the document Antonio Meucci wrote while he was working in the Teatro Tacón, the document that now belonged to Margarita. Leonardo was even more astounded than I’d been on hearing Barbara’s confession. He really hadn’t been expecting that. After a few moments of staring into space, he reacted by saying it was what might be called a total surprise. He got to his feet, grabbed a bucket, went to the door, and while he was wringing out the soaked cloth, announced that, given my prologue, our conversation was going to be longer and more interesting than he’d expected. I’d warned him.
When he sat down again, I told him that I might be able to access the document and, this being the case, I proposed a pact: I’d get hold of the paper and hand it over to him; in return, he’d find a way of removing Barbara from Ángel’s life. It was a fair deal. My idea was that Euclid would lose the legacy as punishment for what he’d done to me; Ángel would only receive a partial legacy as a punishment for Barbara; Leonardo would end up with a document he was capable of putting to good use and I’d end up with Ángel. What could be more just? At least that’s what I thought. The author sighed, saying that it seemed like a good plan; the only problem was that there was something I clearly wasn’t aware of: Barbara was on the trail of the document too. Wham! The bomb had dropped on me. So that likeable Barbara – that woman who wore bras two sizes too small and always seemed so cheerful – also knew of the existence of the document and wanted it for herself. By that stage, I swear I was even beginning to suspect the director of the Tech.
Apparently Leo was amused by my surprise, because he said, ‘Touché’. Then he sat back, adding that things were more complicated than I’d imagined, so it was up to us to unravel them.
How did you find out about the document? he asked. I responded that it was through the person who now had it, although I didn’t name names because it was essential that I maintained exclusive access to Euclid. I wasn’t going to go around revealing to all and sundry the identity of the person who was in possession of what we all wanted. Right? Leonardo didn’t bat an eyelid. Ángel told you, he stated. I shook my head and said that it was the person who now had the document, but he just looked at me in surprise and reiterated that Ángel had it. And then we flipped the tortillas over and over: me denying it, him saying it was true, until he asked if I’d actually seen the manuscript. Of course I hadn’t. Without mentioning Euclid, I explained that someone had told me of its existence and then Ángel had said that a certain person had it. Leonardo laughed. If I’d never set eyes on it, and Ángel – he said Angelito – had told me that someone else had it, then that was all clear as daylight. I’m sorry to have to tell you, Julia, but there are times when Ángel can be a shit, he concluded before beginning his story.
Leonardo and Margarita were very close friends, and years ago she’d shown him the document that formed part of the family legacy. In fact, that was when he’d had the idea of writing the novel and had begun to gather information. Margarita knew this, encouraged him and promised that, when the moment was right, they would do something with that old piece of paper. Her decision to leave Cuba was taken when his novel was still in its infancy, but before her departure, she’d concluded that, given the importance of his work, it would be best to leave the document in his custody because he was the only person who would be able to make good use of it. What happened was that she walked out on Ángel a little earlier than anticipated. Leo had known about everything: the contract in Brazil, her intention not to come back and the decision to break up with Ángel. But Margarita hadn’t made up her mind to talk to her husband until that night when, in the heat of the argument, it all came out. She left, never to return, and in her haste, forgot to pack the legacy. You can imagine how bad the fight must have been for her to do that. When she rang to reclaim it, Ángel announced that if she wanted it so much, she’d have to come back to him, something that Margarita, of course, never did. Conclusion: Ángel had the legacy containing Meucci’s document, and it was never going to fall into the hands of its legitimate owner: that’s to say, him, Leonardo.
As you’ll understand, his story surprised me. Ángel had told me that Leo thought he had the document, but there was a certain logic in the author’s story. Two issues particularly worried me. First, according to Euclid, his daughter claimed that Leo had the document, and, according to Leo, she’d intended to give it to him. That sent big red lights flashing. Two arrows pointed to Leonardo as Margarita’s designated heir, yet it might also be true that someone – by which I mean the spiteful, abandoned husband – had intervened. The second was that if Ángel had the document, why had he invented the story about recovering the legacy, and why had he put the blame on Euclid? What was the sense in that?
Leonardo noticed my doubt and, with a smile, assured me that
it was natural for me to believe Ángel; I was in love with him and he’d told me a different story. People sometimes tell lies, Julia, he said before reminding me that my angel had slept with Barbara. He was right, people didn’t always tell the truth or, like Ángel, were simply economical with it. If he’d failed to mention his relationship with the Italian woman, why shouldn’t he also lie about the document? Leo told me that he’d spent years searching for that blessed scrap of paper, initially to recover it, as Margarita would have wanted, and then to buy it, since money spoke louder than words. Ángel had strung him along, made promises and cracked jokes about Leo’s work-in-progress, but appeared to have no intention of letting the document out of his hands, at least not to give it to Leo. And he was convinced that Ángel didn’t like him much; yes, he tolerated him but didn’t like him, so it wasn’t going to be easy to persuade him to part with it. I was aware of that animosity towards Leo and, although I never mentioned it, I wanted to know the cause, but Leo wasn’t sure. There are men who can’t stand their wife’s best male friends. Perhaps that was it, he didn’t know. Whatever the case, he was certain that Ángel would never give him the document. It was just a matter of spite. But my presence in the affair changed things, and that’s why our pact seemed the most just course of action: I’d take responsibility for the paper and he’d get Barbara out of the picture. There was nothing to worry about because, he stressed, all she wanted was Meucci’s manuscript.
Barbara’s side of the story also astonished me. It appeared that in 1990, approximately a year after Margarita’s departure, Leonardo had met an Italian freelance journalist who was interested in the changes occurring in Cuba. They became good friends and Leo ended up acting as his guide to Havana. During one of those nights on the town, the author mentioned his novel and the other’s face lit up. He said that he was interested in Meucci too, that a book had recently been published in Italy about the inventor’s life, and that same year a well-known scientist had been appointed to get to the bottom of the matter, searching through the archives and visiting the places where Meucci had lived. In fact, not long before their conversation, the scientist had spent some time in Havana. Leonardo thought it was a pity he hadn’t come across the researcher, because he would almost certainly have been a good source of information. But it wasn’t so very serious because he intended to get the jump on them all by demonstrating what no one else had been able to prove. Having said that, and after another rum, Leo declared that the irrefutable proof of Meucci’s invention of the telephone existed in Havana, and he mentioned the document. At that, the journalist’s face lit up so brightly that night could have been mistaken for day. They were already friends, but from then on they were brothers, partners in the same project: writing the book. The freelancer promised to send him all the information he had on his return to Italy. So the day came in 1993 when Leonardo received a phone call from an Italian woman who had recently landed in Cuba and was bringing news. Barbara, the likeable Italian, told him that his friend, whose articles tended to be very critical of the Cuban government, had been refused a visa, so she was taking his place. She’d brought the articles Leo had already mentioned to me, written by Basilio Catania, the scientist undertaking the research; she also had a letter from his friend, some money and a staunch determination to buy the document. That seemed absolutely fine to Leo for a number of reasons. First, the awful situation in the country that year would help persuade Ángel to sell the paper without him having to get on his knees and beg. There was ready money for the purchase, and money wasn’t something that he abounded in. And finally, the feminine factor always softened men’s hearts. Barbara and Leo had made a deal: she’d coax Ángel into selling the document; Leonardo would write the book, but would give her and the freelancer exclusive rights to reveal the discovery in the press, and they would receive a percentage of the copyright. Do you remember that party at the artisan’s house? I said that of course I did, it was where I’d met Barbara. Leonardo continued his story and I learned that he’d invited Ángel along that night for the express purpose of introducing him to Barbara so that she could start out on her mission. From that came the meal at the paladar, when she and Leo had spoken about Meucci until Ángel changed the subject. In Leo’s opinion, this was because a) he didn’t want the topic mentioned in public and b) he wasn’t yet aware that Barbara was interested in the document.
Just think of it! That was the first time I heard the name Meucci, while the others had already been on his trail for ages. Leo put his explanation on pause and told me that I’d have to forgive him but, at first, they hadn’t known just what kind of relationship Ángel and I had, and that was important because Barbara had to employ her charms on him. While he was about it, he took advantage of the situation to tell me that he’d invited me to that tertulia at his place because he liked me and it was only later that he discovered Barbara had invited Ángel. He’d thought it was a mistake, but then it occurred to him that it was an opportunity to check if we really were together. And he’d come to the conclusion that we weren’t, of course, because I’d spent the whole night playing dominos with him while Ángel was talking to Barbara, who, as far as I was concerned, seemed more and more like a bitch. I’m not kidding; I was beginning to feel like a complete imbecile. You know, like a knight on a chessboard that believes it can gallop freely through the fields and has no idea that someone is moving it; that’s how I felt, like a puppet that had dreamed of being the puppeteer.
Barbara had spoken with Ángel about the document and she and Leo had thought that he was stringing things out so as to raise the price. They had foreseen that. What hadn’t been included in the picture was for her to end up sleeping with Ángel and not even tell him. Which showed that Barbara was playing a game of her own behind his back, he said with evident annoyance. I used the pause as he stood up to comment that they had got together in Cienfuegos; he smiled and said he knew Barbara had hired a car to take Ángel and his sister there, but when she got back the piece of shit hadn’t said a word about romance. It was clear that she was plotting something; or worse, that she and Ángel were plotting something together. They might even have reached an agreement to exclude him from the whole business. Leonardo wrung out the soaked cloth under the door and as I watched the movements of his hands, it made me laugh to think that what he saw them wringing wasn’t the fabric but that Italian woman’s neck. Just like I really wanted to wring Ángel’s. The discovery that the trip to Cienfuegos had in fact been a sibling thing – although with a key role for Barbara – was to some extent a relief, but only to some extent, because I was still annoyed. Very annoyed.
Leo sat down again and, taking my hands, said that we had to act promptly. He’d take care of scaring off Barbara. If she’d gone back on their deal, well fuck her; we were free agents. Once he had the document, he’d finish his novel and the plaudits would be all his; he promised to include me in the acknowledgements and give me part of the money from the sale of rights. That was the least he could do, he added. But first the document had to be extracted from Ángel, and that was my task.
There was just one problem: I was still unconvinced that Ángel actually had it. According to Leo, Margarita had said he was in possession of the legacy, but Ángel claimed she’d told him that someone else had it. True, somebody had committed robbery, but somebody had also lied. When I communicated this thought to Leo, his reaction was close to despair. Why would Margarita lie to him? And who was going to rob her in her husband’s home? Her father, I finally replied. He looked at me in surprise. The professor? He didn’t believe it. Leo had never actually met him, but he was aware that Margarita had stopped speaking to him long before she left for Brazil. Ángel really knew how to tell them, he commented. I smiled. He might be right, but I still didn’t understand why Ángel said that Euclid had the legacy. Why would he do that? I asked. Leo pushed his glasses up before expounding his simple but incisive line of reasoning: to protect himself. He lied to protect himself. From his po
int of view, Ángel was sleeping with Barbara to help the deal along and because she was a foreigner. I knew how it was; decent beer, food and cigarettes. He was with her for what he could get, but there was no doubt that he liked me and didn’t want to lose me. What would happen if I found out about their relationship? One: I’d want to leave Ángel, in which case he’d do his utmost to win me back. Two: I’d want to harm him in some way to get my revenge, and the worst I could do would be to steal the document, the most precious thing he possessed. That was why he’d decided to try to patch things up by telling me that someone else had it. Take it from me, Julia. I’m a man and a writer, I know the psychology of certain characters, Leonardo concluded.
Suddenly, I could see it all clearly. For one thing, the theory of patching things up before I could harm him made perfect sense, considering that Ángel had come out with the story of the legacy after his return from Cienfuegos; that’s to say, when he was already with Barbara. I had to admit that my angel had a lot of imagination. And then, Euclid was loudly proclaiming his innocence. He was the first person to mention Meucci to me and to show me his data and articles; he maintained that Margarita had given the document to the author; he’d just shown me the address of the Garibaldi Meucci Museum and was planning our next move. Euclid definitely didn’t have anything. Yes, he’d stolen my thesis, but he wasn’t a complete bastard. The real bastard was that louse Ángel, who was sleeping with the Italian woman and inventing intricate stories to make a fool of me. That was the man I loved. Do you get it? Why can’t love be more rational?
