Havana Blue

by Leonardo Padura

  But this tale of the man who disappeared reeks. Don’t let me down now,” he said, adding: “But be careful, Mario, be careful . . . Remember there’s a loose end somewhere, and who better than you to find it? OK?”

  “What have you come up with, Conde?” Sergeant Manuel Palacios asked, and the Count saw fireflies flying in his eyes born from the pressure from his fingertips.

  He stood up, returned to the window and meditated gloomily. It was three hours to dusk, and the sky had turned overcast, a warning perhaps that rain and cold were on their way back. He’d always preferred cold for work, but the premature darkness depressed him and took away any inclination to work that he might still harbour. He’d never before so wanted to be finished with a case, the pressures from above the Boss passed on to him made him feel desperate, and the image of Tamara’s butt shifting beneath her yellow dress was both torture and a warning: be careful. Everybody seemed to see danger. Worst of all, however, was the feeling of disorientation that was stifling him: he was as lost as Rafael and didn’t like working like that. The major had approved his first steps, authorized him to speak to the Spanish businessman and investigate the enterprise – yes, something might turn up there, he’d said – to interview people and check papers with specialists in economics and accounting from headquarters; only he’d have to wait till Monday, and the major didn’t want this to last till Monday. But as he smoked that silken-flavoured cigar he convinced himself that Rafael Morín’s disappearance owed nothing to chance and that he’d have to revisit all paths that might lead logically to the beginning of the end of the story; the party and the enterprise, the enterprise and the party seemed like tracks that ran into each other.

  “Tamara rang and told me about something that may be a lead,” he finally told Manolo as he informed him about the telephone book. The sergeant read the names, numbers and addresses of the two women and then asked: “Do you really think this might lead somewhere?”

  “I’m interested in Zaida the secretary and in finding out who Zoila might be. Hey, how many names starting with Zed you got in your telephone book?”

  Manolo shrugged his shoulders and smiled. No, he didn’t know.

  “Zed barely has eight or ten pages in dictionaries, and almost nobody has a name that begins with Zed,” said the Count, opening his own telephone book. “I’ve only got Zenaida. Do you remember Zenaida?”

  “Hey, Conde, drop it, that girl’s for other occasions.”

  The lieutenant closed his telephone book and returned it to his desk drawer.

  “Women are always there for other occasions. Yes, get a move on, we’d better go see the Zeds. Get the car out.”

  Saturday night wouldn’t turn out to be at all spectacular. A cold drizzle that would continue into the early hours had begun to fall, and the cold could still be felt in the closed car, and the Count longed for the powerful sun that had accompanied his waking up that morning. The rain had emptied the streets, and a grey pall of apathy shrouded a city that lived for the heat and retreated into itself at the slightest cold or drop of water. The languid tropical winter came and went, even in the space of a single day, and it was difficult to work out the time of year: a shit winter, he muttered as he contemplated the boulevard, darkened by clumps of trees, swept by a wind from the sea gusting along paper and dead leaves. Nobody dared sit on the benches on the path down the centre of the avenue the Count thought the most beautiful in Havana and that was now the exclusive preserve of a gritty individual zipped into his windbreaker and engaged in his evening jogging. What strength of will. On such an evening he would have taken a book to bed and been asleep by the third page. On such an evening, he recognized, the cold and the rain irritated people who were condemned to stay indoors: the most easygoing wives could transform a husband’s slightest macho thrust into an issue of feminine honour and bring down a flowerpot on his forehead, between steaks, quite remorselessly. Luckily tonight the baseball series would resume after the end-of-year break, but he thought how rain might perhaps lead to the game being called off. His team, the Industriales, which kept him awake worrying at night, were playing in the Latinoamericano Stadium against the Vegueros to decide who would go through to the final championship playoff, because Havana had already qualified. He would have liked the chance to go to the stadium: he needed the group therapy that seemed so much like freedom, where you could say anything, calling the referee’s mother a whore or even your team’s manager a fucking idiot and then depart sad in defeat or euphoric in victory but relaxed, hoarse and raring to go. Recently the Count was scepticism incarnate: he even tried not to go to baseball games because the Industriales played worse and worse, and luck seemed to have forsaken them, and apart from Vargas and Javier Méndez, the rest seemed second-raters, too weak in the leg to really get them into the final, let alone win it. He had forgotten Zaida and Zoila by the time they drove out on the Malecón. There a briny drizzle met a heavenly shower, and Manolo cursed his fucking luck, thinking he’d damned well have to wash the car before putting it away for the night.

  “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?”

  “No, don’t tell me what you’re thinking, wait before you tell me,” he begged Manolo as they walked out of the building. A fine monotonous drizzle was still falling, and darkness had descended on the city. “Let’s go to Seventy and Seventeenth and see what surprises Zoila has in store.”

  “You don’t want anything to prejudice you?” queried Manolo as he slotted the aerial back in place.

  “Hey, man, just give me a break. Leave the aerial in peace, we’ll be getting out in a minute.”

  Manolo carried on as if he’d heard nothing, and while the Count got in the car he put the aerial back. He knew the lieutenant was beginning to get on edge and that it was best to ignore him. You don’t want to know what I’m thinking? Well, I won’t tell you and stick that . . . But I am thinking lots of things, he said loudly as the car sped up Línea towards the tunnel, and the Count scrawled some notes on his battered writing pad. He started playing with the catch on his pen again and without so much as a by your leave switched off the car radio Manolo had turned on. Nonetheless, Sergeant Manolo confessed he preferred working with his half-neurotic lieutenant and had reached that conclusion when he was a greenhorn cop assigned to a team investigating the theft of various pictures from the National Museum and the forensic worker in the group had said: “Look, the guy who just arrived is the Count. He’s in charge of this operation. Don’t be put off by anything he says, because he’s crazy, but he’s a good guy and I think he’s the best detective we’ve got” as Manolo saw for himself on several occasions.

  “And might I know your thoughts on the matter?” asked the sergeant, staring at the road ahead.

  “No.”

  “You in crisis, my friend?”

  “Yeah, sure. On the verge of a nervous breakdown. Well, I know Rafael Morín and can smell where this is coming from, but there are lots of loose ends and I don’t want to prejudge anything.”

  The car advanced down Nineteenth, and Manolo decided to smoke his first cigarette of the day. I envy this fellow as well, thought the Count, imagine smoking just when you feel like it.

  “If you’re agonizing about reaching the wrong conclusions, then you really are in crisis,” Manolo de
clared as he turned into Seventy on his way to Seventeenth.

  “That’s the one,” said the Count when he saw house number 568. “Stop here, and if you remove the aerial again, I’ll file a disciplinary report, you hear me?”

  “Got you. But at least wind up the window properly, if you don’t mind?” Manolo shouted as he closed his as tight as it would go.

  The light was on in the hallway, but the house door and front windows were shut. The Count knocked, two, three times and waited. Manolo, now by his side, put on his rainproof jacket and tried to zip it up. The lieutenant knocked again and glanced at his colleague still fiddling with his zip.

  “Those zips are useless, pal. Let’s go, nobody’s at home,” he said as he hammered on the wooden door again.

  The knocks echoed in the distance, as if around an empty house.

  “Let’s talk to the committee,” the lieutenant went on.

  They walked along the pavement, looking for the sign for the local Revolutionary Committee, and finally spotted one on the corner, almost hidden by a jungle of box-hedges and dwarf palms in the garden.

  “That’s the worst of this cold. I’m getting hungrier and hungrier, Count,” Manolo lamented his afflictions and begged his boss to make it short and sweet.

  “And what do you think I’ve got in my belly? After what I drank last night, today’s fasting and the cigar the Boss gave me, I feel like I’ve got a dead toad in my gut. I feel as if I’m about to throw up.”