Havana Blue

by Leonardo Padura

  He tapped on the glass in the door, a dog started barking, and now Manolo was on edge.

  “I tell you, I’m going back to the car,” he said, reviewing his unique record of bites on duty.

  “Don’t be silly, kid, stay still.” The door opened.

  A black and white dog ran out, ignoring his master’s orders. Lion Cub, he called him, fancy calling that funny-coloured mongrel Lion. It was curly tailed and half mulatto, and had ignored Mario Conde and gone straight to sniff Manolo’s shoes and trousers, as if they’d once belonged to him.

  “He’s harmless,” the proud owner of the wellbehaved dog reassured them. “But he’s a good guard dog. How can I help?”

  The Count introduced himself and asked for the head of the committee.

  “Yours truly, comrade. Would you like to come in?”

  “No, that’s not necessary. We just want to know if you’ve seen Zoila Amarán today. We’re looking to ask her a few . . .”

  “Is there something the matter?”

  “No, just a routine enquiry.”

  “Well, my friend, I think you’re up against it. You’ll need a lasso to get a hold on Zoilita, because she hardly shows her face around here,” the committee head observed. “Hey, Lion Cub, come here, leave the comrade alone or he’ll lock you up,” he said with a smile.

  “Does she live by herself?”

  “Yes and no. Her brother and his wife live in her place, but they are doctors and have just been posted to Pinar del Río, and they visit every two or three months. So she lives by herself and I heard, you know, you find these things out without trying. I think it was today when I was getting bread from the corner store that she’d told someone she was going away and she’s not been sighted for three days.”

  “Three days?” asked the Count, smiling at the relief on Manolo’s face when Lion Cub finally lost interest in his shoes and trousers and scampered into the garden.

  “Yes, three days or so. But, you know, to be frank, and this is a fact: ever since she’s been a kid – and I’ve watched her grow up right here – Zoilita’s been a tearaway, and not even her mother, the late Zoila, could keep track of her. I even thought she’d turn out a tomboy, but no way. OK, she’s not done anything wrong, has she? She might be half-mad, but I can honestly say she’s not a bad girl.”

  The Count listened to the man expressing his opinions while he searched his jacket pocket for a cigarette. His brain wanted to weigh up the fact Zoila hadn’t been back home for precisely three days, although suddenly he was feeling weary of all this, of Zaida and Maciques defending Rafael, of Zoila and the Spaniard Dapena, who’d also vanished on the first, of Tamara and Rafael, but he replied: “No, don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong. We only wanted to find out a couple of other things: how old is Zoilita and where does she work?”

  The committee head rested his forearm on the doorframe, watched Lion Cub shit copiously and pleasurably in the garden and smiled.

  “I don’t remember her exact age; I’d have to look on the register . . .”

  “No need, more or less,” said Manolo, coming back to life.

  “About twenty-three, I’d guess,” he said. “As you get older, a twenty-year-old seems much the same as a thirty-year-old, you know? And as for your other question: well she works at home, makes arty-crafty objects from seeds and shells and earns good money and only works when she has to. You can imagine, around New Year she rakes it in. You can’t find anything to buy then, you know?”

  “Very good, comrade, many thanks,” said the Count, stemming the flow of words that threatened to drown them. “We’ll just ask you for one favour. When she comes, call us on this number and leave a message for Lieutenant Conde or Sergeant Palacios. Is that OK?”

  “On the contrary, comrades, it’s a real pleasure. We are here to serve you, naturally. But, I must say, Lieutenant, it’s strange you won’t come in for a sitdown and a cup of freshly made coffee? I thought when two policemen visited a Revolutionary Committee that always had to happen.”

  “So did I, but not to worry. There are also police who are scared of dogs,” said the Count as he shook the man’s hand.

  “That was nice of you,” griped Manolo as they walked to their car. He was wearing his jacket open to the cold air. “You’re very witty today. As if not facing up to dogs were a sin.”

  “That must be why they bite you. Look what a sweat you’re in, kid.”

  “Yes, it’s all very well to go on about adrenaline, smell and your fucking mother, but the fact is they always go for me.”

  They got into the car; Manolo took a deep breath and put both hands on the wheel.

  “Well, we now have some idea about who Zoilita is. The plot thickens.”

  “The plot thickens, but it makes no odds. Look, let’s divide up now. I’ll go to collect the guest list for the deputy minister’s party and you put two people on task to find out about Zaida and Zoilita. Particularly Zoilita. I want to know where she’s got to and what she’s got to do with all this.”

  “Why don’t we switch tasks? I’ll collect the list, go on.”

  “Hey, Manolo, you can play with the chain but leave the monkey in peace. No more griping,” he said and looked into the street. He was fascinated by the steady flow of white lines the car was devouring, and only then did he notice it had stopped raining. But the pain from his hungry misused stomach now met the pressure from the urine filling his bladder. “What else are you thinking of doing?”

  Manolo kept staring at the road ahead.

  “I’m talking to you, Manolo,” insisted the Count.

  “Well, I reckon there are too many bloody coincidences, and Zoilita’s much too much of a coincidence, don’t you think? And I reckon you should talk to Maciques. That man knows more than he’s letting on.”

  “We’ll see him at the enterprise on Monday.”

  “I’d see him before then.”

  “Tomorrow if there’s time, OK?”

  “Hey, let’s have some music, I’m going to piss myself.”

  “You can piss yourself, but I can’t put any music on.”

  “What’s a matter, man, you still shaking because of that mongrel?”

  “No, it’s your fault we can’t listen to music. They stole our aerial from in front of Zoilita’s place.”

  His favourite song had always been “Strawberry Fields”. He’d discovered it one unexpected day in 1967 or 1968 in his cousin Juan Antonio’s house; it was horribly hot, but Juan Antonio and three of his friends were older, in eighth grade, and they’d squeezed into his cousin’s bedroom, he recalled, as if they were going to pray to the prophet: they were sitting on the floor around an ancient RCA Victor gramophone, it even had termites, and an opaque, unidentified record was turning on the deck. “It’s a copy, idiot, of course it’s not got a label,” said Juan Antonio as bad-temperedly as ever, and he also sat on the floor because nobody wanted to speak, not even the women. Then Tomy moved the arm and placed it lovingly on the record, and the song began; he understood nothing, the Beatles didn’t sing as well as they did on real records, but the big lads hummed the words, as if they knew them, and all he knew was that “field” was park, “centerfield” was centre of the park, he concluded, but that would come later. He felt as if he were experiencing a unique act of magic, and when the song finished he asked, go on, play it again, Tomy. And he started singing again and didn’t know why: he didn’t want to accept that that melody was flagging up his nostalgia for a past when everything was perfect and straightforward, and although he now knew what the lyrics meant, he preferred to repeat them unthinkingly and just feel as if he were walking through that field of strawberries he’d never seen, the one his memories were so familiar with, to be alone with that music. “Strawberry Fields” always came like that, out of nowhere, and pushed everything else out. He sang along, picked up on any phrase and felt better; he no longer saw the dark or gloomily overcast sky or the image of Rafael Morín speechifying on the podium at school. He di
dn’t want to smoke and listen to Manolo recounting his latest amorous conquest, as he drove him to Tamara’s house, “Strawberry fields forever, tum, tum, tum . . .”

  “The book was right there.”

  Time is an illusion; nothing had changed in the library: the complete set of the Espasa-Calpe Encyclopaedia , the one most packed with knowledge, its dark blue spines and gilt letters still shiny despite the years that had gone by; Tamara’s father’s Doctor in Law certificate still fearlessly enjoying its privileged position, even above Victor Manuel’s two pen-and-ink drawings he’d always coveted so much. The dark tome of Father Brown stories, with the leather covers that his fingers caressed, brought on another bout of melancholy; old Doctor Valdemira recommended them to him so many years ago when the Count could never have imagined he’d become a colleague of Chesterton’s little priest. And the mahogany desk was immortal, broad as a desert and beautiful like a woman. A handsome writing desk. Only the leather on the swivel chair seemed rather tired, it was over thirty years old and genuine bison; that was the place occupied by the person responsible for night-time revision before an exam, the privilege of the one who knew most. The day Mario Conde first entered that room, he had felt small, helpless and terribly uncultured, and his memory could still recreate that painful sensation of intellectual inadequacy he’d yet to cure himself of.

  “I’ve often dreamed of this place. But in my dreams I never remembered your father having a telephone here, or did he?”

  “No, never. Daddy hated two things to the point of sickness: one was the telephone and the other television, and that shows how very sensitive he was,” she recalled as she flopped down into one of the armchairs in front of the desk.

  “And do those two phobias relate to this redbrick fireplace in a Havana library?” he asked as he bent down over the small hearth and played with one of the tongs.

  “It had logs and everything. It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

  “Sorry to sound rude . . . Given it never snows in Cuba, pray what is the point?”

  She smiled sadly.

  “It was the cover to a safe. I found that out when I was twenty. Daddy was a real character. An eccentric.”

  He put the tongs down and sat in the other armchair next to Tamara. The library’s only source of light was from a small Art Nouveau lamp on a bronze stand embellished by small bunches of deep purple grapes, and she was bathed in an amber light that endowed her face with a warm humanity. She wore a tracksuit as deep blue as the Espasa-Calpe, and her clumsy ballerina body seemed to relish that garment which sheathed and shaped her.

  “Rafael had the extension installed some seven or eight years ago. He couldn’t live without the telephone.”

  He digested Rafael’s decision and felt his shoulders sag, exhausted by an overlong day when he’d only heard talk of Rafael Morín. So many people had talked to him that he’d now begun to wonder whether he’d really known him or whether he was a circus freak with a thousand faces, all linked by a family air, but quite distinctive. He’d have preferred to speak about other things, would have felt good telling her he’d sung “Strawberry Fields” all the way to her house. He was in the mood to make that kind of confidence or to tell her he thought she’d only got better and better, tastier and tastier, but finally decided she might think such confessions a touch cheap and vulgar.

  “I never heard about your father’s death. I’d have gone to the funeral,” he said finally, because the old diplomat’s presence was tangible in that room.

  “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?”