Grab a Snake by the Tail

by Leonardo Padura

  Conde saw the youngster’s muscles tense with alarm. Panchito looked over his shoulder, saw Manolo closing off his retreat and seamlessly passed his arms over his chest to adopt an attacking stance: as if by magic, he was already holding the gleaming tip of a long dagger in his right hand, ready to throw it. For a moment Conde imagined a cinematic miracle would come next: he even felt like his backside was seated comfortably. Panchito would lightly flex his legs and, propelled by special effects, would fly up before the eyes of his police audience and land on the roof of the Society, and from there he’d make another flying leap and be lost in the mists of the Barrio Chino. But Panchito Chiú was your average chino and didn’t enjoy such filmic powers. Conde was disappointed by this, but more disappointed that the young man was threatening him with a dagger.

  “Hey, don’t be so fucking stupid and drop that knife,” Conde shouted.

  “Come and take it off me,” the karateka retorted defiantly.

  “Look, lad, I told you to drop it. Don’t make life difficult for me, it’s already lousy enough,” Conde almost implored him. “Be so good as to drop it, and —”

  “What’s wrong? You scared?”

  “Drop that damned knife, for fuck’s sake!” bawled Conde, as if all the energies in his body were coming together.

  That shout surprised the youngster, and Conde, who always thought things through, did so now despite his state of mind: Better not take any risks, he told himself, and Right, I am scared. Then he took out his pistol and, also seamlessly, aimed at the knees of Panchito, who’d recovered from his shock at Conde’s outburst and was now brandishing his knife, ready to attack. Conde didn’t give it a second thought: he fired. When the bullet hit Panchito Chiú, he dropped the dagger and fell to the ground, rolling around and howling like a wounded dog. It was the second time in his career that Conde had shot someone, and he did the arithmetic only after pulling the trigger.

  “Fucking hell, Conde, you’re crazy!” shouted Manolo, as translucent as rice paper, not budging from the spot assigned to him in that drama: right behind Panchito. “What if you’d missed this idiot and put a bullet in me?”

  “Well, they’d have pinned a medal on your chest, Manolo. But I’m sure that this little son of a bitch who almost knocked my head off yesterday is so out of his mind that today he was quite capable of throwing his knife at me.” Conde wiped the sweat from his brow, tried to bring his shaking hands under control and, after kicking the knife away, walked over to the wounded man – who was still howling, but the cop needed to let off steam – and bawled at him again, “Was that what you were looking for, you little shit?”

  11

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

  Conde looked into her eyes. His mind was full of thoughts, ideas, projects, recriminations, but he lacked the precise response she wanted and was only able to say what every cell in his body was proclaiming: “I feel ill …”

  Tamara eyed him for a second and decided he wasn’t lying.

  “Come in and take a seat …”

  The reaction that had led him to Tamara’s house had been visceral and irrepressible. The fact that he’d had to shoot a man, even though he tried to do the least damage possible, had gone against his natural instincts and invalidated him as the human being he was or was trying to be. That was why he had asked Manolo to take the case forward and had fled from the hospital where they’d driven Panchito Chiú and, almost not knowing why, had turned up at the house of his dreams and stood opposite it contemplating but not seeing the concrete sculptures with their shapes halfway between Picasso and Lam for more than twenty minutes before deciding to knock.

  No sooner had he sat down and watched Tamara go to get him a glass of water, he realized he’d begun his recovery: he couldn’t stop gazing at her buttocks and reflected that, rather than water, the ideal beverage would have been a drop of that Ballantine’s, the last dregs of which he had drained on his previous visit to that house.

  Tamara gave him his water and offered to make coffee, but he asked her to sit down. Then he told her: he’d shot a man.

  “Obviously I didn’t kill him, Tamara. I wounded his leg, nothing serious,” he added, seeing how alarmed she looked.

  He lit a cigarette and stared at her. Now he knew why he was there: not because of his rejection of violence, nor to avoid hospitals and interrogations. At that moment he needed an anchor, a support that not even his lifelong brothers, Carlos, Andrés, Rabbit and Red Candito could offer. Nor the red-hot sex of Patricia, or Karina’s wild eroticism. It was something more intangible but more vital, more profound.

  “I’ve almost had no time to think about what you said to me, but at the same time I’ve been thinking about it non-stop,” he said, immediately lamenting his awkward formulation.

  “And what do you think you think?”

  “I don’t only think about you. Most of all I think about myself. About the shit I’ve done and am doing with my life. I think about loneliness, and how it frightens me. About how I can’t put off any longer trying to sort out what can still be sorted … and I think how it would help me a lot to do all that with you …”

  Tamara looked down and wiped the palms of her hands across her skirt as if she needed to clean the sweat off.

  “What exactly do you mean, Mario?”

  “That I need you … Damn, that sounds like a bolero …”

  “And are you by any chance thinking that we should get married or something?”

  “No, I’ve not got that far … Or, yes, I have, to be frank, but the idea scares me,” he said, and felt like smacking himself: there are things you should never say to a woman. “But that’s not what’s important. The other stuff is important.”

  “The other stuff?”

  “Having you near me …”

  She stared at him again. Conde could almost hear the cogs turning in her mind.

  “Mario, don’t ask me to sort your life out now. First I need to sort out my own … And I’m going to be frank too: I sometimes think you’re part of the process, but I’m not sure.”

  “So what do you need to be sure?”

  “Time. Give me time. And don’t pressurize me, please. I know you’re an obsessive-compulsive type, but give me time …”

  Conde looked into her eyes: they were two moist almonds, as ever, and he understood, or thought he understood the woman’s plea.

  “I must go,” he said, standing up.

  “You’re not annoyed with me?”

  “Well, a tiny little bit,” he said and then smiled. “But don’t you worry, take your time … I’ll be back tonight to hear what you’ve decided …”

  “You’re the most insufferable guy I’ve ever known.”

  “I had to be the best at something, didn’t I now?”

  He couldn’t stop himself; he raised his hand and stroked her hair. And thought: if he was going to make the mistake of getting married again, it would definitely be to that woman. And, sure, he could guarantee it would be all for love.

  “So?”

  “Don’t worry. The bullet barely grazed his skin and didn’t damage any bones. The fact is he was shit-scared when he saw things were getting serious. After they’d dealt with him, I showed him the fingerprint results, and he told us everything. He says old Pedro must have had a heart attack and died in his arms, apparently from fear or rage when Panchito strung up his dog to pile on the pressure … Panchito had been so agitated he hadn’t realized Pedro had only fainted. That was why he decided to string him up from the ceiling. He swears that there was nothing but papers and junk in the room and that he took nothing. Obviously, Amancio’s money had been converted into jewels and was in the cemetery … He thought up the Zarabanda ploy on the spot. Ever since becoming a palero, he’d kept the two tokens in his pocket – he says they brought him good luck – and then he carved the cross into Pedro’s chest and cut his finger off so people would think it was do with voodoo or revenge rather than money. The worst damned
part was that I had to listen to his story for almost an hour because he was so confused … he was crying,” said Manolo, handing the folder to Conde.

  “What about the fingerprints on the San Fan Con rod?”

  “They’re in the folder as well.”

  Conde opened the folder and looked for the analysis of the prints. It confirmed what he’d suspected. Then he took out the sheet of paper and the envelope with the rod.

  “Manolo, do me another favour,” he asked as he handed back the file. “You take this to Major Rangel. I want to go and see Juan … What news have you got of Lieutenant Patricia?”

  “She left a message at Headquarters to say she was on a case, but nobody knows where she’s got to …”

  “Forget it, I can imagine why that bitch’s not around … She can take care of herself. I’m going to try to take care of the things that concern me … It’s the time of year for putting things to rights … Oh, and tell Major Rangel that Pedro’s death isn’t connected to drugs and that the case is closed.”

  Conde walked down to the Headquarters’ parking lot and asked the duty driver to take him to Infanta and Maloja. On the way, the new recruit who was driving tried to start a conversation about his ambition to become a real policeman, but he soon gave up when he saw his audience’s complete lack of interest. The lieutenant was smoking and looking out at the street, and everyone at Headquarters – even the greenest recruits – knew what that meant. “Better not talk to him … He’s a pain in the neck,” said some, although most added: “But he’s a good guy.”

  “Should I turn down Maloja, lieutenant?”

  “No, drop me on the corner, it’s right there. Uh-huh. Thanks, Rosique. Oh, and think it through. This isn’t a good job … Why not be a mixologist?”

  “A mixologist?”

  “A barman, the kind who mixes the drinks their customers want …”

  Conde relished the expression on the rookie’s face and waited for the car to drive off before finding the right way. He walked a block and, when he turned down the first side street, he saw him: heading away from him, towards the other corner, Juan Chion walked with steps that seemed to have lost their usual elastic spring. Conde put away the sheet with the fingerprint results and the envelope containing the rod. He took out a fresh cigarette and his dark glasses and started to follow the old man. Initially he assumed he was running household errands, as he was carrying a shopping bag. But after they’d walked six blocks, he started to grasp what was happening. They crossed Carlos III and it was crystal clear: the old fellow was walking towards the Barrio Chino. He was walking unhurriedly, at a steady, sustained pace, only stopping to cross roads.

  Juan Chion turned down Zanja and walked towards the centre of the Barrio. What’s he up to? the lieutenant wondered, keeping some fifty yards behind his unexpected prey. From his confident perspective as a poacher he began to feel a tangible sense of shame in a way that might overwhelm him. He had no right to spy on old Juan Chion’s private life, especially at a time which must be really painful for him. But he was curious to find out what the chino was going to do and persisted in his pursuit.

  By now they had walked almost twenty blocks and Conde was beginning to feel like his poor, stretched metatarsi were on fire, while sweat was running down every crevice of his body. “I’d bet a cigarette he turns down Manrique,” said the lieutenant, and paid himself with one of his meagre Populars when the old man turned down the street where the late Pedro Cuang used to live. But what the fuck does he want? he wondered, and hurried to catch him entering the tenement. However, Juan Chion only stopped for a second in the entrance to the rooming house, surveyed its gloomy interior and then carried on walking. He’s going to the Society, Conde thought, and that was why he had to trail him beyond the Restaurante Pacífico, beyond the Chinese newspaper, and watch him turn into San Nicolás. When Conde peered round the corner to see where he presumed Juan Chion’s long journey would end, he found himself eyeball to eyeball with the old man.

  “So you like good long walk, Conde?” the chino asked, and Conde begged the earth to swallow him up, immediately, right there in the middle of the Barrio.

  “My friend, the truth is …” He tried to find an excuse, but couldn’t lie. “I needed to talk to you and was surprised to see you leave home. I don’t know why, but I decided to follow you.”

  “Walking good exercise.”

  “Yes, so they say. I meant to tell you … I don’t know … I meant to tell you something …” The policeman was embarrassed, and was unable to tell him what he now knew or to express the solidarity he also needed to communicate to the old man. “You going to see your old friend?”

  Juan Chion nodded and glanced in the direction of the entrance to the Lung Con Cun Sol Society.

  “I owe him explanation, ’light?”

  Conde took off his glasses.

  “I think so. You two are always going to have a lot to talk about … But you’re not to blame for what his son did, and I’m not —”

  “It not about blame, Conde. You silly. Look: it g’lief and shame. Panchito killed one of our count’lymen and … shame also kills, Conde.”

  “All right, I get you. Talk to him, but don’t feel guilty …” Conde thought hard again, wondering whether he should throw into the hat the piece that would complete the puzzle of Pedro Cuang’s death, and though he thought it was cruel, he also thought it was right, and even necessary. “Look, Juan, I wanted to see you because there’s something I’ve not told you that I’m not going to tell anyone else, but I am going to tell you now. So you don’t feel guilty about anything at all …”

  “What’s that, Conde?”

  “Your old friend, Francisco, knew all about Pedro Cuang’s money, and the cemetery directions were most certainly meant for him. Nobody has told me this, and I don’t want anyone to tell me either, but I’m sure Francisco told his son that the money did really exist and that there were directions … and that’s when the rot set in.”

  Juan Chion looked at some vague spot behind the policeman.

  “And how do you know all this?”

  “Because Francisco’s fingerprints were all over Pedro’s room, because Francisco was Pedro Cuang’s friend, because Francisco can read Chinese, and because Francisco is Panchito’s father and Francisco knew what his son was involved in …”

  “And you certain you told nobody else?”

  “Not even Patricia.”

  Juan finally looked at Conde and, after a long silence, whispered, “Thank you, Conde.” The chino held out his right hand and Conde shook it. Then he took from his shirt pocket the envelope where he’d put the San Fan Con rod he had used to compare Francisco’s fingerprints with those found in Pedro Cuang’s room.

  “Look, give this to Francisco.” He handed the envelope to Juan. “Tell him I’m returning it so the curse of San Fan Con doesn’t fall upon me … And now I’m going to take my tune elsewhere,” said Conde. “And forgive me for following you.”

  “Naw, I understand, police stuff … Oh, and if you see Pat’licita, ’lemember to talk to her. She ’lespect you, Conde. And she c’lazy, c’lazy …”

  “Don’t you worry, she’s not crazy at all … Anyway, I’ve got lots to tell her too … Come on, I’ll walk with you that far,” he said, putting his arm around Juan Chion’s shoulders. “Although it’s all ended like this, I’ve enjoyed working with you, my friend. One learns things.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  Conde thought: that you chinos are still very peculiar, that there really is a chino smell, that honour and friendship are friendship and honour, that revenge never brings back the dead and that parents are never able to be objective about their children, whether in Cuba or China. But he said: “That chinos are not little ants.”

  Then Juan Chion stopped and took his hand.

  “Conde, Conde, you know well, shame kills. Do you know the shame I feel, and Pancho as well? Yes, you do … You good man. I’ve done ho’llible things in my
life, and don’t ’leg’let anything, I don’t.” The old man was insistent about his lack of regret, and Conde thought that in fact he was filled with regret; lots of it. “Because there things you must do in life, ’light?”

  “I understand, Juan. And don’t regret anything. Sure, there are things that you have to do at some point in life … and others you shouldn’t.”

  “T’lue … Goodbye, Conde, go home,” the chino interjected, and gave a small bow.

  Conde stood still on the sidewalk and watched him go up the steps to the Society. At about the tenth step Juan Chion’s figure disappeared into the darkness, as if he had levitated to the remote and peaceful world of Cuang Con and his warrior brothers. Before setting off, the policeman took out of his pocket the sheet of paper with the results of the fingerprint test on the rod, tore it into several pieces and dropped it through the grating over a drain.

  He walked back to the corner, trying to shed his woes and fill up on futile consolations that, fortunately, Juan Chion hadn’t let him express, and then he noticed it again: that chino smell. Of course: it was a warm, persistent, yellow smell. At least the smell survived in that barrio with its past full of sordid stories and its moribund future, that magical barrio where, as if risen from a daydream, he found an open bar, ventilated by huge ceiling fans and packed with bottles of rum.