He immediately entered the place and went to the polished wooden bar, sat on a stool and rested his elbows in front of him. A mulatto mixologist came over, wearing a dazzling white shirt and a white bow tie.
“What’s up, Conde? The usual?”
And the policeman nodded and didn’t worry about the dream coming to an end.
The mixologist took a bottle of Santiago rum from a shelf behind him and placed it on the bar. He picked up a gleaming glass and dropped in a small ice cube. Conde enjoyed the sound of the ice against the glass and was about to ask the mulatto to do it again. The discreet mixologist poured rum over the ice until he’d half-filled the glass with that wonderful glinting liquid and, not saying a word, with the gift of discretion not possessed by Cuban barmen, he withdrew to leave that man alone to ruminate over his obsession with his favourite tipple.
Feeling refreshed and tranquil, Conde took his first gulp and understood how direly his tsin needed to be immersed anew in alcohol. Just as well anything is possible in this city, he told himself on that summery afternoon in 1989, when he was still a policeman and was suffering as a result. He took another swig and prepared not to allow himself to be banished from that paradise found as he had been expelled from so many others, real or imaginary. He would drink in his ideal bar until rum brought the relief of oblivion. When it shattered against reality, he’d have time enough to think about his tao. After all, he told himself, after his third assault on that glass of rum and ice, there are things that nothing or nobody can change.
Grab a Snake by the Tail Page 13
