Havana Gold

“He’s madder than a March hare,” commented Manolo.

“Not really,” allowed the Count a second time, as he saw a car from headquarters draw up by one side of the park – and he remembered what had set off the headache neither the rich mix of two analgesics nor several layers of Chinese pomade had managed to subdue. Four men got out of the car, two in uniform. Fabricio got out the back door and the Count was pleased to see him in plain clothes, because right then he’d thought there are things men have always had to settle in the same way, and that particular story was due its final chapter now. Let’s see how we play it, he thought.

“Wait here,” he told Manolo and went down to the street.

“Where you?…” the sergeant started to ask, when he understood what the Count intended. He dropped his cigarette and ran in the opposite direction, into the undertakers.

The Count crossed the narrow street that separated the undertakers from the park and went over to the group of men coming from the car. He pointed a finger at Fabricio.

“We didn’t finish our conversation earlier on,” he said gesturing to him to separate out from the group.

Fabricio moved away from his companions and followed the Count to a corner of the park.

“Well then, what are you after?” the Count asked, who at that split second remembered how years ago he’d had his last fist-fight to defend his food in a school camp, and had been helped by Red Candito. He should be grateful to him to this day that the three thieves hadn’t made mincemeat of him. “Tell me, Fabricio, what you got against me?”

“Hey, Conde, who the hell do you think you are? You think you’re better than anybody else or what?…”

“Hey, I don’t think I’m anything at all. What are you after?” he repeated and, without thinking what he was doing, threw a punch at Fabricio’s face. He wanted to hit him, feel him come apart in his hands, do him damage and not see or hear him again. Fabricio tried to dodge the blow, but Conde’s fist caught the side of his neck and made him stagger backwards, and then Conde’s left hand smashed into his shoulder. Fabricio responded with a backhander that hit his attacker in the middle of the face. A distant fire, he thought he’d forgotten, exploded in Conde’s cheeks: blows to the face enraged him and his arms were now two flailing windmills punching the red mass he could see opposite, until an alien force intervened to lift him up and suspend him in the air: Major Rangel had succeeded in catching him by the armpits and only then did the Count notice the ring of students that had formed around them to egg them on.

“Go on, hit him on the jaw.”

“Fuck, great punch.”

“I’m betting on Striped Shirt.”

“Hit him! Hit him!”

And a hoarse voice, shouting in his ear, in a tone he didn’t recognize.

“I’m going to have to kill you, you idiot,” and then an immediately changed inflection almost whispering: “It’s all right now. It’s all right.”

“Look, Mario Conde, I’m not going to argue with you about what happened. I don’t even want to hear about it. I’d prefer not to see you, you bastard. I know you loved Jorrin, that you’re uptight, that you’re a neurotic fellow, I even know that Fabricio is an arsehole, but there’s no forgiving what you did, and I at least will never forgive you, even though I love you like a son. I – will-not-forgive-you – get it? Give me your lighter. I think I lost mine in the fight you started. It’s the only smoke I’ve got left and the burial’s tomorrow morning. Poor Jorrin, Jesus fucking wept! No, don’t speak, I said, let me light up. Here’s your lighter. Hey, didn’t I tell you to keep as quiet as a nun? Didn’t I warn you I didn’t want any problems? And look what you do: slugging it out with an officer in the middle of the street, in front of an undertakers packed with people from headquarters. Are you mad or an arsehole? Or both?… All right, we’ll leave this to later, and prime your arse for a good caning. I’m warning you. And don’t wipe more Chinese pomade over your forehead because it won’t make me take pity on you… Fuck, you’re over forty and still behaving like a young kid… Look, Conde, we’ll leave this to later. Now try to do your job properly. You can do that, I know. Take it easy tonight and tomorrow, after the wake, pick this boy up from his house. By that time we should know what the peasant from Escambray knows, the one Orlando San Juan mentioned. The boy has classes in the afternoon, right? Well, bring him along here and Ciceron’s gang will check out his house for drugs, because that’s probably where the Russian keeps it. But remember he’s a boy from Pre-Uni, so easy does it, a firm hand and a tight leash and dig out the name of the midwife who brought him into the world. We need to know whether Lando was in a relationship with the teacher or if it was the boy who brought drugs into the teacher’s house, and we need to know how much the drugs circulated in Pre-Uni. The Pre-Uni business terrifies me, it’s shit-scary… And I think you’re right, the marijuana lead will solve the murder, because it would be a big coincidence if the drugs person weren’t the murderer, in a case where at the end of the day there’s been neither theft nor robbery, and I don’t give a fuck for coincidences. Your face hurts. Well, too bad. I wanted Fabricio to knock the living daylights out of you, which is what I’d like to do. Go, move yourself, and get your act together, because now you’re going to obey my orders to the letter or I’ll stop calling myself Antonio Rangel. Look: I’ll swear to it right now, on my mother’s life.”

Depression still weighed heavily on his shoulders as he slumped on his bed and closed his eyes in the hope that his headache would disappear. Depression was a burden for wrists, knees, neck and ankles, all acting as if exhausted by the huge task. He hadn’t the strength to rebel and shout out “Shit, fucking shit”, “Go to bloody hell”, or to try to forget everything. Depression had only one cure that he knew of: company.

When he left headquarters the Count was already laid low by that nightmarish depression. He knew he’d violated the code, but an even more deeply rooted code had launched him at Fabricio. So he stopped off at a bar, then understood, from his first gulp, that solitary flight down the alcohol trail didn’t make any sense either. He felt alien to the joys and sorrows of the other inmates who delved deeper into their necessary confessions with each shot: rum was an emetic for doubts and hopes, not a simple potion to herald in oblivion. That’s why he paid, left a half-full glass and went home.

In search of possible relief, the Count dialled for the very first time the number Karina had given him, eight days ago, when they’d met next to a punctured Polish Fiat. His memory successfully reclaimed the number: the ring was faint and distant.

“Yes,” said a woman’s voice. Karina’s mother?

“Can I please speak to Karina.”

“She’s not been here today. Who’s that?”

“A friend,” he replied. “When will she be back?”

“Oh, I couldn’t say…”

A pause, a silence, the Count thinking.

“Could you take down a number?”

“Yes, wait a moment…” she must be looking for the wherewithal, “right, go on.”

“409213.”

“Four-zero-nine-two-one-three,” the voice checked.

“Huh-huh. Tell her Mario will be back after eight. And will be expecting a call.”

“All right.”

“Thanks a lot,” and he hung up.

He made an effort and got to his feet. On the way to the lavatory he undressed, dropping clothes everywhere. He stepped on the shower tray and before submitting to the torture of a cold shower glanced through the small window. Outside twilight falling. The wind still stirring up dust, dirt and melancholy. Inside hatred and sadness had ground to a halt. Would it always be thus?

As he walked past Karina’s house, the Count noted the orangey Polish Fiat wasn’t there. It was a quarter to eight, but he decided he’d have plenty of time to worry later. He looked at the window in the porch, not intending espionage, and only saw the same ferns and malangas, turned a golden yellow by the light of a brightly burning lamp.

The door to Skinny’s house was open as usual and the Count walked in, asked: “What time they serve dinner in this place?” And he went as far as the kitchen where Skinny and Josefina, like minstrels in vaudeville, were waiting for him hands on head and eyes goggling, as if to say: “It can’t be”.