cigarette.
“I must admit I’m the one who’s now arse over tit,” the policeman said as he returned to his seat and position on that stage set. “But all these confessions have reinforced an idea I’ve been harbouring for two or three days: you know something you’ve not told me and which could help explain Alexis’s death. Will you tell me now or must I interrogate you?”
“Ah, so you think there’s more to it… I get the full bloodhound treatment now, do I? So you want to know more?” the Marquess persisted and, not waiting for a reply, he raised one of his arms so his dressing gown sleeve created a space where, like a spectacular magician, he could put in a hand and pluck something out to show the Count. “You want me to tell you what Alexis said to Faustino to cause him to react that way? But I shouldn’t tell you, because when Alexis told me, and he did tell me, he made me swear on the Bible that, whatever happened, I wouldn’t tell anybody. And I never have… That’s why I’ve gone silent, right?”
The Count smiled.
“So now you believe in sacred oaths? Even though the secrecy may save Alexis’s murderer or attenuate his guilt?”
The Marquess wiped a hand over his sparsely populated head and smiled devilishly.
“True, if I don’t believe in anything and that gentleman is… But I should tell you I also kept silent because I didn’t think the man capable of doing what he did… For what Alexis said to him was that he’d found out about the fraud his father committed in 1959, when he falsified documents and got himself a couple of false witnesses to swear he’d fought clandestinely against Batista… That was how Faustino climbed on the chariot of the Revolution, with a past to guarantee he could be considered a trustworthy man who deserved his reward… Can you imagine what would happen if this got out? Well, you know: his feast would be at an end.”
The Count tried to smile but couldn’t. Another of this bastard’s tall stories, he thought.
“That’s why he paid him with two coins… And how did Alexis find out about this business? Who could have told him?”
“Maria Antonia told him…”
“And why did she tell him?”
“I don’t know, perhaps she thought Alexis should have that card in his hand, you know?”
The Count finally smiled.
“So it was Maria Antonia. The things Maria Antonia knew; and I thought…”
“Yes, you’re naive, my policeman friend. But it’s better that way: better naive than cynical. That’s why I’ll make one more confession to you: many of the accusations made against me are true: I am self-sufficient, proud, an experimentalist and ever since my twelfth birthday when I saw I was in love with my sister’s boyfriend, I’ve known the only antidote was to frolic wherever with men, which I’ve been doing ever since. Because I’m that way, yesterday, today and tomorrow as the saying goes…”
The Count never thought he’d listen to something like that and find it appealing and wouldn’t want to get up and kick such an exultant little poof. But anyway he did decide it was time to beat a timely retreat and try to tie up the last loose ends to his case.
“Did Arayan write that report?”
“Who did, if he didn’t? He was always a sly, insidious cunt on the make.”
“And what’s the latest on Muscles?”
“This is all awful, isn’t it? I discovered he’s very ill, really ill. They say he’s got a few months… My poor friend. He suffered a lot from what they did to me. Perhaps even more than I did.”
“Right,” the Count responded, standing up. “I’ve got to go. But I must ask you two last questions…”
“It never changes: always two last questions.”
“Who is the Other Boy?”
“Haven’t you guessed? Ah, you’re not such a good policeman after all. I gave you all the clues. So find out for yourself and don’t get into deep water. And what’s the other one?”
“The day I went for a pee in your bathroom, did you take a peek?”
The Marquess rehearsed that gesture of amazement the Count was already familiar with: his mouth formed a huge silent O and he put his right hand on his chest, as if about to swear an oath.
“Me? Do you think I’d do that kind of thing, Mr Friendly Policeman?”
“Yes.”
Then he laughed, but tittered not.
“Well, your mind has an evil bent…”
“If you say so.”
“Of course I do… Hey, I’d like to ask you a little favour: keep my secret. I’ve become fond of you and when I get fond of someone, I love to go confessional. But only three people know what’s in those folders and you’re one of them.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t even ask who the other one is, apart from Muscles… OK, I’m off. Thanks for everything.”
“When will you be back?”
“When I write another story or they kill another transvestite. Here’s the book by Muscles you lent me, so I don’t owe you anything, do I? Well, next to nothing…” he said, and stretched his hand out to the Marquess, who placed his squalid bony structure on the Count’s palm. If Fatman Contreras grabs you… the lieutenant thought, and lightly pressed the dramatist’s hand, but dropped it immediately, for he thought he glimpsed a dangerous advance light up on the Marquess’s face. Does he want to kiss me? No, that’s not on, he thought, and went into the street, where a magenta sun was putting its final delicate purple touches to the languid, velvety death agony of a Sunday afternoon more pansied than Alberto Marques himself.
As he dived into the old part of the city, the Count’s eyes interrogated every woman who crossed his path: could she be a transvestite, he wondered, looking for a revealing detail in her make-up, hands, the shape of her breasts and curve of her buttocks. Two young women who were walking along, swinging their hips, arm-in-arm, struck him as slightly suspect of transformism, but the half-dark in the street didn’t allow him to reach a verdict. He then understood that he wanted to meet a transvestite. Why? he wondered, unable to find an answer, and, as he walked up to Polly’s flat, he thought how he should rid his head of all that ballast if he wanted to lift himself up and enjoy the spectacle of seeing a female, especially a Cuban female on a street in Havana, and think those dancing breasts, unattainable buttocks and juicy lips might be just for him.
Polly welcomed him in her doorway, barely covered by a white dressing gown which revealed the reddish dark of her nipples and the black of her nether hair. She didn’t given him a chance to speak but leapt on him and shot her tongue between his lips, like an anxious snake.
“Oh God, how wonderful, my heterosexual policeman,” she cried when she’d finished her frisking by mouth, and her hand pressed the perky tumescence of a Count who asked her, bursting with pride: “Were you expecting me?”
“What do you think, you macho Stalinist? And what have you got in that bag?” was what she then asked as she turned to look inside his pack, but the Count stopped her.
“Wait, first I’ve got to ask you something… Can I stay here for three days, without going out or seeing the sun?”
She smiled and showed a row of sharp little sparrow teeth.
“Doing what?”
“Something you never tire of…”
“I think so.”
“Well, take my bag and put it in the sideboard. I’ve brought ten eggs, a can of sardines, two bottles of rum, five boxes of cigars, a chunk of bread and a packet of macaroni. That will make us strong enough to resist the siege… You got any coffee? Good, then we’re invincible, like Milton.”
“Which Milton?”
“The Brazilian musician… Now I need to make a telephone call,” he said finally, as he stripped his shirt off.
“Boss, listen to me and prepare to fall off your chair,” he said as he smiled and told him the last possible revelation on the masquerade of Faustino Arayan. “Well, what do you reckon?”
